#even though hes the fastest in the world. again

[whoupsqlointing]

i love watching world record speedruns and all the way through the runner is like "im throwing. that was terrible. i should just restart. im playing so bad" and then they get the fastest time in the world despite it all

[cheollollipop]

pole position. | k. mingyu

genre: angst. fluff. smut (NSFW 18+ MDNI). childhood friends to enemies to lovers.

wc: 10.6k

content warning(s): super angst! yn is angry. talks about parental death. unprotected sex it (wrap it tf up!), oral (f! receiving), f1 so fast driving, reckless driving (please drive safe and responsibly!)

🏎️ author's note!

f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu 👹👹 that is all.

There are some names you never really outrun.

In Monza, mine is whispered like a ghost story.

"YN's back?"

As if I were a curse.

It was as if I hadn't been here the whole time. Just hidden in the shadows of champagne flutes and pit lane secrets.

It's been seven years since the crash. Seven years since my father's car went up in flames on lap forty-two, since I stood in the paddock and watched the marshals throw up the red flag, my throat raw from screaming. Seven years since I promised myself I'd never set foot near a racetrack again.

And yet

I'm sitting in my apartment in Barcelona, staring at the black envelope the courier sent this morning. My name... MY name, is handwritten across the front in sharp, arrogant strokes.

The seal on the back is red wax. Embossed with a crest I know too well: MGK.

Kim Mingyu.

I don't have to open it. I already know what it is.

An invitation.

It's not the first time he's tried.

Mingyu's been sending messages for months. Quiet ones, clever ones. I ignored them all. The roses in Maranello? Trashed. The paddock pass in Milan? Returned. His call after the driver's gala last winter? I let it ring until the sound died.

He doesn't take rejection well.

He never has.

But this... this is different.

This is personal. The handwriting tells me that. Mingyu could've had a PR assistant draft something polished, clean, and cold. He didn't. He wanted me to know it was him. That it's always been him.

God, he's insufferable. He was always so sure of himself. The face of MGK Racing, the most aggressive driver on the grid, the fastest pit exit on record, and the charm that makes even my most jaded friends blush.

But beneath the swag and the tailored suits, there's something else. I see it every time his name flashes across the ticker. Every time he clutches a champagne bottle on the podium like he owns the world.

He wants to be a legend.

And legends always come with ghosts.

I open the envelope before I can talk myself out of it.

"Monza

Saturday. Pre-qualifying. I want you on the balcony.

Come see what a real legacy looks like."

– M

My teeth grit around the nerve of it. I can hear his voice in my head.

Deep, amused, cocky.

Come see what a real legacy looks like.

What a bastard.

I should burn it. Rip it into a hundred pieces and let the ashes swirl over my terrace like the memory of my father's last race. But I don't.

I set the letter down on the counter and pour myself a drink. Neat. No ice.

Because here's the thing about running. You can only go so far before someone catches up. And Kim Mingyu? He's fast. Faster than he looks. Faster than he has any right to be. And for better or worse, he's the only driver who's ever looked me in the eyes like he knows.

He knows what it costs.

Knows what it takes.

Knows that underneath all my disdain and quiet exile, I miss it.

I miss the sound.

The roar.

The rush.

I miss my father's world, even though it tore mine apart.

And maybe, just maybe, I miss Mingyu.

Not that I'd ever admit that. Especially not to him.

I set up the private jet for the next morning. One-way.

I pack like I'm going to war. Black sunglasses, leather jacket, zero patience. If he wants me at Monza, fine. I'll show up. But I'm not coming back as some wide-eyed fan with nostalgia in my throat.

I'm YN.

Daughter of the greatest to ever touch the wheel.

Raised in pit lanes and championship parties.

Trained to spot a liar in a sponsor's suit before he finishes shaking your hand.

And if Kim Mingyu wants to play this game, he better be ready to lose.

Because I may have left the track, but, I never left the fight.

���

I land in Italy under a bruised sky. The airport car is already waiting. Matte black, sleek. The driver barely says a word as we weave through traffic and out toward the circuit. Every kilometer closer, my pulse climbs. It's muscle memory, adrenaline, and fury.

Nostalgia is dangerous.

So is desire.

I spot the MGK paddock before we even pull in. Bright red with gold trim, obnoxiously regal. Just like him.

And there he is.

Kim Mingyu.

Leaning against the railing like a goddamn movie poster. Fireproofs around his waist, white shirt clinging to sweat and arrogance. Sunglasses tucked into the neck like he doesn't need them to blind you.

He sees me before I step out of the car. Of course he does.

A slow, knowing grin cuts across his face.

"Thought you'd be taller," I say, chin high as I step into view.

He laughs, low and amused and pushes off the rail.

"And I thought you'd keep running."

I smile without warmth. "Guess we're both disappointed."

But the way he looks at me.

Like I'm the finish line and the starting gun all at once.

That's the problem.

That's what will ruin us both.

The paddock smells like rubber and adrenaline.

It hits me the moment I step past the barricades, heat rising from the asphalt, the thrum of engines testing their limits, the unmistakable pulse of a sport that's more religion than competition. A place where gods are made in milliseconds and ghosts live in the shadows of tire marks.

I shouldn't have come.

I feel how the staff look at me. Half recognition, half disbelief. Like they're not sure if I'm real. I keep my sunglasses on and my expression locked, but it's all muscle memory now. Every step toward the MGK garage pulls something tight in my chest.

The last time I stood here, I was a daughter mourning a legacy. Today, I'm just trying to survive one.

"Still walking like you own the grid," Mingyu mutters beside me, voice smug as sin. He's close, closer than he needs to be. "Nice to know some things haven't changed."

I don't look at him.

"I walk like someone who knows where the hell she's going," I reply, cool and clean.

"Right. Right into my garage," he says with a grin.

"Temporary lapse in judgment."

He laughs. "You keep saying that like you didn't get on a plane for me."

I stop and pivot to face him. "Let's get one thing straight, Kim. I didn't come here for you. I came for the car. For the circuit. For the noise. You? You're just the distraction in the driver's seat."

His smile doesn't falter, but his eyes narrow just a little. "And yet, here you are. Watching me work."

I hate how calm he sounds. How sure. Like he's already won some battle I didn't agree to fight.

We step into the garage, and the world sharpens.

The MGK car. His car is a brutal, beautiful machine. Polished red with razor-edge aerodynamics and barely contained fury. She looks fast even when standing still, the kind of car that doesn't ask for forgiveness, just blood.

I run my fingers across the rear wing casually. Careless.

"You really trust her?" I ask.

Mingyu leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I'm part of the engine. "With my life."

"Big words."

"Big machine."

I glance over my shoulder. "She won't save you from a mistake."

"I don't make them."

That gets my attention. I turn, eyebrows raised. "That's a bold thing to say in front of a legacy."

His gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up. "You think you know this world because you were born into it."

"No," I say, stepping closer just to see if he flinches. He doesn't. "I know this world because it burned itself into me. I know the way engines scream before they seize. I know the color of smoke that means a fire's already started. And I know when a driver is tempting fate just to see if it flinches."

"You think that's me?"

"I think you want to be a myth. And you're arrogant enough to die trying."

We're too close now. There's a beat of silence so thick it hums.

Mingyu's voice drops. "You sound a little like you care."

"I don't."

He leans in, so close I can feel the breath between us. "Then why are you shaking?"

I shove past him without answering.

⸻

The balcony is tucked above the paddock, and there is a private viewing box with tinted glass, which is the best line of sight to the Ascari chicane. The seat they've reserved for me still has the waxy shine of never having been used. Mingyu's initials are stitched into the headrest beside mine.

Of course they are.

He wants me here. Wants me to see him. Wants me to choke on the legacy he's building, lap by lap.

Petty.

Arrogant.

Exactly the kind of man who shouldn't interest me.

But when the pit lights go green, and he pulls out of the garage like the devil himself is chasing him, I can't look away.

He's so fast.

Not just in speed but in intention. Every corner he devours is personal. Every straight is a dare. The way he handles the car. It's not finesse, it's command. A raw, ruthless kind of beauty.

He pushes wide at Parabolica, kisses the edge of track limits, and instead of correcting, he leans into it. Dancing with danger like he's immune to consequences.

Jesus.

I hate how impressed I am.

Worse. I hate that I expected it.

Because no one talks about Mingyu's hands without also talking about what he does with them behind the wheel, he doesn't just drive, he hunts. He takes every apex, every braking zone, and every rival on the track like they owe him something.

I lean back in my chair, teeth clenched.

This isn't a boy playing at F1. This is a man building an empire.

And god help me, I understand exactly what that costs.

⸻

After practice, I stay put.

I don't go down. I don't clap. I don't run to the garage to praise him like the other engineers and PR vultures. I sip my drink. I watch the replays. And when someone knocks on the glass behind me, I don't have to turn around to know it's him.

The door swings open.

He walks in like he owns the air I'm breathing. Sweat-slick, flushed, radiating heat and pride and something untouchable. He's still in his suit, gloves half-peeled, fireproofs unzipped to the waist.

"You came," he says simply.

I nod. "You drove."

He walks over, grabs a water bottle, and downs half before speaking again. "What did you think?"

I don't answer right away. I let the silence stretch, let it bite.

"You're fast," I admit, finally.

He grins.

"But you already know that."

"Sure," he says, closing the gap between us. "But I wanted you to say it."

I narrow my eyes. "Careful, Mingyu. If you keep needing validation from me, I might start thinking you care what I think."

His smile fades. Not completely, but enough.

"I do," he says quietly.

It's too honest. Too soon. I look away.

"No, you don't," I say, smirking. "You care about being seen. You care about the myth. And I'm just a convenient mirror for your ego."

He takes a slow step forward, then another. His voice is lower now. Steady. "You think this is ego?"

"I know it is."

"I think it's something else."

"Let me guess. Fate?"

"No," he says, voice like gravel. "Obsession."

My throat tightens.

He doesn't touch me. Just stands there. Looking.

"You don't hate me, YN," he says. "You hate that you left. You hate that I'm here. You hate that you still feel something when I drive."

I breathe through my nose. "I hate a lot of things, Mingyu."

"But not me."

I don't answer.

Because I don't know if I can lie to his face when he's this close.

The spell breaks when the second knock comes. This one sharper, more insistent. Mingyu doesn't move at first, but then the door creaks again.

"YN?"

A voice I half recognize. I turn.

It's Marcus, a mechanic from a neighboring team. Fresh out of the garage, still wiping grease from his fingers with a rag tucked into his waistband. His eyes widen when he sees me.

"Holy shit," he says, breathless. "You're here."

"Looks that way," I murmur, stepping away from where Mingyu had been moments before. He's gone again, vanished like smoke.

"Didn't think I'd see you at a race again. Especially this one."

I give him a one shoulder shrug, careful not to show my cards. "Monza’s hard to resist."

More people show up. Word spreads fast in this world. First one of the engineers I used to work with. Then a junior team manager. Then a marketing intern I think I once shared a cigarette with on a balcony in Singapore. They come in waves, all with the same expression: half shock, half curiosity.

"What brings you back?"

"You working again?"

"Writing a piece?"

"You here with someone?"

I deflect. I smile. I lie through my teeth and offer just enough to sound real.

"Freelance consulting. Just dipping back in. One-off project. Not sure if it'll stick."

They nod like they understand. They don't.

Someone snaps a photo. Then another. I barely register it, floating through small talk with the grace of a politician and the detachment of a ghost.

Then a voice cuts through the noise.

"Drivers, to your cars."

Everyone perks up. The energy shifts. A ripple of anticipation floods the paddock.

I excuse myself and make my way to the balcony. Elevated, just removed enough from the chaos. I slide on a pair of sunglasses and settle against the railing, heart rate rising despite myself.

Pre-qualifying. Twenty laps. Track temperature is brutal. Pressure higher than most of them admit.

The pitlane opens, and one by one, the cars snake onto the grid. Engines purr and roar and scream in protest. Mechanics scatter. Strategists bark last minute data through radios.

And then there's him. Car #9.

He rolls into his slot like he's settling into a throne. Calm. Collected. Untouchable.

The lights count down. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.

And then

Out.

The sound is instantaneous and deafening. They shoot off like bullets, hugging corners with ruthless precision. I watch from above, tracking their formation. The front pack jostles for position, tires squealing as they brake too late, accelerate too early.

Mingyu hangs back for the first few laps. Watching. Calculating.

It's lap seven when he starts his climb.

A clean overtake at Sainte Devote. A bold move at Mirabeau that earns a gasp from the crowd. By lap ten, he's top three. By lap fourteen, he's trading seconds with the leader. And by lap seventeen, he makes the move.

A slingshot on the straight, barely legal. Inches to spare. DRS wide open.

Pole.

Just like that.

The final lap is pure theatre. He doesn't need to prove anything, but he does anyway. Throwing sparks through the tunnel, flirting with disaster at the chicane. Showboating. Glorious.

When the checkered flag waves, the name on the board is his.

Pole position: Kim Mingyu.

Time: 1:11.330

The box explodes in celebration. His team goes wild. I hear it echo even from here.

I watch the replay. Frame by frame. Slow-motion heroism. Precision, madness, beauty.

The paddock buzzes with post-qualifying static. Reporters crowding around flashing cameras, pit crews celebrating in their own corners, and the air practically vibrating with ego and exhaust.

And at the center of it all, like always, stands him.

Dripping sweat, champagne, and audacity.

His suit's peeled down to his waist, his fireproof undershirt sticking in all the right places, dark hair pushed back like he just walked out of a photo shoot instead of a cockpit. Every angle is clean, curated. The smirk, the wink to the camera, the stupid little fist pump.

I don't move.

I don't clap.

Not when his name lights up the leaderboard, not when the pit crew erupts like someone detonated joy, and definitely not when he glances over his shoulder like he's looking for someone.

Because I know exactly who he's looking for.

And I'll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of meeting that gaze first.

⸻

I'm leaning against the side of the hospitality tent, holding a bottle of water and a chip on my shoulder sharp enough to slice through carbon fiber.

He finds me anyway.

"Didn't see you in parc fermé," he says, approaching.

"Didn't need to be there," I reply, cool. "The cameras were doing enough worshipping for the both of us."

He grins like it's a compliment. "You sound jealous."

"Of what? Your thirst trap victory lap?"

He steps closer. Too close. "Of being the fastest on the grid."

