#chapter 1: temple of doom

[ivorybacchus]

The Mummy Returns Novelization - Chapter 1, Part III

“when the real colonel had deserted” When COLONEL GUIZOT had deserted

grinds my gears calling him ‘the real colonel’ — name and shame him properly.

[diamonddaze01]

Full Throttle (ii)

pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader chapter wc: 16.7K (dont look at me)genre: humor, fluff, angst, smut (?) au: f1 au (i am sorry i am a nerd abt this) rating: m (MINORS DNI)warnings: SLOW BURNNN. mentions of injuries, car crashes // unprotected sex (WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT), some nipple-play, vaguely (?) rough (?) sex, begging

PREQUELS: would highly recommend reading On the Record and Off the Record to gain some context into the relationship! This fic starts directly after the end of Off the Record 

a/n: ok pt 2 here we gooooo! to kae @ylangelegy , who hasn't read the ending of this because they wanted to be surprised. i love you, im sorry, i love you // to alta @haologram , who hyped me up so much and made me feel so much better about my writing // thank you to lola @monamipencil and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta-reading! // and finally, an ENORMOUS thank you to jupiter @cheolism for the banner!

read part 1 here.

FORMULA 1 PIRELLI GRAN PREMIO D’ITALIA 2024 Track: Autodromo Nazionale Monza

Monza, the Temple of Speed. The track that had seen countless legends, where every tire mark told a story of glory and heartache. The crowd—the tifosi—roared like a living entity, their chants filling the air, demanding greatness from Ferrari��s finest. It wasn’t just a race here, it was a pilgrimage. The heat of Italy in late summer mixed with the electric atmosphere of a home Grand Prix, and Jeonghan could feel it all—the energy, the expectation, the weight of a thousand eyes on him.

The Autodromo Nazionale Monza was a track built on speed, but more than that, it was a track built on history. The sweeping curves, the long straights, the iconic Parabolica that would make or break a driver—it was a place where only the brave thrived, and only the strongest survived. Jeonghan knew the stakes: it wasn’t enough to be fast, not when you were wearing Ferrari red. He had to win, not just for himself, but for the tifosi, who saw him as their golden boy. He had to deliver.

As the weekend progressed, he couldn’t escape the growing weight on his shoulders. His performance was scrutinized with every passing second. In the pits, the team’s eyes were on him, hoping for that perfect lap. The techs, the engineers, the strategists—all working in harmony, hoping that Jeonghan would be the one to pull them across the finish line, but in the back of his mind, Jeonghan kept hearing the unspoken truth: nothing less than pole would suffice. Anything less was a failure.

He felt his pulse quicken as the qualifying session wore on, his concentration laser-sharp, every move calculated. But the tire strategy wasn’t perfect, and as the final moments ticked down, the truth settled over him like a cloud of doom. He was not going to make Q3. Neither was Soonyoung. The agony of it slammed into him like a punch to the gut.

The Ferrari garage was quiet, save for the hum of the engines being powered down. Soonyoung clapped him on the shoulder, a small gesture, but Jeonghan could see the frustration in his eyes, the mirror of his own defeat. The disappointment felt like a heavy weight on Jeonghan’s chest, suffocating, and he couldn’t shake it off. He couldn’t even look at the team, let alone the tifosi waiting outside.

The mood around the paddock was tense as Jeonghan left the garage, still in his race suit. The world felt unreal, as though it were in slow motion. He couldn’t escape it. The tifosi would be waiting to cheer their heroes, but today, he hadn’t been the hero they wanted. He was just another failure in a sea of victories that had come before him. He needed to escape it, to clear his mind.

It was then, as he walked toward his motorhome, that he felt it—a small, electric connection. Your hand brushed against his.

He froze.

Your presence was like a balm, soothing the sharp sting of defeat, but it also distracted him. The familiar, intoxicating scent of your shampoo, something floral and faintly sweet, hit him like a memory, and his heart skipped a beat. That scent, mixed with the lingering tension of the day, flooded his senses. He couldn’t look at you, couldn’t form words. All he could think about was that fleeting moment—so close—and the ridiculous notion that he had never noticed how desperately he wanted to be closer to you.

You didn’t stop walking either, your movements fluid, confident. But he couldn’t help the way his eyes followed you, the way the tension built with every step.

Without a word, you both continued on, the space between you shrinking until you finally spoke. Your voice was soft, but there was an edge to it, something that told him you understood more than he let on.

“Tough luck out there,” you said, a hint of sympathy in your tone.

The words were simple, but they hit harder than he expected. His chest tightened as he swallowed. “It’s... whatever,” he muttered, trying to brush it off. He didn’t have the energy to care.

You glanced at his fist, clenched so tightly it was almost painful to watch. “Doesn’t seem like ‘whatever’ to me,” you countered, raising an eyebrow, your words cutting through the fog in his mind.

He let out a small, mirthless chuckle. “I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice more convincing than he felt. But even as he said it, he knew. He wouldn’t be fine—not until he had redeemed himself, not until he could prove to the world that he was still Ferrari’s shining star. He had to be.

But for now, there was a fleeting connection between the two of you, and it was the only thing that made his heart skip, even if just for a moment.

The race was an uphill battle from the start, as expected. Jeonghan’s starting position was far from ideal, and the track ahead was a maze of cars, each one blocking his path, each one a reminder of the high stakes. The pressure weighed on him heavily, like an invisible force that squeezed the air from his lungs. It wasn’t just about the race, it was about redemption. The tifosi—his tifosi—filled his mind with a deafening chant, a roar of expectation, as if they were willing victory into existence. The weight of their adoration and their demand for perfection followed him, a constant reminder of the legacy he carried.

But Jeonghan had never been one to back down. The track felt like an extension of himself, the tires gripping, the engine vibrating beneath him, urging him to push. Even with traffic clogging his way, he found openings. He fought for every inch of track, his movements sharp, instinctive, like a surgeon making precise cuts. Overtaking felt almost effortless—his car slipping through gaps with the grace of a dancer. He was fluid, controlled, never losing sight of the goal.

As the laps unfolded, his nerves sharpened, but so did his focus. The aggressive strategy that had been laid out for him was beginning to pay off. He was making up ground, inching forward, climbing the ladder of positions one battle at a time. The thought of the tifosi cheering, of their voices blending into one thunderous symphony, drove him. They believed in him. He had to deliver. His mind cleared. He no longer heard the roaring crowds, the whirling thoughts of doubt. All that mattered was the track, the tires, and the roar of the engine beneath him. The conditions became his advantage—he thrived in this chaos.

Through the speed-trap corners, Jeonghan carved his way through the field. The world outside the cockpit blurred into a haze, his focus narrowing into sharp precision. He saw every gap, every opportunity, and he seized them without hesitation. The rain had turned the race into a dance of risk and control, and Jeonghan was leading the waltz.

Crossing the finish line first, Jeonghan allowed himself a single moment of release. The victory wasn’t just for him—it was for Ferrari, for the tifosi, for everything that had been building in his chest since the first day he’d strapped into the car. He had done it. He had delivered.

The roar of the crowd felt like an affirmation of his own heart, beating in time with the cheers of thousands. In that moment, the weight lifted off him, replaced by an overwhelming surge of satisfaction and relief. He had proven himself once again, and it was more sweet than any victory lap could ever capture. The tifosi were wild, their cheers ringing through the air, a thunderous confirmation of what Jeonghan had already known in his heart: this was his race. This was his victory.

After the podium celebrations, the champagne-soaked cheers, and the endless barrage of media questions, Jeonghan finally managed to steal a moment of solitude. His body was spent, muscles aching, his throat raw from the adrenaline-fueled roar that had escaped him as he crossed the finish line. And yet, his mind wasn’t on the race anymore. Not on the points, not on the tifosi.

It was on you.

The fleeting brush of your hand earlier lingered like a phantom touch, a warmth that refused to fade even as the hours passed. The memory of your scent—the subtle floral notes of your shampoo—clung to him, more grounding than the overwhelming chaos of the Monza circuit.

He walked toward his motorhome, each step feeling heavier now that the adrenaline had begun to wane. The din of the paddock was fading, replaced by the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The glow of the overhead lights cast long shadows, and as he turned the corner, there you were. Waiting for him. Leaning casually against the side of his motorhome, your arms crossed and a knowing smirk dancing on your lips. His footsteps slowed as his eyes locked onto yours, the soft gleam of your smile both a challenge and an invitation.

“You’re late,” you teased, tilting your head in mock disapproval.

Jeonghan huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he approached. “Didn’t realize I was on a schedule.”

“You’re always on a schedule,” you shot back, your tone light but your gaze sharp. “Besides, I thought you’d be faster off track too.”

His smirk deepened as he stopped in front of you, close enough that the scent of champagne and adrenaline clung to him. “Big words for someone who’s hanging around my motorhome.”

“Big win for someone who barely made it out of Q2,” you quipped, the corner of your mouth twitching upward.

Jeonghan’s chuckle was low, almost indulgent. “Touché.”

There was a moment of silence, the din of the paddock fading into a distant hum. His eyes traced your face, noting the way your lashes cast faint shadows on your cheekbones, the way you seemed perfectly at ease under his scrutiny. That unnerved him more than he cared to admit. You’d always been too good at staying cool, keeping him on edge.

“So,” he finally said, leaning casually against the doorframe, “where’s your article? Shouldn’t it be out by now?”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Oh, you think I’m done? I’m holding out for an exclusive.”

Jeonghan’s grin widened, his ego soaking up your words. “An exclusive? From the tifosi’s god?”

Your laugh was soft, teasing, and it sent a warmth through his chest that rivaled the rush of the race. “Your words, not mine.”

“You want a headline that bad?” His voice dropped, his tone dipping into something darker, something that made the air between you shift.

“Maybe,” you replied, your voice steady despite the way he was looking at you now—like he was ready to devour you whole. “But you’d have to give me something worth writing about.”

It was playful, the banter you always shared, but there was something crackling beneath the surface tonight, an electricity neither of you could ignore. Jeonghan stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between you. You shifted back instinctively, your spine meeting the cool surface of the motorhome door.

“You always have something to say, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low, intimate.

“Someone has to keep you grounded,” you shot back, though your voice wavered slightly as his hand braced against the door beside your head, caging you in. His other hand hovered near your hip, close enough to make you hyper-aware of the heat radiating off him.

“Grounded?” he repeated, his lips curling into a slow, predatory smile. “You’re doing a great job of that.”

Your heart was pounding now, the proximity, the tension—it was overwhelming. “Jeonghan,” you started, your voice quieter, more measured, “this… this isn’t professional.”

“Fuck being professional,” he said, the words slipping out like a confession. Before you could respond, his fingers tilted your jaw, firm but not rough, guiding you to look up at him.

And then his lips were on yours, capturing them in a kiss that was as fierce as it was unrelenting. It wasn’t sweet or tentative—it was raw, all the tension and frustration that had built up between you spilling over in a single, consuming moment. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, anchoring you to him as if he was afraid you might pull away.

But you didn’t. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands finding the front of his race suit, clutching the material as if to steady yourself. The world around you blurred into nothing; there was only the warmth of his mouth, the taste of him, the way he kissed like he was claiming something he’d wanted for far too long.

Jeonghan’s breath hitched as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours for something—confirmation, permission, anything. Whatever he found made him grin, wicked and hungry. Without a word, he reached for the door handle, pushing it open with a sharp motion. The door swung wide, and then his hands were on you again, pulling you inside. 

The door clicked shut behind you, plunging you both into the dim interior of the motorhome. Jeonghan's hands were everywhere at once, tracing the curve of your waist, sliding up your back, tangling in your hair. His lips found yours again, more urgent this time, as if he couldn't bear to be separated from you for even a moment.

You stumbled backward, your legs hitting the edge of the small couch. Jeonghan followed, never breaking contact, until you were lying beneath him, the leather cool against your heated skin. His weight pressed you down, a delicious pressure that made your head spin.

"God, I've wanted this for so long," he breathed against your neck, his words punctuated by hot, open-mouthed kisses that trailed down to your collarbone.

You arched into him, your hands fumbling with the zipper of his race suit. Your fingers trembled slightly as you tugged it down and yanked off his fireproofs, revealing more of his sweat-slicked skin. Jeonghan groaned against your throat as your hands slipped inside, exploring the taut muscles of his chest and abdomen.

"How long?" you managed to ask between ragged breaths, curiosity mingling with desire.

Jeonghan lifted his head, his eyes dark and intense as they locked onto yours. "Since the first time you interviewed me," he admitted, his voice low and husky. "The way you challenged me, saw right through my bullshit... I knew I was in trouble."

The confession sent a thrill through you, and you pulled him down for another searing kiss. Your tongues danced as his hands roamed your body, pushing up your shirt to caress the soft skin beneath. You gasped into his mouth as his thumb brushed the underside of your breast.

Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging gently as you deepened the kiss. Jeonghan groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your hip before gripping your thigh, hitching it up around his waist. 

“So what you’re saying,” you whispered, grinding your clothed cunt against him. “Is that you’ve been obsessed with me as long as I have with you.”

He drops his head and groans, hot and heavy, against your throat. “You’re telling me we could have been doing this for three years?”

You pull him back to your lips by his hair, relishing the way he hisses at your touch. “If only you’d put your money where your mouth is, pretty boy.”

At that, he props himself up above you, grinning like the cat that got the canary. “I knew you called me pretty in Japan!” 

You desperately claw at his shoulders in an attempt to bring his mouth back to yours. After three years of cat and mouse, you do believe you’re entitled to it. “Jeonghan, I swear to everything that is holy-”

“Say it.” His necklace hangs in front of you, glinting in the dim light of the motorhome. You have half a mind to crane your neck and take it with your teeth. But instead, you choose to stare up at him in mock confusion, fingers dancing at the nape of his neck. 

“Say what?”

His answering laugh mocks you a little, and he leans down to gently bite your earlobe. When he speaks, it’s low and deep. “Say I’m pretty. I know you think it when you’re drunk.”

You shiver at the sensation of his teeth grazing your ear, heat pooling in your core. His words make you flush, remembering all the times you'd drunkenly gushed about him to your friends. You'd always been careful to keep things professional in person, but apparently some of your true feelings had slipped out.

"And how would you know what I think when I'm drunk?" you challenge, trying to regain some control.

Jeonghan chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. "You're not the only one with sources in the paddock, sweetheart."

The pet name sends another thrill through you. You decide to give him what he wants, if only to move things along. "Fine," you breathe, trailing your fingers down his chest. "You're pretty, Jeonghan. Gorgeous, actually. Happy now?"

His grin is triumphant as he captures your lips again, the kiss deep and consuming. "Ecstatic, darling," he murmurs against your mouth.

Your hands roam his body, tracing the lean muscles of his back, feeling them flex under your touch. Jeonghan's fingers dance along your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He breaks the kiss to nip at your jaw, then your neck, drawing a soft moan from your lips.

"You know," he says between kisses, his voice low and husky, "I've imagined this so many times. On the couch in the media room, in the garage, during those long interviews..."

You gasp as he finds a particularly sensitive spot on your neck. "Is that why you always fidget so much during our talks?"

He chuckles against your skin. "Guilty as charged."

Your hands find the waistband of his fireproofs, , but as one hand curls around your jaw, the other stops you. 

“You first,” he breathes, sitting back on his knees to gently urge you out of your shirt.

You lift your arms, allowing him to peel your shirt off slowly, his eyes drinking in every inch of newly exposed skin. The cool air of the motorhome raises goosebumps on your flesh, but Jeonghan's heated gaze makes you feel like you're burning up.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the lace edge of your bra. "Even better than I imagined."

You reach up to pull him back down to you, craving the warmth of his body against yours. As your lips meet again, his hands roam your sides, mapping out every curve and dip. You arch into his touch, desperate for more.

His hands brush over your clothed nipple, and you inhale sharply. The sound makes Jeonghan raise his head, a faint smirk dancing across his lips. “Sensitive, are we?” He coos, hands drawing shapes against the swell of your breasts until goosebumps erupt on your flesh.

Your breath hitches as his fingers tease you though the thin fabric of your bra. “Jeonghan,” you breathe, half-warning, half-plea.

His smirk widens as he lowers his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. "Yes, sweetheart?" He murmurs against your skin. His lips trail lower, ghosting over the lacework.

You arch your back, silently begging for more. Jeonghan obliges, his tongue darting out to trace the lace edge of your bra. Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you hold him close.

With deft fingers, he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. You lift slightly, allowing him to slide it off. His eyes darken as he takes you in. You moan wantonly, arching your back in an effort to touch you - somewhere, anywhere.

“Jeonghan, please-”

A singular finger traces the curve of your waist up to your collarbone. He hums as you squirm. “Look at you,” he murmurs. You shriek as he pinches your waist. “You act so big in the paddock, and here you are, begging for me to touch you.”

It enrages you a little, how easily he takes you apart. Hell, he’s barely even touched you and you’re already rubbing your thighs together, desperate for any amount of friction.

"Jeonghan, please," you gasp, not even sure what you're begging for. More? Less? Everything?

He lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours. The intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "Tell me what you want," he says, his voice low and commanding.

You swallow hard, and the heat pooling between your legs feels hot enough to burn. “Y-your-”

“My what, baby?” His words are punctuated by hot, open mouthed kisses against your collarbones. He pointedly ignores your nipples, a thought that makes you whine. “Speak up.”

“Your mouth, Jeonghan,” you finally get out, hissing when his teeth find purchase on the skin of your neck.

“Yeah? Where, baby?” His hands fit themselves against the curve of your waist. “Here?”

“N-no,” you hate it, the way Jeonghan turns you into a whimpering mess. You shiver as his hands trail up your body.

“Hm…how about…here?” His thumbs brush against the underside of your breast again, and you arch your back, desperate and aching for him.

“Higher,” you breathe, mesmerized by the way his fingers dance up your body, by the way his eyes never leave yours.

“Here, baby?” His fingers tweak an already-hard nipple, and you gasp.

“Yes, please-”

“Say I’m a good driver, sweetheart, and I’ll give you what you want.”

Your eyes snap open, narrowing at him in disbelief. Even now, with you half-naked and writhing beneath him, he can't help but tease. "You're kidding, right?"

Jeonghan's grin is wicked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Not at all. Come on, darling. Just a few little words."

You bite your lip, torn between your pride and your desperate need for his touch. His thumb circles your nipple lazily, sending jolts of pleasure through you. Finally, you cave. "Fine," you breathe. "You're a good driver, Jeonghan. The best, even. Now please—"

Before you can finish, his mouth is on your breast, hot and wet. You cry out, arching into him as his tongue swirls around your nipple. His hand kneads your other breast, fingers teasing your other nipple. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close as he lavishes attention on your breasts. Jeonghan's tongue and teeth work in tandem, drawing gasps and moans from your lips. The sensations are overwhelming, each touch sending sparks of pleasure through your body.

"God, Jeonghan," you breathe, your head falling back against the couch cushions.

He hums against your skin, the vibration sending another shiver through you. His free hand trails down your stomach, fingers dancing along the waistband of your pants. You lift your hips instinctively, silently begging for more.

Jeonghan lifts his head, his eyes dark with desire as they meet yours. "Tell me you want this," he says, his voice husky and low. "I need to hear you say it."

You nod frantically, your breath coming in short gasps. "Yes," you breathe, your voice filled with need. "I want this. I want you, Jeonghan."

His eyes darken further at your words, a low growl escaping his throat. In one swift motion, he unbuttons your pants and slides them down your legs, taking your underwear with them. You kick them off eagerly, now fully bare beneath him.

Jeonghan's gaze rakes over your body, hungry and appreciative. "Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands skimming up your thighs. "So fucking beautiful."

You reach for him, tugging at the fireproofs still clinging to his hips. "Your turn," you say, your voice breathy with anticipation.

He grins, standing to shuck off the rest of his clothes. Your eyes widen as he reveals himself fully, drinking in the sight of his toned body. Jeonghan's grin widened as he caught you staring. "Like what you see?" he teased, his voice low and husky.

You nod, unable to form words as your eyes roam his body. The lean muscles of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hipbones, the impressive length of his cock standing proud against his stomach - it was all even better than you'd imagined.

He chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?"

That snapped you out of your daze. "Shut up and get back here," you growl, reaching for him.

Jeonghan obliges, lowering himself back onto the couch and covering your body with his. You gasp at the feeling of skin on skin, the heat of his body against yours. His lips find yours in a searing kiss as his hands explore every curve and dip of your body. When his fingers finally brush against your core, you gasp into his mouth, your hips bucking involuntarily.

“So wet,” he murmurs against your lips. “All for me?”

"Yes," you breathe, your hips rolling against his hand. "All for you."

Jeonghan's fingers explore your folds, teasing and mapping out every sensitive spot. When he finally slides a finger inside you, you moan loudly, your back arching off the couch. He sets a slow, torturous pace, curling his finger just right to hit that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

"More," you gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders. "Please, Jeonghan."

He obliges, adding a second finger and increasing his pace. His thumb finds your clit, circling it in tight, precise movements that have you writhing beneath him. You can feel the tension building in your core, a coiling heat that threatens to consume you. Your hands scramble for purchase against his shoulders – you’re too drunk on lust to recognize if you’re pushing him away because it’s too much or pulling him closer because it’s not nearly enough. 

"That's it, baby," Jeonghan murmurs, his voice low and encouraging. "Let go for me.”

His words push you over the edge, and you come with a cry, your body arching off the couch as waves of pleasure wash over you. Jeonghan works you through it, his fingers never stopping their relentless rhythm until you're trembling and oversensitive.

As you come down from your high, Jeonghan peppers soft kisses along your jaw and neck. "Beautiful," he murmurs against your skin. "You're so beautiful when you let go."

You're still catching your breath when you feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh. Your hand snakes between your bodies, wrapping around his cock. Jeonghan hisses at the contact, his hips jerking involuntarily.

"Fuck," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

"Show me," you breathe, thumb brushing over the tip of his pre-cum slick cock. You relish the way he shudders against you. “Show me everything you imagined, pretty boy.”

He preens a little at your teasing words, arms shaking with the exertion of keeping himself above you. “Yeah?” he purrs, hips bucking to the tempo of your hand. “You wanna see, sweetheart?”

You barely have the time to nod before he’s sweeping his arms under your thighs and sitting back against the couch, setting you on top of him. Your wet heat is inches from his weeping cock, and you give him an experimental roll of your hips. The friction is delicious, and you bite your lips at the way his head rolls back.

You take advantage of his position and press hot kisses against his neck as he squirms below you.

“This is what you wanted, baby?” you whisper against his ear, biting gently. He shudders, one arm circling your waist and the other finding purchase in your hair. “You wanted me on top? Me in control?” 

He laughs breathlessly at that, hips grinding against yours with such fervour that you almost succumb right then and there. “You might be on top, sweetheart,” he hisses as you position yourself above him, one hand circling his length. “But I’m the one in char-”

He cuts himself off with a strangled moan as you sink down until your hips are flush to his. “Hmmm?” You hum sweetly against his throat, exhaling at the sheer size of him inside you. “What was that?”

“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back against the couch as his hands trail down to rest on the curve of your ass. “Move, please, sweetheart.” 

“Tell me how much you love my writing.” The words leave you in a rush, the sight of him panting for you almost too heady to ignore. You hadn’t planned on teasing him, but his earlier words had lit a fire in your core that would only be doused once you flipped the script on him. 

His head is still on the back of the couch as he barks out a laugh. “You’re a fucking menace,” he murmurs, pinching your waist. “Now, move.”

“No.” It takes every bone in your body to stay absolutely still. You can feel him, thick and throbbing, and the thought of it makes you almost forgo this insanity to ride him into oblivion.

His eyes meet yours, and he raises his eyebrows in mock outrage. “Are you serious?” He punctuates his words by dragging a hand down your body, fingers finding your clit and pressing until you jerk away from him. It’s a futile attempt though, because his other hand is still fisted in your hair, and he uses it as leverage to hold you against him, powerless against his ministrations. 

With a shaking hand, your press against his wrist until his fingers stop moving in circles around your clit. “C-come on,” you tease breathlessly, using your other hand to thread through his sweat-soaked hair and yanking until he bares his throat to you with a groan. “Play nice, pretty boy. Tell me how much you love my writing.” 

He groans again as you lick a stripe up his throat, the hand in your hair loosening as his resolve weakens. “Y-you don’t play fair,” he moans, legs shaking with the exertion of keeping still, of playing your little game of cat and mouse. 

“Neither do you,” you whisper, your words paired with a tweak to his nipple that has him gasping and arching his back. 

“Fuck!” He cries out, curling forward until his chin rests against your ribs and he’s staring up at you. “Y-your writing is perfect.”

He’s rewarded with another gentle tug on his hair and a firm, “keep going.”

“S-so perfect and wonderful, I – fuck, baby please – read every word th-three times,” he’s almost whimpering now, looking up at you with so much desire that you decide it’s time to reward him for being so pliant, so good for you. “You-you’re the best writer in the whole paddock, fuck, yes, thank yo-”

You decide to put him out of his misery, preening at his praise, you start with an experimental grind against his hips, and watch with glee as he almost melts back against the couch. You decide to take advantage of the situation for a little while longer, rocking your hips faster as his lips find your nipple.

“Who’s in charge?” you coo, fingers gripping his hair a little tighter. He draws back to give you a quick smirk. They don’t call him the fastest on the grid for nothing – one second, you feel like you’re in complete control, and the next, he’s lifting you off of him with surprising ease. Your chest meets the couch before you can even form a single thought, and Jeonghan gathers up your wrists in one of his hands. 

“You really thought,” he hisses as he re-enters your aching pussy. “You were in charge, sweetheart?”

The new angle allows him to sink even deeper inside you, drawing a low moan from your lips.

"You were saying?" he purrs, chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck as he sets a punishing pace. Each thrust drives the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping and whimpering beneath him.

"You thought you could tease me like that and get away with it?" he groans, his free hand gripping your hip tightly. "Thought you could make me beg?"

You can only moan in response, overwhelmed by the sensation of him pounding into you relentlessly. The couch creaks beneath you dangerously.

"Answer me," Jeonghan demands, slowing his pace torturously.

"J-Jeonghan," you manage to stammer, your voice muffled against the cushions.

He leans over you, his chest pressed against your back as he whispers in your ear. "What was that, sweetheart? I couldn't quite hear you."

You turn your head, meeting his intense gaze over your shoulder. "Please," you whimper.

“Please what?” He demands.

"Please," you gasp, struggling to form coherent thoughts as Jeonghan's hips continue their torturously slow pace. "Please, I need more."

His low chuckle sends shivers down your spine. "More what, baby? Use your words. You’re so good with words, aren’t you?"

You whine in frustration, trying to push back against him, seeking the friction you desperately crave. But his grip on your hip is firm, holding you in place.

"Fuck me," you finally manage to choke out. "Please, Jeonghan, fuck me harder."

"There we go," he purrs, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Was that so hard?"

Before you can retort, he snaps his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt inside you. You cry out at the sudden fullness, your fingers clawing at the couch cushions.

Jeonghan sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving you further into the couch cushions. The hand not holding your wrists snakes around to find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have you seeing stars.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Jeonghan groans, his breath hot against your neck. "So tight, so perfect for me."

You moan at his words, feeling the familiar coil of heat building in your core. "J-Jeonghan," you whimper, "I'm close..."

"That's it, baby," he encourages, his fingers working faster against your clit. "Come for me. Let me feel you."

Every part of your body is on fire, from the way Jeonghan's hips press against yours to the way his fingers expertly stroke your clit.

You come with a cry, your body shaking as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your inner walls clench around him, drawing a deep groan from Jeonghan.

He doesn't slow his pace, fucking you through your orgasm and pushing you towards another. You're oversensitive, every nerve ending on fire, but the pleasure is too intense to resist.

"God, you're perfect," Jeonghan pants, his rhythm becoming erratic. "So fucking perfect."

You feel his thrusts becoming more desperate, his breathing ragged against your neck. "Come on, Jeonghan," you manage to gasp out.

"Come for me," you urge him, clenching around him deliberately.

With a guttural groan, Jeonghan's hips stutter and he comes, spilling inside you as his body shudders with release. The feeling of him pulsing within you sends you over the edge again, and you cry out, trembling beneath him.

For a long moment, the only sound in the motorhome is your combined heavy breathing. Jeonghan releases your wrists and gently pulls out, causing you both to wince at the sensitivity. 

Jeonghan collapses onto the couch beside you, his body warm and solid as he pulls you into his arms. The weight of him, the feeling of his heartbeat drumming against your cheek, is grounding. You curl into his chest, letting the rise and fall of his breathing lull you into a rare moment of stillness. His fingers trace lazy patterns across your back, the movements unhurried, almost absentminded, as if he can’t bear to stop touching you just yet.

“Well,” he says finally, his voice rough and lower than usual, laced with satisfaction. “I think that was worth the wait.”

You huff a laugh, the sound barely audible over the soft thrum of life outside the motorhome. “Of course you do,” you mutter, your cheek pressed against the hard planes of his chest, which smells faintly of sweat, champagne, and something uniquely Jeonghan.

His fingers pause their tracing for a moment, as though considering his next move, before starting again, this time slower and more deliberate. “Admit it,” he murmurs, his tone teasing, though softer now, quieter, like the vulnerability from before hadn’t completely left. “You’ve been thinking about this as much as I have.”