"I've been the fastest," I say, looking him dead in the eye. "And I didn't need a camera crew to validate it."

"Ouch," he laughs, one hand over his chest. "Still bitter?"

"No," I say smoothly. "Just bored."

His smirk twitches, and I know I've landed a hit.

But Mingyu, the arrogant bastard that he is, never backs down. He tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing with something almost curious. Or maybe hunger.

"You still talk like you're the one with a seat," he says.

"You still talk like you're untouchable."

"I just secured the pole at one of the most technical tracks on the circuit. If I'm not untouchable, who is?"

"Someone who doesn't throw away a lead at Monaco."

That wipes the smirk off his face for a half-second. Good.

But then, he laughs. Quietly. Like he's indulging me.

"Still keeping tabs on my stats, huh?"

"I keep tabs on hazards," I say, voice low. "And you drive like you're one bad decision away from becoming one."

He leans in. "Funny. I always thought I reminded you of someone."

The words slice, even though I see them coming.

I stand straighter. "Don't."

His smile turns razor sharp. "Why not? You've been pretending this weekend is just a casual drop by, like you didn't grow up in these paddocks like your blood isn't still fifty percent ethanol and carbon brake dust."

"You think bringing up my dad earns you points?"

"I think it's the truth," he says, quiet and cutting. "And I think it scares the hell out of you."

I say nothing. Not because he's right, but because I know if I open my mouth, I'll say something that tastes too much like grief.

He must sense it because instead of pressing harder, he pivots.

"You remember Spa?"

Of course, I remember Spa.

The humid summer heat. The taste of victory is one lap away. The night before his first junior race, when he couldn't stop pacing, I told him to either get in the car or get over himself.

He thinks bringing that up softens me.

It doesn't.

"You mean the weekend you nearly totaled your car trying to impress the media?" I ask. "Yeah, I remember."

"You were in my garage the entire time," he says, stepping closer. "Even when everyone else left."

"I stayed because you wouldn't shut up," I say. "Your whole team looked like they wanted to throttle you."

"You didn't."

"I should have."

"You called me a glorified kart driver with a God complex."

"And you still asked me to sit in your car the next morning."

He laughs, and for a second, it's too easy to remember that summer sun and his stupid grin, the way he looked at me like I already belonged in his world.

But I don't now.

Not in this one.

I take a step back. "Spa was a long time ago."

"Not for me."

I narrow my eyes. "Still clinging to every compliment I gave you before puberty finished hitting?"

"You weren't exactly stingy with them."

"You had one good overtake."

"It was beautiful, and you know it."

"It was reckless and nearly illegal."

"That's how I knew you'd notice."

The air tightens between us.

He's toeing the line. Not crossing it, but daring me to.

"I'm not here to relive Spa," I say. "And I'm not here for you."

Mingyu nods once, jaw tight. "Keep telling yourself that. You still showed."

I turn to leave, but his voice catches me mid step.

"You know," he says, voice cooler now, "you can pretend all you want. But you're not bored, and you're not above it. You still feel it. The adrenaline. The pull. The need to win. You're just pissed it's me in the seat and not you."

I freeze.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

"Here's the difference between us," I say slowly, turning back. "You drive to be loved. I drove to win. I don't need to be anyone's poster child."

"And I don't need to dig up a dead man's legacy to prove I belong here."

That hits harder than he expects.

He knows it. I see it in the brief flicker of regret that crosses his face.

But I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it land.

I smile. Cold. Clean. Surgical.

"Pole position suits you, Kim," I say. "Let's see how long you hold it."

Then I walk off, my spine straight and my heart a war drum.

Because the worst part isn't that he's good.

It's that I still want to see how far he'll fall.

And worse, how much of me would go with him.

⸻

Rooftop parties in Monza are always overdone.

Too much champagne, too many rich boys pretending they aren't terrified of crashing tomorrow, and music pulsing just loud enough to drown out the fear of failure. Everything glitters here. Skin, sweat, ambition.

I almost don't come.

But when a media liaison sends me a smug little "Hope to see you at the rooftop party tonight ;)" text, I throw on my sharpest heels and arrive ten minutes late with a perfectly timed smile and someone else's arm around my waist.

Not a date. Not really.

Just someone dangerous looking enough to make people look twice when we walk in.

Including Kim Mingyu.

I feel his stare the moment we step out of the elevator. It latches onto me before the doors even fully open. Across the rooftop, flanked by half the grid and a circle of admirers, he stands with a drink in his hand and fury behind his eyes.

Good.

I tilt my chin, ignoring him. My companion, Luca, some former endurance driver turned influencer, leans down to say something near my ear. I don't catch all of it. I'm too focused on the way Mingyu's grip tightens around his glass.

Petty? Maybe.

But if he gets to walk around this circuit like he owns every inch of it, then I get to remind him I'm not one of those inches.

I mingle, laugh at things that aren't funny, and dance with Luca, knowing full well who's watching. The music pulses through the rooftop, rich bass and heat twining through my bloodstream like jet fuel. But after a while, it becomes too much. The noise, the humidity, the attention.

So, I slip away.

Out onto the balcony where the air is finally calm, quiet, and mine. Below, the streets of Monza glint like they're made of diamonds. Somewhere out there, the race track weaves between buildings like a heartbeat.

It still lives in me. The pulse of it. The memory.

I close my eyes.

"You like bringing someone new to every event?"

I don't turn around.

"Do you like policing who I arrive with?"

His voice is closer now. Still sharp, still smug. But a little quieter.

"I just think it's funny," Mingyu says. "You say you've left this world behind, but you keep showing up to these things like you never left."

I finally face him. He's leaning against the railing, looking too good in a black button down and sleeves rolled just high enough to show his forearms.

"Maybe I just missed the champagne," I say flatly. "Or the egos."

He chuckles, gaze flicking down before finding my eyes again. "Is that why you brought Luca? To stroke yours?"

I cross my arms. "He's harmless."

"Yeah," he says, voice sharper than before. "Exactly."

We're quiet for a moment. The wind lifts strands of my hair, and neither of us moves.

Then, softer

"I shouldn't have brought up your dad."

I freeze.

It's not the apology that catches me off guard. It's the way he says it. Like it's been sitting in his chest too long, getting heavier every time he breathed around it.

"I was pissed," he goes on. "You got under my skin. You always do."

"Not a great excuse."

"I know."

I study him. He's not hiding behind a smirk now. There's something almost raw in the way he looks at me.

"You think it scares me," I say. "This place. The cars. The legacy. But it doesn't."

"Then what does?"

I look at him.

"You."

That wasn't supposed to slip.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, but it's already in the air between us, hanging heavy like mist before a storm.

Mingyu stares at me like he's afraid to breathe wrong.

"You mean that?" he asks, and it's the most unsure I've ever heard him sound.

I laugh, but it's hollow. "God, don't get cocky about it."

"I'm not."

"You will."

"I won't if you stay."

"I'm not staying."

"Then why did you come?"

"Because I'm an idiot."

He takes a step forward. "You're not."

"I can't do this."

"We're not doing anything—"

"No," I snap, stepping back. "You want to pretend like it's all part of the game. Like the flirting, the fighting, the looks, they're just banter. But it's not, Mingyu. It never was."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"Of course I do," he says, and it's breathless now. "Why do you think I'm always looking for you? In every damn room? Why do you think I hate it when you're with anyone else? Or when you act like none of this matters?"

I shake my head. "You don't get to say that. Not after Spa. Not after last year."

"That wasn't—"

"You don't get to make me feel like I walked away from something sacred when you're the one who turned it into a circus."

He flinches.

"I'm not some ghost hanging around the paddock for nostalgia," I add, voice rising. "I loved this once. I loved you once. And you let the spotlight eat both of us alive."

He's quiet. Too quiet.

And the silence is suddenly unbearable.

"I shouldn't have come," I say, stepping away.

"YN—"

But I don't stop.

I push past the door and back into the party, slipping into the noise and crowd before he can see how much my hands are shaking.

⸻

I wake up to sunlight bleeding through unfamiliar curtains and a hangover of emotion I can't shake.

Three missed calls. Five unread messages.

MINGYU:

I shouldn't have let you walk away. Can we talk? Please. You still there? I didn't mean to hurt you.

I toss the phone face down on the hotel bed and press my hands to my face.

The night plays back in flashes. His voice is softer than I've ever heard it. My own, sharp and cracked at the edges. The look in his eyes when I said you scared me.

I shouldn't have said that.

I shouldn't have said any of it.

But it's too late to take it back and too soon to face what it means.

By the time I reach the paddock, it's already alive. Mechanics are moving like clockwork, engineers are barking data, and fans are pressed to barricades in a blur of color and flags. Race day in Monza is unlike any other, with tight corners, blind apexes, and no room for error.

I know this circuit like muscle memory.

I know Mingyu better.

He's usually calm on race days. Sharp, focused. He jokes with the crew and leans against the pit wall like it's just another day in paradise. But today? Something's off.

He barely glances at the camera during his grid walk. He doesn't even acknowledge the announcer calling his name. His jaw's tight, mouth a line carved in stone as he slides into the cockpit.

I stand off to the side, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding everything I can't control. I tell myself I don't care. That I'm just here because my name still gets me into these places, not because I'm holding my breath as the lights go red.

But when they go out...

He launches like he's chasing something he'll never catch.

Lap after lap, he's off.

Late on turn in. Snapping into corners, pushing too hard on exits, and overcorrecting in ways he never does. He's still fast, of course he is, but it's not the way Mingyu drives. It's frantic, reckless. Emotional.

And that's what scares me.

"He's not listening to strategy," someone mutters near the pit wall. "Keeps overriding."

"Tyres won't last at this rate."

I inch closer, ears straining for the radio feed I know too well.

"Box, box, box," comes the call.

He doesn't answer.

On the next lap, he finally peels into the pit lane. Too hot, too fast and skids a little over the line.

When his car screeches to a halt, someone reaches for my wrist.

"Team principal wants you in the garage," they say. "Now."

"I'm not—"

"He asked."

I don't ask why.

The second I enter the garage, the air shifts. Controlled chaos. Tire guns scream. Mechanics swarm. Mingyu's helmet reflects the lights above like a mirror, but I don't need to look at his face to see how angry he is.

He won't look at me.

Not once.

He pulls out of the pit box with a screech and a flash of red taillight, leaving black streaks behind.

The pit wall murmurs.

"His sector time dropped again."

"Something's wrong."

No one says my name. No one asks why I'm here. But I see the looks. I feel the unspoken tension curl around my ribcage like wire.

I turn to the monitor. The feed tracks his car as it dances through Casino Square, close, too close to the barriers. He's fast. Too fast. Trying to bleed something out of himself with every turn.

"He's going to bin it if he doesn't calm down," a voice says behind me.

I press a fist to my lips.

This is my fault.

I shouldn't have gone to the party. I shouldn't have brought someone else. I shouldn't have let things go that far on the balcony. Shouldn't have said his name like it meant more than it should.

Because it does.

And I know that. I've always known that.

Lap 42.

He clips the inside curb through the Nouvelle chicane. A puff of tire smoke, but he recovers.

Barely.

The engineer tries again. "Mingyu, you need to cool the tires. Ease through Sector 2."

Silence.

My heart thunders like a race start.

The camera angle shifts and catches him through the tunnel, just a blur of speed and shadow, and I swear, even in that silence, I can feel the weight of his fury.

This isn't about the race anymore.

This is about me.

I turn away from the screen and press my back to the wall, chest tight.

He's trying to outdrive a heartbreak we haven't even admitted to and trying to put distance between what we said and what we meant. But this track doesn't forgive emotion. It doesn't give you space to figure it out mid lap.

It punishes.

It ends careers.

It took my father.

And if Mingyu doesn't get out of his head, it might take him too.

I press the headset closer, voice shaking. "Tell him to stop driving angry."

The engineer glances at me. "He's not listening."

"Then make him."

He hesitates.

I close my eyes.

"Tell him," I whisper, "I'm still here."

The air in the garage is suffocating.

I can feel the tension crackling through it like static. Engineers hunch closer to monitors, eyes darting between telemetry and tire temps, sector splits and radio chatter. Everyone's whispering, but no one's saying the only thing they're all thinking.

He's going to crash.

Lap 65 of 78.

Monza is unforgiving. It always has been. One lapse, one moment too late or too early, and it's all over. Mingyu's been walking that razor-thin edge for almost an hour now, and each lap is just sharpening the blade.

He still hasn't responded to strategy.

Not since Lap 42.

Not since he saw me in the garage.

I stare at the screen in front of me. My fists clenched, feeling every heartbeat in my throat as his car screeches into Tabac, too close, his rear end twitching dangerously.

"He's overdriving," someone says. "He's gonna cook those mediums before the flag."

"Mingyu, box if you can't stabilize the rear," the race engineer tries again. "You're losing the back every other turn. We can adjust."

Silence.

Again.

They're running out of options.

I'm already moving before I realize it.

The headset's warm from someone else's head, but I don't care. I snatch it off the rack, and the team principal turns toward me like I've grown a second head.

"He's not listening to anyone," I say. "So let me try."

There's a pause, half a second of hesitation, then he nods once.

I don't wait.

My thumb hits the comm switch, and I speak before I can talk myself out of it.

"Mingyu."

Nothing.

"Why are you driving like a damn idiot?!"

Still nothing. But I know he hears me. I know he's probably gripping the wheel harder now, jaw clenched, cursing me inside his helmet. I press harder.

"You're throwing away a podium because of me? Seriously? Because you can't get your head out of your ass long enough to breathe through a corner?"

A hiss of static. Not a response. Not yet. But I feel the tension rise from the track through the screen.

I close my eyes. Lower my voice.

"I know why you're doing this."

Sector one—green.

He's pushing harder. Too hard.

"You think I don't see you? You think I haven't seen you from the beginning?"

"I've spent my entire life running from this world. From the noise, the risk, the pain—"

My voice wavers.

"I watched it take someone I loved and twist it into a legacy I didn't want. And then you... God, then you…”

"You were arrogant, infuriating, loud as hell, and you made me remember what it was like to care."

The garage is dead silent now. Every screen, every eye, locked on the feed. No one's even pretending to look away.

"You made me care about something again, and I hate you for that."

I exhale through my teeth. Every part of me is shaking.

"But if you crash that car, Mingyu, if you throw it away, don't you dare think for one second I won't hate myself more."

A breath.

Then, finally, after laps of nothing—

"You had me at Mingyu."

His voice is breathless. Rough. Like gravel over a fire. But it's there. And he's there.

I press a fist to my mouth as tears threaten the corners of my eyes.

Lap 73.

He steadies.

His cornering evens out, his braking returns to rhythm, and suddenly, he's in Sector 2 like he owns it. Purple time. Fastest lap of the race. He overtakes in the tunnel with a clean sweep that draws a gasp from the team.

Someone cheers behind me. The garage erupts.

He's back.

He's himself again.

"Mingyu, you're P2 now," the engineer says quickly. "Perez is 1.3 seconds ahead."

"Copy," Mingyu breathes. "Let's go get him."

Lap 76. The fight is on.

I stand frozen, watching him dance through the circuit like the car is an extension of his spine like nothing ever went wrong. A clean overtake in the hairpin. One wheel to the inside at Rascasse. He's right on Perez's tail now.

Final lap.

The crowd is on their feet. Cameras flash. My heart is in my throat as Mingyu comes down into Mirabeau—

—and that's when it happens.

A puff of smoke.

"Yellow flag, Sector 1."

I slam the headset against my ear. "What the hell happened?!"

"Left rear," the engineer mutters. "Tyre failure. He's still moving. He's trying to hold on."

My knees nearly give out as I see it.

Mingyu's car is dragging. The rear's gone soft, wobbling dangerously as he limps through the turn, still trying to defend P2. Sparks fly from the undercarriage. He's still driving.

He's still fighting.

My voice breaks. "Just finish. Please, just get across the line."

He doesn't answer.

He doesn't need to.

He's never stopped.

And as he crosses the finish line. P4, holding on with sheer grit and fire in his chest. I realize I've been holding my breath for the last minute.

The garage explodes around me. Mechanics shout. Hands are on heads. Everyone is debriefing and analyzing.

But I'm frozen in place, staring at the screen, watching his car slow, watching the replay again and again.

He heard me.

He stayed.

But I can't help the thought clawing up my throat like guilt—

What if I hadn't said anything at all?

Engines still roar in the distance as the last few cars trickle into the paddock. The smell of rubber and fuel clings to everything, metal, asphalt, even my skin. People shout in five different languages around me, team radios squawk with chatter, mechanics wave carbon fiber flags in the air, and photographers are already climbing barricades like vultures.

And then I see him.

Helmet off. Hair sweat-damp and curled at the nape. His suit unzipped just past his collarbones, the fireproof undershirt clinging to every muscle in his chest like it was poured on. His jaw's locked, mouth tight, eyes cold. Sunglasses hang useless in his grip.

P4. Dragged a car home on one tire like it was war and he refused to lose.

He hasn't seen me yet.

He's surrounded by engineers, people slapping his back like a war hero, cameras in his face, boom mics chasing his voice as he mutters answers to media questions I can't hear.

I should leave.

This is his moment. Not mine.

But I can't move.

I'm not sure I could even if I wanted to.

And then he turns.

Our eyes lock.

Everything else goes silent.

He doesn't look triumphant. He doesn't even look relieved. He looks like a storm holding back landfall. Tight, too still, like one wrong move could shatter the restraint he's holding onto by sheer will.

I watch the muscle in his jaw flex once. Twice.

Then he starts walking toward me.

The crowd parts for him like it knows.

Suddenly, I can't breathe.

His footsteps echo against the pavement, steady and brutal, until he's just a few feet away. We're still technically inside the barrier, but this is Mingyu, so rules bend the second he decides they should.

He stops.

Too close.

He doesn't speak.

So I do.

"You didn't even flinch."

He raises a brow, voice rough. "You did."

I blink, throat tight. "You were about to lose the rear at Mirabeau."

"I did lose the rear. You just didn't notice because you were too busy yelling at me through the headset like you were calling a damn opera."

My mouth falls open. "I was trying to save your life."

"I was trying to win a race."

"And almost died doing it."

His mouth curves, but it's not a smile. It's something dark and sharp.

"Worth it."

I shove his shoulder. Hard.

He doesn't budge.

"Stop saying shit like that!" I snap. "You think it's brave? That it's romantic? It's stupid, Mingyu. It's arrogant and reckless and selfish."

His eyes narrow, something slipping behind them.

"You're mad because I drove on the edge," he says quietly. "But you don't get to be mad about why."

"I'm mad because you thought throwing it away would prove something."

"It did."

The words slam into me.

He takes a step forward, voice lower now, eyes locked to mine like we're the only two people in the goddamn paddock.

"I needed you to see what I am. Not the pretty parts. Not the press conferences and grid walks and champagne. This. The worst of it. The fear. The obsession. The part of me that chooses the edge because it's the only place I feel real."

My breath catches. His voice cracks just slightly.

"And I needed to know if you'd still be there after that."

I blink.

And blink again.

"You're insane," I whisper. "You're insane if you think you can weaponize my feelings against me like that."

His face doesn't change. "What feelings?"

I grit my teeth. My hands curl at my sides. I want to scream. I want to kiss him. I want to never see him again.

I step closer.

"Don't play dumb with me now, Kim."

He exhales a laugh, humorless. "You think I don't know what it meant, hearing your voice in my ears? Do you think I didn't feel it in my spine when you said my name like that? I've been begging you to say anything to me that wasn't soaked in venom, and now that you have, now that I've heard it—"

He cuts off.

I stare up at him.

He's shaking. Only a little. But it's there.

And for the first time since I met him... Mingyu looks scared.

"Mingyu," I whisper. "You could've died."

"I know."

"You could've—" My voice breaks. "You would've left me before I ever got to tell you..."

I clamp my mouth shut.

But he hears it.

God, of course, he does.

Like instinct, his hand lifts halfway to my cheek before he catches himself. Drops it. There's too much air between us and not nearly enough at all.

"You were everything I never wanted," I say quietly. "But then I saw the way you fight. The way you fly. And I hated you for it."

He steps forward again, barely a breath from me now.

"I've been in love with you since Spa."

I suck in a breath.

"You had grease on your cheek," he continues, "and fire in your eyes, and told me to stop smirking before you 'rearranged my entire goddamn personality.' I knew then."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you'd spit it back in my face."

"I probably would've."

He laughs under his breath.

I can't look at him.

But I also can't not.

We're so close now, the crowd is fading again, and my heart is a war drum in my chest.

"I can't do this right now," I whisper. "Not here. Not like this."

"I know," he says softly.

And then, finally, he steps back.

The space between us is unbearable.

"Find me later," he says.

I don't answer.

But my heart's already chasing him down pit lane.

The second he's gone, the air collapses around me.

I don't move. Can't. I'm standing in the shell of a conversation that ripped more out of me than I want to admit, and all I can hear is what I didn't say.

I'm still catching my breath when I hear him.

"Rough night?"

I don't even have to turn around.

The accent. The smooth, condescending lilt. The casual arrogance I know too well.

Julius.

"What do you want?" I ask, voice flat.

He steps closer as if this is some kind of reunion. Like we've ever been anything other than a mistake born out of loneliness and distraction.

"You looked like you needed an out," he says, gaze flicking in the direction Mingyu disappeared. "Thought I'd offer one."

I finally turn to face him. His smug half-smile is already pushing every wrong button.

"I'm fine."

"You sure? Because you looked like you were about two seconds away from unraveling."

I roll my eyes and push past him.

He follows, of course.

"Touchy," he says with a laugh, matching my stride as I head for the stairs. "Is it because lover boy stormed off without a proper goodbye?"

I stop short.

"Don't call him that."

"Oh, come on," he scoffs. "The whole paddock's been buzzing. You think people haven't noticed the way he looks at you like he's already bled for you?"

My jaw tightens. "I'm not interested in gossip."

"No," Julius says, stepping in close, "you're just interested in fucking with people's heads."

I see red.

"Excuse me?"

"You reel him in, then you push him away," he says, calm and measured. "It's your favorite game, isn't it?"

I don't answer.

Because I don't owe Julius a single goddamn truth.

But that's when I feel it, that flicker at the edge of the garage. My head snaps up.

Mingyu.

Standing just across the paddock.

Watching.

For a split second, our eyes lock.

And whatever raw, unfinished thing we left between us, whatever shaky, hopeful tether we almost built, it snaps.

Because all he sees is this.

Me and Julius. Too close. Too familiar.

I can see it on his face the moment the assumption sinks in like poison.

I move.

Fast.

"Mingyu—"

But he turns.

Gone.

Just like that.

Shit.

I whirl back toward Julius, fury sparking behind my eyes. "Did you follow me out here on purpose?"

He raises his hands like he's innocent. "What? I saw a moment and took it. That's what you do, too, isn't it?"

"I'm not playing games."

"No," he says, cool and cruel. "But you are playing him."

I don't even realize I've shoved him until he stumbles back a step.

"You don't get to talk about him," I snap.

Julius straightens, brushing imaginary dust off his designer jacket.

"You always were more fun when you were angry."

I don't give him the satisfaction of another word.

I storm off, heart pounding, throat burning, brain screaming at me for letting Mingyu walk away thinking something I should've fought harder to stop.

⸻

I don't remember getting back to the hotel.

I remember the slam of the door behind me. The weight of my phone in my hand. The pressure building in my chest like something was going to break open if I didn't do something. I kicked off my heels somewhere near the closet, peeled out of the dress like it was choking me, and dropped onto the edge of the bed in nothing but a black slip and regret.

The image of Mingyu walking away wouldn't stop replaying in my mind.

That look on his face, like I'd confirmed the very thing he was always afraid to say out loud. Like I'd chosen wrong.

Again.

I grabbed my phone.

Can we talk?

No response.

Please.

Still nothing.

I stared at the screen until the texts blurred. My thumb hovered over the call button.

I pressed it.

It rang once.

Twice.

Voicemail.

I hung up before it could finish.

The party was still going downstairs, celebration rolling on without him, without me. Music echoed faintly through the walls, like a reminder that the rest of the world was moving and I wasn't.

I chewed the inside of my cheek, bouncing my leg, nerves sparking like faulty wires. Maybe I shouldn't go. Maybe he didn't want to see me. Maybe this was all one big, tangled mess I'd made worse.

But the part of me that chased him down pit lane wouldn't shut up.

I pulled on a fresh dress. Simple, black, low-cut and tied my hair back with trembling fingers. No makeup this time. No armor. Just me and whatever was left of this thing between us.

On the elevator ride down, I texted Jinho.

Is he there?

A pause.

Jinho: Rooftop. But... maybe don't push it tonight.

I stared at that for a long moment.

I'm already on my way.

The rooftop was quiet.

Not the romantic kind of quiet. Just cold, sharp, and a little too still. The skyline flickered in the distance, but all I could focus on was him.

Mingyu.

He stood with his back to me, elbows braced against the railing like he'd been standing there forever. His jacket was half-zipped, collar ruffled, and hair a mess. He didn't move when I stepped out.

He didn't have to. He knew it was me.

"I wasn't going to come," I said quietly.

Still nothing.

"But I needed to explain."

"You don't have to explain Julius," he muttered.

"I want to."

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Just... closed off. Like a door halfway shut.

"He showed up out of nowhere," I said. "I didn't want him there. He said something, and I pushed him away. That's all it was."

Mingyu looked at me, jaw tight.

"I saw him touch you."

"I didn't touch him back."

"But you didn't pull away."

I took a step closer. "Because I was frozen. Not because I wanted him."

His stare didn't waver.

"I don't want him, Mingyu. I haven't for a long time."

"Then why is it so easy for you to run to everything that isn't me?"

That cut deep.

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. My heart pounded.

"You say I scare you," he said, voice low, almost bitter. "But you're the one who keeps turning away. I already told you how I feel. I stood there in the middle of a goddamn pit lane and told you I was in love with you. And you—" he shook his head, laughing once, without humor—"you just walked away."

"I didn't—"

"You didn't say it back."

I froze.

"You never do," he said. "You feel it, but you never say it. And I can't keep guessing, YN. I'm not asking for promises. I just want the truth."

I stared at him.

He stepped forward. Close. Closer than I could handle.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me you don't feel anything, and I'll walk away."

I opened my mouth.

Closed it again.

He waited.

The silence stretched between us, unbearable.

"I can't," I whispered.

He stepped even closer. "Can't what?"

"Say it."

"Why?"

"Because if I say it—" my voice cracked, "then it's real."

"It's already real."

I shook my head. "It'll ruin everything."

"No," he said, voice rough. "It'll finally make it mean something."

My chest felt too tight. My breath was shallow.

He stared down at me, eyes blazing. "Say it, YN."

I shook my head. "I'm scared."

"I know," he said. "Say it anyway."

I blinked, eyes stinging.

He stepped in.

His hand found my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he was daring me not to hide.

"Say it," he whispered.

I couldn't.

So he kissed me.

Hard.

No hesitation. No room left for fear or reason or anything except him. His mouth was fire, his grip unrelenting, like he'd waited too long and lost too much to hold back now.

I gasped, and he swallowed it whole, one hand in my hair, the other curling around my hip. I clung to him like gravity, like his kiss was the only thing keeping me upright.

When we finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead pressed to mine.

"You don't have to be ready," he whispered. "Just be here."

I didn't answer.

I just took his hand.

His fingers curled around mine, warm and steady, like he didn't care that I hadn't said the words.

Like this was enough.

We left the rooftop in silence. No one stopped us. The hallway lights buzzed overhead as we moved past the closed doors, our steps too fast to be casual, too charged to be calm. My heart beat so loud I could barely hear the music downstairs anymore.

Mingyu hit the elevator button. The doors opened.

We stepped inside.

The second they closed behind us, I was against the mirrored wall, his mouth crashing into mine with a force that knocked the air right out of me.

There was no hesitation this time. No slow build, no delicate approach. Just teeth and tongue and hands everywhere. His fingers threaded into my hair, tugging my head back so he could kiss deeper, rougher like he was trying to erase the hours we'd spent apart.

"You don't know," he growled against my mouth, "how long I've wanted to touch you like this."

I moaned into him, hands gripping the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. "Then don't stop."

The elevator dinged.

He pulled away just long enough to drag me down the hallway, fingers tight around my wrist, not looking back once.

Room 1427. Keycard. Click.

The door shut behind us.