You tilt your head up, catching the faint glow of the ceiling light reflected in his eyes. They’re darker now, warmer, but still full of that infuriating smugness. Your lips twitch in defiance as you fight the urge to smile. “What makes you so sure I was thinking about it at all?”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow, a lock of hair falling across his forehead in a way that’s unfairly distracting. His grin is sharp and unrelenting. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“Am not,” you fire back, though your tone lacks any real conviction. The way his fingers continue their soft, languid exploration of your back doesn’t help.

“Okay,” he says, clearly enjoying himself as he leans his head back against the couch. “So when you cornered me after qualifying that one time in Japan two years ago, that wasn’t because you couldn’t stop staring at me in my race suit?”

You gape at him, your body jerking upright just enough to glare at him properly. “I cornered you because I wanted a quote, you egomaniac.” You punctuate the accusation with a half-hearted swat at his arm.

He catches your wrist easily, his grip firm but gentle, and intertwines his fingers with yours. The warmth of his hand against yours is distracting, and it takes all your willpower not to lose focus. “Oh, you got a quote, all right,” he counters, his laughter bubbling up like he’s savoring every second of your indignation. “Admit it—you’ve been counting the days.”

You roll your eyes, the movement dramatic, though the warmth blooming in your chest betrays you. “And if I was?”

Jeonghan’s grin softens at your words, the sharp edges smoothing out into something quieter, something vulnerable. He lifts a hand to your face, his fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. “Then I’d say it was worth the wait,” he says, his voice lower now, more intimate.

The air between you shifts, heavier now, the teasing replaced by something else entirely. His gaze locks on yours, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades—the low hum of the paddock outside, the faint creak of the motorhome settling. All that exists is him, his hand still resting near your face, and the weight of his words hanging between you.

Your throat feels tight, and you clear it quickly, trying to shake off the spell he’s cast over you. “Don’t let it go to your head,” you mutter, shifting slightly to put some distance between you.

“Too late,” he replies with a ghost of a smirk, leaning back lazily against the couch. His arm stretches along the back of the cushions, the casual sprawl of his posture somehow making him seem even more confident. Then, with an easy grace that feels entirely unfair, he leans forward and plucks something from the coffee table. “By the way, your article? It’s still late.”

You blink at him, incredulous, before groaning and burying your face in your hands. “Now you care about professionalism?”

Jeonghan shrugs, holding out his hand as if offering you an invisible microphone, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Exclusive with the winner of Monza? Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

You peek at him through your fingers, shaking your head with a laugh that’s half exasperation, half affection. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he counters, his voice softening again as he leans forward to press a kiss to your temple. His lips linger there, warm and reassuring, before he pulls back just enough to look at you again. “But I’ll let you pretend for a little while.”

Jeonghan’s arms tighten around you as the laughter fades into a comfortable quiet. The warmth of his hand on your back and the steady rhythm of his breathing are grounding, but your thoughts won’t stop spinning. You tilt your head up to look at him, searching his expression for something you can’t quite name.

“What?” he asks softly, his tone warm but teasing. His fingers brush over the curve of your shoulder, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

“What… what are we now?” you ask, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. They hang in the air between you, vulnerable and raw.

Jeonghan’s gaze doesn’t waver. His thumb brushes your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten. “We’re whatever you want to be, sweetheart,” he says simply, his voice low and full of something too deep to name.

You feel your heart stutter, the weight of his words sinking into you. “Can we…” You hesitate, the vulnerability of the moment making your voice falter. “Can we take it slow?”

For a second, he just blinks at you, and then the corners of his mouth lift into that infuriatingly familiar smirk. “Take it slow? After you just made me beg?” He chuckles, the sound soft but undeniably teasing. “You’re full of surprises.”

Your face heats instantly, and you swat at his shoulder, your embarrassment overridden by his smugness. “Shut up.”

Jeonghan catches your wrist before you can retreat, his laughter fading as he shifts closer, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m kidding,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. The mischief in his eyes melts into something gentler, something that makes your breath catch. “I’ll wait as long as you want.”

You glance at him, your walls crumbling under the weight of his sincerity. “It’s just…” You trail off, trying to find the right words, the weight of reality settling in around you. “Our careers, the season… It’s a lot. I don’t want to mess this up, not with everything else happening.”

Jeonghan’s expression softens even further, the teasing flicker in his eyes replaced by understanding. “I get it,” he says quietly. His hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “I’ve waited three years to feel this close to you. What’s forever if it means I get to do it right?”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, equal parts devastating and beautiful. You close your eyes for a moment, letting them sink in, before leaning forward to press your lips to his—soft, brief, but full of everything you can’t quite bring yourself to say.

When you pull back, Jeonghan’s smile is softer than you’ve ever seen it, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he gazes at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“No pressure, though,” he adds after a beat, his teasing tone returning as his grin widens. “Unless you’re writing a follow-up article about me being the world’s most patient man.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest as he laughs, the sound rich and warm. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but you love me for it,” he counters, his hand sliding back to your hair, cradling you close.

And maybe you do. Maybe you always have.

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AZERBAIJAN GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Baku City Circuit

The streets of Baku were as much a character in the race as any driver—a stunning clash of history and modernity, where medieval walls stood beside glimmering skyscrapers. The track was notorious for its tight corners and long straights, a playground of risk and reward. Jeonghan knew every inch of it like it was an old rival, one he had to best to keep his championship hopes alive.

Qualifying was tight—Jeonghan secured P2, just behind Mingyu. "He’s fast," Jeonghan muttered to you that evening, the weight of the competition clear in his voice. But there was no self-doubt, just the quiet calculation that always preceded his brilliance.

Race day was a spectacle. Jeonghan’s precision through the castle section was breathtaking, and when the opportunity came to pass Mingyu on the long straight during the final stint, he didn’t hesitate. The roar of the tifosi—echoing even in Azerbaijan—followed him as he crossed the line first. The team’s radio had erupted with cheers as Jeonghan crossed the finish line, and when you saw him after the podium ceremony, his champagne-damp hair and triumphant smile had made your heart skip a beat.

Later, after the media frenzy, Jeonghan pulls you aside. "Come on," he says with a conspiratorial grin, grabbing your hand. "You didn’t think I’d let you leave Baku without exploring, did you?"

The cobblestone streets of Baku feel like something out of a postcard. The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the historic Old City. Jeonghan walks beside you, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he gestures to the buildings with a sense of wonder that’s rare to see in him.

“How do you know all this?” you ask, genuinely curious as he points out the Maiden Tower and recounts its legends with surprising accuracy.

He grins, tilting his head in that maddeningly charming way. “What, you thought I only studied race strategies? I’ve got layers, sweetheart.” He insists on taking cheesy tourist photos, including one where he pretends to be a knight defending you at the city walls.

“I could be your knight in shining armor,” he teases, holding his imaginary sword aloft.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re already Ferrari’s golden boy,” you shoot back, snapping the photo anyway. “Isn’t that enough?” 

He’s good at this—whisking you away from the chaos of the paddock and making you forget, even if just for a moment, that the world is watching him.

Now, as you wander the streets of Baku, he’s more relaxed, his usual playful demeanor slipping into something softer. You pause in front of a street vendor selling intricate souvenirs, and Jeonghan picks up a small, hand-carved wooden box.

“For your desk,” he says simply, handing it to you before you can protest.

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, but you take the gift anyway.

“Yeah, but you love me,” he teases, slinging an arm around your shoulders as the two of you continue down the street, the sound of distant music and laughter filling the warm night air.

That night, back at the hotel, Jeonghan skims your article on his phone while sprawled on the couch.

Jeonghan’s Baku Blitz: Closes the Gap to Mingyu with Stunning Victory

His smirk grows wider with every sentence. “Stunning victory, huh? You really know how to make me sound good.”

You roll your eyes, throwing a pillow at him. “It was stunning. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, it’s too late for that,” he quips, pulling you into his lap. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the little shout-out to my late-braking move. Makes me wonder how closely you’re watching me.”

“Always,” you admit softly, the truth laced between your words. His grin softens, and he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.

FORMULA 1 SINGAPORE AIRLINES SINGAPORE GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Marina Bay Street Circuit

The Marina Bay Circuit was infamous—its oppressive heat, humidity, and unforgiving corners made it a grueling test of endurance. It was Jeonghan’s least favorite track, something he’d muttered repeatedly during practice.

In qualifying, he delivered a masterclass, securing pole position under the glowing lights that lined the circuit. "See?" he said, leaning casually against his car afterward, sweat still dripping from his brow. "Guess the heat doesn’t bother me as much as I thought."  Watching him grin through post-quali interviews, drenched in sweat but radiating confidence, had you practically floating back to your hotel room.

You’ve barely ventured outside the hotel after qualifying, and he texts you cryptically to “stay put.” Now, the air conditioning hums softly as you sit cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through headlines about his performance. You’re still reading when the door swings open, and Jeonghan strides in, carrying a tray.

“Room service,” he announces with a dramatic flourish, setting it down beside you.

Your eyes widen at the sight of chocolate-covered strawberries and a chilled bottle of champagne. “What’s the occasion?”

He shrugs, popping the cork with practiced ease. “Pole position deserves a celebration. Plus…” He smirks, holding up a strawberry. “I wanted to see you smile.”

You laugh, shaking your head as he moves closer, offering the berry. But when you reach for it, he pulls it back, dragging it over your lips instead, smearing chocolate at the corner of your mouth.

“You missed a spot,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss it away. The sweetness lingers on his lips, and before you know it, he’s pulled you into his lap, the rest of the world forgotten.

The race the next day is less triumphant. A perfectly timed pit stop keeps Jeonghan ahead of the pack for most of the race, but a late safety car allows another driver to close the gap, relegating him to P2. Still, with Mingyu out of the race, Jeonghan’s second-place finish is enough to reclaim the championship lead.

Jeonghan’s expression is unreadable when he reads your latest article:

Heat and Havoc in Singapore: Jeonghan Takes Second as Mingyu Crashes Out

“Well, at least you didn’t call me lucky,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair.

“You weren’t lucky. You earned that result,” you reply, watching his face carefully.

He hums, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Still. Next time, I’d rather win outright.”

FALL BREAK: SEPT 23-OCT 17

The crisp autumn air brushes against your face as you unlock your front door, arms full of groceries. It’s been a quiet few weeks since Singapore, the space between races stretching out like an eternity. You’ve tried to enjoy the pause, but it feels strange—unnatural, even—to be so far removed from the whirlwind of Jeonghan’s life.

Your thoughts drift to him as you drop the keys on the counter. Monaco. Ferrari’s headquarters in Maranello. Both places are worlds away from your little apartment.

You’re unloading a carton of eggs when there’s a knock at the door. Confused, you glance at the clock. It’s too late for deliveries and far too early for your neighbors to come by.

When you open the door, your heart stops.

Jeonghan stands there, his frame relaxed yet somehow magnetic. He’s dressed in a simple leather jacket and jeans, his dark hair catching the golden glow of the setting sun. A bouquet of your favorite flowers is clutched in one hand, their vibrant colors almost as captivating as the smile tugging at his lips.

“Jeonghan?” you ask, blinking in disbelief. “What are you—how—”

“Miss me?” he interrupts, stepping inside before you can fully process his presence. He hands you the flowers like it’s the most natural thing in the world, leaning in to press a quick kiss against your lips.

Your breath catches, and you can only stare at him, your mind struggling to keep up.

“You live in Monaco,” you point out, still staring at him. “And work in Italy.”

“I’m aware,” he says, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Of course, I missed you,” you murmur, your cheeks heating.

“Good.” He grins and takes your free hand, tugging you toward the door.

“Wait—where are we going?”

“Out,” he says simply.

You try to protest, gesturing to the groceries still sitting on the counter, but he’s already leading you down the hallway. His excitement is infectious, and you find yourself laughing despite your confusion.

An hour later, you’re standing at the entrance of a sprawling amusement park, the neon lights casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the evening sky.

“You’re serious?” you ask, staring at the carousel spinning lazily in the distance.

“Dead serious,” Jeonghan replies, his tone light as he hands over your ticket. “I figured you could use a night off.”

“I’m not the one traveling the world every other week,” you point out.

“Exactly,” he counters, his smile growing. “I needed to see you smile. And this seemed like a good place to start.”

The night unfolds in a blur of laughter and adrenaline. Jeonghan, surprisingly competitive, insists on winning you a giant stuffed bear at the ring toss, only to fail spectacularly—twice. You tease him mercilessly, your stomach aching from how hard you’re laughing.

When you step off the bumper cars, your cheeks are flushed, and your voice is hoarse from yelling. Jeonghan is no better, his hair sticking up in all directions after you gleefully rammed into him three times in a row.

“I think you’ve got a mean streak,” he says, pretending to nurse an invisible injury.

“Me?” you gasp, feigning innocence. “You literally tried to corner me!”

He doesn’t respond—at least, not verbally. Instead, he grabs your hand again, intertwining your fingers as he pulls you toward the Ferris wheel.

The view from the top is breathtaking. The park stretches out below you, a sea of lights and movement, while the city skyline glimmers in the distance.

Jeonghan is quiet beside you, his gaze fixed on your face instead of the view. You turn to him, suddenly aware of how close he’s sitting.

“What?” you ask softly.

“You’re happy,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “I like seeing you like this.”

Before you can respond, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath. It’s slow and deliberate, his hand moving to cradle your jaw as the world around you seems to fall away.

When he pulls back, you’re both smiling.

“This is dangerous,” you tease, though your voice is barely above a whisper. “You’re going to make me think nothing can go wrong.”

“Maybe nothing will,” he replies, his forehead resting gently against yours.

FORMULA 1 PIRELLI UNITED STATES GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Circuit of the Americas

Austin brought a different kind of challenge. The Circuit of the Americas was iconic for its mix of sweeping corners, elevation changes, and a crowd that rivaled the tifosi in their enthusiasm. Jeonghan thrived here, securing P1 in qualifying and delivering a flawless race to claim another victory.

"Two wins in three races," he said that evening, pulling you into his side as you walked into a cowboy-themed bar downtown. "Guess I’m on a roll."

The bar was loud, filled with locals and fans alike, but Jeonghan stood out effortlessly. His cowboy hat tilted just right, a plaid shirt unbuttoned enough to make you wonder how he managed to look like that after hours in a car.

He kept his hand in your back pocket all night, his touch a silent claim when no one was looking. Every time he leaned in to murmur something in your ear, his lips brushed your skin just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

"Save a horse, ride a cowboy," he whispered at one point, his grin wicked as he tipped his hat at you.

That was all it took. You dragged him back to the hotel, barely making it through the door before he was on you, the hat ending up on the floor somewhere between the bed and the door.

The article you write the next day earns a rare whistle of approval from Jeonghan:

Cowboy Jeonghan Rides High in Austin, Extends Championship Lead

“I think this might be your best one yet,” he says, setting the phone down as he pulls you into his lap.

“Because I complimented you, or because I called you a cowboy?”

“Both,” he answers, his lips brushing against yours. “You know how much I love it when you’re right.”

And as his hand slides to the small of your back, you can’t help but think this season isn’t just his championship—it’s yours, too.

FORMULA 1 GRAN PREMIO DE LA CIUDAD DE MÉXICO 2024 Track: Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez

The atmosphere at the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez crackles with energy even hours after the race ends. The stands have mostly cleared, but the celebratory chaos of the paddock lingers. Jeonghan, fresh off another stellar performance, grins as reporters crowd around him, microphones extended like offerings. His hair is damp with sweat, his race suit tied around his waist as he leans casually against the Ferrari garage.

You watch from a distance, notebook in hand, trying not to let your gaze linger too long. He catches your eye anyway, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s been calling you his “lucky charm” ever since you started waking up in his bed on race mornings, and it’s a moniker he seems to enjoy reminding you of at every opportunity.

"Don't go too far," he says when the interviews wrap up, his voice low as he brushes past you on his way to the motorhome. The warmth of his fingertips grazing your wrist sends a jolt of electricity through you. "We’re celebrating tonight, and you’re not wriggling out of it this time."

You don’t see the ambush coming.

You’re reviewing your notes in the quiet corner of the paddock when your editor finds you. His expression is stern, almost irate, as he approaches. The celebration around you suddenly feels muffled, the weight of his presence pulling you back to reality.

"Finally," he snaps, crossing his arms. "I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days."

"Hey, sorry, it’s been hectic," you start, tucking your notebook under your arm.

He doesn’t let you finish. "Hectic? I gave you the Ferrari all-access months ago. They’re breathing down my neck about where the hell it is. Where’s the draft?"

The question lands like a punch to the gut. You open your mouth, fumbling for an answer, but he’s already barreling forward.

"And don’t think I haven’t noticed your tone shift," he continues, his voice lowering but losing none of its edge. "All this newfound niceness toward Jeonghan in your articles. What’s that about, huh? You sleeping with him or something?"

The accusation slices through you, leaving you momentarily stunned.

"That’s not—" you begin, but your voice falters.

"Spare me," he says, waving you off. "I don’t care what’s going on between you two, but I do care about the reputation of this outlet. You’ve built your career on being incisive, unbiased. So get it together, or I’ll find someone who can."

He doesn’t wait for a response, leaving you standing there as the din of the paddock swells around you. The celebration feels distant now, muffled by the blood rushing in your ears.

When Jeonghan finally finds you later that night, you’re a bundle of frayed nerves. The confrontation with your editor replays in your head like a broken record, each word cutting deeper into your carefully constructed sense of self. You sit hunched over your laptop in the corner of the media center, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows that match the knot in your chest.

“What, you sleeping with him or something?”

The accusation echoes, burrowing into your mind, where it tangles with your own insecurities. You’ve built your entire career on being sharp, unbiased, and unflinchingly honest. And yet, somewhere along the way, Jeonghan had slipped through your defenses. You can still hear the venom in your editor’s voice, feel the judgment in his eyes. The doubt wasn’t just his anymore—it was yours, too.

Was he right? Had you compromised everything for Jeonghan?

Your hands tremble slightly as you scroll through the notes you’ve been trying to organize for hours, but the words blur together, useless. Guilt presses against your ribs like a vice, mixing with a raw ache of something you’re too scared to name. You’re drowning in your own thoughts, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve let everyone down: your editor, your readers, and most of all, Jeonghan.

When he finally appears, his presence fills the doorway like a shadow cutting through the sterile light. He leans against the doorframe with a casualness you can’t match, arms crossed and head tilted slightly, his damp hair still clinging to his forehead. The sight of him, so familiar and yet suddenly so distant, sends a pang through your chest.

“Working late?” he asks, his voice low but carrying the faint edge of concern.

You look up, startled, and quickly shut your laptop as if that might erase everything weighing on you. “Just...catching up,” you say, forcing a smile that feels as flimsy as the excuse.

Jeonghan doesn’t move, his eyes scanning you with the precision of someone who knows you too well. He doesn’t buy the act—you can tell by the way his brows knit together, a subtle but telling sign of his worry.

“Catching up on what?” he asks, stepping closer, his tone light but probing.

You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Just notes. Articles. The usual.”

His gaze sharpens. “Right. And that’s why you look like you haven’t breathed in hours?”

You glance away, your fingers curling into fists on the tabletop. “I’m fine, Jeonghan. Go enjoy your win. You earned it.”

“And what, leave you like this?” He pulls out a chair and sits across from you, resting his arms on the table. “Not happening.”

The flood of emotions bubbling under your surface threatens to spill over. You want to tell him everything, but the words feel too tangled, too raw.

“I just need to get this done,” you say, your voice tight.

Jeonghan frowns, studying you more closely. "What’s going on? Did something happen?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, sidestepping him. "I just need some space tonight, okay?"

His hand brushes your arm, but you pull away, and the confusion in his eyes makes your stomach twist. "Fine," he says after a moment, his voice quieter now. "If that’s what you want."

Jeonghan wakes up to sunlight filtering through the blinds, but the bed feels empty. The cool sheets where you usually sleep tug at his attention before he fully registers the weight in his chest. Frowning, he rolls over and reaches for his phone on the nightstand, still groggy.

The screen lights up with a mess of notifications: congratulatory texts, memes from Soonyoung, and a dozen links to your latest article. He swipes through the chaos with a faint smile, already anticipating your sharp insights mingled with the familiar affection that’s always laced through your critiques.

Propping himself up against the headboard, Jeonghan opens the piece. At first, the smile lingers—he’s grown to appreciate the balance you strike between honest criticism and admiration. But the further he reads, the slower he scrolls, the words pressing into him like bruises.

His smile fades entirely by the time he reaches the paragraph describing his meltdown in Spain. The words cut too close, dragging him back to that moment in the Aston Martin garage: the oppressive silence, the rain hammering against the roof, and the suffocating realization of yet another missed opportunity.

"Jeonghan’s brilliance is undeniable, but brilliance without consistency leaves championships just out of reach."

The sentence burns itself into his mind. The carefully chosen words feel clinical, detached—so unlike you. He rereads it, hoping to find the warmth he’s come to expect, but it’s nowhere to be found.

Jeonghan tosses his phone onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, disbelief simmering into anger. This wasn’t just an article. This was personal.

The paddock is bustling, teams dismantling their motorhomes to get ready for next weekend. Jeonghan doesn’t bother changing out of his sweats before leaving his room, each step through the maze of hospitality suites and garages fueled by frustration.

When he finally reaches the media center, his chest tightens at the sight of you hunched over your laptop, headphones in, oblivious to his stormy approach. He doesn’t hesitate.

"You want to tell me what the hell that was?" His voice slices through the low hum of conversations around you.

Startled, you pull off your headphones, your eyes widening as you take him in. "Jeonghan—"

"No." He slaps his phone onto the desk in front of you, his movements sharp and deliberate. The article stares back at you, a glaring reminder of the wedge you’ve driven between you. "Don’t ‘Jeonghan’ me. What is this?"

"It’s my job," you say, standing to meet his intensity. The tremor in your voice betrays your composure. "You’ve always said you respected that about me."

"Respect?" His laugh is sharp, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. "You think I respect this?" He gestures to the article like it’s a living thing, something venomous and cruel. "You went for my throat."

"I didn’t go for your throat," you argue, though your voice cracks at the edges. "I wrote the truth."

"The truth?" His hands ball into fists at his sides. "You think I don’t know when you’re pulling punches? You tore me apart for no reason."

"You’ve been avoiding media days. You had a meltdown in Spain," you fire back, your tone rising as your frustration bubbles to the surface. "Those are facts, Jeonghan."

"You didn’t have to highlight them," he counters, his voice quieter but no less cutting. "You know how much this season means to me."

"And do you think this was easy for me?" you ask, tears pricking at your eyes. "Do you think I wanted to write that?"

"Then why did you?" His voice softens, the anger slipping to reveal something raw and vulnerable. "Why would you do that to me?"

"Because I had to!" The words explode out of you, breaking the fragile tension. "Because people already think I’m biased. That I’ve gone soft. That I’m compromised because of you."

The weight of your confession hangs in the air, pressing down on both of you. Jeonghan’s face shifts, the fury giving way to something heavier—hurt, confusion, disappointment.

"I never asked you to compromise anything for me," he says quietly, his voice thick. "I never would."

You look away, your gaze falling to the floor. "I know. But this isn’t just about you. It’s about my career. My integrity."

"And what about us?" he asks, his voice breaking slightly. "Where does that leave us?"

You have no answer, the words lodged in your throat. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint hum of activity outside the room.

Finally, Jeonghan exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I can’t do this right now," he mutters, taking a step back. "I need...I need to get out of here."

Jeonghan finds himself at the bar later that evening, the neon lights washing over him in hazy blues and reds. The whiskey in his glass is halfway gone before Soonyoung slides onto the stool next to him, his arrival quiet but not unnoticed.

"You look like shit," Soonyoung says, his tone light despite the obvious concern in his eyes.

"Thanks," Jeonghan mutters, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

They sit in silence for a moment before Soonyoung breaks it. "Want to talk about it?"

Jeonghan stares at his drink, the ice melting faster than he can keep up with. "I don’t know what we’re doing anymore," he admits, the words coming out heavier than he expected. "Me and her."

Soonyoung hums thoughtfully, taking a slow sip of his drink. "You two have always been complicated."

Jeonghan huffs out a humorless laugh. "That’s one way to put it."

"But," Soonyoung says, setting his glass down, "you’ve also always figured it out."

Jeonghan doesn’t respond, his thoughts a tangled mess of frustration and longing.

"You’re not going to fix it tonight," Soonyoung continues, his voice quieter now. "But if it matters—and I know it does—you’ll find a way. Just...don’t wait too long, yeah?"

Jeonghan nods slowly, the whiskey burning on its way down. Soonyoung’s words linger, a reminder of what he already knows but isn’t ready to face.

Not yet.

FORMULA 1 LENOVO GRANDE PRÊMIO DE SÃO PAULO 2024 Track: Autódromo José Carlos Pace

The rain is relentless in São Paulo, hammering down on the paddock and turning the atmosphere into a chaotic mess of drenched personnel and frayed nerves. Qualifying has been suspended indefinitely, the downpour rendering the track undriveable, and the mood in the Ferrari garage is grim. The asphalt glistens under the floodlights, reflecting streaks of color from team banners and sponsor logos. It feels like the world is holding its breath. 

You’ve never liked rain. It has a way of amplifying what’s already simmering under the surface, and today is no exception. Your heart pounds as you weave through the maze of garages, dodging puddles and sidelong glances from team members. You know exactly where he’ll be—Jeonghan never strays far from the Ferrari setup, even when there’s nothing to do but wait.

Sure enough, there he is. Sitting on the edge of a workbench, his race suit unzipped to his waist and his damp undershirt clinging to his torso. His head is bowed, one hand gripping the edge of the bench while the other pushes wet strands of hair back from his forehead. He looks exhausted—physically, emotionally—but the moment your shoes scuff against the concrete floor, his eyes snap up to meet yours.

You’ve been blowing up his phone all week. Texts, calls, voice notes—all unanswered or met with cold, clipped replies.

"Jeonghan," you start, the sound of your voice barely carrying over the rain pelting the garage roof.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. "What are you doing here?"

The coldness in his tone sends a shiver down your spine, but you force yourself to step closer. "I could ask you the same thing."

His laugh is short, bitter. "Why are you surprised? This is where I always am."

"Don’t do that," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "Don’t act like this is normal. You’ve been ignoring me for weeks."

"I haven’t been ignoring you," he snaps, pushing off the bench. He stands tall now, towering over you, his hands resting on his hips. "I’ve been busy."

"Busy?" You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "You call one-word replies busy? Jeonghan, I’ve been calling and texting nonstop, and you’ve barely said anything to me."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the distant clatter of tools being packed away. Finally, he exhales sharply, running a hand through his damp hair again.

"Maybe I’m tired," he says, his voice quieter but no less sharp. "Maybe I’m sick of pretending everything’s fine when it’s not."

Your heart twists at the admission, but you push it aside. "What’s not fine? Tell me, Jeonghan. Because I don’t understand why you’re shutting me out."

He shakes his head, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. "You don’t understand?" His voice rises, cracking with the weight of his frustration. "How could you not? You tore me apart in that article like I was just another driver. Like I meant nothing to you."

"It’s my job," you argue, but the words sound weak even to your ears.

"Your job?" he repeats, throwing his arms up. "You mean the job where you’re supposed to be unbiased? Yeah, I’ve noticed how ‘unbiased’ you’ve been lately. Especially when it comes to me."

"That’s not fair," you shoot back, taking a step closer. "You know I’ve always tried to be honest—"

"Honest?" He laughs, the sound bitter and hollow. "You call dragging my worst moments into the spotlight honest? You didn’t write about me; you dissected me. Like I was nothing more than a story."

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away, refusing to let him see how much his words cut. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."

"But you did," he says, his voice softening but losing none of its edge. "And now I don’t even know where we stand."

"We stand..." You falter, your throat tightening. "We stand where we’ve always stood. I care about you, Jeonghan. But this is complicated."

He steps closer, his eyes searching yours. "It doesn’t have to be. It’s only complicated because you’re making it that way."

You look away, unable to hold his gaze. "You don’t understand what this means for me. For my career. For the season."

"And what about me?" he presses, his voice breaking. "What about what this means for us?"

The weight of his words hangs between you, heavy and suffocating. You take a shaky step back, the sound of the rain growing louder in the silence. "Maybe I should go," you whisper, turning toward the garage entrance.

"Don’t," he says sharply, and before you can take another step, his hand wraps around your wrist. “Don’t walk away from me.”

You barely have time to register the movement before he’s pulling you back, his other hand cupping your face as his lips crash against yours. The rain spills into the garage, soaking you both as his kiss deepens, desperate and unyielding. His hands slide to your waist, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead presses against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I won’t give you up," he whispers, his voice raw. "But I need you to choose."

"Jeonghan..." Your voice trembles, but he cuts you off.

"You love me," he says, his hands cupping your face. "Yes or no."

You hesitate, the weight of his question pressing down on you like the storm outside.

"Come on, sweetheart," he pleads, his voice cracking. "Don’t make me beg."

"I’m scared," you admit finally, your voice breaking. "Scared of losing myself. Of losing everything I’ve worked for."

He exhales shakily, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "Are you willing to lose me to keep writing?"