And then I was on the wall again, breathless, my dress hiked up around my waist, his thigh wedged between mine as he kissed me like he was starving.

I gasped as his hand slid under the hem of my dress, dragging up my leg, squeezing hard.

"You wore this for me?" he asked, voice low and wrecked. "This little thing with nothing underneath?"

"Yes," I breathed.

He groaned deep in his chest, mouth dropping to my neck as he bit, kissed, and licked across every sensitive inch of skin. My back arched. My fingers tangled in his hair.

"I need to see you," he murmured. "All of you."

I let him pull the dress over my head and toss it aside.

Then he stepped back.

And stared.

His chest rose and fell like he couldn't breathe.

"Fuck, YN," he whispered, eyes dragging down my body like he didn't know where to start. "You're so beautiful."

I crossed the room, took his hand, and placed it on my waist.

"Then touch me."

That broke him.

He kissed me again, slower this time, more controlled, but just barely. He peeled his shirt off, his skin warm against mine, muscles flexing under my palms as I traced over his chest, stomach, and waistband line.

He laid me down on the bed like I was something sacred.

Then covered me with his body, hands exploring every inch of me like he had to relearn it, memorize it, own it.

"Fuck," he murmured as he kissed down my chest, my stomach, lower. "I love you."

"Mingyu—"

"I know," he said. "I know."

He spread my legs slowly, reverently. Kissed the inside of my thigh, then again, higher, teasing. My breath hitched.

"You're already so wet for me," he said, voice like a prayer and a curse all at once. "I didn't even have to ask."

"You never had to."

Then his mouth was on me.

I cried out, hands flying to his hair as he licked deep and slow, fingers gripping my thighs to keep me open. His tongue moved with purpose, with practiced reverence, curling just right until I was shaking under him.

"Come for me," he murmured against me. "Let me feel it."

I broke. Loud. Unfiltered. And he didn't stop. Not until I was breathless and trembling, thighs still twitching around his shoulders.

He kissed his way back up my body, licking into my mouth like he could taste me on his tongue.

"Do you want me?" he asked, voice thick, eyes dark and wide. "Tell me."

"I want you," I whispered. "I want you so bad."

He fumbled out of his pants, cursing under his breath, and I helped him, fingers desperate, hands greedy.

When he finally pressed into me, slow and deep, I gasped.

So did he.

"God," he choked out. "You feel like fucking heaven."

We moved together like we were making up for lost time. His hips met mine with force, his hand gripping my thigh, the other holding my wrist to the bed as he fucked me.

Deep, intentional, raw.

Each thrust was a confession.

Each moan, a word I couldn't say.

"I love you," he groaned into my skin. "Even when you can't say it. Even when you push me away."

I whimpered. "Don't stop. Please."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Not this time."

He moved faster, harder, our bodies slamming together in rhythm, the heat building, the pleasure blinding. I felt him everywhere, his breath on my neck, his hand in my hair, his heart pounding against mine.

"Come with me," he whispered, voice trembling.

"I'm—Mingyu—"

And then I shattered.

I came with a cry, clinging to him like a lifeline, and he followed, groaning my name, spilling into me with a shudder, his whole body pressed against mine like he was trying to crawl inside my skin.

When it was over, we stayed there.

Naked. Twined together. Breathing hard.

His forehead rested against mine.

"I'm still scared," I whispered.

He kissed me softly. "Me too."

"But I'm here."

His arms wrapped tighter around me.

"Good," he said. "Stay."

He shifted just enough to look at me, eyes searching mine like he wanted to believe it but couldn't let himself. Not yet.

"Stay," he said again, quieter this time. A plea. A promise.

I cupped his face with both hands, running my thumbs gently over the angles of his cheeks. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when I touched him like that.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered back. "Not anymore."

Something in him cracked then. I saw it happen.

His mouth crashed into mine, not desperate like before, but slow and deep. It was a kiss that felt like surrender. His hand slid into my hair, the other cradling my jaw, holding me like I was fragile like I mattered.

"I need you," he murmured between kisses. "Not just like that. I need you. All of you."

"You have me," I said, voice shaking. "You always did."

He rolled us gently, his body settling between my legs, and everything about him shifted. There was no rush. No urgency.

Only feeling.

He kissed me like I was the only thing that had ever made sense. Every inch of skin his mouth touched, he lingered. Worshipped. His hands mapped me like he needed to relearn me from scratch.

And I let him.

"I'm going slow," he whispered against my throat. "I want to feel all of it."

"Okay," I breathed. "I want that too."

When he finally entered me again, I gasped. Not from the stretch, but from the emotion of it. From the way his eyes locked on mine like he wanted to watch the moment he became a part of me again.

His hips moved gently, deeply, every roll of his body syncing with mine like we'd been built for this.

He kissed my cheek, the corner of my mouth, my shoulder, like he couldn't choose where to stay.

"You feel like home," he said, voice trembling. "I didn't know I could miss someone like this."

Tears stung my eyes.

I wrapped my arms around him, clinging to him, pulling him in deeper.

"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm so sorry I didn't say it before."

"Say it now."

My throat tightened. But I didn't look away.

"I love you, Mingyu."

His breath hitched. His thrusts stuttered.

I kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

His forehead dropped to mine, eyes wet, breath shaky as he moved inside me, slow, our bodies rocking together like they were speaking in a language we finally understood.

The build was soft. Gradual. The kind that crept up on us until I was gasping his name into his mouth, nails dragging down his back as my orgasm hit with the weight of everything I'd held in for too long.

"Come with me," I whispered. "Let go."

He did, moaning my name like it was a prayer, hips pressing deep as he spilled into me, burying his face in my neck.

We stayed like that for a long time.

Breathing. Holding. Crying, just a little.

And when he pulled back, eyes red and raw, he kissed me again like I'd saved him.

"You mean it?" he asked quietly.

"I've never meant anything more."

He smiled,messy and perfect.

He kissed me again.

Softer now. Slower. Just warmth, breath, and the lingering weight of everything we couldn't say until now. His thumb stroked gently across my cheek as he pulled back, searching my eyes like he wanted to make sure I was still here.

I was.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to be anywhere else.

He eased out of me with a soft groan, his touch careful—reverent, like he didn't want to hurt me after everything we'd just shared. I winced slightly at the sensitivity, and he was already moving, grabbing a warm towel from the bathroom.

"I got you," he murmured, kneeling beside the bed.

I watched him in the low hotel light. The way his brows furrowed in quiet focus as he cleaned me up, as he pressed a kiss to my thigh when he finished. He didn't say much. He didn't need to.

He slid back into bed behind me, pulling me into his chest like he was scared I might disappear if he let go. My head tucked beneath his chin, our legs tangled together under the sheet. His palm found the curve of my waist, and fingers splayed like he was claiming the right to hold me.

I let the silence settle.

Until I whispered, "What happens now?"

He exhaled slowly. I could feel it against my temple. His hand moved up, brushing hair from my face.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I didn't think I’d ever get this far."

That made me smile. A small one. Tired. Real.

"I mean it," he continued. "I don't have a script for this part. For you. But I know what I want."

I looked up at him.

He met my eyes. Serious now.

"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever it looks like. But you have to know something."

I waited.

"This life. The races, the danger, the travel, it's not going away. It's who I am. It's what I've worked for my whole life."

I nodded. "I know."

"But I also know it scares you."

My throat tightened.

"You don't say it, but I see it every time I step on the track. You hold your breath like I might not come back."

"Because sometimes I think you won't," I whispered.

He didn't flinch.

"I get it," he said gently. "But I need you to be in this with me. Fully. Not halfway. Not with one foot out the door. I want you to be my person, YN. I want to come home to you. But I can't do that if you're always running."

I blinked hard. Swallowed even harder.

And then it broke.

The words, the weight, the years I'd held it in.

"My dad—" I started, voice cracking.

I felt him nod. Felt his lips press against the top of my head.

"You'll never go through that again," he said, voice firm. "I won't let you."

"You can't promise that," I whispered.

His hand cupped my cheek, gently turning my face toward him.

"I know," he said. "But I can promise this. I'll never stop coming back to you. No matter what. You're it for me."

I closed my eyes, tears slipping free.

He kissed them away. One at a time. Slow and steady.

"Stay with me," he whispered. "Be scared. Be messy. Be mad at the world. But stay."

I nodded, voice too broken to speak.

And he held me like he'd never let go.

Our bodies cooled. Our breathing evened. The city outside kept moving, but in here, it was just us. Safe. Bare. Real.

I buried my face in his chest and let the exhaustion take me.

And this time, I didn't dream of losing him.

I dreamt of staying.

⤷ network tags: @k-films @blossomnet

･ ⟢ ⋮ svt masterlist

[4linos]

already gone.

kim seungmin x f!reader

synopsis: to the world, you’re the perfect couple: the rising athlete and the woman who stood by him. but behind closed doors, something is shattering. the MLB offer. the agent. the betrayal you never saw coming. now your home is no longer a refuge, but the battleground where truth and love fight for survival.

warnings: angst, heated arguments, infidelity accusations, implied cheating, emotional distress.

wc: 6335

[already gone part 2]

The soft click of the clasp echoed faintly in the bedroom as you fastened the final earring into place. Your fingers were clumsy, tired, but determined. The room was dimly lit, the last orange traces of sunset bleeding through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the vanity where you sat. Behind you, Seungmin stood near the full-length mirror in his navy suit, carefully adjusting his cufflinks.

“Are you sure you don’t want to just stay home?” he asked for what had to be the fifth time, his tone light, teasing, but underneath, you caught it, something uncertain. Something else.

You glanced at him through the mirror, watching as he checked his tie again, even though you had already fixed it just minutes ago. His posture was relaxed, the easy smile on his face was one you’d seen countless times before… but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not tonight.

“I already told you,” you replied, reaching for your lipstick. “I’m going. I want to be there.”

He exhaled with a slight chuckle, walking over to you. His fingers brushed your shoulder, and you paused applying your lipstick as he leaned in and kissed the top of your head. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he whispered.

You smiled, but your heart didn’t flutter the way it usually did. “You’re stalling,” you said plainly.

He grinned as if caught red-handed. “Can you blame me? You’re just… very pretty. Distracting.”

“You’re very bad at changing the subject,” you said, standing up and brushing invisible lint from your dress.

A soft fuss broke the moment, your daughter, Iseul. You instinctively moved toward the crib in the corner of the room where she lay in her tiny floral onesie, fists waving in complaint. Before you could reach her, Seungmin stepped in front of you.

“I got her,” he said gently, scooping her up into his arms with practiced ease. “Go on, finish. We’re already late.”

You hesitated, watching as your husband soothed your baby with a quiet hum. Even after years of marriage, and two children, it still made your heart twist to see how naturally fatherhood came to him.

“Are you sure?” you asked.

“Always,” he said, giving you a lopsided smile.

The distraction of getting ready, wrangling a toddler who had earlier decided to dump an entire box of cereal on the floor, and feeding the baby between curling your hair had left you frazzled. Seungmin’s teasing earlier had only barely been tolerable.

“Maybe it is taking longer because I’ve got two little humans to keep alive now,” you’d snapped at him earlier, glaring as he chuckled.

He’d raised both hands in mock surrender. “Not complaining. Just saying you’re not the fastest anymore.”

You’d muttered something under your breath, but Seungmin had leaned down, kissed your shoulder, and taken Iseul from your arms like it was second nature. “I’m serious though,” he had added gently. “You don’t have to come. You’ve done enough today. You always do.”

And for a moment, you had almost considered it. Almost.

But that look, the one that didn’t quite match his words had bothered you more than you admitted. You were tired, yes. But more than anything, you were curious.

Now, watching him with your daughter, that strange unease returned. You shook it off, slipped on your heels, and followed him downstairs.

Seungmin’s mother arrived just in time, letting herself in with the spare key. She was beaming, as always, excited to babysit her grandchildren for the evening. She ushered you both out of the house with warm reassurances.

“You both look wonderful,” she told you, bouncing Iseul with ease. “Have fun! Don’t worry, I’ve got everything handled.”

You kissed your children goodbye, lingering maybe a little longer than usual and followed Seungmin to the car.

The venue was already buzzing when you arrived. The end-of-season dinner was a yearly tradition, but this year felt different. Bigger. More elaborate. The private hall was beautifully decorated, navy accents for the Lotte Giants, chandeliers glimmering above round tables where players, coaches, managers, and their families were already seated, laughing, talking, raising glasses.

You were seated at one of the central tables with other wives and girlfriends, many of whom you’d grown close to over the years. There was an easiness to it familiar faces, shared exhaustion from parenting, the camaraderie of loving men whose careers were as demanding as they were exhilarating.

Seungmin settled in beside you, and his hand found yours beneath the table. His thumb brushed along your skin absentmindedly, comfortingly. You leaned in closer, murmuring, “See? Aren’t you glad we came?”

His smile was soft. “Yeah.”

And yet, there it was again. That shadow behind his eyes. That silence between sentences.

You didn’t press him. Not yet.

Dinner was a blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and endless toasts. You chatted with other WAGs, one of whom was due with her third baby in a few months and shared tips about baby sleep regressions and toddler tantrums. Seungmin drifted in and out of the conversation, occasionally throwing a playful jab at his teammates, smiling when someone complimented your dress.

But the entire night, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was performing. Laughing at the right moments. Responding on cue. Holding you a little too tightly, like he was memorizing the weight of your hand.

Then the general manager stood up. The room fell quiet.

You turned toward the front, expecting the usual end-of-season wrap-up: congratulations, next season’s goals, and the usual pat-on-the-back speeches.

But this was different.

The GM’s voice echoed across the hall. “Before we close out this amazing season, I want to take a moment to acknowledge someone very special someone who’s been a cornerstone of this team for years. A player whose heart, discipline, and incredible right arm have led us through some of the toughest games of our careers.”

The room was still.

The GM continued, “Seungmin, you’ve given everything to this team and it shows. You’ve been more than a pitcher. You’ve been a leader. A brother. A Giant in every sense of the word.”

Seungmin squeezed your hand beneath the table.

“I know I speak for everyone here when I say: thank you. Thank you for the years, the grit, the wins and for making us proud. The MLB will be lucky to have you.”

Cheers erupted around the room. Glasses raised. Players clapped Seungmin on the back. WAGs smiled at you with congratulatory looks. There were whistles. Laughter. Applause.

But your body went cold.

The MLB?