"I..." The words catch in your throat, the truth slipping through your fingers. "I don’t know."

His hands drop to his sides, and he takes a step back, the distance between you like a chasm. "When you decide," he says quietly, his voice heavy with resignation, "give me a call."

The rain clears just in time for Sunday’s race, and Jeonghan is unstoppable. He weaves through the slick track with the precision and grace that made him a legend, crossing the finish line first and extending his lead in the championship.

But you’re not there to celebrate with him.

You watch from the media center, your chest tight as the cameras capture his triumphant smile. But there’s a hollowness in his expression, a flicker of something unspoken as he scans the crowd for someone who isn’t there.

The post-race interviews blur together, and even as you type up your article, the words feel lifeless. Without him beside you, the hotel room feels cold and sterile, the thrill of the race dulled by the ache in your chest.

The days leading up to the Las Vegas Grand Prix are a haze of press releases and anticipation. Jeonghan is one race away from becoming a world champion, but all you can think about is the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch, the way he looked at you under the floodlights.

Your editor calls to praise your latest pieces, but the compliments feel hollow. The articles are polished and professional, but they lack the spark you used to feel when writing about him.

You glance at your phone, your thumb hovering over Jeonghan’s name. You haven’t called. Haven’t texted. Haven’t dared to.

Because the truth is, you’re terrified. 

Terrified of losing yourself. 

But even more terrified of losing him.

FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN SILVER LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Las Vegas Strip Circuit

The sun sets over Las Vegas in a haze of neon and desert dust, the city already buzzing with anticipation for the final race of the season. But in the paddock, the air is electric for all the wrong reasons.

Jeonghan crashes out in Q3.

Your eyes are glued to the screen as Jeonghan’s car slides violently into the barriers, the sharp sound of the impact slicing through the usual hum of commentary. Gasps ripple through the room, but your stomach lurches with something deeper than professional concern. 

You’re in the media center when it happens, staring at the screen as his time locks in. The commentators speculate, the other journalists start drafting headlines, but you can’t hear a word of it. Your heart is already in free fall, and you don’t breathe again until he climbs out of the car, his hands held up in frustration as he waves off the medics.

P8. A disastrous result for the race that could make—or break—his championship. It might as well be the end of the world. 

The room erupts into murmurs as analysts speculate on strategy and rival team fans cheer, but you barely hear them. Your editor sidles up to your desk, his grin practically gleaming in the fluorescent light.

"Well, well," he says, leaning over your shoulder. "Looks like we’ve got our headline for tomorrow. ‘Jeonghan’s Championship Dream in Tatters.’ Perfect angle to dissect his mistakes, maybe even his cocky attitude catching up with him—"

His words fade into the background as something clicks inside you. Every fiber of your being recoils at the thought of reducing Jeonghan—your Jeonghan—to nothing more than a headline. You love writing, yes, but this? This isn’t writing. This is tearing apart the one person who matters most to you, all for clicks and ad revenue.

Without thinking, you swivel in your chair, fixing your editor with a glare so sharp it silences him mid-sentence. "This is my two weeks’ notice."

He blinks, taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." You stand, grabbing your bag and laptop. "I’m done."

Before he can argue, you’re already out the door, leaving behind the cacophony of keyboards and camera flashes. The paddock is chaos as you weave through the throngs of team personnel and fans, your heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and urgency.

You run.

The Ferrari garage is chaos. Engineers scramble to pack up the car, Jeonghan’s manager barks into his phone, and his publicist looks ready to faint. You push your way through it all, ignoring the glares and the shouted protests.

“He doesn’t want to see anyone right now,” Soonyoung says, stepping in front of you as you approach the motorhome.

“I don’t care,” you snap, shoving past him.

The motorhome is empty.

For a moment, you’re frozen, your chest heaving as you glance around the pristine space. The stillness only amplifies your worry. And then it hits you, like a sudden gust of wind: you know exactly where he is.

You sprint again, your heartbeat pounding louder than the chaos of the paddock behind you. The world blurs into streaks of neon lights, the hum of distant conversations, and the faint roar of engines being powered down for the night. The grandstands loom ahead, their cold metal steps stretching upward like an impossible climb. Each step burns in your legs, your breath coming in shallow gasps, but you don’t let up.

You don’t stop until you see him.

Jeonghan sits alone, halfway up the grandstands, his figure slouched as though the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders. The floodlights bathe him in a pale glow, illuminating the soft curve of his profile, his hair catching the light in strands of gold. His head is tilted back, eyes fixed on the track below as if searching for answers in the lines he couldn’t master tonight. A half-finished beer dangles loosely from his fingertips, the bottle swaying slightly with every small movement. Beside him, another bottle sits untouched, condensation pooling on the aluminum seat beneath it.

Waiting.

You take the last steps slowly, your chest tightening as your breathing evens out. Up close, his exhaustion is palpable—dark shadows under his eyes, his usual sharp features softened by an unfamiliar vulnerability.

“I knew you’d come,” he says without looking at you, breaking the silence. His voice is soft, but it carries a weight that settles heavily in your chest. He doesn’t even look at you, his gaze still fixed somewhere far ahead, lost in thought.

You hover for a moment before lowering yourself into the seat beside him. The cold aluminum seeps through your jeans, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your own skin after the sprint. Jeonghan doesn’t move, doesn’t turn toward you, and the distance between you feels like a chasm.

“Jeonghan...” you start, your voice hesitant, but he cuts you off with a bitter laugh.

“This is what happens when my lucky charm leaves me,” he mutters, a sad smile curling at the edges of his lips. His tone is light, but it does nothing to hide the ache in his words. He takes a slow sip of his beer, the motion unhurried.

You glance at the track, the sharp turns and straightaways now cloaked in shadows. “It’s not your fault,” you say softly, your hand reaching out to brush his arm. He flinches at the contact, his muscles tense beneath your touch, but he doesn’t pull away.

“P8 doesn’t mean it’s over.”

This time, he turns to look at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The raw vulnerability there makes your chest tighten further. His voice is quieter now, almost fragile. “You don’t get it,” he murmurs, shaking his head as his gaze drops to the beer bottle in his hand. “This race... it’s everything. If I win, I’m a champion. If I don’t...” He trails off, his words hanging in the air between you.

“I’m scared, Y/N.” His voice cracks, and the sound is almost unbearable. “Scared of all of it. The pressure, the expectations... losing.”

You stare at him, the usually unshakable Jeonghan, the Golden Boy, the Ferrari God, unraveling before you. Your hands move without thinking, cupping his face and tilting his chin so he’s forced to meet your gaze again. His skin is warm beneath your palms, a faint flush from the alcohol—or maybe the stress—lingering across his cheeks.

“Jeonghan,” you say, your voice steady despite the storm in your chest. You press your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his as you close the distance between you. “You love me. Yes or no.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. And then his hands come up to grip your wrists, his touch firm but trembling. “Yes,” he whispers, the word spilling from his lips without hesitation, raw and resolute. His voice shakes, but his eyes hold yours, steady and certain despite the tears brimming there.

A soft smile tugs at your lips as you lean in, your lips brushing against his forehead in a feather-light kiss. “Good,” you whisper, the word carrying a quiet strength. “You’ll always have me.”

His grip on your wrists loosens, his expression shifting to something between confusion and hope. “But your job... your writing?”

“I’m quitting,” you say simply, letting the words hang for a moment. You watch the shock bloom across his face, his eyebrows shooting up as he sits back slightly, pulling your hands with him.

“You’re what?”

You laugh softly, brushing your thumb against his cheek as if to soothe him. “Not writing, idiot,” you tease gently. “I’m still going to write. But I’m not writing for any organization that profits off me tearing the man I love to shreds.”

His lips part, but no words come. He blinks rapidly, trying to process, and you take the opportunity to continue.

“Besides,” you add, your voice lighter now, “Sky Sports has been trying to recruit me for an on-air job for almost a year now.”

He stares at you, his gaze searching your face for any hint of doubt or regret. Finally, his voice comes, soft and uncertain. “You love me?”

The corners of your mouth lift into a playful smile, and you raise an eyebrow. “Is that what you decide to focus on?”

“Y/N,” he says again, his voice dropping to a whisper, almost desperate. His hands move to clasp yours, his fingers lacing through yours as if afraid you’ll slip away. “Do you love me?”

You answer with action, leaning in and capturing his lips in a quick, tender kiss. His breath hitches, his fingers tightening around yours. “Win tomorrow, golden boy,” you whisper, your lips brushing his as you speak. “And I’ll tell you my answer.”

For the first time that night, Jeonghan smiles—a real, genuine smile that reaches his eyes and softens the tension in his face. And in that moment, as the world fades to just the two of you under the floodlights, you know he’s already won.

Jeonghan is going to lose.

He’s sure of it.

The car feels like it’s fighting him at every turn, the tires slipping just slightly when he needs them to grip, the brakes locking up when he’s trying to conserve them for the final laps. His body aches from the sheer force of the race—the g-forces on the corners, the strain in his neck, the tension in his hands from gripping the wheel too hard.

The numbers on his dashboard blur together, his mind a muddled mess of strategies, tire temps, and sector times. He’s made up four places since the chaotic start and sits in P4 now, but every gain feels like a herculean effort. Every corner feels like it could be his last.

He slams the steering wheel in frustration as he exits another turn slower than he should, the car wobbling slightly under him. “This isn’t working,” he growls into the radio, his voice clipped and strained.

His engineer’s calm voice filters through the crackling static. “We know, Jeonghan. Stay focused. We believe in you.”

Jeonghan clenches his teeth, a biting retort forming on his tongue, but before he can spit it out, the radio crackles again.

“Your girl is here. In the garage. She’s watching.”

“What the fuck?” The words come out before he can stop them, his tone incredulous.

“Soonyoung wanted to surprise you,” his engineer explains, and Jeonghan can practically hear the grin in his voice.

His mind stutters to a halt, and for a moment, all the noise fades—the engine’s roar, the tires screeching against the asphalt, even the deafening wind rushing past his helmet. He blinks, the image of you sitting in the garage flashing in his mind, your presence there grounding him in a way nothing else can.

And then, like a light cutting through the fog, your words echo in his head. “Win tomorrow, and I’ll tell you my answer.”

His grip on the wheel tightens, his breath steadies, and something in him clicks. It’s not just the car anymore—it’s him. His mind, his body, the machine—they all fall into alignment like pieces of a puzzle.

“Copy,” he says into the radio, his voice calm now. The frustration is gone, replaced by a steely determination.

Lap 50. Jeonghan is chasing down P3, the gap shrinking corner by corner. His tires scream in protest as he takes each turn with precision, braking just a fraction later, accelerating just a fraction earlier. The car isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. He’s making it work.

As he dives into the braking zone at Turn 7, the car in front of him falters, locking up slightly. Jeonghan seizes the opportunity, darting to the inside line and slipping past with a calculated aggression that leaves no room for error.

P3.

Lap 53. The leader pack is within sight now—Mingyu in P1, his closest rival, and Seungcheol in P2, a surprising dark horse this season. The three of them have danced this dance all season, but tonight feels different. Tonight, everything is on the line.

Lap 55. Seungcheol’s car begins to falter, his tires degrading as he struggles to maintain pace. Jeonghan hovers in his slipstream, biding his time.

On the main straight, he pulls to the outside, pushing his car to its limits. The engine roars as he edges past Seungcheol, the two of them side by side into the braking zone. Jeonghan holds his line, his heart pounding as he feels the car stick.

P2.

Lap 58. Mingyu is just ahead, the gap less than a second now. Jeonghan can feel the strain in his body, his hands cramping from the sheer effort, but he doesn’t let up. Every ounce of energy he has left is poured into these final laps.

Lap 59. DRS is open, the rear wing flattening to reduce drag as Jeonghan closes the gap on the straight. Mingyu defends aggressively, forcing Jeonghan to the outside.

They enter Turn 10 side by side, the apex inches away. Jeonghan holds his breath, his tires brushing the curbs as he edges ahead. But Mingyu doesn’t back down, his car pushing right up to Jeonghan’s rear wing as they exit the turn.

Lap 60. The final lap. It’s a battle of wills now, neither of them giving an inch. Jeonghan’s heart feels like it’s about to burst, the sweat dripping down his face soaking into the padding of his helmet.

The final corner looms ahead, and Jeonghan knows this is it. Mingyu is on his inside, the two of them neck and neck as they approach the braking zone.

Jeonghan brakes just a millisecond later, his car sliding slightly as he takes the tighter line. He holds his breath, willing the car to stay steady, and then he’s through.

The checkered flag waves, the two cars crossing the line almost simultaneously.

Jeonghan’s chest heaves as he slumps back in his seat, his mind a blur of exhaustion and adrenaline. He doesn’t know if he’s won or lost—everything was too close, too fast.

The radio crackles to life, and for a moment, all he hears is chaos—shouting, cheering, voices overlapping in a cacophony of noise.

And then, cutting through it all, your voice rings out.

“YOON JEONGHAN, TWO-TIME WORLD CHAMPION!”

The words hit him like a lightning bolt, and a yell tears from his throat, loud and raw and triumphant. He punches the air, his entire body trembling with emotion as he lets out another scream, so loud he’s sure the neighboring cars can hear him.

He’s done it.

Through the static of the radio, he hears your laughter, bright and unrestrained, and it’s the only sound that matters.

Jeonghan rolls into Parc Fermé with deliberate precision, the sound of his engine fading into silence as he pulls to a stop. His hands are shaking, his knuckles pale from the grip he’s maintained for the last grueling laps. The cockpit feels stifling, and yet he lingers for a second longer, the enormity of what’s just happened crashing over him like a wave.

He’s done it.

The realization leaves him breathless. His fingers fumble with the steering wheel as he pulls it free, his movements automatic even as his mind spirals. Around him, the world is chaos. Fans scream from the stands, the floodlights of Las Vegas painting the scene in stark gold and shadows. Through the static in his earpiece, his engineer’s voice is still ringing with elation, and he hears indistinct shouting from his crew, but it all blends into a distant roar.

All Jeonghan can think about is you.

He climbs out of the car, bracing his foot on the halo as he pushes himself upright. For a brief moment, he stands tall atop the machine, his body vibrating with adrenaline. His fists shoot into the air, and he lets out a triumphant yell, a sound ripped from deep within his chest. The Ferrari crew erupts in response, a sea of red swarming toward him, shouting his name, their arms outstretched in celebration.

But Jeonghan’s eyes are already searching, scanning the barriers beyond the chaos, darting from one face to another. He’s not looking for his engineers or the cameras or even his teammates. He’s looking for you.

And then he sees you.

You’re there, pressed against the barricade, your hands gripping the edge so tightly your knuckles are white. Your face is wet—tears streaming freely—but your smile is brighter than anything he’s ever seen. It’s disbelieving, joyous, and so achingly familiar that his breath catches in his throat.

In that moment, everything else fades away. The cheers of his team, the flashing cameras, the rules about protocol—none of it exists anymore.

Jeonghan jumps down from the car, tossing the wheel to a waiting mechanic, and tears at his helmet strap. The world around him is a blur of movement and noise—his team surging forward, the cameras flashing, the announcer’s voice booming overhead—but none of it registers. His helmet comes off with a sharp tug, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat as he grips the sleek surface in one hand and bolts toward you.

He’s moving before he realizes it, his boots pounding against the pavement as he cuts through the throng of people. The barricade draws closer, and the sight of you—your tear-streaked cheeks, your trembling shoulders—grounds him in a way nothing else could.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t stop.

His hands find you immediately. One curls around your neck, his palm warm and steady against your skin, while the other cups your face, his thumb brushing away the tears tracing paths down your cheek. His chest is still heaving, his breath ragged from the exertion of the race, but his touch is impossibly tender.

Your lips part, and your voice comes out in a trembling whisper, just loud enough for him to hear over the chaos. “Congratulations, pretty boy.”

It’s like the world holds its breath. For one fleeting second, it’s just the two of you. The noise of the paddock fades, the flashing lights dim, and all that remains is the quiet intimacy of your words.

Jeonghan’s lips curve into a smile so pure, so unrestrained, that it feels like sunlight breaking through a storm. “You love me,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. His forehead dips to rest against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Yes or—”

You don’t let him finish.

Your arms shoot out, locking around his neck as you pull him down into a kiss. It’s desperate and dizzying, a culmination of everything left unsaid. Jeonghan freezes for the briefest of moments, his eyes widening, before melting into you entirely. His lips move against yours, soft but insistent, and the hand on your neck slides up to thread through your hair, holding you close as if you might disappear.

“Yes,” you whisper against his mouth, your voice breaking. Your hands fist in the front of his race suit, anchoring yourself as you press your forehead to his. “Yes. I love you.”

The barriers around you tremble as the Ferrari crew erupts in celebration, their cheers deafening. Jeonghan barely registers it. His fist shoots into the air, his lips still brushing against yours as he laughs—a sound full of pure, unrestrained joy.

“You’re my lucky charm,” he murmurs, his voice shaking with a mix of awe and certainty.

And when you smile back at him, it’s brighter than the floodlights, warmer than the victory. 

EPILOGUE

FORMULA 1 ROLEX AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Albert Park Grand Prix Circuit

The air at Albert Park hums with the kind of energy that only a new season can bring. The stands are packed, a sea of flags waving for drivers and teams, and the scent of freshly cut grass mingles with the faint tang of engine oil. It’s not quite spring yet, but the Melbourne sun still beats down relentlessly, leaving Jeonghan’s fireproofs clinging uncomfortably to his skin as he strides out of the Ferrari garage.

His mind buzzes with the aftermath of qualifying—P2 isn’t pole, but it’s close enough to feel like a promise. Yet, beneath the satisfaction, there’s the familiar tug of nerves that always follows a strong start. Tomorrow is what counts.

His publicist catches up to him, clipboard in hand. “Sky Sports first,” she says, her tone clipped but not unkind.

Jeonghan barely suppresses a groan, already knowing what awaits him. He doesn’t mind media—not entirely—but right now, his thoughts are miles away from answering questions about his out lap or tire degradation.

He rounds the corner into the media pen, where cameras are trained on bright logos and polished smiles. But his eyes find you immediately, waiting just behind the barricade, a microphone in hand, your hair catching the golden glow of the late afternoon sun.

You’re a vision.

He slows as he approaches, his publicist muttering instructions he doesn’t bother to hear. Your eyes catch his, and a secret smile spreads across your lips. He mirrors it, his heart lifting in a way that has nothing to do with his qualifying position.

Jeonghan leans against the barricade, his hands braced on the metal. It’s casual, nonchalant—a stark contrast to the spark simmering beneath the surface. As the questions begin, his fingers shift, brushing yours. The touch is featherlight, a soft sweep of skin against skin, but it’s enough to make his chest tighten.

The lanyard around your neck gleams in the sunlight, a stark reminder of how much had changed—and how much hadn’t. You’re still you.

And you’re wearing it.

The chain glints faintly against your skin, the two charms catching the light with each movement. One is the microphone, delicate and detailed, perfectly crafted. The other is his initial: J. Small, simple, yet undeniably his.

(You’d teased him endlessly when he gave it to you at Christmas. “Modest as always, aren’t you?” you’d laughed.

“Of course,” he’d replied, his voice low and teasing as he leaned into your hair. “One charm for your new job, because I’m so proud of you. And one for me, because I’m so amazing.”

“Two-time world champion,” you’d corrected, poking his ribs.

“Two-time world champion,” he’d agreed with a grin, pulling you into his arms.)

“Jeonghan,” you greet, a secret smile tugging at your lips.

The sound of his name on your lips—professional but laced with affection—sends a warmth through him that he doesn’t bother to hide. “Y/N,” he replies, his tone light but his eyes heavy with meaning.

The interview begins, your questions sharp and to the point. Jeonghan answers with his usual ease, the confidence that had earned him his titles. But he’s distracted, his focus flickering between your voice and the way your thumb absently brushes the microphone charm as you speak.

“You’re awfully cheerful for someone who only managed P2,” you tease, tilting your head slightly.

He leans closer, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Just keeping it interesting. Wouldn’t want to win everything too easily.”

You roll your eyes, but the soft laugh that escapes you betrays your amusement.

The banter continues, each exchange laced with an undercurrent of warmth that only the two of you can fully understand. To anyone watching, it’s just another driver and journalist sharing a lighthearted moment. But to Jeonghan, it’s everything.

When the cameras finally cut, the energy between you shifts. He leans over the barricade without hesitation, his hands curling around the edge for balance as he dips his head toward you.

The first kiss is quick, a soft press of lips that feels like a punctuation mark to the conversation.

The second is slower, more deliberate, as if he’s savoring the fact that he can do this now.

The third lingers, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

“Jeonghan,” you murmur, glancing around with a mix of amusement and exasperation. But your grin is wide, and your cheeks are flushed, and he knows you’re not annoyed in the slightest.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice so low it barely reaches you. His eyes are soft, his expression open in a way that’s reserved only for you.

Your hand finds his wrist, your fingers curling gently around it. “I love you too,” you reply, your voice steady, your gaze unyielding.

For a moment, the world around you fades—the bustling media pen, the hum of conversations, the clicking cameras. All that exists is the space between you, filled with unspoken promises and the quiet certainty of what comes next.

And as Jeonghan straightens, reluctantly stepping back into the whirlwind of his world, he knows he’s carrying a part of you with him—just as you carry a part of him. Always.

a/n: and that, was full throttle. i cannot express to any of you how proud i am of myself for finishing this. i think i spent more time deleting things on this doc than i did writing it and somehow, i fucking love the way this turned out. alta, kae, if you're reading this - thank you. from the bottom of my heart. this story would have never happened had it not been for the two of you motivating me to get this out of my head and onto a doc. you both inspire me every day and i am lucky that i had you on my side for this one.

[yall-batman-fanfic]

Batman/Bruce WaynexMagician!OC| Chapter List

Here is a list of the chapters of the Batman/Bruce Wayne x Magician!Reader story in this blog.

Please note that chapters that are marked with the blue highlight are part of the main story and those without the highlights are the chapters that are mostly scenarios and fluffs with the other characters.

I will update this whenever there is a new chapter.

Season 1

Our First Meeting Involved a Murder and a Cult Part 1

Our First Meeting Involved a Murder and a Cult Part 2

The Three-Way Relationship

The British are Coming!

The Unexpected Guest: The Guardian of Wayne Manor

Children of the Bat

The Time We Got Caught Skinny Dipping

“I’ll Always Be Here for You, Kiddo. Always.”

Fear Toxin: The Memories That Haunts Us

"I Need a Raise."

Along Came Jason

Meeting the Justice League

Day Off & Double Dates

Angels & Demons: Justice League Dark (Part 1/3)

Angels & Demons: Justice League Dark (Part 2/3)

Angels & Demons: Justice League Dark (Part 3/3)

Special Merchandise

A Quiet Night

The Billionaire's Wife

A Promise Across Time (Part1 / 3)

A Promise Across Time (Part 2/3)

A Promise Across Time (Part 3/3)

Moving In

Mother & Daughter

The Consultant: Morgan le Fey Case

Cats

In the Events of My Death: The Bruce Wayne Tapes

Dreams and Reality (Part 1/3)

Dreams and Reality (Part 2/3)

Dreams and Reality (Part 3/3)

Damian's Pets

Opening Up

Gotham Year One

PTA Rivals

Two-Face

Wedding: Without Masks (Part 1/2)

Wedding: The One that Gotham Remembers (Part 2/2)

Another Chance

Little One

Love of my Life

Blurred Photos

Babysitting

Valerie's First Birthday

Penny Too!

Family Sports Day

Trouble

The Crossroads

Wayne Family Holiday Traditions

Beyond

From Our First Case to Our Last

Season 2

Hiya Mom!

Its a Bat-Thing

In Another Life

[Maxie] Zeus

The Riddler's Mistake: The Wrong Kid for Ransom

Exes

Wrath of Wayne [Part 1/3]

Wrath of Wayne [Part 2/3]

Wrath of Wayne [Part 3/3]

Indiana Quinn! Harley Goes to the Temple of Doom

A Family Trip to Liverpool

The Madman's Dream

Superman Saves the Day

Teen Titans!

Happy Valentines Day, Batman

“I’m Sorry, Ma. I’m really, really sorry…”

Dracula [Part 1]

Dracula [Part 2]

Happy Birthday, Batman

Dracula [Part 3]

The Dark Side of Academia

Gotham at Night

Return of Hush

Superhero Playdate

College

Social Services

City of Owls [Part 1]

City of Owls [Part 2]

Sometimes it’s Best to Keep the Closet Closed… and Locked with a Kryptonite Padlock

Moments with the Justice League [Part 1]

The One Thing I Can’t Sacrifice

That Look

There is a Floating Baby in the Living Room

She’s Not My Girlfriend

That One Coworker

Moments with the Justice League: Powerless Atom [Part 2]

Vivian Pryor's Barber Shop

How Robins Babysit

Into the Dreaming [Part 1/2]

Into the Dreaming [Part 2/2]

Date Night

Goodbye, My Love

Season 3

Boyfriend

Friday the 13th

Shut Up!

They're Doing it Again!

Prom

Bad Mood

Season 3: Bruce x Vivian Elseworld Chapters

I moved the Dark Knights of Steel and other Elseworld chapters to this post: Bruce Wayne/Batman x OC!Magician Elseworld Chapters

Please note that some chapters do not follow the chronological order due to time jumps that relate to the story, but are placed in this order as major parts of the story are in that certain timeline.

Gotham Year One

Our First Meeting Involved a Murder and a Cult Part 1

Our First Meeting Involved a Murder and a Cult Part 2

A Promise Across Time (Part 1/3)

Cats

The Time We Got Caught Skinny Dipping

The Three-Way Relationship

A Madman's Dream

The British are Coming!

The Unexpected Guest: The Guardian of Wayne Manor

Moving In

A Quiet Night

Meeting the Justice League

Exes

“I’ll Always Be Here for You, Kiddo. Always.”

[Maxie] Zeus

Happy Valentines Day, Batman

Fear Toxin: The Memories That Haunts Us

Wedding: Without Masks (Part 1/2)

Wedding: The One that Gotham Remembers (Part 2/2)

Along Came Jason

The Billionaire's Wife

In the Event of My Death: The Bruce Wayne Tapes

“I’m Sorry, Ma. I’m really, really sorry…”

Children of the Bat

Teen Titans!

"I Need a Raise."

The Dark Side of Academia

In Another Life

Angels & Demons: Justice League Dark (Part 1/3)

Angels & Demons: Justice League Dark (Part 2/3)

Angels & Demons: Justice League Dark (Part 3/3)

The Consultant: Morgan le Fey Case

Indiana Quinn! Harley Goes to the Temple of Doom

Mother & Daughter

Superman Saves the Day

Opening Up

Day off & Double Dates

Special Merchandise

A Promise Across Time (Part 2/3)

A Promise Across Time (Part 3/3)

Hiya Mom!

Dreams and Reality (Part 1/3)

Dreams and Reality (Part 2/3)

Dreams and Reality (Part 3/3)

Damian's Pets

PTA Rivals

Two-Face

Another Chance

Little One

Love of My Life

Blurred Photos

Babysitting

Wrath of Wayne [Part 1/3]

Wrath of Wayne [Part 2/3]

Wrath of Wayne [Part 3/3]

Valerie's First Birthday

The Crossroads

Penny Too!

Family Sports Day

Trouble

Wayne Family Holiday Traditions

A Family Trip to Liverpool

Happy Birthday, Batman

Dracula [Part 1]

Dracula [Part 2]

Dracula [Part 3]

Return of Hush

The Riddler's Mistake: The Wrong Kid for Ransom

Beyond

Gotham at Night

Its a Bat-Thing

From Our First Case to Our Last

[pisupsala]

Of All The Stars in The Sky | 21 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader (no use of y/n, name used)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 12.2k

Index | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21

Library

Chapter 21 - For a Day Like Today

It’s still dark, just before daybreak, when Bradley startles awake. It’s that oppressive feeling of being caged again. The only door in the room is locked, his restless mind pacing the perimeter of the room over and over and over, expecting his body to follow. He sits up, rubbing his face in agitation. It’s the anxious buzz in his bones that is forcing him out of bed, a sense of impending doom, like all the air might get sucked out of the room any second, and he cannot stay here.

Out at sea, you can see a storm approaching from afar. You can see the lightning flash on the horizon, so far away that the clap of thunder will never reach your ears. It’s just a blip, gone before your eyes adjust. The pitch black darkness rolls toward you, slowly at first, seemingly just looming for hours, before it suddenly overtakes you in a split second, and hell unleashes. 

The storm is always on the edge of Bradley’s mind. The looming darkness. Sometimes, it’s so far away he forgets about it — he’s tried enough spirits to forget about it, he’s tried things he’d rather forget about. It always catches up to him with a vengeance the moment when his guard is down. As the sun creeps over the horizon, anxiety claws up his bones, and the sudden sinking feeling is like when the barometer drops. In a flash, a crash of thunder fills him with panic. 

He needs to get out of here.

It’s irrational; Bradley knows that. Logically, he knows there isn’t any danger in the room; the closed door isn’t locked. Of course, he knows that. But it’s overwhelming in a way he has rarely experienced, careful control slipping through his fingers and finally leaving him with no choice. Bradley forces himself to move slowly; at least it’s something he can control, despite his heart thundering in his chest now, fist clenching, jaw set. Dragging himself up, the covers slide down the bed with him.