The Major Leagues?

You turned to Seungmin slowly. He was smiling, ducking his head modestly, but when his eyes met yours, the truth was there. Quiet. Heavy.

You leaned closer. “What did he mean? The MLB?”

Seungmin’s smile faltered. “We’ll talk later.”

“Seungmin,” you whispered, but the room was too loud now. The moment had passed. Or maybe it had only just begun.

The car ride was so quiet it felt like the silence itself had weight.

Heavy, pressing. Like a fog that rolled in between you and Seungmin, blanketing the small, familiar space of the car in a silence that had never felt so foreign. This wasn’t the comfortable quiet that often passed between you, not the kind that came with years of knowing each other so well that words weren’t always needed.

No, this was something else.

This was the quiet of things left unsaid too long.

This was the sound of trust cracking.

Outside the windshield, the streets of Busan passed by in a blur of neon and night. Streetlights flickered over the hood of the car, casting fleeting stripes of light across Seungmin’s jaw, his hands on the wheel, the furrow of his brow. But you couldn’t look at him, not now. Not after the dinner.

Your arms were tightly crossed against your chest, like folding in on yourself could hold everything inside. Your disappointment. Your anger. Your fear. And your heartbreak most of all, that aching, low throb of heartbreak that kept pulsing under your ribs, like a bruise you didn’t see coming.

You felt him shift beside you.

Then his hand reached toward yours, the way it always did.

It was instinctive, familiar. Seungmin had always reached for you like this, even in silence. During fights. During your long hospital stay after giving birth to your daughter. During that sleepless month when your son wouldn’t stop crying and you were too exhausted to speak. His hand always found yours.

But not tonight.

You flinched.

Your arms tightened around yourself and you turned, just slightly, away from him.

Seungmin’s hand hovered in the air for a moment, then slowly fell back to the console. He didn’t speak right away.

And when he did, his voice was low. Regretful.

“I’m sorry.”

The words floated there, soft and tentative.

You stared out the window. You weren’t even looking at the streets anymore, just letting your eyes unfocus, mind reeling, thoughts scattered and tangled. You could hear the apology, sure, but it barely registered. It was buried under the roaring in your chest.

Because all you could think about, all you could see behind your tired, stinging eyes, were your babies.

Your son, Minjoon, who had refused to nap earlier today and had thrown a tantrum when you tried to get him into his formal little pants for dinner. Who’d needed three full readings of Goodnight Moon before he calmed down. Iseul, who had been fussy all evening, needing to be held, rocked, reassured. Her tiny body curling against your shoulder like you were the only thing keeping the world from swallowing her whole.

And the whole time, you’d powered through.

You’d put on the dress you’d been saving. Done your makeup. Smiled. Laughed.

For him.

Because it was supposed to be his night.

And the whole time, the whole time he’d known.

He’d known his future plans.

He’d known your life was about to be upended, and he hadn’t said a word.

A lump formed in your throat, thick and hot. You swallowed it down, but it didn’t go away.

Seungmin sighed again. This one sounded heavier.

“I didn’t want to ruin tonight for you,” he said, voice quiet. “I didn’t want to ruin what we have. I know I should’ve told you earlier. I just… couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”

“You didn’t want to,” you said, eyes still fixed on the passing lights. “There’s a difference.”

That made him fall quiet.

You weren’t trying to be cruel. But you were tired, soul-deep tired and something in you had fractured when the general manager said “MLB.” The idea that your husband had been building a future, a whole new life across the ocean, and hadn’t included you, even in thought, had taken a sharp edge.

He shifted slightly in his seat.

“You don’t understand—”

“Don’t,” you cut in. “Don’t say I don’t understand. I understand too well. You’re scared, right? Scared of what it would mean to bring this up. Scared of how I’d react. So you just… kept it from me. Like it would somehow protect me. Like I couldn’t handle it.”

You finally looked at him then, and your voice cracked.

“I gave birth to two children. I’ve handled more than you know. And I thought we were in this together.”

Seungmin’s eyes flicked over to you, and the guilt in them nearly broke you. But not quite.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to risk you resenting me,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you uprooted your life, left your family, your friends. The kids… They’re so young. You already do everything for them. I thought maybe, if I just waited, if I figured it out first—I could make it easier. Cleaner. Safer.”

You shook your head, biting down hard on your bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

“You don’t get to make that choice for me, Seungmin.”

He looked down at his hands on the wheel. “I know.”

A long silence stretched between you. The car rolled into your neighborhood quiet, peaceful. Your street, lined with hedges and low lights, your home waiting up ahead. You stared at the windows, lit from inside. A warm, quiet glow.

You could imagine your son asleep in his bed. His dinosaur pajamas. The way he sometimes rolled over in the middle of the night and called for you in his sleep. Your daughter probably cradled in her grandmother’s arms, small and peaceful, unaware of the storm brewing outside her home.

You exhaled shakily. “Did you ever stop to think how this would affect them?”

“Yes,” Seungmin said, his voice hoarse. “Every day. And that’s why I’ve been so torn.”

He turned off the ignition. The sudden silence made your ears ring.

“I want to do what’s best for us. I want to give them a future. I thought this opportunity—” He paused, eyes flicking to yours. “I thought maybe it would be worth it. A few hard years, and then we could have something more.”

You sat back in your seat, chest tight. “And you didn’t think what we already had was enough?”

His lips parted, but no words came out.

Because that was the question that echoed through the car, through your mind, through your bones.

You were building something. Here. Now. You had a family. You had a rhythm, even if it was messy and chaotic and exhausting. You had love. Wasn’t that enough?

The betrayal wasn’t just about baseball. It was about being left out of the most important decision since you’d chosen each other. Since you’d become parents. Since you’d stood at that altar years ago, hands clasped, promising to never go forward without the other.

And tonight, he had gone forward. Without you.

“I’m so sorry,” Seungmin said again, voice cracking this time.

You reached for the door handle but hesitated. Your hand hovered there, your heart racing.

You looked at him one last time. “We’re not okay.”

He nodded slowly. “I know.”

You got out of the car, heels clicking softly on the ground. Seungmin followed a few steps behind, but he didn’t reach for you this time. Didn’t try to touch your hand. Didn’t speak.

Inside, your mother-in-law greeted you with a warm smile and gentle hushes, the kids were fast asleep. You thanked her. You smiled tightly. You said all the right things.

But inside, the ache lingered.

That night, you lay in bed beside Seungmin, your backs turned to each other for the first time in months. And though your body was still, your mind was not.

Because you weren’t thinking about MLB contracts.

You were thinking about a dimpled little boy who would one day ask why you moved. Why you left his playground, his cousins, his language. You were thinking about your baby girl who wouldn’t remember this home, her first room, the sound of the ocean just beyond the porch.

You were thinking about whether you were strong enough to make this leap and whether the man beside you would be the one holding your hand, or the one who had already let go.

The morning light seeped into the bedroom like a quiet intrusion soft, unwelcome. It threaded through the curtains and warmed the edge of the bed where you lay, still in your dress from the night before, now wrinkled and clinging to your tired body.

You hadn't changed. You hadn't even taken off your earrings.

Sleep had come in short, fractured waves stolen between the cries of your daughter needing to be fed at 2 a.m., and the restless tossing that followed after, your mind far too loud to silence. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the banquet hall, the raised glasses, the moment the general manager said "The MLB will be lucky to have him," and the proud, practiced smile on Seungmin’s face.

And then… the way he hadn’t looked at you when he said it.

He was still sleeping now, or pretending to be. His side of the bed was slightly turned away, shoulders curved inward, a breath that wasn’t quite steady. You didn’t care to check. You slid out of bed wordlessly, your movements quiet but brisk, careful not to wake the children or him.

You padded barefoot into the nursery and found your daughter still asleep in her crib, her tiny chest rising and falling beneath the soft pink blanket your mother had crocheted. You stared at her for a moment, absorbing the stillness, the simplicity of her peace. Your son was next, curled up in a tangle of dinosaur sheets, one small hand clutching his favorite plush tiger to his chest.

And just like that, the sharp edges of your anxiety dulled, briefly. Your children were safe. Still here. Still yours.

But the gnawing ache in your stomach hadn’t left.

You walked into the kitchen, made yourself a cup of lukewarm coffee, and settled at the table with your phone, screen lighting up with unread messages. Friends. WAGs. Notifications. Mentions. Group chats.

One name caught your eye.

A message from Yuna, one of the team wives, someone you had grown relatively close to. Always sharp-eyed and protective of the women around her. The message was short, clipped.

“Hey. Have you seen the article?”

You frowned.

Tapping the link she’d attached, you opened it and began to read.

“Inside Scoop: Lotte Giants Star Kim Seungmin’s Secret MLB Talks And the Woman Behind It All”

It was a gossip piece. The kind that pulled from ‘sources close to the player,’ spun half-truths into narratives, laced with just enough credibility to make it hard to dismiss.

You skimmed, your heart already racing. The opening paragraphs went over Seungmin’s impressive final season stats, a summary of his fan popularity, and then, the shift.

“Sources tell us that Kim has been in quiet communication with a high-profile American agent, who has reportedly been facilitating a deal behind the scenes for over a year. The two met during a prior sports event in California, where, according to insiders, the relationship between the pitcher and the agent extended beyond professional bounds.”

You stopped breathing.

No. No, no, no.

“While neither party has confirmed the rumors, those familiar with the situation say their connection appears personal and long-standing. One source adds: ‘She was more than just a rep. She was someone he trusted, someone close.’”

Your hands trembled as you scrolled.

“When asked for comment, Kim Seungmin’s representatives declined, saying the athlete is focused on finishing the season strong and spending time with his family. But the silence speaks volumes.”

You lowered the phone slowly, your heartbeat in your ears.

It felt like ice water had been poured into your veins.

A woman.

Someone he’d met in California.

Someone “close.”

Someone who had been “facilitating a deal for over a year.”

You thought back searching your memory, tracing timelines. Seungmin had gone to the U.S. for a week during the off-season last year. He said it was for a training camp and you’d believed him. Why wouldn’t you? He'd FaceTimed you with a smile, sent photos of his hotel room, texted you how much he missed you.

You remembered because you’d been pregnant then. You remembered how miserable that week had been swollen feet, morning sickness that lasted into the night, and a toddler with a fever. You’d managed it all. Alone. And when he came back, he’d brought you a sweatshirt that smelled like new cotton, a stuffed animal for your son, and a small pair of baby sneakers.

It was one of the rare times he seemed truly guilty about being away.

And now… this.

You stared at your coffee, untouched, hands tightening around the mug like it might anchor you.

The sounds of the morning were beginning to rise,

Seungmin came down not long after. Hair messy. Shirt wrinkled. Face unreadable.

But your eyes were sharp now. Searching. Watching.

He said good morning like nothing had changed. Like the night before hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t laid in the same bed wondering if the man beside you was no longer just your husband, but a liar.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asked, moving toward the fridge.

You said nothing.

He turned. “Babe?”

“Who is she?”

The words came out colder than you intended, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t afford to be gentle. Not now.

Seungmin froze.

He blinked slowly, confusion flickering in his features. “What?”

“The woman. The agent.” You pushed your phone across the table toward him, screen still lit with the article. “You’ve been talking to her for a year?”

His expression darkened as he read. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“This is bullshit,” he said, pushing the phone back. “You know how gossip sites work. They just—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He paused.

That pause was worse than a confession.

Your throat tightened. “Just tell me the truth.”

“There’s nothing going on,” he said, voice steady, but not reassuring. “She’s a sports agent. I met her once. She reached out after the winter games. She said there was interest. I didn’t think it was serious. It wasn’t personal.”

“You didn’t think it was serious?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’ve been talking to her for a year. Setting up your career without me. And now there’s an article saying it’s more than that, and I’m just supposed to believe it’s all nothing?”

“She wants me in the MLB,” he snapped, then immediately regretted it. His voice dropped. “That’s all. That’s all it is.”

You stood.

Something inside you, that tightly held center, broke.

“Do you know how humiliating this is?” you whispered. “Do you have any idea how it feels to be the last to know about your own husband’s life? To find out in a room full of strangers that he’s moving across the world? And then the next morning, read that he’s been seeing another woman behind my back, business or not — for a year?”

Seungmin was pale now. Quiet.

“I never touched her,” he said. “I never crossed that line, I never cheated on you.”

“But you hid her,” you said. “And that says enough.”

Your son peeked around the corner, clutching his plush tiger, wide-eyed.

You exhaled, fighting to calm the storm inside you. You bent down, kissed the top of his head, and guided him back toward his toys.

“I’m not doing this in front of the kids,” you said without turning around. “I’m not fighting with you where they can hear.”

Seungmin’s voice was barely audible. “Then when?”

You looked back at him, the man you’d loved for years, the man who had held your hand in delivery rooms, danced with you barefoot in the kitchen, written love letters on hotel stationery.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Because right now, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

And for the first time in your marriage, you walked away.

Not because you didn’t love him.

But because you had to protect something more fragile.

Yourself.

-

The silence that had stretched like taut wire through the early morning finally snapped by noon.

You’d tried to hold your tongue. Tried to focus on the children. On the daily motions that had once felt so automatic, making lunch, folding a forgotten pile of laundry, wiping jelly from your son’s cheeks. But even the gentlest parts of your life had turned sharp, heavy with unsaid words.

Seungmin paced behind you, trailing like a shadow, quiet but restless. You could feel his gaze at your back, like static.

He was waiting.

For you to explode.

Or for you to let it go.

And you could feel it crawling up your throat, that familiar heat. You had done this for too long. Swallowed things for the sake of peace. Told yourself it was just the job, just stress, just a phase. But today? There was no peace left to keep.

You turned toward him, jaw set.

“You’ve been hiding things from me for months.”

His eyes locked with yours instantly, tired, bloodshot. “I wasn’t hiding anything.”

“Don’t—” You barked a short, incredulous laugh. “Don’t say that. You didn’t tell me about the MLB deal. You didn’t tell me about this agent. And now, suddenly, the news breaks and everyone knows before I do?”

“I didn’t know it was going to come out like that,” he said, frustrated. “It was supposed to be private.”

“Private? We’re married, Seungmin!”

“I know that—”

“Do you?” Your voice cracked. “Because I didn’t feel married last night. I felt like someone tagging along at a dinner where my husband’s future got announced without me. And I didn’t feel married this morning, reading that some womanhas been guiding your entire next chapter, while I was here — pregnant, raising two kids — not knowing anything.”