It’s the small, soft, sleepy moan next to him that stops him. 

He is not alone. 

At the mercy of the storm, blinded by lightning, he forgot that, for the first time in years, he is not alone.

With that realization, he can breathe again; the boulder has lifted from his chest. His muscles are still tense, and Bradley is suddenly acutely aware of how tightly he is clenching his jaw, but the storm is now nothing more than gentle rain. Carefully, he draws the covers back up over your naked form — for a moment, he is mesmerized.

You are sleeping on your stomach, your face buried in the fluffy pillow. Just one closed eye is peeking out between the soft white sheets and the mess that is your hair. You look exactly like you did all those years ago, sleeping in his bed; the harsh world hasn’t washed out your soft youthfulness, the sense of innocence that besets you in your sleep. You are still younger now than Bradley was when you met, he realizes, even if it’s just by a year. 

Inevitably, his gaze roams over your exposed skin, the covers pooling around your hips, starting somewhere at your hairline behind your ear, wrapping around your jaw up to your temple, down the left side of your neck to the junction of your shoulder, spilling down your back and upper arm, splattering all the way down to your wrist, dripping just over your hip. Your skin is a painful-looking patchwork. Angry and raw-looking streaks and splotches of red and pink slowly heal into shallow ridges and dimples, light and dark.

You haven’t told Bradley what happened, and he hasn’t asked. But he’s seen enough of war to know what burns look like; skin melted off the body under the intense heat of explosive fires. He’s seen those blazes from the sky. His toes would curl in his boots as if the sea of flames under him would singe them. He’s seen ships in flames just over the horizon. The metric gallons of fuel and ammunition would make them burn so brightly that the stars in the night sky would disappear under the eerie orange glow of a false dawn. There must be thousands of yous. He is guilty of creating thousands of yous.

Your face is so relaxed, your breathing deep and steady, even as you shift in your sleep. Just around your left temple, facing him, Bradley can see the edge of the scar crawling up your face. A few small dots, little constellations of freckles, are scattered over your forehead and cheek — they are so small the painful red has already faded, making them almost imperceptible. Bradley could feel them under his thumb when he touched your face last night, like a secret message on your skin for him. He reaches out to you, hesitating again, not wanting to wake you up. 

He’s noticed how you take great care of hiding the marred skin, from the cascade of curls carefully framing your face despite how impractical it is, to the high collars and long sleeves despite the warm weather. Strategic, calculated, he would call it, which is very like you. But it’s the nervous plucking at your sleeve, constantly, probably subconsciously, trying to pull it a little bit further over the scars on your wrist. The constant adjusting of your hair would appear to be a habit of vanity at first glance. Still, Bradley noticed the anxious edge in your movements despite the smile on your face. Your panicked reaction to undressing, curling into yourself, shaking like a leaf – it’s all decidedly unlike you. 

Bradley had never seen you cry before. During those short, dark winter months you spent together, when you argued, ran for your life, got shot at, when you risked everything to break into the ministry, he didn’t see a single tear from you. Just fire. Even when he pushed you to what must have been your limit, and the situation seemed hopeless — Bradley himself lost all hope — you pushed back the moment you had a second to find your footing. Terrified, tired, but always spitting fire.

You still wear all your masks so skillfully. Desperately. As fast as the fire rises in you still, it extinguishes just as quickly. 

What have they done to you?

“Bradley-” Your voice creaks, thick from sleep. You move stiffly, turning to face him fully with difficulty; he notices, blinking against the early morning light. Bradley’s hand had been hovering just above your shoulder. He brings it down gently onto your skin, caressing his knuckles down your arm. 

“Why are you awake?” You croak softly at him, a sleepy look still on your face, eyes barely open. “What time is it?”

“Go back to sleep, Anya,” He whispers back, lying back down next to you, drawing the covers back up as he wraps his arms around you. Bradley doubts he will be able to fall back asleep himself; his mind is still pacing, and the storm is always looming. You cuddle up to him tightly, your arms sneaking around his neck, draping your leg over his thigh. 

“We have busy days ahead.” He reminds himself, perhaps more than you. You just lazily hum in reply, only half listening, nuzzling his neck.

It was such an odd sensation to wake up, on the precipice of a dream you couldn’t remember, but you could feel the mattress shift under his weight, hear the rustle of the soft sheets as he moved, the soft groan as he sat up. Bradley is next to you — you don’t need to open your eyes or even wake up fully. You know it’s him, instinctually. Like in that dream, it just made sense for him to be here. 

Who else would be next to you on that beach?

Who else would be next to you in bed now?

“I don’t think I want to sleep anymore,” you reply, sounding playful. Your voice is bright now, and all traces of sleep are long gone. Before Bradley can reply, your lips have already found the pulse point on his neck, your fingers raking through his tousled hair. He groans as you press into him, his hands gripping your waist, trying to keep you in place. 

There is a hesitation in his movements, a distance in his manner. 

You look up at him as you kiss the corner of his mouth. Bradley’s eyes are open, and he looks tired, somewhere between confusion and fear. His eyes dart around the room for a split second before he notices your discerning gaze on him. But before you can ask, that infectious, cocky grin magically appears on his face. 

How can you feel such warmth, such longing spreading through every cell of your body, just seeing Bradley smile at you? How is that possible?

“And what did you have in mind instead, sweetheart?” He asks casually, lightly caressing your side. You yelp as his soft touch turns into merciless tickles, leaving you squirming. Try as you might to redirect his attentions, Bradley keeps evading your kiss with a playful smirk, keeping you easily pinned in place with his body so you couldn’t get away even if you wanted to. He just laughs at your futile attempts as you gasp for breath between giggles, tangled between the sheets.

For a moment, it’s like no time has passed. The train never left the station. The bomb never fell. For a moment, your skin doesn’t pull painfully at every move, your muscles don’t pinch and twitch, and the ceaseless noise in your head is all but forgotten. This is what you dreamed about, the fantasy that was a pilot light for hope in your darkest days.

Bradley is smiling down at you, infectiously, giving you a moment’s reprieve as you gasp for breath. The soft early-morning light reflects off his caramel curls; with every breath he takes, you can see the supple movement of his body — the way his chest expands, the muscles in his stomach contract, the roll of his broad shoulders, the way his tongue flicks across his lips, leaving them glistening in the semi-darkness. Like drawn up by a string, you move your head up, grasping at his shoulders, closing in the distance between his lips and yours, hungry for a kiss. Bradley moves back, laughing teasingly. You frown at him as best you can, but a smile keeps tugging at the corners of your mouth. Bradley doesn’t yield.

The light touch on your ribcage, just a brush of his fingertips, a small playful pinch on the soft skin of your waist. You know what is coming. Before Bradley can tickle you again, you move quickly, tightly grasping his wrist. He barely resists, just laughing together with you as you wrench his wiggling fingers away from the sensitive parts of your body in gasping laughter.

It’s that all-too-familiar painful twitch in your shoulder that melts the dreamy haze off you. The tremor travels down your arm, leaving searing pain in its wake. You gasp loudly, involuntarily. Bradley’s eyes are on you immediately, not smiling anymore. 

He knows that wasn’t a gasp of pleasure. 

Abruptly, you let go of Bradley’s wrist. Too abruptly, and you know he is too quick, too sharp, not to notice your shaking fingers as you drop your hand down like a dead weight. He’s following your every move like a hawk. Hovering over you, with nothing to cover your body, Bradley can clearly see the muscles in your arm spasming, the violent twitch in your shoulder, like a current keeps running through your arm, contracting the muscles, leaving your fingers to shake helplessly.

“It’s fine,” You exhale, trying to keep the pain off your face. It’s too much to conjure up a smile. Bradley doesn’t reply as he looms over you. 

“It happens all the time.” You shrug, trying to appear casual, wanting the moment to pass faster, to downplay it and redirect his attention. It’s not working.

“That makes it worse,” Bradley’s voice is soft, but the frown on his face is anything but that. “You shouldn’t be in pain.” He repeats urgently, his fingers hovering over your injured arm.

“But I am. Most of the time,” You reply matter-of-factly. Bradley’s frown turns into shock, sadness in his eyes, and he opens his mouth — you are so sure you know what the following words will be. 

“No—no, don’t pity me — god, it’s just—it’s just what it is, okay?” You interrupt quickly. Your fingers are still shaking, but you grab his hand, lacing your fingers through his. His hand is so warm against yours, and you wish his touch would magically make the pain and tremors disappear. Bradley is looking at your hand. Now that he can feel how violent the movement is, how your fingers clench around his, his heart drops further.

“The reality of my life is that my body hurts, it doesn’t always move in the way I want it to, and it sure as shit doesn’t look like I want it to,” Bitterness seeps into your words, no matter how much you tell yourself you accept it. And you want Bradley to accept it. You couldn’t live as the object of pity and guilt, as something to fix. You want to get on with your life. “It might get better, but it probably won’t. Dwelling on it, fussing, whatever — it won’t help.”

“You are mine to fuss over, mine to care for,” Bradley retorts softly, tightening his grip on your hand. The tremors are slowly decreasing. You want to look away under the intensity of his gaze, suddenly feeling small. Finally, he closes the distance between you, gently kissing your forehead. At least he isn’t frowning anymore, but he still looks far too serious. 

Your face is relaxed as the pain in your shoulder finally ebbs away into the constant haze of noise and ache that has become the background of your everyday life. You search Bradley’s face, uncertainly.

“A terrible and unforeseen consequence of agreeing to marry me, I’m sure.” He finally chuckles. 

“I’ll allow it,” You joke back dryly, smiling finally. “Sometimes.”

When you move to kiss Bradley now, he easily leans into you, allowing you to pull him closer. He eases himself back on his side, gently pulling you with him. Lying in bed together, face to face, naked under the covers, with soft kisses and gentle touches, feels like you’re exploring new levels of intimacy with each other when the clock has finally stopped ticking, when the raging fire of years of yearning is slowly dying down, a space for new things forms. A healing kind of love that can embrace and forgive everything that happened.

For the longest time, you longed to share everything that happened, to finally break down all the compartments you forced your life into in the past years. Bradley knew parts of you and your life that you kept closely guarded — he was a part of your life that you kept guarded the closest. It should be so easy to tell him everything. About Eva. About your parents. About the years he missed, about the last days of the war. About the Gestapo, the winter, and the factory. About your finger on the trigger, about the fire that came down from the sky. 

But that would mean telling him exactly how broken you are. Inside. You still hear the air raid sirens in your head. Sometimes, your hands feel sticky from the blood. The smell of fire and smoke sends cold shivers down your spine.

You cannot shake this nagging feeling that it’s too much. Bradley will grow tired of it. Tired of you. Suffering is boring. Pain only elicits pity. Pity is not a tenable emotion, but it permeates through everything else, and as it runs out, it erodes the foundation. Love wouldn’t stand a chance.

And it’s a bitter realization, a little sting in your heart; it’s not like Rooster doesn’t have options. That was always very much understood. You don’t want to dwell on it, or you're starting this new chapter of your life on the back foot already.

“You didn’t have this before.” Your fingers trace the scar on Bradley’s left shoulder. It’s almost as large as the palm of your hand. It’s a bit ironic that, for all your hesitation to talk about what happened to you, you are dying to know about Bradley.

“Hm?” Bradley gazes down lazily at your fingers. “I got shot down over the Pacific,” He replies simply, a little too plainly.

“Oh,” You’re looking at him curiously, wanting to hear more. Bradley hesitates. He doesn’t want to talk about those days, inviting the storm closer, but he also doesn’t want to keep it from you. He supposes it would be nice if there were another person who knew and understood. It would be nice if that person were you. And the way you are looking at him right now, the cute curiosity on your face, the way you are still holding onto him right now, can he ever really say no to you?

“An enemy fighter intercepted me, busted my entire machine in one salvo, and caught me in the shoulder,” Bradley sounds distant as he recalls that day. His gaze travels around the room, only briefly flickering back to you. “Knocked out hydraulics, pierced my fuel reserves,” He trails off for a moment; now that he’s recounting it to you, he realizes how little he remembers. “I made it back to the ship by crashing into the deck. Just a full-on belly flop.” He draws a long breath. “But I don’t recall any of that. I just remember how the ocean and the sky bled into each other, this expanse of never-ending blue. It was such a bright, beautiful day.”

Bradley chuckles dryly, shaking his head. “The next thing I know, I was on the tarmac in a pool of blood.”

You wait for him to continue with bated breath, but Bradley appears lost in his memory of the day — he is not exactly frowning, but he looks distinctly uncomfortable. Everything about how he’s holding himself would make you think he’s entirely at ease — the relaxed breathing, stretched out on the bed, arm behind his head. It’s the faraway look in his eye, the way the corners of his mouth are turned down. You regard him pensively, the slight crease between your eyebrows appearing as you think. You try to imagine what the sky and the sea looked like, just so you don’t have to think about the Bradley, soaked in blood, far away from home. “You know,” You start, lightly running your fingers over the scar, pursing your lips as you consider your next words. Bradley’s hazel eyes follow the pattern you draw on his skin in silence. You look up at him, blinking innocently: “I’m starting to think you’re not very good at this whole flying thing.” 

You delight in the look of pure shock that washes over Bradley’s face — eyes wide open, mouth ajar, stuttering, scrambling in an attempt to get to a rebuttal. You bat your lashes at him sweetly, smile on your face, tongue poking out between your teeth playfully. Finally, he just bursts out laughing, hunching over, shoulders shaking. 

“You are such a fucking menace!” He chokes out, laughing. Only you could say such completely irreverent things with such a cute smile. It’s that smile, that mischievous glint in your eye. Bradley remembers all too well how his heart jumped when he saw you smile like that at him the first time — you have him wrapped around your finger, and you know it. “I’m right.” You sit up, laughing too. 

“Some might agree; my command saw it fit to make me a captain instead,” He grins arrogantly. God, you hate how good he looks when he does that. It’s funny. You considered it off-putting at first; that arrogant, joking manner. But you missed that confidence and warm levity most about Bradley. 

“You were there both times, you know — in sense, I suppose.” He suddenly says soberly. He lies back down, tucking you into his side. You rest your chin on his chest, looking up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you found me that first time,” Bradley’s eyes are darting around the room again. You hum in response. ‘It’s more… when I was lying on the ground, I could only think about how my blood was soaking through my flight suit, and your handkerchief was in my breast pocket.”

“You had that with you?” You sound so surprised, your fingertips press into his skin in excitement.

“Of course I did,” Bradley gazes down at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, basking in your wonder. “I yelled at the admiral to get it from my pocket.”

“Oh.” You sound breathless as you lay your head down again. You never stopped to think what Bradley did with the small square of fabric you gave him. But he carried it with him, all those years.

“I still have it. It’s in the breast pocket of my shirt.” He adds casually.

“With blood on it?” Your head shoots up again, looking at him wide-eyed. “God no—no,” Bradley chuckles. “It got cleaned.” 

Internally, Bradley cringes at the memory. But before he can start overthinking his words, you pull him right back.

“I had to get your bracelet cleaned, too.” 

It’s a somewhat strange segue. You bite your lip — you should finish what you started. Resting your chin on your hand, you keep looking down at Bradley’s chest as you search for the right words. “I only wore it that one time. I kept it hidden at first, and then I held onto it in my pocket. But that day… those days, I felt — I don’t know — it felt right.” 

Bradley doesn’t say anything, waiting for you to continue. His hand is resting on your hip, anchoring you against him, anchoring you in the moment. You sigh, eyes wandering around the room. Bradley sees the apprehensive look on your face. 

“I was sent to help evacuate the wounded after the HQ in the old town was bombed. It was broad daylight, but there was so much smoke everywhere it was like a thick mist, and god, the stench.” You shake your head. It’s so strange to recount what happened in those May days a year ago. You’ve thought about that moment over and over — in anger, sadness, despair — how you shouldn’t have looked back, how you should have run faster, how if you didn’t get distracted… You’ve never said any of it out loud. 

“There was another sortie. To finish the job, I think. I don’t think I ever saw them over the wall of smoke; I could just hear the roar of the engines and the whistle of the bombs. It was so far away, and then — then it was right above me. First, there was only noise, and then there was fire.” You can still see the wave of fire towering over you; you can still feel your feet lifting off the ground; you can still feel how the surrounding air suddenly grew unbearably hot. But you don’t know if you have the words. You shift nervously, focusing on Bradley. He is frowning as he listens, but to your relief, he isn’t looking at you with pity—just understanding. 

“I woke up, god, days, weeks later, in a hospital.” You utter with a wry smile.

Bradley’s warm palm rests on your hip, his fingers gently pressing into your scarred skin. He’s here. You’re here.

“And it was over.” You laugh, although it sounds hollow to your ears. When the sound leaves your mouth, a pained look flashes over Bradley’s face. You don’t want him to look at you like that. “All those years of fighting, and I missed VE Day because I was up to my eyeballs in morphine.” You attempt to inject some levity into the situation, forcibly waving away the sadness.

He’s not laughing. Your smile falters. Bradley knows you are deflecting, even if your strategy has changed. Before, you would simply look at him painfully neutrally and not even begin to entertain his questions or jokes, let alone joke back — your confident lack of words did all the talking. However, you now overcompensate with irony and self-deprecation. 

Is that new? Is that how you were before? It doesn’t matter, not really. Bradley sees through it; he’s still so finely attuned to you.

“It’s a good thing you wore it that day.” Bradley finally admits, still not smiling but with a softer gaze than before.

“Pff, I got chewed out something awful for it.” You scoff lightly, rolling your eyes. “It was probably foolish in hindsight.” You add pensively, like you’re only now giving it real thought. 

“I-I may not have been here if you didn’t,” Bradley reveals soberly. He sits up. You follow his lead with mild confusion, dying for him to finish his sentence, carefully stretching your neck to peer over Bradley’s shoulder as he rummages through his clothes, which are still crumpled on the floor. Out of his wallet, Bradley pulls a carefully folded piece of paper — the edges are slightly curled from being handled, and the folds are deep set in the paper. 

He hands it to you wordlessly. You look at him for a moment, trying to discern what he is playing at. Bradley appears relaxed, tired, but relaxed. He meets your gaze as you still hold the frayed, folded piece of paper in your hand, covers pooled at your waist. With a smile, Bradley nods, urging you to look at the paper.  Pulling up the covers over your chest bashfully, you shift your legs into a more comfortable position and carefully start unfolding the paper.

It’s funny, for a second, you were so absorbed in the mystery, your sharp brain focused on the puzzle, you forgot to be embarrassed. Bradley noticed it in your look, wheels turning, calculating — he loves that look on you, his clever little spitfire — and then you suddenly remembered you were naked and hid away again. He leans over to you, looking at the creased black-and-white photograph print in your hand, together.

You attempt to parse what you are seeing on the grainy, faded print. You recognize the buildings in the background, and the scene seems like a déjà vu. Eerily so. You look up at Bradley, confused. He just taps the bottom corner of the photograph with his index finger. Bringing it closer, you try to focus on the detail in the corner. Strangely, you might not have recognized your own arm with Bradley’s bracelet on your wrist if he hadn’t pointed it out to you.

“Oh,” You breathe. Only now, seeing this picture, do you remember the details of that day that had faded away from your memory. They didn’t seem important anymore — the man with the camera, the Red Cross truck. You yelled at him.

“That’s how I knew you were still alive.” Bradley’s voice is barely above a whisper. “You had to be.”

“I almost died in minutes of this picture being taken.” You sound solemn, still looking at the picture blankly, shards of that doomed day replaying in your head. 

“But you didn’t.” With that, Bradley presses a kiss against your forehead. You close your eyes with a chuckle.

“I was lucky, I suppose.”

He pulls you back down with him, plucking the picture from your fingers and giving it another look with a small smile on his face, before carefully placing it on your nightstand. You settle back in his arms with a contented sigh. It feels like the wreckage in you shifted a bit; it feels lighter and less pressing. It’s a strange sensation. 

“I do feel it’s high time to replace that picture with a nicer one of you,” Bradley mumbles into your hair. “One where I can see your face, preferably.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” You reply lazily, stretching out over Bradley. You don’t have any recent pictures, but you’re also not in the mood to dwell on that, instead focusing on the joy of Bradley’s soft touches, the movement of his breathing, and the sound of his heartbeat. “Do you need that bracelet back?” 

The question just bubbles up, as you lie there, eyes closed, fingers trailing over his stomach. Bradley laughs; the muscles contract under your fingers. 

“No, darling, it’s yours to keep.” He replies sincerely before continuing lovingly. “But I’ll get you a proper one that’ll fit you so much better; it’ll look so much nicer around your pretty wrist — you can pick it out, match it to your engagement ring, whatever you like.”

God, he does this so well—the deep, tender voice, smooth words, formed into a flawless fantasy. You melt into him a bit more.

“I don’t need any of that,” You protest gently as Bradley starts peppering kisses on your temple, fingers lightly tracing over your skin. “I’m glad to keep your bracelet. It’s been my little lucky charm.”

“Will you do me a small favor, Anya?” He says it softly, carefully, almost, the half-whisper making it impossible to deny him anything as the words caress your skin.

You hum affirmatively, brushing the tip of your nose against his jaw. 

“All the luck got washed out of my charm. Will you carry it with you for a while?” He sounds casual, but Bradley feels the guilt blotting, staining his insides. 

How did all the luck get washed out? Who did it? Who did he allow so close that it could happen? 

“Just so that it smells like you again,” He adds quietly, his uncertainty suddenly seeping through his words. What if you ask? What should he say? Should he lie? “God knows – and I’m sure you’ll agree – I need all the luck I can get up there.” 

Bradley feels like a coward as the joke makes its way out of his mouth too quickly, so he doesn’t have to dwell on the guilt spreading through his bones like an infection. You giggle in response, and Bradley feels the laughter moving through your body, shaking some of the darkness from him.

“I haven’t been particularly lucky myself, I don’t think…but I’ll happily give you whatever I do have.” You reply sincerely. Bradley doesn’t say anything for a second; he just silently tilts your chin with his fingers, bringing you closer. The kiss is delicate and loving. He whispers his thanks against your lips. 

Bradley holds you close, and he feels your slow, steady breath fan against his jaw. Your hand is draped across his chest, your foot rubbing against his. He wishes he could simply enjoy it, but the infection has now taken hold. He shouldn’t care; if he never tells you, you’ll never know and can pretend nothing ever happened, but why does he feel so horrible? 

Why now?

He hasn’t thought about Manila and what happened or almost happened in months. If anything, he forgot about it pretty quickly, save for the slight sting of regret when the soft fabric, the contaminated fabric, of your lucky charm passed through his fingers. 

“Was there ever anyone else?”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. Part of Bradley wishes he could take it back as you shoot up, pushing him off you, eyes narrowed. Another part, a torturously dark part of him, hopes that what if, what if it was not just him, not just his transgression — he would forgive you so he could forgive himself. 

“Beg pardon?” You sound calm. Blinking, feigning innocence as if you truly hope you misheard him, challenging him to repeat himself or lie. 

“I mean - did you -,” Bradley utters haltingly as he sits up too, feeling flustered under your sharp look. His ears are burning. When he looks at you, it’s like you’ve fallen backward through the years, your expression is so cold, your manner so flat. 

“I know what you meant.” You cut him off curtly. You’re holding the covers up to your chest so tightly that it’s turning your knuckles white. Bradley looks at you, embarrassed. In a dragging silence, you stare back at him sharply. He averts his gaze after just a few seconds, suddenly shrinking under the intensity of your calculating gaze. 

Bradley tells himself he never forgot how clever you were— but he definitely filed off some of those sharp edges from those pointed looks and your exacting silence. You’ll make him suffer every second before you figure out why he just asked you that. 

“Someone tried to kiss me, and I threatened to stab him with a broken wine glass,” You finally tell him flatly, looking at him with narrowed eyes. A carefully calculated drop of information. He opens his mouth to ask you – what the hell — but you cut him off, face finally breaking out in disbelief, vaguely gesturing at your face. “But really, Bradley.”   Who would want me now? 

He reaches for you, grabbing your hand, fingers brushing over the scars on your temple. Thank god, you lean into his touch, your eyes closing, relenting for a mere second.

Me. I want you.

“Was there anyone else?” You counter his question with such ease and confidence, eyes flying open again, zeroing in on him. You are frowning, that old familiar little crease appearing between your eyebrows again. There is no hesitance in your words; your gaze doesn’t waver. You are terrified of the answer because you feel it in your gut, and you so hope you are wrong. 

Bradley is projecting. 

“Nothing of consequence.” He bites out. Dismissive. Refusing to meet your gaze. He wants the question to disappear with the answer.

“That’s a horrible answer, Rooster, and you know it.” You shoot back without missing a beat. Bradley recoils when you call him by his call sign, hand dropping from your face. That hurt. But that’s precisely why you said it. He looks angry for a second before his face falls again, but he doesn’t defend himself.

Your heart sinks.

When. How. What. Who.

You want to know everything, hurt yourself over every fact and tidbit, torture yourself with the knowledge of what happened in those years you were apart. Was he lonely? You’d been lonely. Was she pretty? Was she good to him? Does he miss her? Do his thoughts wander to her in the quiet moments?

You exhale deeply as if you don’t have enough ghosts haunting you already. 

“It doesn’t matter.” You’re telling Bradley as much as you are telling yourself.  

“Anya, please -” He starts, wanting to… explain? No, he doesn’t really, because there is no justification for what he did, and any reason he could possibly give — he was drunk, he thought you were dead, you forgot him, he was lonely — makes him look worse. Weak.

“I’d like to leave the past in the past.” You cut him off tightly, blinking forcefully, although there are no tears in your eyes. “All I’m asking — and I mean it, Bradley — if you are not sure about this, if there is someone else waiting for you, if you promised someone else…” You trail off, drawing a shallow breath, not having the heart to finish the sentence. You are not brave enough to finish the thought that Bradley might have said the exact words you kept in your heart all these years to someone else. 

“Let’s just end it right here.” Your voice cracks on the last syllable, and you grit your teeth in annoyance. “You’ve asked me to give up everything I’ve ever known to follow you to the other side of the world. And I’ll do it all in a heartbeat for you. But you have to be sure.”

Bradley pulls you into him. You don’t resist, tacitly, almost meekly, waiting for his reply. His large, warm hands are cupping your face; his nose is tenderly brushing against yours. 

“There is no one else, my only promise is to you, and I am really fucking sure.” 

***

The small jewelry store in the old town is surprisingly dark inside. The glittering chandelier casts playful reflections on the walls, but the warm orange lamps are weak. The early summer sun is streaming through the large shop windows, although it hardly reaches all the way in. You dawdle at the counter, fingers pressed to your lips pensively, looking at the selection of gold bands wedged into the luxurious deep red cushion. Is it bad that they all look the same to you? Millimeters in difference; some are more polished than others, warmer, and colder, but in the end, they are all just simple gold bands. In post-war austerity, there really isn’t that much to choose from. Smiling kindly, the jeweler offered to smelt a new set, engrave it for you, and even add gemstones. Surely your foreign fiancé will pay? American, no? While you’re sure he would, and Bradley is actually making you nervous with his nosing around the shop and pointing at things, asking the poor jeweler questions he can’t possibly understand, but happily shows Bradley whatever meager stock he has, there’s just one problem. 

You are getting married in two days. 

There’s no time for anything. By the time you got out of bed, Bradley was already on the phone, arranging things back home. He simply winked at you, towel slung low on his hips, hair wet from the shower as he rattled off a list of things that needed to happen. You beelined home for a change of clothes and packed a bag with necessities — toiletries, the nicest dress you own, your roommates’ white shoes, and the bridal heirlooms handed down from your great-grandmother. Besides the pictures, documents, and letters fit in the small wooden chest, the small leather-bound bible, the hand-carved rosary, and the delicate lace veil are the last things you have left from your family. Everything else was burned or sold.

You’d dwell on that enduring sadness longer if you did not have forms to fill in: a marriage license, travel documents, and never-ending questions at the bank. Will it ever end? Wedding bands to buy, booking a cabin on an ocean liner, it’s making your head spin, you want to dig your heels in, catch your breath, and pinch yourself. Is this all real?

But then Bradley grabs your hand with that beautiful, infectious smile, and you walk down the sunny street chatting, reminiscing, laughing, and for a moment, everything seems so far away. It’s like the date you’ve never been on together.

“Do you like that one, Anya?”

His voice startles you as Bradley suddenly moves behind you, leaning over your shoulder. You’re holding a simple, thin, yellow-gold band. It’s deceptively light. 

“They all look the same,” You half-whisper with a chuckle. “But this one will do fine. Do you like it?”

“I’ll have whatever you are having,” He replies simply, fingertips grazing over your waist, just down the small of your back.

“It’s a very — ehm, practical choice,” The jeweler tells you pointedly, knowing full well Bradley can’t understand him. He’s practically begging you to pick something more expensive. 

“I like practical,” You retort lightly. “We like practical.” You amend.

You grab Bradley’s hand from your waist, pulling his arm around you. He so easily allows you to move him, so happily lets you lead. It makes you grin as your heart flutters a little. Everything that he does makes your heart flutter; it’s like every step with Bradley is easy and light. Is this what it’s like being in love? Without being scared? Without the threat of death? Holding Bradley’s left hand out, you slowly but purposefully slip the wedding band on his finger. He leans into you, his cheek brushing against yours, inspecting how the band sits snugly on his finger.