He ran both hands through his hair, the tension in his shoulders visible. “It’s not like that—”

“Then what is it like?” you snapped. “Explain it. Tell me, because right now the facts don’t add up. You said you didn’t cheat, but I never even said you did.”

That stopped him.

His eyes went wide like you’d pulled the ground out from under him.

You stared.

And he knew. You saw the flicker of realization in his face. That he had let something slip, a defense he shouldn’t have offered if he wasn’t guilty of more than what you knew.

“I didn’t cheat,” he said again, more measured now. “I just thought— when I saw the article, I thought—”

“You thought I’d accuse you,” you said flatly. “Because something did happen.”

“No!” He stepped forward, desperate. “No. Nothing happened. I swear to you.”

You crossed your arms. “Then why are you scrambling? Why is your story changing every ten seconds? First you barely knew her, then she reached out to you, now she’s been helping you for a year?”

He gritted his teeth. “She reached out after the winter games—”

“You already said that.”

“She brought up the offer before it was even real. I didn’t take it seriously at first—”

“And yet somehow, she’s close enough to you now that people think you’re involved,” you said bitterly. “Funny how fast that escalated.”

He groaned, turning his back briefly, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want it to turn into this. I just— I’ve been trying to secure something better for us. For the kids.”

You laughed again, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t you dare bring our kids into this. Don’t act like this was some noble sacrifice. You weren’t thinking about them. You weren’t thinking about me. You were thinking about you. Your career. Your next big move.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair,” you shot back, “is waking up next to a stranger. A man who made decisions without me. Who kept a woman secret from me for over a year. Who lied — or twisted the truth so carefully it felt the same.”

Seungmin stepped closer, voice rising now to match yours. “She’s a professional contact. I didn’t want to involve you until I knew it was real. Is that so hard to understand?”

You were yelling now. “What’s hard to understand is why I had to find out with the rest of the world. If you respected me, if you trusted me, if we were a team like you always said— you would’ve told me.”

He shouted over you, voice breaking with frustration. “I was scared, okay?! I didn’t want you to say no. I didn’t want you to hate me for dragging you and the kids overseas. I didn’t want to make this harder than it already is.”

You stared at him, truly stared.

And what broke you wasn’t the yelling.

It was the fear in his voice. Not of losing you, but of confronting the truth. Of facing the fallout of a decision he’d already made.

Your chest heaved. Your eyes burned.

“That’s the part you don’t get,” you said, quietly this time. “You already made it harder. Not by asking me to leave. Not by considering the offer. But by lying. By deciding I couldn’t handle the truth.”

He shook his head, voice thick. “It wasn’t about you.”

You scoffed. “Right. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You didn’t notice how loud you’d become until the silence that followed felt unnatural. And then, A piercing, frantic cry cut through the house.

Iseul.

Shrill, high-pitched, panicked.

You both turned at once.

Seungmin moved first, instinctively, like the father he still was bolting toward the nursery hallway. But your hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him cold.

He looked at you in confusion, breath shallow.

You stared at him with fire in your eyes.

“No.”

His brows furrowed. “What— she’s crying—”

“I’ll go,” you said, your voice raw. “Not you.”

“Why?” His voice cracked. “She’s our daughter.”

“No,” you whispered. “She’s my daughter right now. Because I’m the only one here.”

He blinked like you’d slapped him.

You let go of his wrist.

Then you turned and rushed.

Down the hall, through the open nursery door, into the soft lavender-painted room where your daughter wailed from her crib, little fists clenched, cheeks red and glistening.

You gathered her into your arms, heart pounding, holding her to your chest like a shield. Her tiny body shook against yours, but you whispered soothing words, rocking her gently.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured. “I’ve got you.”

And you meant it.

Not just for her.

For yourself.

Because right now, in this house filled with cracked trust and echoing pain, you were the only one still standing for her. For both of your children. You couldn’t protect them from everything, but you could be the one who stayed honest.

You rocked her until the cries softened, until her small breaths slowed against your collarbone.

And in the hallway behind you, you heard Seungmin sit down on the floor hard, like the weight of everything had finally caught up.

But you didn’t go to him.

Not this time.

The house was too quiet.

Hours had passed since the first argument, the one that left your daughter screaming in your arms and your husband sitting stunned in the hallway like the wind had been knocked from his chest. You thought maybe that would be the end of it. That silence would stretch long enough for one of you to finally make sense of what to say.

But you couldn’t stop thinking.

And Seungmin? He couldn’t stop moving.

He hadn’t left the house, but he’d stayed out of the nursery, out of the bedrooms, mostly pacing through the kitchen and hallway like a caged animal. When you walked past each other, it was stiff, shallow. He opened his mouth once, maybe twice, but the words fell away before they landed.

Until now.

It was dark out when it happened. The kids were finally asleep, your son curled in your bed, the baby passed out against your chest after her last bottle.

You passed her to her crib slowly, carefully, and left the nursery on bare feet, moving quietly through the hall.

Seungmin was waiting at the end of it arms crossed, leaned against the doorway to the living room like he was forcing himself to stay still.

You didn’t stop walking.

“Can we talk now?” he said, not looking at you.

You paused.

Turned.

“Yes,” you said. “But I’m not doing it with half-truths again.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

You crossed your arms. “So start from the beginning. Not the version you’ve revised three times. The truth.”

He pushed off the wall and walked into the living room. You followed.

He didn’t sit. Neither did you.

“It started last winter,” he began, voice low. “There was this exhibition thing in L.A., and one of the scouts introduced us. Her name’s Madison.”

Madison.

It hurt, having a name to put to the ghost. Somehow it made it worse.

“She said she’d seen me pitch in Busan the year before,” he continued. “Said she thought I had MLB potential. I didn’t believe her at first.”

“And?”

“She gave me her card. Said if I ever wanted to explore the option, I could reach out. I didn’t. Not for months. But then— after I got that minor injury in spring training, I started thinking about my shelf life. How fast it could end. How the kids are growing, and we’ll need more— more security, more stability. So I called her.”

Your expression hardened. “You were injured, and you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

You scoffed. “You didn’t want me to know. That’s what you mean.”

He winced, but didn’t correct you.

“I wasn’t planning anything big at first,” he said quickly. “It was just supposed to be background talk. Feelers. I didn’t even sign anything.”

“But you were talking to her regularly,” you said. “Behind my back. Letting her shape your decisions. Tell me again how that’s not hiding something?”

“She had connections,” he said. “I needed her.”

“You needed me,” you said. “You needed us. But you didn’t think we could handle the truth?”

“I didn’t want to drag you into something that wasn’t certain.”

“Bullshit,” you said, your voice cracking. “You didn’t want to hear me say no.”

His lips parted. Shut again.

Your heart was pounding now. Hard.

“And now this article comes out,” you said. “And it says you’ve had a close relationship with her. Not just business. Not just professional. And you still expect me to believe it was nothing?”

He threw up his hands. “Because it was nothing!”

“You keep saying that,” you snapped. “But everything else you say changes! First you barely knew her. Then she was a connection. Then you were working together for months. Now she’s your lifeline to a better life?! Which version is the truth, Seungmin?”

He stepped toward you, voice raised. “You think I’m sleeping with her? You think I would cheat on you?! After everything—”

“I didn’t say that!” you shouted. “You did!”

His mouth opened again.

And again, he had nothing.

“Do you hear yourself?” you said, near tears now. “You keep trying to fix the story instead of just telling it. Every time you talk, I feel like I’m catching you in another lie.”

He turned away, paced across the room, grabbed at his hair.

“I wasn’t lying,” he said, almost to himself. “I wasn’t trying to— I didn’t want to—”

“You didn’t want to hurt me?” you asked, voice softer now, but shaking. “Then why does it feel like every word you say is cutting deeper?”

He turned, frustrated. “I was trying to make the best of what I could! I thought if I got the deal solid first, you’d feel better knowing it wasn’t just a risk—”

“I don’t need you to protect me from risks,” you snapped. “I need you to be honest. I need you to respect me enough to let me choose the hard things with you.”

He stared at you, this woman who had stood by him through every game, every travel stretch, every missed birthday and late-night bus ride. And now, when he needed you most, he realized...

He’d gone too far without you.

And now he couldn’t pull you back.

Your hands dropped to your sides, empty. Exhausted.

“I don’t even know if I’m angry at you,” you whispered. “Or if I’m angry at myself for not seeing it sooner.”

He blinked, breathing uneven.

You moved past him, toward the hallway again.

“Where are you going?”

“I need air.”

He followed. “You can’t just walk out—”

You turned, eyes blazing.

“No,” you said. “You need to leave.”

His face twisted. “What?”

“I need space. The kids are asleep. I’m not doing this again while they’re in this house.”

He hesitated. “Where the hell am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t care,” you said. “You can go to a hotel, you can sleep in your car, you can call your manager. I just— I can’t look at you right now.”

He laughed, bitterly. “So that’s it?”

“No,” you said. “But it’s all I’ve got tonight.”

His eyes were wild now, mouth slightly open, chest heaving with things he couldn’t say fast enough.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine. You don’t want to hear it? You don’t want to listen to anything I have to say? Then I’ll go.”

“I’ve been listening,” you shouted. “It’s just that none of it makes sense.”

He shoved past you, storming into the bedroom. You heard drawers yanked open. A zipper. A bag hitting the floor.

You stood frozen in the hallway, watching the shadows move under the door.

Then, moments later, it opened. He walked past you, hoodie on, baseball cap low, duffel over his shoulder. His mouth pressed into a line.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

He walked down the stairs, opened the door, and stepped outside.

You watched him through the window, standing still in the dark. His car door opened.

But he didn’t get in.

He stood beside the car for a second, shoulders hunched like the weight had finally settled across them.

And then he looked back toward the house.

For a flicker.

A moment.

As if expecting you to follow.

You didn’t.

And then he got in.

And drove off.

You didn’t cry at first.

You stood there, gripping the edge of the banister like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

Then, once the headlights vanished, once the silence roared back into your chest—

You broke.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

You just sank.

Onto the stairs. Onto your knees. And the sobs came in waves. Quiet, painful, relentless.

Because love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Because you didn’t know what was real anymore.

Because the man you had once called home had chosen a path that no longer included you, not fully.

And you didn’t know if he would find his way back.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[radiantrookie]

SEGA Mandates explained with their exceptions (Old)

Edit: (Plan on remaking this with a better format and sources, along with ones I missed)

Edit 2: Here's the New One

Game characters cannot have family members unless they were established in the game canon (Because Archie went overboard).

Game characters cannot be killed off.

Sonic cannot cry or get too emotional.

Exception: Sonic Prime didn't follow this rule despite being canon.

The terms Mobius and Mobians are banned, during the early 2010s, Earth was called "Sonic's World" because they wanted to appeal to 90s Boomers who hate Sonic living on Earth without calling it Mobius, it died down later though.

Exception: Ian Flynn has stated SEGA recanonized Sonic Spinball, which takes place in Mobius, so it exists somewhere in game canon, Veg-O-Fortress even has a cameo in Sonic Origins, Ian also stated Spinball takes place in between Sonic 3 and Knuckles and Sonic 3D Blast.

The heroes must always win at the end.

Characters and elements from Non Canon media cannot be used, Cosmo and the Metarex were potentially allowed to appear but according Ian Flynn, they're off the table now, the Metal Virus serves as a replacement for Robotization, Eggperial City serves as a replacement for Robotropolis, Restoration serves as a replacment for the Freedom Fighters.

Exceptions:

Sonic liking Chili Dogs (90s Cartoons)

Eggman's "I hate that Hedgehog!" and "Snooping as usual" lines (Aosth)

Scratch and Grounder appear in Eggman's livestream in one of the covers for IDW 40

Sonic's "Let's do it, to it" line (Satam)

Sonic being referred to as the "Fastest thing alive" (Satam)

Sonic Spinball being canon again, somwhat canonizes Sally, Bunnie, Rotor, Muttski and Scratch, Ian Flynn has clarified they're just cameos for now but could be a backdoor to make them canon if SEGA chooses to (Aosth, Satam, Archie)

In one of the covers for IDW 31, Storm's mugshot mentions he was arrested by the Knothole Village Police (Satam, Archie)

Tails being afraid of lightning (OVA)

Knuckles's cowboy hat (OVA)

Vector's crush on Vanilla (Sonic X)

Cream's favorite show, the NEXT Show (Sonic X)

The Chaotix Office building appears in the Sonic Channel Comics (Sonic X)

Sticks the Badger appears in the Sonic Channel Comics and is mentioned in English Sonic Frontiers (Sonic Boom)

The Eggnet has been canonized in both IDW and the Games (Archie)

The GUN Commander's name, Abraham Tower (Archie)

Bark being mute (Archie)

Bean and Bark working with Fang as a trio, Sonic even calls them the Hooligans (Archie)

Sally and Bunnie cameo in one of the Sonic Forces prequel comics with their Archie designs (Archie)

Shadow's Chaos Spear being shaped like an actual spear that he can throw or use as a melee weapon (Archie)

Badniks from Sonic Mega Drive appear in Classic IDW (Archie)

The term, Super Badnik (Archie)

Male characters that aren't humans, can't wear pants.

Exception: Tails Nine is allowed to wear pants.

Classic Era characters aren't allowed to appear in Modern Era and vice versa, during the 2010s there was the Two Dimensions retcon because of it, however they later removed it, Team Chaotix are also not allowed to appear in Classic because they considered Sonic Heroes to be their first appearance, however Knuckles Chaotix was recanonized in Tailstube, in the same episode, they acknowledge Mighty, Ray and Fang's Gang and teased a Modern Trip, recently, SEGA is considering retiring Classic Sonic after the disappointment of Sonic Superstars.

Exception: a Classic Froggy appears in various Sonic PICT artwork

Only one Metal Sonic is allowed, not multiple (They must really dislike Shard and Metallix)

Exceptions:

Metal Sonic 3.0 from Sonic Rivals 2

Chaos Sonic and Grim Sonic from Sonic Prime were allowed

Shadow: He has the most guidelines out of any character, most of them come from SEGA wanting Shadow to remain an Anti-Hero and not be too heroic, however SEGA has easied up on these with Shadow Generations

Knuckles: Knuckles is the only Echidna and only resident of Angel Island besides Chao and Baby Animals, (Ken Penders lol), Knuckles is also not allowed leave Angel Island without a reason now, prolly due to critiques with games like Heroes

Silver: Silver's Future is off limits, only SEGA can explore that, if they ever choose to

Super Forms: Male hedgehogs are the only ones allowed to go Super, this has been changed with Sonic Superstars and Otherworld Comedy.

Humans: Due to complaints from 90s Boomers, Humans besides Eggman weren't allowed until Shadow Generations

Romance: Characters can have crushes but they can't date or get married.

Money: Only Team Chaotix can talk about money

Rings: Ian Flynn was told Rings were no longer canon, however Rings appear in Sonic Prime and cutscenes in The Final Horizon, which Ian didn't know about

Special Stages: No longer canon and Fang's bio of living in the Special Stages is retconned

Off Limits Characters: These characters can only be used by SEGA/Sonic Team only:

Eggman Nega

Black Doom

Solaris (Mephiles and Iblis)

Infinite

[luckylzclerc]

A Thousand Miles 𓍢ִ໋🏁՞ᰔᩚ (cl16)

sypnosis : Due to your different careers, You both have been in a long distance relationship for quite some time. Charles has been nothing but supportive of you and got himself into a habit of mentioning you nonstop in interviews which sparks the attention from the media.

request : yes! from this request ₊˚.༄

AU : Mixed AU (smau + written au)

genre : fluff

an : first post since 2023 ! I changed my layout and tried to be more aesthetic (kinda..) lmk your thoughts on that! anyway, i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed making it hehe :3 pls don't be shy to request, I'll definitely try to answer them all 💌 anyways, have fun reading this and don't forget to like, comment and reblog!

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yourusername home 🫂🎞️🍝

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charles_leclerc mon cœur, i miss you

⤷ yourusername ahh Charles, tu me manques aussi bebe

(i miss you too bebe)

lando we miss you here, y/n! 😔

⤷ yourusername landooo!! missing you guys too💘💘

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The paddock is buzzing with excitement as fans from all over the world arrive to watch the 2025 Imola gp. Meanwhile, in the Ferrari garage, Charles is on the phone with his lovely girl, y/n.

"Charles, isn't qualifying starting soon?" asked the girl, interrupting her boyfriends ramble about an inchident that happened the night before. "Huh? shit! it's starting in 20 minutes!" replied the monegasque frantically while quickly gathering all his stuff.

Confused, she raised an eyebrow, "Are you going to end the call, or do you want me to do it?". Charles' panicked face contorts into a pout "Do we really have to end the call?" he asked with a soft tone. On the other end of the line, y/n chuckled "yes, yes have to mon amor. I'll talk to you later yeah? Promise me you'll do your best okay?, good luck". He smiles softly at her "Promise, je t'aime" while clicking the 'end call' button. All he could do now is just hope for the best as he wants to get pole to make her proud.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

"POLE POSITION BABYYY" echoes through the entire paddock as Charles crossed the finishing line with the fastest time amongst all 19 drivers. As the crowd errupt with cheers from the tifosi(s), Charles makes his way to the post qualifying interviews.

interview .ᐟ

still feeling giddy, Charles decides to call y/n to tell her about the qualifying even though she was probably watching the entire time. *ring ring ring* -voicemail "huh?" confused as he can be, he started worrying about the sudden voicemail so, he called her again. twice. thrice. no answer. 'What is she up to?' Charles thought to himself.

Without any warning, Carlos barged into his room to congratulate his teammate. Noticing the monegasque's unhappy face "Carino, you okay ?" asked Carlos with a careful tone. "Yeah, im alright, its just y/n. She's not picking up my calls!". Understanding the situation, the spaniard comforted his teammate "Ah, maybe her device died or, I don't know? She took a nap or something.. theres endless possibilities, don't worry about it too much."

Nodding, "Maybe you're right.. thanks mate" "No problem!Now time to celebrate!!" Still full of adrenaline from the pole position but not feeling like celebrating, he decided to just head back to the hotel to rest "You celebrate, I'm going back to the hotel" said the monegasque. Walking to his car, he thought to himself 'Maybe she's asleep, I'll just call her again when i get back to the hotel' while trying to ignore the constant feeling of worry.

twitter .ᐟ

As upon his arrival at the hotel, Charles still couldn't shake the feeling of a pit forming in his stomach so, after reaching to his assigned room, he quickly calls y/n again.*ring ring ring*

"Y/n are you there?" furrowing his brows while trying to make sense the black screen on his phone. "Charles! Congratulations on the pole, I'm so proud of you, knew you could do it!" said y/n with excitement filling her tone. Charles commented "Thank you! amor, I don't know if its my phone but I cannot see your face". A few moment of silence passed and Charles keep hearing commotion on the other end of the line.. "bebe? are you there? are you out right now..?". Finally, the girl answered short and sweetly "Sorry, got to go, talk to you tomorrow amor! bisous" and the call went dead.

Now he's even more confused. While trying to decide wether to investigate or not, tiredness washes over him. Finally deciding to ignore the paranoid feeling, Charles decides to get ready for bed and bother the girl with more questions the following day.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

As Charles wakes up at the crack of dawn, all his worries about y/n seems to disappear and he decides to just focus on his race today. While getting ready, he receives a notification on imessage from her wishing him luck on todays race, and that alone is enough to make him smile from the words of encouragement.

As soon as he arrives at the circuit, Charles was quickly rushed to the Ferrari garage to get prepped for the race at Imola. Todays goal was to win, make y/n proud and oh! win again. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to him, Y/n is on the plane flying a thousand miles away to get to the Imola grand prix in time.

Y/n arrives just in time as there were 2 more laps to go. As she quickly rushes to the Ferrari garage, Charles zoomed by the checkered flag in first place. The entire garage was filled with screams and cheers of joy celebrating another win for Ferrari. Outside, y/n could hear the grandstand booming with celebrations as the tifosi(s) celebrate Charles' victory. She couldn't believe it, it was her first time witnessing his win in real life and was feeling overjoyed. Her heart was full of love and admiration.

Charles parked his f1 car behind the '#1' sign and jumped out of the vehicle while doing a celebratory pose. He was feeling so pleased with his results and all he could think about was telling y/n.

As the post race interviews were held, y/n was hiding in the McLaren garage to avoid spoiling the surprise and bumping into her partner.

interviews .ᐟ

"Charles Leclercc!!" echoes through the entire circuit as they announced the winner of the race. Charles walked to the first place of the podium, full of pride and a huge smile across his face. Y/n was standing amongst the crowds watching him stand on the top of the podium filled with excitement and proudness. 'I knew you could do it' she thought to herself, smiling like an idiot.

As the national anthem of Monaco ended, the top 3 winners sprayed each other with champagne and that marks the end of the ceremony.

As Charles makes his way to his motorhome, y/n was hiding in his drivers room with a bouquet in her hand. Other than Charles, his teammate, Carlos was walking alongside him to the motorhome secretly recording the surprise that was about to happen. "Mate, why are u following me to my drivers room?" asked Charles and he twisted the door knob. While still looking at Carlos with a puzzled look, he decides to ask the spaniard again. "Mate???" All Carlos could do was point his head towards the drivers room and there she was. Standing with a huge smile spread on her lips while holding a huge bouquet of red roses.

"Surprise?" said the girl. Charles mouth dropped agape while he stared at her in disbelief "y/n??" as he snaps back into reality, he quickly ran towards his lover and hugged her tightly. "Woah woah! I can't breath Charles" she chuckled. "I can't believe you're here! When did you arrive? How come do I not know? Why didn't you tell me??" Bombarding her with questions. "Mate, calm down" Carlos interjects , which was replied with a glare from his teammate. "Oh you can't believe how much I miss you."

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charles_leclerc Can't believe you're actually here❤️❤️

⤷ yourusername im literally right next to u rn🤨💘

lando not u hiding in the McLaren garage haha!!!

⤷ yourusername CHARLES IS SO BLIND HAHA

⤷ charles_leclerc ??????

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‍‍‍‍‍‍‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎fin.

an : tysm for reading!! I hope you guys liked this!! lmk your thoughts on it as this is my very first time writing. I love to read your comments and dont be shy to ask away in my inbox💌 dont forget to like, comment and reblog ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁!

taglist ⤷ @xf4iryx

[rinnstars]

good luck charm!

things they do before a (winning) match

bllk boys x reader (reo, rin, sae): fluff, drabbles, pro!player, not proofread + likes n reblogs are appreciated!

reo mikage:

reo’s always thought of superstitions stupid: the way his parents ask fortune tellers about specific dates and time for certain events from business investment to even when to host meetings, the way his friends would follow superstitions told by their parents from crossing their fingers before receiving their results to avoiding cracks at the pathways in school, the way he recluntantly follow them because its “tradition”. but maybe he’s no different from them, he thinks. its the big match: one that will decide whether he’ll prove his father wrong - the world cup finale. he’s anxious: his hands are all sweaty and shaky as he puts down his water bottle, water still dripping from it from the mouth of it, his heart is beating the fastest its ever had as though he’s about to have a heart attack, and his mind is hazy with self-deprecating thoughts that practically chain him to the seats. he closes his eyes and tries to slow his breathing, he has only a few more minutes left before he has to get on field, a few more minutes before he either makes it and becomes a professional footballer or break it and be enchained to his family company for the rest of his life.

superstition. good luck charms. reo’s getting desperate, he’ll take whatever at this point. whether its removing that polaroid of you from the back of his phone to trace with his shaky fingers and press his lips against, or placing the cold matching necklace with you against his palm to cool his nerve down to focus onto the freezing sensation over the beating o his heart, or even taking your spare candies from his bag to chew on one or two. and he’ll let the sweetness burst in his mouth: ignore the drying of his mouth as he walks out on field, ignore shakiness of his entire being, ignore his heart failing him.

and when reo kicks the last goal, his eyes instantly search for yours in the crowd of people, recognising you within a few seconds amongst the millions cheering. and he thinks: you might just be his guardian angel, after all its with you that hes able to win. and perhaps, that cold necklace might calm him down more if it was a ring on his fingers, he gets real fidgetive before a match after all.

itoshi rin

in contrast to what others think, rin’s a nervous wreck before a match, especially one where hes now competing against his brother: no longer part of blue lock, but in a team, on the global stage. hes insecure, he knows he’ll never compare to sae, hes aware of that since he was a little kid he thinks by the countless of golden awards that people credit sae for rather him, countless of opportunities only given to sae and never to him. and his usual routine is thrown out of the window: he cant just rely on just motivsting himself to perform by thinking of those burning feelings im his chest, cant just rely on pure instincts he thinks as his legs turn into jelly, cant rely on himself solely. its not the first time either he feels like this: in his first match thst he won the night sae came back home for the first time, in his match at blue lock against u20 japan team, and now in his match against real madrid in the world cup finale. proving sae wrong: thats what hes been working on for the entirety of his teensge life, but for once, hes not so certain anymore. rin feels like a little kid, he feels lost, and he could run away: the door has always been open, and its not as though sae hasnt cursed him to this.

and rin’s spiralling again, the ring of his braclet that he bought with you the day before he first ever entered blue lock brings him back to reality: sitting on the bench in the locker room all alone when his other teammates are all chatting amongst themself a little further away from him. rin should go soon, he looks up at the clock, a few more minutes before showtime. and as always, like clockwork, he opens his phone and plays his favourite voice memo: one where you simply wish him good luck, telling him you believe he’ll win in that same cheery tune that he misses.

and when rin kicks the final goal, the world stops. silence, before the chant of the crowd overwhelms his ears and his teammate throw him on his shoulders: he made it. and yet, for the first time, instead of looking at his brother for validation, for his praise, for his reassurance: he finds you in the crowd and all he can think is now hoping you can rerecord that good luck message, maybe a video this time. after all, if your voice recording can help him to score two goals, he might just ace his next match with a personalised video from you: but for now, he’ll dedicate this win to you with a kiss to yours and his necklace.

itoshi sae

its just another match for sae: and yet he feels totally drained out compared to usual. no doubt, he’s lost his spark and passion that he used to hold on to tightly when he was a teenager, and he’s been playing simply for the sake of it. and maybe its tthe back to back matches that weighs him down like stones, or maybe its homesickness, missing everything he wants to chase back now that hes all grown, or maybe its simply the usual nervousness before a match. deep down, depsite his ambitions, hes insecure: hes no genius, he knows, it was a bitter revelation he finds out when he leaves, crying silently in the bathroom with no one around him but geniuses, and maybe it lingers in him: that hes never truly accepted his mediocrity. yet, he knows every and any match matters: he should get up now, join his teammates in those cheers, or at least get himself ready for the match starting in a few minutes instead of wallowing in his own misery, hogging the seats in the locker room. hes got all his usual routine done too: wearing the socks you bought him when he first came back from spain, stretched the way he was taught to, drank the water he needed to in the cute little water bottle he matches with you — but hes still missing something.

sae thinks its silly, he only does this ritual whenever its a big match, and this match is nothing special. logically, the opponents are much weaker and even at his current state, he’ll likely win them still. but he supposes he can indulge a little, after all its almost 6 months since hes seen you: with the season having started at the start of your internship. a minute before the match begins, and he hurriedly presses yours and his promise necklace onto his forehead as though a prayer and he walks with his teammates onto the field.

and when sae assists in the final goal, he smiles unconsciously in contrast to his usual self: he wonders if youre watching and he knows the answer when he opens his phone and sees you send a photo of news article speculating of his and yours promise necklace debut to the football world. he looks at the date, one more week, one more match until he gets to see you again — he cant wait already, but maybe while hes here in spain, maybe he should get you something special.

[no-144444]

smile, even though it's breaking- d.riccardo

Day 15 of fic-tober! fic-tober masterlist

summary: daniel is your older brother's best friend who you can't stand. it's his last race, and your last chance to speak your mind.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

You walked into the paddock with a sigh, knowing what was awaiting you. 

Daniel. 

Daniel had been in your life since before you could talk. He was your oldest brother’s friend, and he was going to be a racecar driver. You’d been in love with him since before you knew what that meant, of course, you’d never admit that. You hated him. You had to hate him. He’d never choose you. He’d always just be family, whatever that meant. 

“Morning,” he smiled. That stupid goofy smile. You wished you could punch him square in his bright white teeth and perfect smile. 