He doesn’t say anything at first. You can feel his ribcage move with every breath – deep and calm — but you can’t hear him exhale over the constant noise in your left ear. But as you turn your head a fraction to see his expression, Bradley has already plucked the smaller, matching ring from the cushion before you and is slipping it on your finger with ease, pressing a kiss on your cheek. Lacing his fingers through yours, the rings softly clink as they touch each other.

“I think this is the one,” Bradley admits softly. You feel his breath move against your skin. If it weren’t so quiet in the shop, you probably wouldn’t have heard him. You just hum in agreement, a smile on your face. “I also think it’ll look even nicer with an engagement ring next to it,” He teases lightly.

“No, I don’t think so,” You reply flatly. Bradley chuckles as you spin around to face him. Your fingers slip through his, rings touching, as your palm rests against his as you complete your turn. “I stand by what I said — a three-day engagement hardly requires spending money on an engagement ring.”

“People will think I don’t know how to care for you,” He jokes lightly. You scoff playfully, rolling your eyes for added drama.

“I’m sure they’ll survive.”

The navy blue sweater and crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up a little too casually, showing his tanned forearms, suit Bradley criminally well. The glint of the golden ring on his left hand makes your heart skip a beat each time the light catches it. You feel so simple next to him, in your much plainer red and brown checkered button-up dress, the small silver buckle of the matching fabric belt at your waist the only ornament. The knitted light gray cardigan wrapped around your shoulders would be better suited for a colder time of year, the long sleeves reaching a little past your wrists. Bradley didn’t comment as you pulled it over your arms; he simply held out his hand and led you out of the hotel room and into a sunny day. 

And now you’re wearing a ring matching his. It feels so light on your finger, like it settled into place when the moment Bradley slipped it on, like it was always supposed to be there. Even though you were just trying it on, it feels odd when you take it off. You quickly meet Bradley’s eye as he hands his ring back to you — he feels it too. Everything after this is just a formality.

Earlier this morning, when he was making his way through the hotel lobby after you left to pick up an overnight bag — you insisted you’d go alone — he was stopped by the front desk. Politely, yet firmly, the stern-looking man in the black spotless suit pushed the guestbook under Bradley’s nose, insisting he’d sign in his companion.

Bradley hesitates, pen hovering over the paper, the tip close to touching the paper just under his name. Even if he could phonetically remember every syllable of your last name, he’s never seen it written down, except for the peculiar first letter. Bradley sucks in a breath, and his hand starts moving before he consciously arrives at the only possible conclusion.

Mrs. Bradshaw.

The ring on his finger, his last name on you. It was always supposed to happen. Even when he couldn’t give it a name or conceptualize it in any sort of concrete way, Bradley just knew in his heart that it couldn’t be the end. Getting on that train, the lonely nights, the heartache of that Christmas party. There had to be a light at the end of the tunnel, even if he wasn’t sure what it would look like.

He is sure now. 

Your back is to him, face obscured by your hair, as you carefully place the rings into a little box. Just like before, you look deceptively unassuming, uncomplicated, and understated in your simple gingham button-up dress. Hair rolling in neat waves down your shoulders, no hat, no unnecessary accessory to adorn you. You don’t need them, Bradley knows. Your mischievous smile and discerning gaze are by far the most precious and beautiful things you wear. 

But despite your incredibly practically minded refusal of an engagement ring, Bradley wishes you would let him spoil you, at least a little. Even in the few short days before he puts that ring on your finger, he’d like to adorn you with something pretty, something intended for you, something better than a plain US Navy identification bracelet. He has his eyes on something not even you could say no to. 

Your head snaps up when Bradley suddenly appears behind you, his arms moving over you. You can’t help but flinch lightly as he brushes your hair away from your neck, thin, cold metal brushing against your skin. Glancing down, a tear-shaped garnet pendant, a red so deep it looks almost black in the low light of the jewelry shop, is beset by smaller garnets in gold, hanging from a delicate gold chain. You grasp the pendant carefully, fearing it will fall off your neck.

“What-,” You breathe, surprised. “Bradley, why…”

“Consider this…” His voice is low as his lips move against the shell of your ear. “A gift for every missed birthday, anniversary, and Christmas. A thank you for waiting, for agreeing to marry me, an apology for…” He trails off for a second, sucking in a sharp breath. Your heart clenches. “For the dates, dances, and flowers I owe you.”

The sigh that escapes you carries a soft giggle. 

“I don’t need all that, Bradley.” Your voice is wistful, soft, matching his. “You have a lifetime to make for that.” You deadpan before breaking into a smile and turning your head to him.

“Do you like it?” His lips are on your temple. You feel the words against your skin.

“It’s beautiful,” Your breath hitches on the last syllable. 

“Will you accept it?” Bradley���s tone takes on a joking edge. You laugh, he anticipated your next move so naturally and took the wind from the sails of your objection so smoothly. 

“I suppose I will have to,” You sigh dramatically, a giggle edging out the feigned exasperation in your voice. “But you know what I’d rather have?”

“Are you getting greedy?” He quips back immediately, grinning. Oh, how you hated that flirty, flippant manner of his once. His casual way with words and how he has an answer to everything. Now you wish he’ll never stop.

“Kiss me.” It comes out softly, commanding, like the joke dissipated into the dusty air of the small shop.

Your first real date in freedom is shopping for wedding rings. You’re getting married in two days. You’re leaving your home, your country, the whole continent, before the month is out. No matter how fast it’s happening, it doesn’t quite feel real. 

Oh, Eva, would you believe what happened with my crazy wartime romance?

You forget the moment his lips touch yours.

***

You’re walking behind Bradley, hidden by his broad frame. The bar is crowded, and thick smoke hangs in the air. It’s an odd choice to go here — while it’s not the worst place in town, you wouldn’t invite someone visiting here per se. There are nicer places where the furniture isn’t as scuffed, the light is not quite so yellowed, and the service is more polite. Bradley only mentioned that someone had invited him and that you should come too. 

Bradley is holding your hand, squeezing gently as he leads you through the crowd. You keep close to him, your free hand clutching the back of his sweater, as the mess of voices and loud sounds feels overwhelming to the point of disorientation. You think you hear someone calling his name, but you can’t tell if that’s your brain just trying to make sense of the chaos or if it’s real.

When Bradley finally stops walking, you just stand closely behind him, trying to focus on his voice – he’s talking to someone. Your knuckles resting against his spine feel the timbre of his words, the breaths as he speaks, more than you can hear his voice. When he pulls you forward, sidestepping to reveal who he had been talking to, your breath stops for a second. 

In fairness, Jakub looks just as shocked to see you, halfway out of his seat, cigarette burning a little too close to his fingers. Bradley looks at you carefully, searching for any kind of hint of your upcoming reaction, and just as he wants to break the awkward silence, you recover quicker than he or Hangman anticipated. 

“Jesus, you look rough.” You sound mildly disgusted as you look him up and down.

“A bit rich, coming from you.” Hangman bristles in defense.

“Wow, man -” Bradley starts, offended, knowing precisely what he’s referring to. But you interrupt him without missing a beat.

“A bomb fell on me.” You retort flatly. Bradley can tell that the comment annoyed you by the way your shoulders tense, but your face is schooled still in that perfectly, infuriatingly, neutral. “You look like you fell into a ditch.” Your words are anything but.

“And it didn’t put a single dent in your sparkling personality.” Hangman usually manages to disguise his barbs with a cloying, arrogant smile, but currently, he’s clearly on the back, with a deep frown on his forehead.

“They let you out looking like this?” You gesture at him vaguely, not bothering to defend yourself from his last jab. Despite feeling entirely out of place in the strangely belligerent exchange, Bradley suppresses a chuckle — Hangman never looks so aggravated by a few simple words.

“You drinking?” He kicks out one of the chairs at his small, dark wood table. It drags along the tile floor noisily. Hangman moodily plops back into his seat, shooting Bradley an uncharacteristically annoyed look. 

“Sure.” You still sound clipped, cold, but before you can grab the chair, Bradley pulls it out for you properly, still holding your hand, leading you to sit down. You look at him, in wonder, with such warmth, such delight at his gentlemanly manner, like he’s the only light in the dark room. The moment breaks when you turn back to Hangman, and any shred of a smile melts off your face again. 

“I assume this shithole was your idea?” You sound bored.

“Oh, you fancy now?” He chuckles, finally recovering from.

“We have a guest.” 

“Oh please, Rooster doesn’t have standards,” Hangman says it with a smile, nodding at you playfully as if it’s a slight against you, before looking Bradley straight in the eye, challenging him to speak up as he sits down next to you —come on, defend yourself, embarrass yourself through explanations, lie if you dare to.

Having spent more time around Hangman than he could ever want, Bradley also knows that the only way to get him to back off is to simply not take the bait. You, of course, parry each attack masterfully. You don’t get annoyed or angry, you don’t defend or explain, just shoot back straight from the hip.

“Lucky me.” You state it so plainly, completely defusing the shot, at this point not even bothering to look at Jake anymore, instead shooting Bradley a mischievous smile, as you put your hand on his knee and squeeze. He would be lying if it didn’t make his heart beat faster, that damned smile making his breath skip. You never looked lovelier in the dim light, jab after jab falling from your lips, in such exquisite form, a truth to your words only shared between you, the sparkle in your eyes as you look at him. 

He winks at you, half-joke, half-truth, only you could tell, leaning back into his chair. There was a time when you’d look at him with that long-suffering gaze, annoyed, followed by a salvo of comments from your spitfire mouth. Instead, your smile suddenly turns coy, your lashes fluttering, as a small sigh escapes you. 

You’ve dreamed about moments, such everyday moments with Bradley, so much that this feels strangely like a déjà vu. It has nothing to do with your smokey and loud surroundings, the hard chairs, or the somewhat uneven tile floor – it doesn’t even have anything to do with Jakub, who is exactly as you remember him and the jabs and jokes  – it’s all about Bradley. The way he leans back, relaxed, sleeves casually rolled up, the movement of the muscles on his forearms as he squeezes your leg, the playful wink, the lingering looks, the light touches. The way the flickering flame of the match illuminates his features with warmth as he lights a cigarette, the sun-kissed streaks in his caramel curls like the reflection of a halo. 

It’s like you’ve seen him, dreamed him, like this a thousand times over. And if he’s real, you can be you as you hoped, remembered, and dreamed all those years.

“Jesus Christ.” Hangman sounds mildly nauseous, looking back and forth between you. “So this is what does it then for you, Rooster?” The smirk is back, the offensive is back on again as he vaguely gestures at you. He doesn’t bother to elaborate, letting you choose what to be offended about.

Bradley takes a slow drag of his cigarette, if only to buy time, because that more than anything will wind Hangman up. You just roll your eyes, but don’t say anything. 

Bradley wasn’t sure how you’d react to seeing Hangman again – all he knew about your apparent childhood friendship was from the bits and pieces Hangman shared in the last few days. But somehow, he imagined either of you to react… happier. Friendlier. Instead, he feels like he’s ended up in the middle of an old argument between siblings.

“We’re getting married.” Bradley finally replies as you wave down a waiter. 

“Fucking hell…” Hangman sounds more surprised than anything else. He’s not laughing anymore, genuinely astonished at the outcome of their little quest to find you, which Jake didn’t take all that seriously. Bradley raises an eyebrow, but before he can start to speak, you fire without warning.

“Fuck you, say congratulations.” Your head snaps back around so quickly, your hair flies out of your face. 

“I commiserate.” Jake fires back, laughing.

“You’re paying for this round, asshole.” You bite out, a little too sharply, showing your hand a little bit too much. Hangman sinks back into his chair as he fishes out his wallet, a radiant smile on his face. He got to you. Your nose wrinkles from annoyance as the waiter somewhat gracelessly slides the beers on the small table. 

“Cheers to your imminent marriage, then.” Hangman starts with grandeur, glass held high, although his expression betrays he’s not at all serious. Where you looked neutral, bored even before, your nose is wrinkled in irritation now, leaning forward in your chair, like you're about to shoot out at the next unfortunate joke. “I hope–”

“Thank you, Jake.” Bradley interrupts him decisively, really not wanting to hear what underhanded well wishes he is about to bestow upon you both. Also, because you look ready to brain him with the large, heavy glass you’re clutching.

“Jake?” You burst out in laughter. “That’s so cute.”

“Yeah, of course. You know what else is cute?” The sarcasm drips from Jake’s words. “Wandering around the fucking city for two days looking for this mythical girl, only to find out it’s you.”

“Hold on – mythical?” Bradley quips, grinning. “You make it sound like we went on a quest. We found Anya’s old house on the day we met, Hangman. And we spent half the time looking for her between the bubbles of your beer.”

“Details.”

“You went to my old place?” You sound surprised, wistful almost. “You remembered… You remembered where it was?” Why does your heart suddenly feel so heavy when you feel so happy? So happy that he remembered, after all those years, that he found his way down all those winding roads you took him down. That place where you lived through some of the worst moments of your life.

“It took me a while to find that street. But I knew the moment I saw.” Bradley tells you softly. “But you weren’t there anymore.” He adds carefully, his eyes searching yours.

“I moved.” You half-whisper. “I had to move.”

He kisses your forehead. I know. You talked about things in snippets — like something small would jog your memory suddenly. Casually, distantly, almost, you would recount horrific things. The murder of your best friend, the guilt, forced labor, and shootouts.  Only to shrug, shake your head, and suddenly you smile. At him. For him.

“And you couldn’t have left a forwarding address for the nice new lady?” Jake snipes.

“She’s annoying.” You bite back petulantly. She is annoying. After all, she has a happy little family, because she gets to live in your old house, and she gets to live there without all the horrible memories. “And I didn’t need to. Your mother knows where I live – she picked up any misdirected mail for me before she moved away herself.” 

“Wait – my mom?”

“Yes, your mother, Jakub.” You echo.

“Jake.” 

You shrug. Bradley laughs. All those hoops he jumped through, and then finally practically giving up. You were right under his nose the whole time, just around the corner, just a few steps ahead. And all Hangman needed to do was call his mother. But at this point, Bradley can’t find it in himself to be annoyed by it. 

“Shit.” Jake leans back in his chair, his sharp blue eyes moving between you. For a moment, he looks lost for words as the entire situation suddenly becomes clear to him. 

“Is this a bad time to bring up that Jake here offered to introduce me to another Anna, multiple times?” Bradley might not be bothered by it, but that doesn’t mean he’ll miss an opportunity to bring up some of Jake’s less tactful comments.

“That does sound like him.” You laugh, unbothered. This is what Bradley loves about you. You could have gotten angry or offended, but you simply play the game.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Jake sits up straight, running his hand through his hair and taking a second to straighten his crumpled tie. “I need to get this straight. My mom never mentioned you moving.”

“I mean, were you listening?” You quip, knowing full well that Jake more often than not would completely zone out when his mother would go down the neighborhood gossip column. “I moved a year ago. It was too big, too expensive for just me.” You put it factually – it’s not untrue, after all. 

A silence falls. 

“Your parents…” Jake starts.

“Haven’t lived there since the start of the war.” You supply, knowing you are going around the core of the story. Bradley’s hand rests on the nape of your neck, his fingers lightly pressing into your skin, as if to ground you. He knows. It was adorable when you think about it now, how worried he was that you’d get married without telling your parents. But he also understands, a little too well, which breaks your heart. “They… they didn’t live to see the end of it.”

“They were back home?” Jake’s voice is quiet.

“Yeah.” You reply simply, swallowing dryly as your mouth is suddenly bone dry. “The last time I saw them, one of the barn cats my dad had been feeding just had a litter.” 

Jake chuckles. There’s a wistful smile on your face as you remember that summer. Bradley’s fingers gently travel down your spine. You meet his gaze. You wish he didn’t understand this so keenly, you wish you didn’t see your pain mirrored in those soft hazel eyes – but you appreciate how he cares, without words, just the simplest of touches. 

It’s okay. I’m here.

You’re okay.

“The first time I saw Anna was when we were just kids, and she just moved onto our street.” Jake looks at Bradley, for a change, he’s not joking or challenging him. It’s a strange segue to break a moment that felt too heavy for the noisy and smoky bar, too serious for the big glasses of beer on the small table. “Her mother would still dress her in these traditional folk dresses with poofy skirts, plaids, ribbons – the works. That day, she was holding a big, angry-looking orange cat, and she was running after her father down that large marble staircase, teary-eyed, begging him to let her keep it.”

“I’ll never forget that,” He laughs with Bradley at the bizarre scene, while you frown. Not out of anger, but as you try to remember your father’s face that day. Was he angry? No. Exasperated at your antics? Probably. “Your poor father, dressed in a suit, ready for work, being followed down the stairs by this wailing little country chit dragging a massive cat.”

“He made me release it when we got to the front door.” You reminisce. “Turns out it belonged to a neighbor.” You add casually, shooting Bradley a mischievous look before breaking into laughter with them.

“It’s amazing how little you’ve changed since then,” Bradley teases. “Impulsive and determined.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” You reply lazily, pouring out a round of shots.

“Good, because it is,” Bradley smirks, tilting your chin toward him, pressing a kiss on your lips.

“God, the two of you are disgusting,” Jake complains. “How did you two meet? Rooster manages to evade that the whole time.”

You open your mouth to reply, but Bradley cuts you off. “That’s classified.” 

He says it with a smirk, so relaxed, you are sure he is joking. Jake scoffs. “Really? That’s the best you can come up with?”

Bradley shrugs in reply, taking a drink. You blink at him, but he just shakes his head with a smile.

Soon, the conversation moves on, and you learn about how Bradley and Jake spent their days in England, complaining about the weather, the tedious days between missions in the far-flung countryside, the tense hours in the air, flying at night. It’s funny how there is an apparent disdain between the two men, yet they have such striking similarities. The showmanship, the acute confidence, a need to be admired, you’d call it — Jake is louder and more overt, he always was. Compared to him, Bradley is more laid back, but he likes attention just as much. They wouldn’t constantly bicker and one-up each other if they didn’t.

You don’t add much to the conversation, as you find you cannot talk and joke about wartime like they can. For you, it all still feels a little bit too raw. But it doesn’t matter, because you love hearing about Bradley. He’s been to so many places, seen so much of the world. There’s so much you want to ask him about it.

Bradley turns the conversation to you — he wants to know about the good times, the ghost stories, the times you had once been so happy. He saw it in your smile that one night up on the roof, when you drank together, and you finally showed him those first little puzzle pieces of you. All the stars in the sky glimmer in your eyes when you look that happy. Bradley only hopes that you look exactly like that when you think of him.

As you talk, you look at him with so much love and laughter. It’s incredibly infectious. Bradley wondered before how easily you wrapped men around your fingers with that smile, every sharp joke and clever little comment, and goddamn, you do coy so fucking well. The little crease between your eyebrows as you argue your point, the cute pout, and the flutter of your eyelashes as you look at him. As you’re talking to him, your hand is on his knee as you’re leaning towards him. Hangman gleefully offers up additions of embarrassing stories about your frightening number of detentions for arguing with teachers, but that’s not so important to Bradley. 

Maybe you’re just distracted by the conversation, perhaps you’re distracted by looking at him, or maybe you’ve had a little bit too much to drink. But suddenly, those little habits that seemed so unlike you to Bradley disappear. You’ve shrugged off your cardigan, when earlier that day you wouldn’t consider even just rolling up your sleeves. The summery cap sleeves of your dress are short, but you don’t even seem to notice. But it’s when you tuck your hair behind your ear as you listen to him talk, in such a natural, subconscious gesture, that it stands out to Bradley all the more.

For a moment, he feels star-struck by the look in your eyes.

He leans forward, pulling you into him. You settle against him immediately, a contented smile on your face. He’s so close to you, you can smell his lingering cologne on his neck. You sip your drink, only half-following the story Jake just started, ever so comfortable in the spotlight, and obviously trying to draw the attention of the girls a few tables away. Bradley shifts in his seat, pulling you closer. You’re sitting sideways in your chair, your back leaning against his chest, his hand wrapped around your waist. You can feel his breath graze your left cheek. His lips brush against the shell of your ear, and you just close your eyes with a small sigh, focusing on the gentle touch, the light tickle of his mustache. 

“Anya, did you hear what I said?”

Bradley’s voice suddenly sounds close, loud, distorted as if you’re hearing him through static. 

“Oh, sorry, what?” You smile innocently as you turn your head to him, so that you can look at him. He doesn’t repeat himself immediately, instead running the tips of his fingers over your temple, nails tenderly grazing through your hair, tucking a few loose strands back behind your left ear.

“It was nothing important, sweetheart.” He replies airily. In light of what Bradley is thinking now, it really isn’t. The scar clawing its way up your neck and jawline, the jagged edge of your hairline at the neck, he should have guessed. Even from a distance, Bradley had witnessed explosions, and it was impossibly loud. You were in it.

 “But didn’t you hear me talk at all?” He can’t help himself.

You lick your lips nervously, frowning for a split second. “It’s loud in here.” You shrug, a little too casually.

Bradley’s first instinct is to dig in; tell you he hadn’t even been whispering, and that it’s not that loud, why didn’t you tell him… his thought trail off as you cuddle up to him, and he can hear, more than clearly hear your soft, damningly guilty “sorry.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” He murmurs into your hair. 

You tilt your head up to look at him again, sadness besetting you. “Thank you.” You tell Bradley earnestly. Thank you for not asking. For not arguing. 

For noticing.

“I’ve got you, Anya.” ***

“I’m not going to lie.” Jake’s mouth is pulled into a tight line.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” You quip, finishing your beer. You’re not sure how much you’ve drunk. Bradley went to the bathroom, and you expected Jake to take the opportunity to have some sort of heart-to-heart. It took him a whole five seconds from the moment Bradley got up. 

It must really annoy him.

“I don’t like Bradshaw.” Jake sounds so serious. You regard him calmly, waiting for him to continue. “I don’t like him as a pilot. His decision-making is slow; he’s so risk-averse it’s grating. And the way he would sneer at us. At the risks we had to take. Like we had a choice.” The words come out bitterly, biting, and an old, acrid pain seeps through. You blink, even if just to signal you are listening, but you still don’t reply, letting Jake get to his point.

“Fuck. They just rolled in, those American aviators. Well-equipped, well-fed, and ordering everyone around. And they… they didn’t have everything to lose like we did.” He hesitates, scoffing to himself. “They had a home to return to, you know? Shit. I didn’t have word from home for years, I couldn’t reach out to anyone.”  

You nod. You’ve seen it all play out from the other side. His mother’s tears, the years of silence, her quiet admittance that she couldn’t believe in her heart that her baby might be dead.

“I don’t like him as a person either,” He adds almost petulantly, eyes flickering over the glasses scattered over the table, like he’s less sure he should be telling you this. There it is. Jake doesn’t elaborate, and silence settles between you.

“I understand that,” You tell him, finally, not unkindly – because you do. In some ways, you’ve felt exactly the same when you first met Bradley. Annoyance at how easy everything seemed for him, how everything was a joke, how lucky he must be. Ultimately, part of it was envy. Bradley reminded you — still does — about a life that once was. That could be. A sunnier, funnier, lighter life. 

“But you sound a little bit like he was stealing your girls at the bar.” You add, gently joking, trying to soften Jake up somewhat, needling him a little over his earlier comment.

“This has nothing to do with me.” He bites out. You roll your eyes.

“It’s also… not the point I was trying to make.” He takes a deep breath, running his hand through his hair, his manner somewhat agitated, as if it pains him to admit this. “What I was trying to say was that despite how much I dislike Rooster on a personal level, as an aviator, he is a good person. Good for you.”

“Oh.” You utter quietly, unsure of what to say, focusing on how your palm glides over the fabric of your skirt.

“I mean, he puts up with you.” That cocky, annoying smile is back in a flash.

“You just had to ruin, didn’t you?” You sigh, shaking your head with a grin. “What is this anyway, your attempt at a blessing?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m serious.” He backtracks, laughing. As his mirth dies down, he clears his throat, suddenly earnest. “I guess… I guess everything I find annoying and boring about Bradshaw will make him a good husband to you. He might be cautious, slow, even, but he is patient too. He is short-sighted at times, but also generous.” Jake pauses. “He is loyal and clearly smitten with you.”

It should be funny, the way Jake looks uncomfortable by saying that last sentence out loud. You don’t reply immediately, carefully committing his words to memory.

“I… I - thank you.” Your voice is quiet. “You are one of the last people who… remembers. Who knew me? How I was?” It's strange to phrase it as a question, and you half-expect him to crack a joke as you look at him. Jake, to his credit, just nods. He understands. It’s a strange feeling, how easily you both slip into your old patterns, mirroring your old selves, trying to live up to the memory when you know damn well you aren’t the same carefree high school students anymore. Those children playing hide and seek in those large halls, sneaking through hidden passages, and scaring each other with ghost stories. But for a change, the memory is like a warm blanket, the barbs and pot shots are a nostalgic comfort. “You are also the only other person that I know who knows Bradley. It’s funny to see him from your perspective.” 

Jake scoff softly, unable to help himself.

“This means a lot to me.” You add sincerely.

“I’m glad.” He sighs, the sudden weight of his words making him seem so much more world-weary. “We haven’t seen each other in so long, but I always thought of you fondly, as my friend. You deserve to be happy. I can tell by the way you look at him, even when he’s not looking at you, you’re glowing.”

Why does it suddenly feel like you’re about to cry?

“I’ve known you since we were, what, six? Seven?” You sound a bit shakier than you’d like to, despite the small smile on your face. “You’ve always been my friend. But I don’t think you’ve ever said anything so nice to me, Jakub.”

“Jake.”

“Sure.”

“Well, I can rectify that quickly.” He counters lazily. “It’s disgusting how Rooster stares at you. It’s pathetic, so desperate for your attention. I’ve never seen him like that; it was usually the other way around.” He pauses for a moment to gauge your reaction, but you just giggle into your glass, egging him on. “And the way he’s always somehow constantly touching you — God, it’s like he thinks you’ll disappear if he’s not literally holding on to some part of you physically.” 

“But you love that, don’t you?” He mocks you, laughing joyously. You laugh, too, tears in your eyes now, mixing the joy and sadness you feel. “Who would have thought? Oh, you’re so independent, so argumentative, but you just love how he dotes on you.” 

“Of course I do.” You shoot back, overly arrogantly. 

You both dissolve in laughter, Jake refilling the shot glasses once more.

“Believe your luck, my dear friend,” He announces, clicking his glass against yours. “And hold onto it.”

note | i agonized over this chapter

taglist |@katieshook02 |@gretagerwigsmuse |@yanak324 | @helplesslydevoted | @benhardysdrumstick | @chaoticversion | @cherrycola27 | @roosterschanelslut | @notroosterbradshaw | @eli2447 | @imnotcreativeenoughforthisblog | @m-1234 | @phoenix1388 | @galaxy-moon | @indigomaegrimm | @annathewitch | @kmc1989

[mayhem429]

Colleagues

Entering my tumblr and Ao3 combo era. Another repost I wrote June 2024!

Summary: Y/N meets Indiana at a benefit and they seem to like each other.

Tags: Indiana jones/Reader, Smut, Reader-Insert, AFAB reader, Professor Indiana Jones, Indiana doesn't go by henry, Light Swearing, One-Shot, One Night Stand, Awkward reader, Flirting, Awkward Flirting, After temple of doom, Consent is Sexy, Eating out, Vaginal Sex

Notes: Hi, I’m here to practice writing so this will not be that good and I’m just gonna skip the smut in the next chapter cause I’m lazy

Chapter 1: Introductions

Y/N sat alone at a table for two flipping through her notebook admiring her work and filling in gaps. She was a professor at the University of Connecticut, who taught Ancient Indigenous History; the pages in her notebook were filled with scribblings from her most recent travels to Machu Picchu in Peru.

She sighed and looked around at many of her colleagues at this benefit before her eyes met with a particular man who she hasn’t met yet. He was talking to the principal of her university, Mr. Richard when their eyes met. Y/N looked away quickly embarrassed but everytime she looked back up his eyes were in her direction. He had a dark rustic face, wore round brown rimmed glasses, and looked like he’d miss several shaving days. He was wearing a gray suit with the boy tie missing and his chest exposed slightly. God, Y/N thought before looking away again, he’s fucking gorgeous. Y/N stopped looking at him in hopes she’d disappear in his sight because she felt embarrassed with how gorgeous he was, especially when he was looking at her.

“Working hard or hardly working?” A familiar voice questioned Y/N. She looked up and met eyes with her boss, the principal of UOC, Mr. Richard, and the stranger with rugged good looks. Mr. Richard had a little smile on his face from his joking remark and the stranger had a respectful but sultry smirk on his face towards her.

Y/N laughed and finally answered, “Who really knows with me huh?”

“Oh you humble yourself, you’re one the hardest working professors I’ve met. Speaking of meeting, I'd like you to meet this excellent man who's been keeping me company this evening. He just got back from Pangkot solving mysteries as usual.” Mr. Richard said while the stranger leaned over to shake Y/N’s hands.

“Indiana Jones, it’s lovely to meet you.” He smiled charmingly before releasing her hand. Y/N closed her notebook and sat more straight before introducing herself.

“Y/F/N Y/L/N, what’d you see in Pangkot?”

“Mostly elephants.” He responded quickly. Both the young professors laughed.

“Well I best leave you two, I’d imagine you’d have quite a lot to talk about.” Mr. Richard said before walking over to the bar. Indiana sat down across from Y/N, he folded his hands.

“What’d you see in Machu Picchu?” He inquired playfully.

“A lot of old buildings.” She responded with a silly tone. He looked at her for a moment before laughing, seemingly admiring her. Y/N’s heart began to swell and her face began turning pink.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Indiana said suddenly with a newfound eagerness. “I just..” He paused for a moment. “You are rather beautiful and I’d rather talk about our expeditions (wink wink) in a more comfortable setting.” He finished with a suave and smooth tone.

“I’d love to.” Y/N replied as eager while putting her notebook in her bag and leaving cash for her food. They both got up and he wrapped his arm under hers like a gentleman, while escorting her out.

Chapter 2: One Night Stand

Indy had picked Y/N up gently when arriving at his apartment and pressed her against the wall while ravaging her lips. Y/N had never been this forward with a man before, it felt risky, this turned her on even more, her core becoming hot and tense. She began kissing his face, neck, whatever she could reach while he began unbuttoning her blouse. Their lips met briefly again before his focus landed on bringing her to his bedroom. He carried her gently, kicked her door open slightly before lightly plopping her on the bed. They kissed for a moment fully clothed before their shared desire became almost too unbearable and they started almost tearing their own clothes off. Soon Y/N was laying there naked waiting for Indy to finish undressing himself, the last thing he took off was his glass, lightly tossing them aside before he knelt down and began kissing her face intensely. He slowly moved down her body, kissing what seemed like every single part of her.

“God you're so beautiful.” He said when he had lifted himself back up to admire her for a moment. He smirked before sliding down between her legs, still kissing every part of her body. His head now between her legs he kissed and nibbled at her thighs gently.

“Is this ok?” He asked while he was staring at her pussy, hungrily.

“Of course.” Y/N said a little unsure, no man had ever offered to eat her out on their first night. This made her so wet. He began with soft kisses and licks until he was devouring her whole. Y/N was moaning lightly, her hands meeting his soft brown hair, and her back arching from pleasure. It wasn’t long before she was finishing and she moaned his name during her climax. He wiped his mouth off before he began kissing up her body now. Their lips met, Y/N was panting and sweaty already. She caressed his face while he kissed her face and lips. He then aligned himself with her and asked.

“Ready?” She nodded her head up and down while biting her lip in anticipation. When he inserted himself her eyes closed and her back arched while she moaned out loudly just for him. He began thrusting gently and sweetly before their lips met again. They continued lips never fully parting until they both finished. They laid together for moment before Y/N turned over to hug him slightly. This would be a night they would both never forget.

[justbelievinginmagic]

starstruck - part 1: star-crossed.

pairing(s): yeonjun x reader, huening kai x reader, txt & reader. series summary: All you've ever known was that you were divine. A celestial gift from the Ever-Lasting Star, a fallen starling who would bring the people of Stellare Soleil together as the Ever-Radiant. But when a darkness is cast over the lands, when the Ever-Lasting Star refuses to shine and count the day's hours with its familiar tick-tocking, it is up to you to save the world... isn't it? Little did you know that on your savior journey you'd find five shining souls that seemed to have had their lives turned upside down with the silencing of the Star. Together, you fight against beasts, witches, warlocks, and curses to find your true place in the universe. glimpse: Once upon a time, six friends made a promise beneath a magical star. warnings/tags: for mature audiences! inspired by txt's star seekers universe, heavy inspiration from txt's nap of star mv + txt's the doom's night animation, fantasy au, 3rd person POV, fem!reader, use of YN, fantasy lore, heavy religious themes, unequal power dynamics, txt & yn are all children in this chapter, minor injuries, magic, healing, tantrums, kids being kids, let me know if there should be more tags! word count: 5.5k -> next chapter series masterlist

Once upon a time, there was a star.

Hanging high in the dark navy-blue blanket of a sky, it tick-tocked every day, every hour, every minute; its cogs spinning, the star turning circles and shining its radiant light over the land called Stellare Soleil. Day and night, star-rise and star-set, it was there, ever-present, ever-shing, ever-lasting.

The Ever-Lasting Star, some called it.

Now, the story that is about to be told had been told before in different ways. Its tale has been repeated over and over – like a clock chiming out every hour. Their lives will play out in the same loop no matter what universe or backdrop they may have. Lives linked together forever until the Star ceases to exist.

On the day with the shortest starlight, five souls would meet deep in a forest they had been told was forbidden, but felt a magnetic pull towards. Five children wandering from home to stumble upon one another beneath the Ever-Lasting Star. However, most storytellers get the story wrong by this point. Most don’t know the true story for they were missing a piece.

There were not five souls in the story, but six souls that met under the Ever-Lasting Star that day and spun their fate into existence.

The sixth soul was called YN.

-

The forests of Zorya were not forbidden to YN. They were sacred. For as long as she’s remembered, they called to her. After all, it was, in some ways, her first home. It was where she had been discovered, only a few cycles of the clock ago, as a babe.

Draped in starshine, kissed by the Star, she was found in a crater by the Life River beneath the Ever-Lasting Star. Star-struck eyes and the milky-scar of a kiss on her forehead, she wailed out. Her discovery was made by the Time-Keeper, an old-man who worshipped the grand star with his sect of Luminaries. They cared for it through old magic. Ceremonies and temples were erected across the land of Stellare Soleil. In his long walk of blessing and checking upon the land the Star shone over, he found her. A gift he had proclaimed to the lands – a divine droplet of the Ever-Lasting Star. A starling. As a babe, she was gifted the title that a select few had bestowed upon them: the Ever-Radiant.

Over the years, she grew up and was meticulously taught. The ways of the Ever-Radiant were surprising simple. She was told of the magic in her vitae, taught that her existence was to bring the masses together beneath the Ever-Lasting Star once more. She was their hope, their Ever-Radiant starling.

As a youngling, it was common for her to be… well, spoiled. Despite having anything her little soul desired, all she wanted was what any child wanted. Happiness. Everything. Anything. She didn’t want to sit and learn. She didn’t want to be told what to do or to eat her vegetables or to go to sleep when the Ever-Lasting Star’s softened to usher in the velveteen night or to wake when the water-colored skies of morning glowed by the Ever-Lasting Star’s radiance. While she had lived in a castle, the Grand Solarium, there was always something pulling her towards the forests like a siren’s call. Her nannies and maids had chased after her too often with cries of ‘stop’ and ‘come back’.

“Please, your Ever-Radiance,” they called as she giggled and ran through the well-tamed gardens of the Grand Solarium’s grounds. For what could they do with a spoiled Ever-Radiant. She was their guardian, their holiness. Their starling.

A celeste-guard would always sweep her up into their arms as she wiggled this way and that. “You mustn’t without a chaperone, your Ever-Radiance.” The guard would advise, guiding her back to the supervision of a nanny.

The Time-Keeper never approved of a chaperone, no matter how much she whined.

“Your youth blinds you, my Starling,” he tutted. “You’ll see when you are older.”

But today she made it. Today, she had snuck past her guards, her nannies, her Luminaries, the Time-Keeper and was wandering throughout the forests that had tempted her for years. It was cold; the harvest season was in full-swing, and her attire was not at all suited for it at all. She needed a coat made of fur not her ritual-wear. Her deep-navy dress was of a velveteen fabric, expensive and shimmering with golden stitches mimicking stars, but certainly not thick enough for the chill that danced between the trees. Her haloed headdress heavied her head this way and that, reflecting the starlight all about her like she had her own congregation of following constellations. Wiggling like a child did when uncomfortable, she whined in distress. It’s cold; her neck hurt; she wanted a blanket. She didn’t like it. She wanted aid.

There was a flicker of anxiety that crashed over her like the first chill of autumn. Making the fine hair on her arms raise and her stomach churn unpleasantly. There was no one to help her. She was all alone. Alone. It was a frightening thought. She had always had someone near her, just a call away. Her little heart burned as she tried to swallow down her discomfort. Alone… A cold sweat dripped down her forehead from the starlight beating down through the aspen trees’ fiery-orange leaves. The grand star in the sky winked at her, shining brightly.

“I’m not alone though,” she said, shading her eyes as she looked up. “Am I?”

The Ever-Lasting Star tick-tocked in response. Its cogs creaked familiarly, and she smiled.

“Are you crazy?” a voice asked.

She let out a scream, jumping as she turned to face the noise. Her hands went into little fists as she searched through the skinny aspen trees for the source. And she found it quickly. The figure wasn’t even able to hide behind the skinny white trees. It was a boy or what she thought was a boy. It was hard to tell. The youngling in front of her was wearing a scary mask, made from cardboard and hand painted to look frightening. Sharp teeth of torn paper, eye holes shadowed his real eyes, and what looked like ruby blood dripped down its boxy face. He had jumped back at her screech and clung to his home-made mask.

“Why are you wearing that?” she demanded, pointing. “Why are you out here?”

“It’s for the Shortest Day of the Star-Clock! Why are you out here?”

“Why does a mask matter for the Shortest Day?” she asked again, peering at the strange mask.

Their tones shared a childish whine; they both wanted to be deemed right.

The little Ever-Radiant looked the other up and down. The more she looked, the less frightening the mask was. Even with the paint that looked like blood dribbling down the mask’s face and the over-sized big paper-mâchéd horns, she could see that it was just a mask. Hand-made. The ‘blood’ was too orange-y like the sunset leaves on the aspen trees and the horns were just too big that they made the boy tilt on his axis. His tiny hands rose to adjust the box, holding it up to stand straight once more.

“What do you mean why?  Dressing up is the best part of the holiday.” He complained. “Where’s your mask? Why are you dressed that way?”

She couldn’t see his eyes look her up and down, but the cardboard box bounced as if he had moved his head in defiance. His questions made a flare of insecurity rise up her spine, a foreign feeling for the Ever-Radiant. Her arms crossed defensively. 

“Dressed like what? This is my finest dress,” she argued with a pout.

“It’s pretty, but it looks cold,” he said.

She looked away, her crossed arms feeling chilly. Her hands rubbed up and down them softly. The young girl was cold.

“Here,” the boy walked forward to grab her arm gently. He began to tug her further into the woods. “It’s warmer underneath the Star-Clock.”

“I kn-know that,” she replied as she stumbled over a rock. She huffed a bit as she tried to catch herself.

“But you didn’t know about wearing masks on the Shortest Day. Wait- are you… dressed up as, like, as the Star-Clock for the Shortest Day?” he eyed her tiara. “The crown looks like it’s made up of cogs and its glowing. Your dress is full of stars too.” He put the pieces together quietly, sounding like he’s pouting.

He said star-clock again… didn’t he know it was called the Ever-Lasting Star? And didn’t he know she was from it? She was the Ever-Radiant. The only Ever-Radiant of this era. Yet he was half-dragging her along like she was her aids or maids or nannies.

“I’m dressed up as monster!” he added, not giving her time to reply as he weaved in between trees. “My friends are too. We didn’t plan it! And we were catching starbugs! Want to join us?”

“F-friends?” she stuttered out. She had never met other kids her age before. Were they all like this boy?

“Yeah, they’re great! I just met them today,” he admitted, bashfully. “But they’re fun! Taehyun brought a telescope to watch the starset, and Beomgyu had the nets for catching fragles for his family, but theyre way better for starbugs.”

His rambles were cut off at the sound of children laughing.

“Look, you can see the cogs in the sky behind the clouds!” there was a voice, almost instructive in its tone, as he pointed out the inner-workings of the Ever-Lasting Star.

“Woah,” a voice murmured in awe.

“Don’t look too long; you’ll go blind,” one of them warned.

“No way, the Star-Clock wouldn’t do that!” another cried out.

Coming into a clearing within the forest, there were four other masked boys. The forest framed them in a grand circle; there was the flowing water of the Life River beside them, cutting through the aspen trees and berry bushes. There were five trailing white-stone rock paths coming together beneath the Ever-Lasting Star, forming a small circular platform of stones. There, a large-metallic tube of a telescope stood on a tripod. Three masked boys, all as short as her, huddled around the telescope. One boy was running in circles around them with a net on a stick. Flickering starbugs twinkled in the netting. 

“Hey guys!” her Monster called out. “I brought a friend with me!”

Their heads turned and she could see only their equally-handmade masks, all made of cardboard boxes in varying sizes.

“Hello!” one of the chimed excited, waving cutely at her.

He pushed his mask up over his head to reveal his face. His face was flushed-red probably from the lack of air circulation beneath the cardboard box. His hair was long, a whisp-y dark brown around his oval-face and… pointed ears? A sweet, almost ‘w’ smile was on his lips as he grinned over to her.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Soobin,” one of the boys cried out. “You’re not supposed to take your mask off; it brings bad luck.”

The boy called Soobin made a shocked face, a soft ‘o’ of his lips and his ears trembled in alert. “Oh,” he let out a sad sound before shrugging lightly and tugging the mask back over his face.

“She isn’t wearing a mask,” one of the boys pointed out, gesturing to her with his net grandiosely. As if she was a problem!

“She’s dressed up!” her Monster cried. “She’s like a princess. A Star-Clock princess!”

“You’re very pretty,” one of the boys chimed out sweetly. 

It made the young girl shift side to side in bashfulness.

“I said that, too!” her Monster countered eagerly. It was almost like a competition. He turned and continued. “I told you that, didn’t I—uh, what’s-what’s your name?”

“That’s what I was asking,” the one they called Soobin exclaimed, abandoning the telescope to approach the duo.

The Ever-Radiant had only been called that – the Ever-Radiant. Her title was her name to everyone at the Solarium. Or her Ever-Radiance or Starling by the Time-Keeper. Never just her name. Which she did have. Everyone had a name after all, and hers had been sewn into her baby blanket that had kept her warm beneath the Ever-Lasting Star on the brightest night of the year.

“I’m YN,” she told them. Her real name was breathed out into the air for the first time, really ever.

“I’m Yeonjun,” her Monster said.

Her head turned to glance at the other, her tiara sent flurries of sparkling rainbows casting over them in a constellation of light flares.

“Soobin,” the one in the blue painted card-board mask. His mask had equally gruesome marks. But with pretty aspen-leaves acting as ears, there was a softer element to his; glitter was painted in long stripes over the face, too.

“I’m Taehyun,” the one holding onto the telescope greeted, timidly. He shifted this way and that on his feet, shyly. His cardboard box was taller than the others and more often than not his little hands rose to keep it steady on his head.

“I’m Kai!” It was a boy in an olive-green cardboard mask and fabric wings. His mask didn’t look as frightening as the others. There were almost dopey-looking tubes making up his eye holes. He waved excitedly.

The last boy to answer was the one who pointed at her with his net. His mask was a reddish pink with fuzzy yarn making up a head of hair on the top of the cardboard box and sharp pine needles sticking out wildly.

He waved the net in greeting. “I’m Beomgyu.”

“Hi,” she greeted again.

The six children who met beneath the Ever-Lasting Star gasped as the starshine began to set and the velvet-blue of night tumbled in a whoosh. It wasn’t slow like a sunset, instead it was almost instantaneous. Like dropping food coloring into water, the colors bloomed across the light sky in a watercolor blur.

“Woah,” Taehyun murmured out, head tilting to peer into the telescope as he stared at the flurry of colors, mixing and melting into one another before the deep blue took over. It was a beautiful sight a starset. It was always jaw-dropping. The Ever-Lasting Star beamed and sparkled, the tick tocking brought in a fresh wave of night stars, dropping down from the night sky.

YN’s dress matched the night sky in this moment, a deep velvet with perfectly placed jewels matching the constellations high above them. She knew the sky by heart. Knew the stars by heart. And of course, she knew the Ever-Lasting Star like it was part of her. She smiled, happily.

The world didn’t cool beneath the Star; it was just warm enough to be comfortable and aglow beneath the Star-Clock. It was called the warmest part of the world regardless of day or night some said. The further you traveled from its epicenter, the more cool it grew.

“It’s so pretty,” Beomgyu said in awe, spinning a bit as he looked upwards.

“Did you come out to see the starset?” Taehyun asked her as he finally pried himself away from the telescope to give Soobin a turn. The boy once more took off his mask to do so – bad luck wasn’t that real (maybe his Mama will cast a luck charm for him if he asked nicely.)

“Oh, oh,” the girl stuttered before shaking her head.

No, she had just… felt the pull of the forest. She didn’t even know it was a holiday. It wasn’t a holiday in the Solarium. The Day of Eternal Light was celebrated when the air turned hot and humid. Sometimes they’d perform a ritual during the winter – when the star burned so hot, it was icy. When the cogs would stick and make the day or night feel like forever. Their prayers, the sacrifices, the offerings – everything gave the Ever-Lasting Star strength to carry on. 

“What’re you doing out here then?” The one named Kai asked.

He was now lying on the grassy knoll beside the river. Staring up at the stars she assumed. When she hadn’t replied quick enough, his head turned on its axis and he pushed up the edge of his mask up with a fist.

His face was round with cherubic features. Flushed cheeks and pouty lips and the most blinding icy-blonde hair she had ever seen was mussed over his forehead and ears. He tilted his head like a creature would.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I wanted to be away from home.”

Kai offered her a comforting look, his lips pursing in an approving way. He nodded. Not that he was happy for her yearning to be away from home, but like it was acceptable of a reason to the six-year-old.

“Where do you live?” he asked. “I don’t like the place I live either. It’s scary.”

“Scary?” she asked, brow pursing.  

“Yeah, dark and cold – the Star doesn’t like to shine there too often.” He admitted before looking up at the Ever-Lasting Star once more. His smile was fond, at peace. The cardboard box had been half-abandoned as he gazed up, the mask fell to the ground in a clatter.

 “Kaiii,” the one with the fuzzy-yarned cardboard mask, Beomgyu, whined, wiggling his arms back and forth in a tantrum. “You can’t take your mask off! We’re going to get bad luck for sure!”

The starbugs in his net buzzed in irritation at their trap being flung this way and that. It’s almost like in that moment he remembered what he was doing and he threw his arms out. “Do you want to catch starbugs, YN?” Beomgyu cried out, waving his net wildly in excitement.

A giggle broke free from her mouth at his erratic antics as she nodded. “Sure.”

She had never caught starbugs before. She had watched them light up the woods with their gentle glow. They looked magical from her tower – even if their glow dulled when caught. Sometimes they celeste-guards captured them and use them as lantern fodder across the Solarium. She liked to let them go free – they always beamed brightest when she did. Even now, their little lights ebbed and flowed as they wriggled against the netting.

“OK, Taehyun, YN’s going to use your net,” Beomgyu told him as he ran towards the other and scooped up the net he had left near the telescope.

Taehyun nodded, his cardboard head shifting this way and that unsteadily before he plopped down besides Kai to look up at the skies.

Together, the two children ran about catching star bugs with the nets. Beomgyu was really good. He would catch any bugs that flew away from YN’s reckless swiping. It wasn’t long before he had managed to have a net full of buggies while YN hadnt caught one yet.

“How are you so good?” YN complained, pouting. It wasn’t fair. She wanted a starbug! “They keep moving!”

“It’s harder than it looks,” Soobin giggled from his spot beside the telescope. The Star-Clock glimmered down at him with a twinkle and tick-tock. He awed.

“I’m the best starbug catcher,” Beomgyu declared. “Ever!”

“I want some!” YN stomped her foot, spoiled.

“I’ve got them all,” he teased, shaking the net at her. His bugs buzzed unhappily; their lights flickering in and out.

“Stop that,” Kai insisted, glaring at the other. “You’re hurting them.”

Beomgyu stopped suddenly, holding the net still as he peered at the bugs. Their glow was dim and faint.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, buggies.”

A little finger rose to caress the net as if he was petting the starbugs.

“Maybe you should let them go,” Yeonjun prompted, joining the boy and girl. “Maybe YN could catch them then. She isn’t from the forest like you.”

“None of you are, stupid village-dwellers,” Beomgyu countered but tipped his net over and the bugs scurried out in a whirl of wings and squeaking sounds. Directly into their faces.

The three squealed childishly and ducked away from the flurry of bugs. YN fell back onto her back, painfully. Giggles escaped Beomgyu; meanwhile, YN had begun to cry, frightened. Everything had been so fast, the bugs were so wild, and her back hurt, and her elbow stung. In this moment, YN wasn’t an Ever-Radiant; she was just a little girl who got scared.

“Are you crying?” Taehyun asked, leaning up from the hillside.

Her cries were loud, big teardrops dripping down her cheeks.

“Oh, c’mon,” Beomgyu crowed nearby, hands going to his hips in defiance.

“YN,” Yeonjun approached with concern. He had lifted his mask to look at her clearer. He tossed it aside, dark brown hair mussed.

Taehyun was quick to join. He looked scary, towering over her with his cardboard mask.

“You’re being a baby,” Beomgyu complained nearby.  “Big baby, big baby!”

“Stop it, Beomgyu,” Soobin scolded.

The younger went quiet, underneath his mask he frowned. Petulantly, he went back to swinging his net, childishly. His family always made fun of him when he was got startled… it was normal. Why did he get scolded here?

Taehyun and Yeonjun crowded around YN as she remained in the grass, crying. Her tears stained her blue dress, and her hands wiped at her cheeks helplessly. Taehyun was silent as he watched; stoic with his mask on. Yeonjun stared at her with deep brown eyes, his little brows crinkled in concern. His hand reached out to rub her shoulder lightly, almost nervously.

“What’s wrong?” Taehyun asked.

Yeonjun wasn’t crying and neither was Beomgyu. Why was she being so strange? Taehyun wondered.

“Is it because you didn’t catch any bugs?” Yeonjun supported.

Innocently, he wrapped her into a hug. He always felt better after hugs.

“We can catch some together,” he encouraged.

Her cries turned to sobs, the type where she couldn’t catch her breath, gasping and gulping down air. He squeezed her tighter, and Taehyun even shifted to kneel beside her.

“We can catch the star bugs together.” Taehyun echoed.

She didn’t care. She didn’t care. She was hurt, and she felt hot and stuffy in her dress and the Ever-Lasting Star was too hot. Her arm hurt. And she just felt everything so much. She clung to her new friend and hugged him tight, sniffling.

“It’s okay,” he reassured. “It’s okay, YN.”

“I hurt my arm,” she finally managed to gasp out.

“Oh,” Taehyun cried out in understanding.

The masked boy looked closer at the scrape on her arm, the sleeve of her fancy dress torn and turned ruddy from the grass and blood. It didn’t look too bad. He got scraped up all the time from playing. Taehyun took to climbing trees like mushroom-toads took to jumping across lily pads.

“I can help!” Kai chimed out, hopping up and bolting over to them. It almost looked like he was levitating he was so quick.

He shuffled past the others, shoving his shoulders in between them. YN looked up at him with watery eyes, her cheeks red and blotchy from her tears. He frowned at the sight.

“Here! I can make it better,” he reached out for her arm, holding it in between his hands. His palm covered her injury and he shut his eyes. A murmur of an incantation escaped his mouth low and eerie.

“You’re a witch?” Soobin asked, nosing his way into the circle.

Yeonjun, Taehyun, Kai, and now Soobin were crowded around the crying Ever-Radiant. Beomgyu watched from afar, raising his mask up little by little to stare after them with a pout. Jealousy burned over him in a red flare across his cheeks. Kai didn’t reply to Soobin’s question as he continued to murmur ancient sounding words. Her arm tingled warmly like she had been laying out in the starlight for too long and, when he pulled his hand away, the cut was gone.

“All better,” Kai smiled at her brightly, his eyes opening to reveal a strange glow in his blue-ish eyes.

YN awed up at him. The faint thought of ‘was he like her?’ whispered through her. He seemed magical, more magical than her. She couldn’t heal someone… at least she didn’t think she could.

“Woah,” they all chorused in surprise.

“You must be a witch!” Soobin exclaimed with a bright grin of his own.

Witch? She hadnt heard about witches… were they like Luminaries? Her tear-soaked eyes looked between Kai and Soobin.

“No,” Kai said, turning to look at Soobin surprised. He hadn’t heard of witches before. “What are those?”

“My mama is a witch; she can cast spells and do magic things like that,” Soobin argued. “I can’t, because I’m a boy but if you can maybe I can one day!”

The sweet elf-eared boy chimed out optimistically as he grinned.

Huh. YN never knew magic was something other people could do. She thought only the Time-Keeper and the Luminaries held that power, and only through the grace of the Ever-Lasting Star. Just like how she was special because of the Ever-Lasting Star. Was Kai special? Was Soobin’s family… his mother? How many people were so-called special?

Kai’s eyes slowly dulled to a normal hue, and he went to fiddle with the back of his shirt, rubbing at his neck. “Oh, I don’t know my Mama, but maybe?” he offered warmly.

YN rubbed a finger over her injury-no-more; it was tender the touch but it didn’t hurt anymore. She sniffled.

“You okay, YN?” Yeonjun asked quietly. He was still hugging her close, his hands interlocked on her shoulder

Her eyes raised from her arm to look at her first friend. Without his mask, she could see that Yeonjun had a gentle pout, a flurry of messy brown hair, and eyes that were gentle and kind as he searched her expression. She nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” she replied, her other arm raising to wipe at her overwhelmed face.

“Here, we’ll help you catch some starbugs,” Soobin offered, his hand reaching for her. “Beomgyu!”

The boy was nearby watching intently. But at Soobin’s call, he dropped his cardboard mask back over his face. 

“What?” his voice muffled by the cardboard.

“Can you teach us?” Soobin asked. “I grew up in the Valley so I know how to catch butterflies, but these bugs are tricky.”

Beomgyu shifted back and forth on his feet, staring at them. The few bugs in his net flew away without him noticing.

“Please,” Soobin added, tilting his head a bit in exasperation.

The headstrong child contemplated for a moment longer before he huffed.

“Fineee,” he complained. “C’mon, I’ll help you, YN.”

The rest of the evening was spent capturing starbugs with the help of Beomgyu. The first one she manages to capture on her own sent the young Ever-Radiant into a fit of triumphant ‘I did it, I did it’ across the clearing. She ran and ran in excited circles making her new friends chuckle. Kai joined her in the care-free circles.

The night crept further in. Owls hooted in their tree-branches. The Ever-Lasting Star glowed bright, casting a ray of light over their little spot of land as they continued to play and talk.

Beomgyu bragged about his family and their ability to live in the woods, but at a scary hoot of an owl he jumped closer to the group. Taehyun spoke of how he loved to watch the star back home, on top of his roof. Yeonjun talked about how he had a cooler mask at home made of wood. Soobin talked about his family, referring to them as his colony, and said how his mama makes dancing lights. Kai was quiet but was happy, talking about games they could play and star-bathing in the light. YN was just in awe of all the different things they said.

All she had known was her Luminaries and the Time Keeper. She knew of rituals and rules and history. Not… games and woodmaking and family. What was a family…? Did she have one? There were others who had magic and didn’t need to confine themselves to rules. They lived and did more than just sit inside a Solarium reading rituals of old. She didn’t have magic – that she knew of. She was a Starling but what did that mean other than being of the Ever-Lasting Star? Kai seemed to glow like a star too!

She was baffled and overwhelmed but also happy. She liked chasing star bugs and playing hand games and singing lullabies about stars and light and treats. YN liked having friends she decided.

“I have to get going now,” Beomgyu was the first to say. She had yet to see his face; he had kept his mask on religiously. But he had sounded sad. “My dad will wonder where the fragles are by now.”

“My mom and dad will be checking on me soon too,” Yeonjun admitted, rubbing the back of his head.

Who was her mom and dad? YN wondered. She knew the Ever-Lasting Star was her origin; was it her mom or dad?

YN frowned as the pair stood. The others muttered similar excuses. Kai remained lying on his back, fabric wings splayed out behind him.

“Can we see each other again?” she asked softly.

Kai smiled brightly turning to look at her. “I’d love to play with you guys again!”

“Yeah!” Taehyun exclaimed.

“Let’s promise to meet up again,” Yeonjun prompted, standing forward and putting his pinky finger out.

The other boys chimed out in agreement standing up and interlacing their pinkies as they stood in a circle.

“C’mon, YN,” Soobin encouraged with a nod of his head.

“Is this like those clapping games?” she asked with a confused look. She had liked those and the silly rhymes they chanted out.

“You’ve never made a pinky promise on the Star-Clock?” Beomgyu outraged.

She gave a soft shake of her head as she stood and joined the boys.

“You’re weird,” Beomgyu commented.

“Hey,” Yeonjun exclaimed. “That’s mean.”

“You interlace pinkies, and you promise whatever and it has to come true,” Taehyun explained.

“That’s magical!” she chimed.

Yeonjun nodded excitedly. She interlaced her one of her pinkies with Yeonjun and her other pinky with Beomgyu.

“Let’s meet here again! No matter what, we shall come back here to see each other.” They wished below the Ever-Lasting Star.

And then they went their separate ways.

She snuck back into the Solarium walls; her dress scuffed up with grass stains. A guard caught her easily and scolded her with a gentle “Your Ever-Radiance, we’ve been looking for you!”

Her face looked like a child’s in that moment and not an Ever-Radiant. She was rebellious, her smile mischievous as she was brought before the Time-Keeper.

It was then she saw his rage. He fumed and ranted about how she had frightened the entire sect. She was henceforth forbidden from leaving the Solarium, scolded for putting herself into danger. Even if she declared it was the Ever-Lasting Star’s will, the Time-Keeper disagreed and raised the alarm. The Ever-Radiant wasn’t to be unattended until he deemed it appropriate. It was an order from the Ever-Lasting Star. She argued but was quickly shut down and sent to her room.

“If you wish to act like a child, you shall be treated that way, Starling!” he bit out as he turned the key to her bedroom, trapping her inside.

She slammed a fist painfully against the door before huffing and turning to look at her bedroom. Its grandness and many glass-windows revealing the skies made her huff. She didn’t want to be stuck here; she wanted to be with her friends in the forests again. She shouldn’t have even left them! The Ever-Lasting Star twinkled and shined through a nearby open window. She rushed to the bay-window’s bench, a place where she’d spend time with the Star. Talking and asking questions about this ritual and that ritual. But tonight, she stared down at the whole of Stellare Soleil rather than the Ever-Lasting Star. The lands she was fated to bring together under the radiance of the Ever-Lasting Star. The deep valleys, the forbidden forests, the rolling quilt-like hills, and the nearby stacked-upon-stacked village. Where were her friends? Would she see them again? How would she if she was forbidden and locked in her tower in the grand Solarium?

Every night since that night, YN would sit there, and think the same thing. The Shortest Day of Starlight wasn’t anything remarkable. Just six children running around, playing, catching starbugs, and stargazing, but YN remembered it so fondly. It helped her throughout her lessons, her rituals, the ceremonies. She yearned to just be as free as she felt that night.

Staring up at the Ever-Lasting Star from her tower window, she’d wish and wish, her pink outstretched as if wrapping around a phantom’s phalange. I want to meet them again please. Were her friends okay? Were they happy? Did they meet up without her? Did they remember her? Did they know she wished she could keep their promise but couldn’t?  

Were they looking up at the Ever-Lasting Star, too? 

[storyofmychoices]

Love Springs Eternal

[Mal Volari x Daenarya Blades 1 + Beyond] [Mal’s Orphanage]

[Mal Volari x Daenarya Blades 2 + 3 AU]

Characters: Mal Volari, Bakshi, Daenarya, Ittar (mentioned), Iliana (mentioned)

Pairings: Mal Volari x Daenarya (F!OC), Bakshi x Ittar

Book: Blades of Light & Shadow III, Chapter 8

Word Count: <1,300

Rating/Warnings: General, no warnings that I can think of, somewhat angsty

Synopsis: Mal tries to decide if he can trust Bakshi, while discovering more than he expected. (This takes place in my Blades 2 + 3 AU)

Background Info: In my Blades 2 AU, Daenarya was pregnant at the end of book 1. She is pregnant when Valax takes her (though no one knows it at the time). While Daenarya is taken, Mal prays to Bakshi and Ittar when he has nothing left (Shadows of Hope) which is referenced here. Daenarya gave birth to Iliana before "dying" in book three. Iliana is the Realm Walker, not Daenarya.

Did he trust zir?

No.

How could he?

Ze possessed her.

Did it matter that ze had been trying to help?

No.

Should it?

Eh— trust really wasn't his thing.

Not before her, at least.

Mal shook his head, kicking a stone in front of him only partially listening to the group as they rested, waiting for Tyril and Daenarya to finish training.

He had never believed in the old gods. Not the new ones either, for that matter.

All of it was just a way to control people. Make them believe in something. Fear something. So they wouldn't realize what their so-called churches and temples were really doing.

His hands balled into fists, his lips pressing tightly together.

Solerne.

And he was only one. Probably not even the worst of them. How many others were there that used the people they pretended to serve and protect?

He could never put his faith in any of it.

No temple.

No gods.

No light or shadow.

No elements.

No prayer for a better life.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He had tried it once and only once. It had proved fruitless as he had expected.

There was just today. And what you made of it.

Bakshi's glance caught his, zir eyes seeming to peer into him as if ze could see what he had been thinking. Mal was caught off guard. Could ze read minds? Could ze know what he thought? Mal searched the old god's face for any recognition of what he was thinking but ze had already turned away.

He exhaled a sigh of relief, though he wasn't sure why he even cared.

He didn't believe in zir.

Mal gazed down the path waiting for them—the path that would bring them closer to Elhalas...

Elhalas... and most certain doom.

Just another day.

A smile pulled at his lips as his gaze swept over his traveling party. His life had changed so much since meeting them all. It was hard to remember what it was like before them. This group of strangers became his closest friends. His family. If it weren't for her, he wouldn't have any of them. He wouldn't have a reason to fight what was ahead. She gave him something to live for, something to hope for, someone to put his faith in when he had never believed in anyone or anything before.

"Love is a thread that binds those together, your love—a cord that holds the realms together."

The old god's words caught him by surprise. His gaze narrowed on zir. "I'm not a child. I don't believe in fairytales, which is all you are."

"You're a stubborn creature," Bakshi stated, his lips pulling up in amusement as he studied the small man beside him. "You've seen more than most of your kind, and yet, still refuse to believe."

"I believe in her."

The god's eyes glowed in reverence. "The day you and she met—" ze paused a moment, remembering. "Ittar and I felt a pull, a call, a promise—something we hadn't in a long time. It was just a whisper of what could be, but as your path's met again and a connection grew between you, the louder the song grew."

"Don't pretend to know anything about us."

Bakshi continued ignoring the human's words. "The love you shared became a melody of healing. It brought hope of a depth of love we feared lost. Hope made it easier to resist Nifara."

"Sure," Mal scoffed, unable to accept this truth. "Ittar looked filled with hope. I guess our love made them want to turn us over, huh?"

The god's face fell at a truth ze hated to admit. Ittar was lost...for now. Ze had to have hope. Ze saw glimmers of their true self in some moments. Ze would free them from the hold Nifara had on them.

"It's more complicated for Ittar. When life has been cruel to you and stripped away a hope you once had—belief is that much harder to attain."

"They tried to kill us! How would that help our love," Mal protested, pushing his shirt aside to reveal the gash across his chest left by Ittar's paintbrush.

A heavy sigh left zir lips. "Love is complex. It is not always calm and peaceful. It can be a tempest, perilous and roaring. When one leads with their heart and lets emotions grow unchecked, those same emotions that bring joy, hope, and love become unstable and unpredictable, it can drive one to act out of emotion rather than thought. A notion I trust you to understand."

"So what? I'm just supposed to believe everything you say? Follow you? Trust you?" Mal questioned defensively. Trust really wasn't his thing.

"No."

The god's response caught him off guard.

"You must only believe in her. You two are set apart. I dare not change either of you, not even in what you believe."

Mal considered zir words. His gaze fell on Daenarya training in the field with Tyril and his heart swelled. Believing in her was the easiest thing. She had showed him how to have hope.

"Why didn't you save her?"

The question weighed on Bakshi.

"I asked you to bring her back.

I — I prayed to you.

Begged you.

Pleaded with you.

When I had nothing left.

You didn't come.

How can we... How can I trust you now?"  

The god let the mortal share his pain, he had felt it all too closely. "What we can do here is limited. Crossing realms was not possible."

"How convenient for you."

"We—I—I protected what I could. What mattered most."

"Stop with the riddles! Can you ever just say what you mean?"

"A child of a love like no ot—like few others." Bakshi smiled sadly. No others wasn't quite true. Zir thoughts were filled with Ittar. Being parted from them was the hardest thing ze had to endure.

"Iliana?"

"In the shadows, it was all I could manage." Bakshi nodded, zir eyes glimmering with hope once more. "The child is special. I trust you've only begun to discover as much."

This left Mal with more questions, but for now, he had none to ask. His heart was heavy. He wanted to believe in their victory, but the hardest part was hoping that when this was all over that they'd return to their daughter. They had such little time with her before they were taken.

"Hey!" Daenarya ran over, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. "Did you see that? I made it snow!"

"I did," he said softly, brushing her hair from her face.

"Wanna see it again?" When he didn't answer right away, she pulled back, noticing the pain in his face. "What's wrong?"

"Do you think we'll see Iliana again?"

Her eyes fell shut and she rested her forehead against his. Her thumb brushed tenderly over his cheek as she cradled his jaw. "I have to believe we will."

"How can you always be so strong?"

Daenarya stifled a chuckle. "I'm not. I just have hope. I believe in us. You. Me. All of our friends. I have to believe this isn't the end. We've overcome so much. We can do this too. I'll keep fighting to change what's happened because I have something to run toward. A future filled with love and laughter waiting for us—" Her lips brushed over his, kissing him softly. "We will see her again. I know it."

He nodded, leaning into the hope she had, hoping it could carry them both. "I love you."

"And I love you, Mal the Magnificent, my love, my heart."

A/N: While the polls were pretty much evenly split, it doesn't seem realistic for Daenarya to be 8-9 months pregnant in book 3, also the angst of her being left behind is so good, so Daenarya official gives birth to Iliana before book 3. She might be engaged to Mal at this point to, but I'm still working on that.

A/N #2: I didn't edit or revise this so please forgive any mistakes. I hope I got all of the pronouns right for Bakshi and Ittar, if you notice a mistake in pronouns, please let me know so I can correct it.

A/N #3: I hope my faith in Bakshi is not wrong 😭 I have loved zir and Ittar's story since learning of them in book 1.

A/N #4: Thank you for reading 💛💛💛

[mostlieghostlie]

this happened all because of the AMAZING fic created by @auroraesmeraldarose where Professor Dekarios is featured. so i read it. and re-read it. a few times. then as Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was playing on tv, i could not un-see it (and i just love the visual of Gale blushing!)

(bonus points to you if you know which scene inspired this!)

anyways, ty so much to this amazing creator for inspiring me and also, making a few connections as to why i had such a weakness for your Professor!

[mytangerine98]

A Series

Pairing: seungkwan x reader

Synopsis: You were always the quiet girl, minding your own business—until Seungkwan roped you into a fake dating deal, turning your peaceful life into unexpected chaos. Genre: College AU, Rom-com, Fake Dating, Hidden Angst.

Chapter 1

If there was one universal truth at Seoul University, it was this: Boo Seungkwan knew everything about love. Or at least, that’s what everyone believed.

Seungkwan’s dorm room wasn’t just a dorm room. No, it was a sanctuary. A relationship clinic. A safe space where the emotionally confused and romantically doomed sought guidance.

His bed? An office couch.

His desk? A makeshift therapy table.

His laptop? A portal to Seungkwan’s Guide to Love, his semi-famous personal blog where he delivered advice with the confidence of a seasoned dating expert.

He had an answer for everything.

— “Text back? No. Wait exactly 2 hours and 17 minutes for maximum emotional damage.”

— “Confess your feelings? No. Make them jealous first, then confess.”

— “Breakup? Absolutely. Block them on everything but LinkedIn. They must suffer professionally.”

It worked. It always worked.

Until, of course, it didn't .

Lee Chan, poor, naïve, painfully in-love Lee Chan, had trusted Seungkwan’s wisdom like it was gospel.

“I did it, hyung! I ignored her texts for exactly 2 hours and 17 minutes!”

“…And?”

“…She blocked me.”

Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving. Seungkwan swallowed. This is fine. Everything is fine.

But everything was not fine.

Because the moment Chan announced his tragic fate to the dorm floor, chaos erupted.

"I really never actually trusted Seungkwan!!" Hoshi told Chan as always being the dramatic ass he was.

But Seungkwan heard, "What??" He arched his brows.

Then Seungcheol put salt in Seungkwan wound.

“—Seungkwan, have you actually been in a relationship? No right!?"

Then others started laughing.

Dozens of wide, suspicious eyes locked onto him. Seungkwan froze, an unnerving sweat creeping up his neck.

“…What kind of question is that?” He scoffed, leaning back like the question was beneath him. “Of course I have.”

Mingyu raised a brow. “Name one.”

“…Why would I expose my past relationships to the public?” Seungkwan let out a scandalized gasp. “Privacy, ever heard of it?”

“But you’ve never mentioned dating anyone.”

“Haven’t I?” He forced a laugh, crossing his arms. “Wow. Fake friends. Unbelievable.”

“No, but for real, who?”

The pressure mounted. His credibility—the very foundation of his entire love empire—was crumbling. His heart pounded. His pride was at stake.

Finally, in a last, desperate attempt to save face, he blurted:

“If I want, I can be in a relationship right now.”

Dead silence.

Jihoon narrowed his eyes. “Prove it.”

Seungkwan blinked. “Pardon?”

“Be in a relationship. Right now. Show us.”

Seungkwan straightened, cleared his throat, and, with the confidence of a man who had just ruined his own life, declared,

“Give me 24 hours. I’ll prove it.”

The Perfect target

If Seungkwan was going to fake a relationship, he needed the perfect candidate.

Someone convincing. Someone dating-worthy but notoriously single. Someone effortlessly beautiful yet always out of the spotlight. Someone who wouldn’t immediately rat him out to his nosy friends.

As a certified social butterfly, he knew exactly who that person was.

Choi Y/N.

And where could he find this elusive too-cool-for-romance individual?

The library, of course.

Sure enough, there you were—sitting alone at your usual table, nose buried in a book, utterly unbothered by the world. The embodiment of serene isolation.

Seungkwan marched over, stopping dramatically in front of you with a deep sigh.

“Hey.”

You didn’t even look up. “What do you want?”

Not the friendliest start, but hey, he had faced worse. “Just a simple question. What’s your name?”

This time, you did look up, expression blank. “I asked what you want.”

Seungkwan blinked. Oh, she’s mean. Fantastic.

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. Since you want to keep it like this then

I need you to be my fake girlfriend.”

Silence.

You stared at him, unblinking, as if he had just asked you to commit arson.

“…Come again?”

Seungkwan forced on his best award-winning smile. “Fake. Girlfriend. You know, like in the movies. Temporary. No real feelings.”

Your stare didn’t waver. “No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Seungkwan groaned. This was going to be harder than he thought.

Chapter 2

[demonslayedher]

Just thinking about how Chachamaru is a male calico, at least according the Taisho Secret right before chapter 195 that calls him manly. It really doesn't surprise me that he's male, because so many references to calicos I've seen in manga, mascots, and temple architecture specify that the featured calico is male.

This is because they are rare, and therefore considered lucky.

The figure that gets thrown around the internet is that supposedly only 1 in every 3000 calicos is male. (I'll bet the people who did the often quoted study at U. of Minn. College of Vet Med would love to tell you how it's more complicated than that.) This has long made male calicos popular not only in Japan, but in other countries as well. The thing is, though, the male calico might not always be so lucky.

To be very brief about why calicos (and some other multicolored cats) are almost always female, this is because, put very simply, one X chromosome gives us the black splotches, and one X chromosome gives us the orange splotches. That might leave you wondering where the white patches come from, and this is the part where I say that genetics is never simple and you should have fun reading about it. The important takeaway here is that in order to show this color pattern, a cat needs two X chromosomes, one from its mother and one from its father.

Typically, a male cat has an X chromosome (from its female mother, who only has two X chromosomes) and a Y chromosome (from its father, who had both an X and a Y), but because the calico coating can only occur with two X chromosomes, this male cat somehow got an X, a Y, and... hmm, another X somewhere.

So not a typical XY male, not a typical XX calico... this sterile XXY male calico has an extra chromosome, and mutations often are not ideal for the health of the animal with the extra chromosome. This particular condition is Klinefelter’s Syndrome, which can lead to a male calico having cognitive and behavior issues, weaker bones, increased risk of diabetes due to higher body fat, and perhaps a shorter lifespan.

Now, none of the fictitious lucky cats I've seen have ever been portrayed as anything less than smart and pleasant, though a lot of the maneki-neko are pretty round. For everything Chachamaru is tasked with, I have to assume he's above-average when it comes to intelligence, reasonably healthy enough to handle long-distance travel, and for a cat, he's extremely, extremely cooperative. For the record, the same Taisho Secret (as well as Yushiro's statement in Chapter 194) makes it clear that for most of canon Chachamaru was a regular cat, for he was not made into a demon until right before the final showdown with Muzan. Even with her hands full making the medicine for Muzan, she still put a lot of effort into changing Chachamaru so that Yushiro wouldn't be lonely. It's ironic that Chachamaru winds up immortal, rather than doomed to a potentially shorter lifespan due to his mark...ings. In the first place, was Tamayo perhaps moved with pity for a sickly kitten and nursed him to the health he's in now?

Or did she always keep her eye out for a male calico, wanting to put some faith in them being good luck?

Also, what sticks out to me in this Taisho Secret is that Chachamaru, not having a language in which he could communicate with Tamayo, had no choice in becoming a demon. Tamayo felt sorry about that. The word bubble over manly little Chachamaru says, with bravado, "Fine by me, if that's what the woman I'm smitten with wishes." If Chachamaru truly is that smitten with her, that perhaps accounts for what an unusually cooperative cat he is. But it also reminds me of a fan theory that I saw once (and found worthy of weight) which said that perhaps Tamayo's blood technique has an effect like makes others smitten with her, and Yushiro might had been under its influence, however strongly or subtly. If such a thing were the case, it might or might not had been something Tamayo was conscious of. If she was conscious of having some effect like that, she probably felt awful about it but found it a necessary precaution to keep any demon she made under control. If she wasn't conscious of such a thing, that means she might had subconsciously developed it out of loneliness, and had been trying to keep company at her side.

[haven-in-writing]

Bloodthirsty - Chapter 5

My Savior Has Doomed Me

Tag list - @avengerstanforlife, @dark-night-sky-99, @emergenciesstory , @bookscoffeeandracoons, @krystallynx, @avadakadabra93 , @barbarianbookhoe

Find my masterlist here

Catch up with the series - (1), (2), (3), (4)

Thank you for reading and Merry Christmas/Happy Yule!!!!!

________________________________________

“You idiot! You absolute moron! Do you have any idea what you’ve done Loki! You’ve signed my death certificate, you absolute oaf!” You yell at the now shocked god, his smug grin had disappeared from sight just as quick as he had plastered it on his face. That grin morphed into pure anger.

“I did you a favor, you insufferable little demon!” The vein along his forehead was protruding, throbbing against his pale skin angrily. That almost made you smile, that you could get under his skin so easily. Though your anger overridden everything at the moment.

“You might as well have killed me again! Now, because their tracker won’t be coming back with an update of any kind, they’ll send the hunters. Hell! They’ll send the damn hellhounds to bring me back, with or without a head!” Putting your hands over your face, you begin to massage your temples and keep the boiling rage and fear at bay. 

Fuck, you were screwed. You knew the council was keeping tabs on you, you were an Avenger for crying out loud. It was dangerous to have a vampire surrounded by so many humans, especially one that was masquerading as a hero. 

They wanted to be sure you hadn’t exposed them to the government, which was bullshit considering a lot of vampires had ties to Hydra’s little club in exchange for easier access to food. What Loki had just done was basically telling the council you had something to hide. This was giving you a headache. Killing the newborn was a test of your skill, but the tracker was meant to see the brutal show and follow behind you to see the outcome. At least you assumed that’s what they wanted. Now you had a trip to make before the news got back about their prized tracker.

Both Loki and Tony watched as the crease between your eyes slowly smoothed out, relaxing into a calm and composed face. The men watched with concern as you took a small flip phone out of one of your pockets and got rid of its packaging, inserting a small chip into its side panel. Several moments later while typing on the phone, Loki looks at Tony and arches an eyebrow in question.

“What is she doing?” The god questions, confused by the scene before him.

“It’s called texting, Shakespeare, get with the times you’re worse than Cap,” Tony quips back at Loki without taking a look at him, his focus was completely on you at the moment. He ignores the glare that Loki is giving him and watches as you stop texting and take out the sim card, wrapping it in what looks like a water-proof bag.

“I have to go, don’t follow me or you’ll mess everything up and get me permanently killed if I don’t pull this off just right,” you say while pulling your hair into a ponytail.

“What are you going to do?” Tony questioned, curious as well.

“Something stupid, definitely reckless. Maybe a tad bit suicidal,” You shrug the tension from your shoulders, rolling and effectively cracking your neck. Both men look at you as if you’d grown a second head. 

“I’m headed to New Orleans, Tony, stay put please. Fragile humans and creatures of the night don’t mix well. Gets a little too messy for me, personally. Loki, fuck off. You’ve done enough damage for two lifetimes, I don’t need you screwing up my arrangement with the council,” Huffing slightly, you see Loki rolling his eyes while Tony is just watching you. There’s nothing more that can be done except get to New Orleans, and quickly. 

“Okay Tones, I need a favor,” You say, grinning widely at the man.

“If I agree, is it a similar concept to fae agreements where I have to carefully word my sentences?” 

“Uh, no. That’s not even remotely in the same realm Tony, but you can ask your questions on the way” You say with an exasperated sigh. Walking away from the bloodbath that Loki had created you turn towards the mangled body and sigh. You needed to feed again soon, you were starting to feel cranky. 

“Loki, I need a body bag. Summon one please,” Gritting out the last word as it left a bitter taste on your tongue. Loki merely grinned and did as you asked but also managed to magic the vampire’s body into the bag without any mess and handed it to you.

“Uh, thanks,” Was all you could say as you grabbed the bag and walked away with Tony to his car that was conveniently waiting at the edge of the port. 

Tony was insufferable. The number of questions he was asking bordered on infinite. For every three questions he asked, he had six more to follow up my answer. He really was dissecting you  at this point. You knew he had questions but at this point it would have been easier to sit in a lab and let him cut you open with how invasive his line of questioning became.You thought he was done when he was silent for several minutes, seemingly focused on the road in front of him. Waiting patiently for whatever question awaited you was nearly torture, but he didn’t keep you hanging forever.

“So, how exactly did you become, well, a vampire?” His voice quieted to a whisper on “vampire” as if it was dangerous to say too loudly. You really didn’t know what to say in response but you figured he was owed the truth.

“I helped the wrong person escape a local witch hunt. I had helped several women escape the burning pires and was attempting to help Loki run before they captured him. He had been injured by something and I’m not too sure of the particulars, however, he led them to my doorstep which resulted in being hunted down.” Taking an unnecessary breath to steady my racing thoughts I continued. “I ran, of course, but I wouldn’t leave him behind. I took a sword through the heart saving him and he couldn’t be bothered to give me a proper burial. An older reclusive vampire took pity on me and turned me. I wish he would have left me dead.” 

Tony stared at me out of the corner of his eye, “You don’t mean that, you’ve done so much good here y/n.”

This time you were quiet. Surely Tony understood how you felt, you had seen him after the wormhole incident in New York. You knew he could feel the perpetual clock ticking. Everything after felt like borrowed time. Something stolen from the universe that you were punished for taking ever since you took your first reborn steps. It felt as though you could never do enough, be enough, for the second chance you were given.

“You know, Tony, I’m not even mad about him bringing the fight to my doorstep. I knew what I was signing up for when I began helping those people escape certain death. I’m upset that he didn't ensure I was dead. I’m glad that I’ve been able to help people, I just wish it wasn’t like this,” the words sit heavily in the air as Tony thinks about the information he has been given.

“For what it's worth, y/n, I’m glad you’re here. No matter how it happened or what you became in the process. You being a vampire has saved enough lives to negate any “bad“ traits you have,” He says softly, yet firm to ensure I didn’t argue with him. Nothing he could say would change the way you felt considering you had more than one lifetime to justify your feelings.The rest of the drive is silent, which you’re thankful for considering you couldn’t give Tony every answer to the questions he asked due to the laws that governed your kind.

Tony was driving you to his private plane, which of course came with a thousand more questions about how you were able to withstand the sun and if it was dangerous for you to be closer to the sun despite the metal can you’d be in. It did some good reminding him that you’d been on missions during the day which included flying to those destinations. Sometimes he could be a real bonehead. 

“Alright, this is me. If I need a rescue, I won’t call. Just know that if anyone suspects you know the truth, you lie good enough to pass a polygraph otherwise you’ll be in deep shit,” you warn him, hoping he has sense enough to listen.

“Peanut,” he sighs in exasperation, “Be careful, get through this and come home. Plane will stay ready for you just in case.” 

Grinning like a mad-man, you hug the father-like figure and let go just as quickly. Stepping onto the plane you get all set for take-off, not bothering to put on the seatbelt. Leaning back, you exhale a short, calming breath as you hear someone clear their throat. Opening an eye to see the fallen god sitting across from your seat, you sit up and glare.

“Did you think that you wouldn’t have backup, darling?” Loki grins smugly.

[sorceresssundries]

Gale sketches by @orangekittyenergy <3

CHAPTER 2 (of 2)

Link to chapter 1 here

Pairing: Gale x Fem Tav

Summary: Set post-game where Tav did not feature in Gale's troubles in Baldur's Gate. A whip-cracking, fedora wearing, Indiana Jones inspired mini-adventure - where Professor Dekarios is tempted out of the classroom, and on yet another perilous quest.

Warnings: THIS IS NSFW! *blares smut horn* Plot with smut. But, you have been warned.

Word Count: 3.9k

A/N: Just a bit of a fun based on the Gale as Indiana comparisons. Also, he looks like a young Harrison Ford, how could I not? This is not the stuff I'm used to writing! But it's been enjoyable and nice to try something new.

Elltavia’s senses were prickling again, whatever was buried in the remains of this temple was beating like a rotted heart, pulsing decay and corruption outwards through the forest. They were close to the cause, she could feel it. She just hoped whatever was the cause of the infection didn’t get to her before she could save her home.

Along the far wall of the room were four murals that stood out in a line. The once clean, carved scenes were eroded and time-beaten, but just about decipherable. 

The four images depicted monks in various states of torment. The first monk strained under the weight of a massive rock, muscles taut with effort as it pressed down upon him. The second monk, blood dripping from his hand and ears, was feverishly inscribing words upon a scroll, clearly in agony. In the third panel, a monk appeared submerged and drowning beneath a cascade of shimmering gold, his features twisted and bloated. 

The final tableau showed two figures, stripped bare, entwined in an act that should have been pleasurable. However, their expressions were ambiguous, dancing somewhere between ecstasy and agony. The knife suspended ominously above their heads left little doubt about their fate.

Underneath each carving was a word in an ancient language, which Gale was able to translate. 

STRENGTH. KNOWLEDGE. WEALTH. LUST

Hovering above the scenes of suffering was a much larger image of a monk in resplendent robes, his hands covering his eyes as he sat before a closed book as if to shield himself from an unbearable truth. The book sat on a carved pedestal, and shimmered with golden light. The lines of the monk’s robes flowed gracefully, dancing in a breeze that no longer existed. The expression of the hidden face was left to the imagination, but Gale’s imagination didn’t have to work very hard. The monk was shielding himself from whatever was written in that book. 

Gale‘s chest suddenly went tight, as though the orb that had once branded his skin and burned an aching, insatiable hunger within him was back. The ghost of a pain which would never truly leave him.  He couldn’t help but see himself in the image, as though it was a mocking interpretation of his great folly. 

Unlike this monk, when he was tempted, he had not been strong enough to cover his eyes. He had suffered the same torment as the other tortured souls. It wouldn't have seemed out of place to see a carving of a wizard with a dark orb branded upon his chest, bent over and crippled by unending pain and sharp regret. His hand once again absentmindedly moved to his chest.

“What is in that book, do you think?” Elltavia was started to get concerned by the faraway look in Gale’s eyes. She had not known him long, but she knew it was unlike him to be this quiet. Whether in a classroom, or on an adventure - he was a born teacher. He had the engaging, adaptable, patient, rare soul of someone who had collected knowledge like precious treasure, and all he seemed to ever want to do is share it. He was not made to be silent, and it worried her.

"Fortune and glory, Kidd." Gale continued to read the fragile inscriptions—warnings, death sentences, holy scriptures, and gold-tinted promises of doom for the unworthy. Yet, for those with the resolve to grasp it, an ultimate blessing. "Fortune and glory."

After more studying, Gale pressed his hand against an indent in the wall, and a rumbling echoed around them.

"I think we've found where the ritual would take place," he murmured.

The carved, ancient pedestal holding the book shown in the mural rose from the ground in the room’s centre, a half-decayed corpse resting against it, its mouldering hand still holding the book open, as if in a final, desperate grasp for whatever it contained. 

"That book should not be open." Gale could feel the power emanating from it, warping and stretching the weave of magic around it. This was no ordinary spellcraft; it was far beyond his capabilities. Once, he would have been desperate to grasp it, to drink the forbidden magic until it drowned him. A long time ago, It almost had.

The source of the blight was finally clear. The book had to be closed, or the rot would continue to spread, cursing the forest and luring as many as it could to this place. The book was a lure, a power to draw people here to be tested, indifferent to the fate it bestowed upon them. The burning ache of the sussur, which had been simmering under his skin, began to flare and bubble. His magic tingled in his bones, demanding to be used, to cast protection over him. His mind was flooded with the weave, and the agony of not being able to use it was overwhelming.

“Close the book!” He hissed through clenched teeth, doubled over in pain. 

Elltavia approached the book tentatively, with ranger’s care. The closer she got, the more Gale’s words became a far-away song, trailing distantly away from the fluttering pages. Each turn caused a soft rustle; leaves whispering secrets in a forest grove. It was the sound of her home, and it was calling to her. The book cast a gentle glow, soft as yellow moonlight. And with every intake of breath, she could swear the scent of pine mingled with the earthy perfume of petrichor sank deep, holding and soothing her. 

Surely within its pages lay the answers they were looking for. It called out to her with a sweetness that stirred her soul, a siren's song promising sanctuary. The glowing page was right there in front of her, she just had to read the inscription…

I am the lure in darkest gloom, A whispered hope, a flick'ring bloom. In greed-drenched shade, I bide my time, Thy greatest urge will feed my shrine.

What am I? A tempter, sly, In every soul, doth ever lie. Resist the call for but one hour, Prevail, and gain the worthy’s power

“Elltavia, NO!” 

And she burned.

It felt as though tendrils of flame were invading her through her nose, her mouth, sinking through her skin, licking the very bones of her. It was tugging at her, calling to her, scalding all the way through her. She was a woman aflame, and there was only one way to extinguish the fire. She needed Gale, and she needed him now. 

He rushed over, and managed to close the book - but not before catching a glimpse of the inscription within. As soon as he had read the words, the book and pedestal began to descend ominously back into the ground.

“Gale..” Elltavia’s voice was suddenly breathy and skin clammy as Gale grabbed hold of her and started to check her over. 

“It’s the test, Kidd.” He appraised her pupils to see that they were blown wide, her breathing heavy. The spell was undeniably affecting her, not just emotionally but physically too. Her skin glimmered with a light sheen of sweat. Were her lips fuller, even more inviting than before? Surely it was a trick of the light? The urge to press his own against them, to run his tongue along her bottom lip, was all-consuming.

He pulled away abruptly, almost harshly, startled by the intensity of his desire. He had anticipated challenges to his resolve, but not in this way. He had mentally prepared himself for his ambition, his hubris, his self-worth to be cut out and dissected in front of him, to once again have to pull himself back from the brink of his unending desperation to prove himself. It was his tragic flaw, it always would be. He had not prepared himself for this.

The atmosphere crackled with a potent mix of heat and something deeper, something elemental. Lust. It hung thick in the air, dense and suffocating. It wrapped around him like a lover’s embrace, seeping into the marrow of his bones. He was suddenly starving, and she was ripe and ready to be savoured. He remembered when she had bitten the apple from his desk. How her eyes had met his as she bit down, how the juice had trailed down from the side of her lips to her chin…

“It sai..said.” Elltavia had her arms wrapped around herself, as though trying to hold herself back, and Gale desperately wanted to unfurl them and spread her out on the ground like a map. There was priceless treasure to be discovered. He ached from not touching her.

“It said something about lure.. Temptation..” Her breathing was heavy and lust-soaked. “Resist for an hour.. And we’ll pass the test.”

An hour of this, he thought bleakly, he did not know how he would stop himself from devouring her.

“I have rope” she panted “In my pack. You should tie me up.”

His response to that was a low, feral groan which seemed to rumble from deep within his chest. “I don’t think bondage will help me out here, Kidd.”

Struggling against this overwhelming desire was futile; he was a weary child resisting the pull of the receding tide, or a final leaf clinging to its branch before the onslaught of autumn's chill. He was no match for her; he was a raft-bound castaway - and she was the oncoming tempest. 

Together they melted into a pool of tongue and hands, rushed and heavy. There was no softness or words of delicacy, no declarations or promises of what would come after. There was only urgency. There was only her and him and now. At the meet of their lips and the ripping of her shirt underneath his strong, tanned hands there was a rumbling noise which ripped around them and caused loose stone and dust to fall from the ceiling. The shock of it managed to distract them long enough to prise themselves away from each other. The second they pulled apart, the noise stopped. 

“An earthquake?” He questioned through rough panting, speaking out loud rather than to her in particular. He quickly moved to one of the far walls and ran his hands over it, feeling for any structural damage and waiting silently for an aftershock.

As soon as his fingers stroked the grooves in the stone, Elltavia was behind him. She pushed him against the wall, and pressed herself against his back, standing on her tiptoes to lick and bite at the nape of his neck. 

“Who cares?” She whined. Her hands made their way up the back of his shirt and she dragged her nails down his skin. The sound he made was sinful, and as soon as her tongue licked at the sweat trailing down his spine, the rumbling started again. This time they were both knocked backwards by the wall Gale was pressed against, as it started to straighten out and move towards them. 

“Fuck.” He groaned, on his back. He could barely think straight, all his focus and all his blood was currently gathered in hard desperation between his legs. Urging to be sank into the ranger panting on the floor next to him. 

She swung her leg round to mount herself on top of him, pinning him to the ground under her hips.

“Wait” he hissed through gritted teeth. She managed to stop herself from sucking on his bottom lip long enough to hear what he wanted to say, she desperately hoped it would be something filthy. Her restraint in her longing for his mouth didn’t stop her grinding her hips down against him. She gasped at how hard he was underneath her. To her shock, he grabbed her upper arms and managed, with difficulty, to push her off him and he sprang up and backed away from her with his arms out. 

“Listen, Kidd, when we give into our temptation, to our urge, it sets off the trap.” 

She tried to take in what he was saying, and she used her sharp, predator’s focus to survey the room. She had not previously noticed the heavy layer of dust which had settled on the holy ground. Bonedust. The bleak realisation sank in. This was all that was left of others who had been tested. The book was an incendiary, designed to spark simmering desire into a roaring flame. Resist it, or be crushed.

“I am your temptation?” She rasped. “Gale, of all the fucking things to desire?!” 

“You’re one to talk!” He snapped. The cord that felt wrapped around him was tightening in frustration. This woman was literally going to be the death of him. This stubborn, infuriating, smart-ass was how he was going to die. He wanted to take his whip out and coil the leather around her… 

“Fuck!” He said, turning around so he could no longer see her pouring out of her sweaty, ripped shirt. 

“The temptation is each other… right?” She breathed.

“Obviously.” 

“Then… then we can still.. Touch ourselves, can’t we?”

It was like pouring oil on a bonfire, the thought of her unbound and lost in her own touch, bringing herself to the brink of pleasure and plunging over a cliff of her own making was unbearable. He wanted to palm himself right there in front of her just from the thought of it. 

She didn’t wait for him to answer, her hand quickly found its way into her underwear and to where she needed it most. She was a writhing mess on the floor - but the walls did not move. 

He sank and crawled to her, and positioned himself over her, resting his forearms on the ground next to her shoulders, clenching his fists in frustration and caging her beneath him, but not touching her. He allowed one of his knees to push her thigh upwards, splaying her further apart. But he did not give her any further contact. He just held himself over her as she moaned and bucked her hips into her own hand. His gaze was as desperate and intense as any touch could be. Beads of sweat traced paths down his temple, falling onto her skin like liquid fire. Every inch of her felt alive, every nerve alight with anticipation. As he lowered his head, his breath danced against her neck, tantalisingly close yet never touching. His lips hovered, a mere whisper away, and she teetered on the edge of combustion.

“I’ve wanted you since you flashed your thigh at my desk.” His voice was almost unrecognisable, dark as sin itself. The lilt of his words caressing her skin. “I wanted to be that fruit on your tongue. The flesh on your lips.”  She gasped, but could not respond. Her eyes fluttered shut as she imagined how he would taste as he spilled herself down her throat in ecstasy. 

“Don’t you dare stop looking at me.” He growled.

Her eyes flashed open again to meet his, and his command would have sent her spiralling, but something was wrong. 

“I can’t.. It won’t…” She removed her hand in desperation, and it took every ounce of resilience he had not to grab hold of her wrist and drag her lust-soaked fingers between his teeth and roll his tongue against them. “It just makes it worse.” 

The walls were still at each end of the room, they had barely moved. The two of them were safe, maybe there was time to…

“Fuck it.” He said, and he lifted her robe and tore her underwear off her. Gods, the scent of her. He wanted to spend a whole day with his nose buried at the source of her divine, needy musk.

 He did not have a whole day, he had minutes at most. 

“Is this what you want?” He asked, shaking with the resolve it took to show her the decency she deserved.

“No” She responded, but before he could even attempt to pull himself away from her, she wrapped her powerful warrior's thighs around him and flipped them so he was beneath her. 

“This is what I want.” 

She turned round above him so her cunt was hovering over his face, just out of reach. This position gave her the chance to unbuckle his belt and finally get her hands where she wanted them. There was no time to undress him, to peel him out of his tight trousers the way she wanted to. This would have to do. He moaned beneath her as she finally freed him from his confinement, and without grace or hesitation - took the whole of him into her mouth. 

In response, he grabbed hold of her hips and pulled her down against his lips. Locking her tight against him, he groaned and pushed his tongue into her. The taste of her was technicolour.  He worked as quickly as he could to relieve the tight, coiling need which was squeezing the life out of them, but not quickly enough. 

The walls had pushed towards them quicker than he anticipated, and it wasn’t long until he felt the hard force of it suddenly pressing against his feet. 

Elltavia must have become aware at the same time he did, because her mouth was suddenly off him and she rolled away, completely disentangling them and stopping the movement of the walls. 

They were both slick with sweat, and with each other. 

“Get over to the far end. Now.” He snapped at her. The narrowing of the walls had now turned the large, circular room into a slim corridor. It would only take a couple more metres of movement and they would be crushed to dust. 

“Do not bark orders at me!” She retorted with a hiss. “That is really not helping the situation!” She retreated as far away as him as possible, pressed her thighs together, and put her hands over her ears so she couldn’t hear his heavy, laboured breathing.

The hour may as well have been a day. They faced away from each other, breaths heavy and skin slick with sweat. They had both tried to cover themselves back up with what little material had not been ripped. At this moment the threat of being crushed by the weight of an ancient temple wall seemed inconsequential compared to the overwhelming intensity of this moment. Gale thought that If this were to be his end, he would welcome it with open arms. At one point in his life, he had resigned himself to the fact he would die alone at the order of a pitiless Goddess. What a privilege it would be then, to die in the arms of a merciful one. In the arms of Elltavia Kidd’Alka. 

He thought of her as he faced the wall. He thought of her in every way except the one which had pushed its way to the front of his mind and coursed its way through his blood. He thought of her fierce loyalty to her home, how she had travelled far and risked her life. How she was blunt and forthcoming and how she refused to dull any of her bladed wit. He thought of the shimmering seasons of her eyes, of how long it must take her to braid her hair, how she has the wisdom of an elder and the bright laugh of a child. He thought of how much he wanted her to live, and how much he wanted to see her again. And suddenly, the urge simmered - it was there, but it no longer suffocated him. He could breathe. His lust had been mixed with something else, and the sweet combination had strengthened his resolve. He could do this. 

Elltavia thought of the forest. Of her home. Of the children who fell out of trees and laughed in the dirt that caught them. Of the people who had spent their lives telling stories and weaving tradition through play and prayer. Of the mothers who had fletched arrows with babes at their breast. She remembered the first time she summoned an animal, and how the swift spring bird had flitted between branches and sunbeams to settle upon her shoulder. She remembered the poor autumn fox which she had found dead from the spreading curse. She would beat this. She would return home, and she would show Gale the place they had saved together. Her blood cooled, her resolve steeled. She could do this. 

An hour passed in silence. The two of them focused and determined. Two people who ached enough to not touch each other. And it worked.

Suddenly, it was as though they had emerged from holding their breath in ice water. The walls rumbled and slowly retreated back to their stations. 

“Is it over?” Elltavia spoke quietly, too nervous to turn round or remove her hands from her ears. Her answer came when a strong, comforting hand placed itself on her shoulder and she didn’t burn from the touch. She let Gale turn her, and take the hands from her ears to kiss them. 

“Not for me'' He said gently, stroking her cheek and tucking a braid behind her ear.  Before he could kiss her properly, without magical kindling feeding his flame for her, the book reappeared. It fluttered once more, and settled on its final page.

“Is it safe?”

“I think so” He said, more calmly than he felt. “We passed the test.”

He made his way to where the soft glow welcomed him to read, and spoke the book’s final inscription aloud…

Behold, two souls of spirit true Live long - old magic rests in you. 

“If this is some bullshit about how the power was inside us all along, I'm going to be really annoyed.” Elltavia was still breathless, but relieved.

“Maybe…” He said thoughtfully, but from the book and the murals and tenacity of the ancient magic, Gale didn’t believe that was the case. There must be the mentioned ‘reward’ somewhere… But, he was not interested. Godly gifts he could live without. There were other things more worthy of his attention now. Other desires to fulfill. 

“What do we do about the book?” she asked, closing it and running her finger over the cover. “Will you take it to the Academy?”

“No. This belongs here. It’s as much a part of the forest as you are.” He turned to look at her, her bright eyes fierce, “You know what lies here now, you can tell your community - you can spread the story and let them become guardians of magic and knowledge. And this can stay here… closed.”

He bent down and kissed her, soft but purposeful. Full of the promise of things to come.

“You know, Kidd. Before you dropped by my lecture I was reading about this amulet…”

She entwined her fingers with his as they made their way back into the lush greenery of her vibrant forest home. “Sounds interesting professor, I take it the next adventure would also require you to bring along your whip?” 

“Oh, most definitely. I could give you another demonstration now if you’d like?”

Her bright laugh echoed through the trees as they walked into the distance, unaware of the ancient gift bestowed upon them by the temple in the forest. Perhaps one day, Gale would notice his hair wasn't greying as quickly, or that the furrows between his eyes no longer deepened despite the endless days of laughter shared with Elltavia. Maybe then, they would realise they had been chosen as timeless protectors: the wizard destined to safeguard the magic he once sought to consume, and the ranger courageous enough to save her homeland.

[hamburgerndsprite]

TEMPTATION ON TRIAL ✓ CH 1

“He’s falsely accused. She’s legally unhinged. Together, they’re chaos in designer suits.”

➳ Pairing: Actor! Kim Seokjin x Criminal Lawyer! Oc

➳ Genre: Courtroom Chaos | Crack with Consequences | Enemies to Lovers | Legal Romance | Slow-burn & Subpoenas | Found Family but Make it Unhinged | Actor x lawyer au

Series Masterlist • Main Masterlist

Chapter 1: Enter the Hurricane (In Heels and With a Coffee Stain)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

9:00 AM sharp.

Courtroom 42-B.

The Honorable Judge Heo Minjae adjusted his glasses with the same bone-deep sigh one reserves for root canals and tax audits. His docket said the next case was a petty fraud trial—open-and-shut, ten minutes tops.

“Where is the defense counsel?” he asked, already regretting it.

“I... don’t think she’s here yet, Your Honor,” replied the clerk, wincing.

From the prosecution table, a smug-looking man straightened his tie and smiled. Mr. Lee Doyun, a rising star in corporate litigation, known for two things: having a six-pack he mentioned too often, and winning cases that bored the nation into submission.

His client, Mr. Bae Sanghoon, a pretentious middle manager with a face that screamed “I rehearse my TED Talks in the mirror,” leaned over and whispered, “She’s late? She’s late. Excellent. I told you this would be easy.”

They both laughed. Loudly. Smugly. Foolishly.

The defendant, seated to the side and very much alone, sighed for the eighth time in three minutes. Mr. Gong Jaesuk, former delivery app engineer turned hacker-by-accident, looked at the door like it might sprout a divine intervention.

And then—divine intervention tripped into the courtroom.

Crash.

The door flew open with the force of a small tornado. A blur of chaos burst through—heels skidding, folders midair, coffee trailing in slow-motion betrayal. Aria Sterling, criminal defense attorney, hurricane in human form, landed half-sideways into the room like a wine-drenched ballerina at a funeral.

Trailing behind her, Park Jimin, a serotonin-dripping human trainwreck in a soft pink sweater vest, came tumbling in, one shoe missing, iced coffee dripping from his sleeve like sad, caffeinated tears.

The courtroom froze.

Files exploded into the air like confetti at a clown funeral. Aria caught herself on the defense table, narrowly avoiding death-by-coffee-lake, and struck a pose so unintentionally dramatic it could’ve ended wars—or started them.

Jimin skidded forward, tripped over his own foot, and plowed directly into her. More papers. More flying. One rogue folder slapped Sanghoon in the face. It was Aria’s evidence binder. The title read: “Client is Dumb, But Not Criminal.”

Everyone stared. Jimin peeked up from the floor like a puppy caught with glitter in its mouth.

“Hi,” he whispered, beaming. “We made it?”

Judge Heo Minjae’s voice thundered across the courtroom:

“Not. You. Again.”

He rubbed his temples. Groaned. Tried not to smile. Failed. He never succeeded.

Mr. Lee Doyun’s smug face deflated like a party balloon at a funeral. His smile did a slow, confused death.

His client stared ahead, already sensing the doom. “Oh god. No. Anyone but her.”

Across the aisle, Mr. Gong Jaesuk blinked. “She actually showed up?”

And then he smiled. Big. Bright. Manically hopeful.

Aria, still poised like chaos couture, tossed her hair back and sauntered to the table as if nothing at all had happened—even though she looked like she’d survived an explosion at a stationery store.

“Apologies for the delay, Your Honor,” she said brightly, smiling like someone who’d set the courthouse on fire once and blamed the wind. “We were… caught in a protest. For climate change. Very tragic. Valiant, really. Couldn’t possibly abandon the earth.”

Judge Heo arched an eyebrow. “Ms. Sterling. You woke up late again, didn’t you.”

“Objection,” she said instantly. “That’s slander. And possibly true.”

Jimin popped up behind her, his hair sticking up like he’d been attacked by a squirrel. “I made coffee!”

The judge sighed so hard the bailiff flinched. “Let’s begin. Plaintiff, you may proceed.”

Lee Doyun stood, full of fake confidence and clean PowerPoints. “Thank you, Your Honor. As we were prepared to present—”

Aria cut in, already waving a crumpled file. “Bae Sanghoon, correct? Professional coupon hoarder. Accusing my client of manipulating his delivery times so he’d lose his 3-minute refund window. Which, tragic. I hope his dumplings were worth it.”

Sanghoon sat straighter. “It was intentional sabotage! I missed my lunch!”

She turned slowly toward him, eyes glinting. “And you... survived the trauma? Incredible. Such resilience.”

The judge coughed into his sleeve.

Doyun tried again. “Your client altered backend code. He admitted it—”

“To block bot activity,” Aria shot back. “Which, fun fact, your tech-savvy toddler of a client was doing. Five burner phones, Mr. Sanghoon? Really? At least name them creatively. I saw one called ‘BaeSang4Eva.’”

Jimin gasped. “That was the worst one.”

Aria snapped her fingers. “Exactly. Offensive both legally and aesthetically.”

Judge Heo looked at the exhibits Jimin was now handing out—wrong side up, of course. “Are these real screenshots?”

“Yep,” Aria said cheerfully. “Time-stamped, IP-logged, and annotated in sparkly pink highlighter. I added emojis.”

Sanghoon was visibly sweating now. “You can’t just—”

“Oh, I can,” she said, that wicked smile curling. “I even filed a countersuit for character defamation. Also emotional damage. He once left a public review saying my client ‘has the aura of a failed rice cooker.’ Honestly, same. But still—hurtful.”

Doyun opened his mouth, probably to object. Aria didn’t let him. “Doyun, I’ve heard your objections. They have all the weight of a wet napkin. Sit down.”

Even the stenographer wheezed.

Judge Heo tried not to laugh. Again. He failed. Again.

“Do you have a final argument, Ms. Sterling?” he asked.

“I do.” She spun, pointed at Jaesuk. “Is he dumb? Yes. But criminal? No. He fixed a flaw in an app. He didn’t break into a bank vault. He rerouted packets. Which this man—” she pointed at Sanghoon like a diva accusing someone of stealing her lipstick, “—exploited to steal coupons and resell them on online forums under usernames like ‘DiscountDaddy’. Tragic. Desperate. Discounted.”

The courtroom went still.

“Request for full dismissal,” she finished, “and maybe a restraining order. Just so my client never has to hear ‘failed rice cooker’ again.”

The judge sat back. “Dismissed. Get out of my courtroom.”

“Gladly!” Aria chirped. “Jimin, let’s flee before the AC goes out again.”

Jimin stood, beaming, grabbing what papers hadn’t been sacrificed to the Coffee Gods.

As they made for the door, Judge Heo added wearily, “Take your chaos goblin partner with you.”

“I’m not a partner—”

Crash. Jimin tripped over the defense table and took the flagpole with him.

“—yet,” he said from the floor.

Aria only smiled. “Progress.”

They swept out, laughter trailing behind them like perfume.

Behind them, Sanghoon sat in stunned silence.

Doyun looked up from the crater where his confidence had died. “What just happened?”

The judge leaned back in his chair.

“She happened.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Series Masterlist • Next

[slowpokes-things]

I saw this image on the bird app so I wanna talk about it a little bit ⬇️

I’ll be the first one to say, yeah, I liked the older antagonists more. I liked the concept of the Zero point too, and Jones was a good protagonist over the story as well. I’ll also say, I don’t 100% jive with this new story. But I think that it’s fair to say that doesn’t make it bad right?

Nothing has been perfect, Cube Queen and Geno were very nothing as antagonists. There was very little known about them and their motives, other than “TAKE OVER REALITY ZERO”; Cube Queen was different in the way that she wanted to destroy everything at least. They both have just as much development (if not just a little more) than say The Herald or Megalo Don. The difference here is that Geno and CQ were built up a little bit over the course of at least 1 season.

Geno was known to be the mysterious leader of the I.O. for a while, that added mystery and a certain set of depth, expectation, and want to discover this character. Cube Queen was a threat that was only known as a golden cube aboard the UFO, something the island had barely won a war against the season prior to her introduction. We had seen she was capable of activating these cubes, one of which was a huge threat to the island alone. When she was released she sent droves of monsters, built her own temple-like POI, and almost destroyed the island in The End Chapter 2 Edition™️.

They had plot hooks, that’s what I’m trying to say. So did the Herald, and the Nothing. But…that’s just not something we’re seeing with this chapter, or the last. Stellan? Gone. Kado Thorne? Dead in a side quest. The Society? Brought down in one season. Valeria? Not even the game will tell us where she went. The gods? Fled. Megalo Don???? Who knows. The Wanderer was really the only one who seemed he might bring some plot hook like the former two. But now that it’s just…Dr. Doom? There’s nothing to hook people anymore, no mystery, no intrigue…

That’s what we need really, we don’t necessarily need the old plot back. We need intrigue, plot hooks for more than a season, and characters (protag and antag) that are allowed to develop and grow and be compelling. I will say that I really enjoy what they’ve done with hope actually, she’s truly become her own character and I appreciate that!

But yeah, there are definitely people who are like this. But I figured I’d just make my point clear since I saw that. :3

[megsiepoo]

            Baalzebub had been defeated. The news had not come as a surprise to Kallamar, but the loss of his final disciple came far sooner than he had hoped. Dread weighed heavy upon his shoulders, his body feeling stiff and cold as a corpse. As his acolytes gathered amongst him within his temple, as he awaited the arrival of the Lamb, Kallamar contemplated the actions that had brought him here.             His death was imminent, that much was clear, the Red Crown's swift return to Anchordeep heralding his doom. He did not propose the chaining of the Red Crown and its bearer, but he had not stopped his siblings either. And while he truly had argued on behalf of sheepkind, he too had slaughtered countless lambs; their blood stained his hands as much as it did any of his siblings. His bid for mercy had failed him; he could only pray that Shamura would never hear of his weakness and that the Lamb's blade cut swift and true.             As hoofsteps echoed throughout the outer halls, Kallamar tensed in anticipation. His acolytes, too, took their final places, daggers gripped tightly in their hands, ready to offer their devotion to their god. The door to the chamber swung open, and the Lamb stepped forth into the room, sword already in hand. They wore the same expression from before that Kallamar had not recognized, but as the Lamb's gaze bore into him, he recognized it now. Pity. Kallamar gnashed his teeth and drew himself to his full height, snarling down at the beast.

AAAAAAAAH new series up!

Previously known as the Salty B AU, I finally got around to renaming it! Curious what you guys think.

I started working on this months ago but kept getting distracted by other projects. I'm so thrilled to finally be working on it! I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it.

Thank you for all of the support, and feedback appreciated as always! Happy reading!

Also, content warning on this one for descriptions of gore and death.

[lonewolfel]

Telegonus and Odysseus's Odyssey Chapter 1

Astyanax's fate was always to siege Ithaca. To have his revenge for his family's fall. For now though he was an innocent baby sleeping in a hidden crib due to his mother's vain hope that he may live through the night.

Odysseus is given a choice by Zeus; he can save the boy and doom his family or kill the boy and keep his family safe. Can Odysseus truly defy fate or is he a fool for attempting to change the tide of the future?

Notes: Title is work in progress. Also Astyanax will be renamed to Telegonus by Odysseus later on. Sorry this took me so long my classes have swamped me to the point that procrastination for my anxious ass is impossible. Will upload to AO3 later.

Trigger warning: Discussions of child death and the burning of Troy

Andromache awoke to the smell of smoke. Then the distant sounds of screams reached her. She shot off her bed and straight to the windows.

The lights of the fire of Ilion burned so brightly that it looked as if Selene had given Helios her place in the sky. The red sent an eerie glow as if Ares had painted it with blood.

Andromache knew exactly what this meant. The Greeks had found a way to breach the wall. She ran out of her room. The screams got louder as residence of the palace were awaken to the chaos outside. They only had a small amount of time before the Greeks in the chaos breached the palace and Andromache plans to make the most of her time left.

She ran to the nursery. Her son was sobbing already due to the noise. She hummed and gently rocked him holding him as tight to her chest as she dared.

Andromache rushed through the palace halls going against the fleeing slaves, servants, and her in-laws. She rushed deeper into the palace to reach the hidden servant passage ways. She climbed up the stairs into the higher level of the servant's courters.

The room was abandoned what little possessions they had owned laid strewn about showing their hurry to leave the room.

Andromache hoped that by leaving Scamandrius here that he would survive this siege. If any Greek were to see her with him they would know exactly who he was, Astyanax son of the late Prince Hector defender of Troy. There would be no way that they would know who he was here in the carnage of the servant's courters. They would assume that he was some forgotten bastard left behind as his parents fled. There was still a great chance he would die but there was a better chance that he may survive this.

All Andromache could do was hope.

Tears burned the mother's eyes but she refused to let them fall.

"It's OK," Andromache hummed. "Everything is going to be OK. Mommy has to leave for a while. She will come back for you when she can. We will meet again whether it be in this life or the next."

If Andromache were honest with herself it was clear that they will only meet within Hades' halls.

She gentle set him down in a basket full of linen hoping that it would look like a slave's cradle. Andromache leaned over and kissed her son on the forehead likely for the last time. Scamandrius made some grabbing motions towards his mother. He likely sensed his mother's fear and sadness and sought comfort or to give it.

"Be brave, Scamandrius," Andromache said. She gentle brushed his cheek with her finger. "You are all that's left of my hope. The hope of our people. You will be Astyanax and make your family proud, me and your father. I love you so much and so did he."

Andromache stood up. She turned her back on her son. He began to cry wanting to be held. With her face hidden she allowed herself to shed a tear for all that she has lost.

Andromache dried her tear and rushed out of the room and away from her son.

"Daughter come quickly," her father in law called out.

Andromache turned and rushed towards her in laws. Hecuba took her arm and led her through the palace. They rushed into the Temple of Zeus. The hope was that no Greek would dare to do them harm in the temple out of fear of angering the King of the Gods.

They should have known that it wouldn't work.

For a while they only heard screams from outside. Then there was an eerie silence.

Priam took a step forward drawing his sword. He was old and hadn't fought for a while but he was the closest thing they had to a guard. Hecuba and Andromache clutched each other.

The temple doors banged open revealing a young man or more accurately a boy. It was clear that he wasn't old enough to grow a beard. His hair was bright red and his skin was a glistening gold. His eyes were cold.

Andromache sent a silent prayer to Zeus that her son will be safe.

The soldier raised his sword to strike.

~~~

Odysseus held the baby against him. He couldn't help but see his son in the baby. Telemachus had been the same age that he had left for war.

Odysseus felt Zeus's eyes on him waiting for him to kill the boy. Yet deep down he couldn't do it.

He will burn your house and throne. He'll find you wherever you go. The blood on your hands is something you won't lose.

Zeus's words echoed in his mind. Odysseus should listen to the warning. It is what Athena would have wanted him to do. Yet he couldn't ignore his heart.

"I'm sorry, I can't," Odysseus said.

He heard the crashing of thunder. He knew he had angered the god but he couldn't bare to do what he asked.

Odysseus walked out of the palace holding the baby.

"What are you doing?" Athena questioned.

Odysseus felt a little bit annoyed at his mentor.

"I can't kill him," Odysseus said.

"He will kill you and your family," Athena said.

"If I'm too weak to defend my own home then I will deserve it," Odysseus shot back.

"Is he worth angering Zeus?" Athena asked.

"Of course," Odysseus said.

"He isn't your son," Athena said.

"He is now," Odysseus said.

Athena sighed. "I hope you know what you are doing."

She transformed into an owl and flew off into the red sky.

Odysseus didn't take a moment to think about what he had done. Instead he hid the child underneath his himation so that no soldier would see the sleeping baby. He cautiously moved through the burning streets of Troy to get back to his ship.