“Morning,” you grunted, moving past him to speak to Yuki. “Good luck today.”

Singapore. You felt guilty about all the speculation, especially when you knew that Liam would be in his seat in Austin. Austin was one of his favourite races. Daniel deserved to race it all one last time. He deserved Las Vegas, he deserved Brazil, he deserved Abu Dhabi. He deserved just one more chance. Maybe that was your heart speaking. You weren’t sure anymore. 

He followed behind you, talking your ear off about something or other. You just tried to ignore it, continue on with your duties, try to stop the way your brain questioned why Heidi wasn’t here. She hadn’t been to a race since Miami at the start of the season.

“Do you ever stop smiling?” you sighed. 

“Only when you’re not around,” he winked at you. “Miss you too much.” 

You rolled your eyes and tried to ignore the way your heart strings pulled at his sentence. “Where’s Heidi?”

His smile dampened. “She and I… broke up. You didn’t know that?”

You abandoned your regular, nonchalant exterior and frowned. “I’m sorry Dan, I didn’t know-”

“Dan?” he grinned. “You haven’t called me that since you were a kid.”

You rolled your eyes, your defences straight back up. “Whatever you say Daniel.”

You continued on after that, somehow losing him in the motorhome. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

He got the fastest lap. You cried as he crossed the finish line. This was it. It was over. Daniel had raced his last race, finishing with a fastest lap and a testament of his commitment to RedBull. RedBull didn’t deserve him. They never did. If they’d just kept Max in Toro Rosso for one more year, Daniel would probably be a World Champion, and not still chasing a pipe dream from years before. 

You ran to the parc fermé, ready to meet him with open arms. He didn’t get out of the car for a few minutes longer than everyone else, and every driver spent their time giving him a lengthy goodbye. When he climbed out, you ran straight to him, wrapping him up in a tight hug. You didn’t care that he was sweaty, that he would tease you, that there were 30 cameras on you, if not more. 

You cared about him. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, tears falling yet again. “I’m so fucking sorry Daniel. I love you.” 

And fuck, you’d told him. For the first time in years you’d said it, and he knew what it meant. That’s why you didn’t say it to him. You said it with so much emotion, so much love, so much affection. It couldn’t be seen as friendly, or familial. You loved him. You loved the way he laughed, how he smiled, how he treated others, how much he cared. 

You loved him. 

He pulled back, eyes wide. “You mean that?”

You smiled, nodding. 

“Thank fuck,” he smiled, pressing his lips to yours. 

Neither of you were thinking about the way you’d explain this to your brother, neither of you were thinking about how the media would respond, neither of you were thinking about how this was Daniel’s last race. You two were finally together. How it should be.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

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[fanaticsnail]

Something to hold onto

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,800+

Synopsis: After a particularly mundane and excruciating shift aboard the Victoria Punk to ensure smooth sailing, you felt as if your body was going to buckle and give up on you. All you wanted was something to hold onto: whether it a hot beverage or a warm body to engulf your own in a friendly embrace to share that burden - but you'd rather die than admit the latter.

Themes: Killer x gn!reader, sfw, undisclosed chronic pain (reader), hurt / comfort, platonic love, friendship, Kid Pirate Dynamics, no prior romantic relationship, just friends hugging.

Notes: For all the folks who really, really want to be held by Massacre Soldier Killer and sink your face into his broad chest to hear his heartbeat clearer, and especially for @autumnnjoy. I hope you enjoy, love. Get hugged by this first mate.

The day had dragged on, your knees bending with the lagging fatigue the longer the sunlight continued to alert you of your duties. There were moments throughout the shift you felt your body giving up. Even though each member of the Kid Pirates took their turns to pay their dues to hold their position, this particular day had your body screaming at you to stop.

The minute you heard Heat bellow down that it was time for shift change, you could already feel the call of your bed ringing in your head to heed its call. However, there was something you needed far greater that the weight of a single layered duvet could provide.

You needed to be held.

But in the true Kid Pirate fashion, you would rather die than admit that fact to anyone.

Bracing yourself against the railing, you felt your bones grind on one another in the shroud of eclipsing agony. There was no true reason for this. No injury; none present, former, or future. You simply felt the full brunt of living in your own head while droning through your shift with the smog of sorrows crippling you. Sometimes it hits you mentally, other times, when disregarding caring for your mental health, your body decides to showcase just how much weight you carried mentally in the physical.

Each bone-screeching step drew you closer to the kitchens. Should you not manage to garner access to an embrace, you deduced the next best thing was a cup of your favourite hot beverage while gazing out of the circular, port side window. You just needed your hands around something, whether simply just a mug in lieu of a friend. Simply something to hold onto would be more than enough for you. Finally finding the familiar archway entrance to the Victoria Punk kitchen, you halted your movements upon finding the familiar mane of gold falling in sunkissed waves down the curvature of the commander’s back.

Massacre Soldier Killer.

Standing and scrubbing at a few pans and plates, the masked first mate continued to wash up after what you assumed was his late afternoon, early evening protein fix after his workout. It wasn’t that you were in tune specifically with his routine. He was just incredibly predictable.

His routine was down to a fine art, one that inspired you to do better within your own. Meet with the captain before breakfast, coffee with the commanders, communal meal, start shift, eat packed lunch, complete shift by mid afternoon, hit the rec room for his weight training and sparring with either Heat or Mosh, go to the kitchens to have a protein fix before engaging in the fastest rinse off known to mankind, begin cooking dinner.

Killer never deviated from the plan, only ever if docked at an island or given extra duties to take care of. Predictable, dependable, reliable, comfortable: the four aspects your body screamed that it needed for the world to again make sense. Just as you made to quietly walk to the stove to boil water for your beverage, you felt the deep tenor rumble beside you.

“You’re not even gonna say ‘hello’?” he concluded with a mention of your name, gently bumping your shoulder with his bicep. You could tell he was expecting a little bit of your usual verbal sparring, not the pained yelp that clawed its way out of your throat against your will. Immediately, Killer turned to face you with his hands moving to cup your shoulders. His large palms and fingertips mapped along your arms, searching for anything to cause you grief.

“Broken?” Killer asked softly, feeling along your joints for elevated skin or welts bubbling over your flesh.

“Not externally,” you quipped in response with a soft smile, “Honestly, Commander, I’m fine. Just… Just need a hot cup of something.” Although you attempted to brush aside his worry with a few choice words, your voice held that hidden longing deep within. The pain grew more apparent, and gritting your teeth to bear through the worst of it wasn’t enough this time.

“Internally?” Killer asked softly, tilting his head to press his forehead down to brush the tip of his mask against your head, “Or mentally?” His hands moved back up to cup your shoulders and slowly added more weight to you. Just this brush of connection alone had you whimper out a soft plea without words. Everything was showcased in your eyes gazing past the darkened ports of his shielded face, witnessing the blues of his sapphire eyes glimmering beyond its border.

“Need something to hold onto, don't you?” Instinctively, Killer moved his arms to snake around your shoulders, ushering you towards the full span of his broadened chest, “C’mere. I've got you.” His whiskered chin met with the top of your head, fully welcoming you into his arms and smothering you there within. You immediately felt your body go limp, feeling Killer hold onto you physically while you released every excruciation encumbered by the delay of your needs being met.

The scent of body musk masked with fragrances to halt his perspiration hit you in a comfortable wave. His entire mass consumed your smaller frame, almost hidden within the bulk of his muscles. The larger palms of the massacre soldier caressed and soothed your shoulders with one hand, while the other held your face firmly clutched against his heart.

“Does it make me weak to need this?” you asked against his chest, lips tasting the salt against his torso as it brushed with your pouting lips. Killer chuckled at a squeaked pitch, as he soothed you with his arms circling your frame.

“No,” he uttered softly and gently, “Although none of us really express our needs all that often vocally, everyone on the crew needs this. We're not omnipotent.”

“Big word,” you teased him with a grin, still feeling that hard ache linger on between you. Killer shook his head and held you more firmly against himself, his tangible smile being heard and felt in every gentle and uncharacteristic motion.

“Reading,” his gruff voice squeaked more on the edges, all smile halting back a hitched laugh, “But I mean it. We don't talk about feelings often, but everyone needs this shit from time to time.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me.”

Taking a moment to inhale deeply, you exhaled while feeling that slow and steady rhythm you had come to anticipate from the first mate. His heart beat slowly, his body warm and the perfect combination of softness with the hardened muscles remaining beneath.

“And now I'm gonna squeeze you,” he whispered softly, “And when I release you, I want you to give me what you've been feeling. Try it with me, ready?” he moved his hand from cupping the back of your head to moving both beneath your armpits, “Inhale now, and release that breath when I squeeze you.”

“Why?” your question was so soft, something so simple yet laced with uncertainty of his actions. Killer chuckled, locking his wrists behind your back over your spine, and leaned his masked face close to yours.

“Because it's nice,” Killer nodded at you, his goatee softly bobbing alongside his head, “Lots of reasons, but the main one is because it's nice. Captain likes it when he's stressed, Heat likes it when he's lonely, Wire likes it when his discs are slipping and his whole body feels like it's falling apart, and you're gonna like it because you're in pain," his voice was soft spoken, calm, staying facts as if it's common knowledge though it's not, "It grounds you, and gives me a bit of what you're carrying figuratively. Symbolically. Now lemme squeeze."

Killer began increasing the pressure to your back with his clenching forearms. His knuckles knotted with your spine, clutched wrist in his own hand as he pulled you in close.

“Inhale.” Doing as the first mate commanded was easy enough to follow in every way in battle, on the ship, and when communicating with locals. This was no different. You balloon your lungs, and just as he increases the pressure, he whispers softly against your ear.

“Now, exhale.” Like an overfilled well, your emotions and that pain you felt begin to pass to that warm mass of Massacre Soldier Killer as he squeezed you. The swarm of emotions and that pain never left you completely, but the connection your body felt with Killer's was enough to dampen that pain just for a second.

“More or are you done?” Killer asked softly as he pressed soothing circles against your back. Your brows knit together in a hard line as you locked your arms around his neck, drawing him closer while tucking your head into his neck.

“More please,” you whispered softly, holding him ever nearer while simply lingering in that warmth you feel liberating you from that crippling pain and leaving you with simply a dull ache in its place, “I just need-.”

“-Something to hold onto,” Killer finished for you, simply electing to lift you up into his arms and walk you throughout the hallway, “I know. I've got you.” He moved his hands to your lower back, giving you a soft squeeze while his legs carried you both down the hall, “Just taking us out of the space while Heat works on his snack. The amount of chilli flakes, lemon juice, garlic and onions he uses is enough to destroy your tear ducts. Don't wanna subject you to that while you're already feeling vulnerable.”

As if on queue, Heat passes you both down the hallway and stops to give Killer a clap on the shoulder beneath your arm.

“Did your dishes?” Heat asked softly.

“Yep,” Killer answered with a nod while pausing his walk, “On the rack drying. Don't fuck up my kitchen.” Heat nodded back, taking a moment to look at you clutching Killer.

“Giving out squeezes again?” Heat nodded with his lips downturned in thought before turning to you nestled into his neck, “They're good, right?” You barely let out a word in response before Killer uttered quietly.

“I want to get ahead of dinner, Heat, so clean up when you're done,” he ordered softly while slowly readjusting you on his torso, “I'll be back after you've fumigated the damn kitchen with your comfort food.” Heat chuckled, waving him on with you clutched onto to him tightly.

“I'll do my best to air the shit out when I'm done.”

Killer carried you as if you were weightless. There was no straining in his breath, no grimace in his muscles, nor any indications that you were burdening him at all with any of your pain. Killer simply held your frame firmly braced against his own without complaint. In fact, he almost seemed chipper about the fact you were clutching his chest and hanging on.

“You just hang on tight, possum,” Killer uttered softly into your neck, “You just hold onto me as long as you need to, and I'll be right here to take what you need to give me.”

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @mermaniaa @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @jadeddangel @nocturnalrorobin

[ild-rllrcstr]

The Second Seat part 2

Lando Norris X You (female driver) / slight angst / 2.4K

part 1 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5

Summary You worked your way up to Formula One, contracted with McLaren, defying all odds. You play the team game: humble, strategic, and willing to follow orders, even if it means sacrificing podiums so Lando Norris can be the world champion. Every lap you sacrifice, every time you hold back, the world starts to doubt your talent. Lando sees it all. So he makes a choice: to give you the race, the recognition you deserve, and maybe his heart. You came for the drive, but you stayed for something more.

Warnings swearing A/N I'm trying to write something each day, and here comes the second part! Might still have one or two more parts of this coming, but let me know who I should write next! Although I speak French and English neither of them are my native languages so bear with me if there are mistakes (don’t hesitate to let me know also!)

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The atmosphere of the club was at its peak, but Lando was strangely not his usual party self. Something’s really bothering him. And Carlos noticed. He noticed how Lando took a long amount of time to show up, and he’s not that into the party even though he won Monaco and set the fastest record, again. 

“I thought by this time you’d be on the table dancing in your underwear by now. Monaco win? Fastest lap? Come on, champion.” Carlos stumbled down onto the couch next to Lando. 

“Yeah. Big night.”Lando’s pulled a weirdly fake smile staring blankly at whatever Charles and Pierre are doing, some French songs, clearly having trouble concentrating.

“So? What's going on? You’ve been weird the whole night. You ghosted us until midnight.”

Lando looked at Carlos, wondering if he should talk to about this, but he is not the best at hiding his emotions and thoughts. 

“It’s… Y/N, she seems to be having a hard time because of the race.” Carlos nodded, getting what Lando was talking about. 

“From P5 to P9 hurts, we’ve all been there, we know how it feels.” Lewis said firmly with compassion on one side, sipping his drink. 

“Please. As if she was gonna take Isack. She looked like she might, we’re in Monaco, we all know, and consider the rookie she is, she just had to blocked all our way like a rental kart session, it’s freaking stupid…” Lance, being a bit drunk, complained on the side as soon as he heard your name. Still mad about being blocked earlier in the race.

“Watch it, Stroll,” Lando shot a deadly glance at Lance. 

The slight raised in voice caught the attention of the others. Charles’ eyebrows wentup. Pierre paused mid-sip. Even Isack widen his eyes.

“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. She was in P5. You think she suddenly forgot how to drive? No need to see the front to know that you’re boxing. It was for you to box clean, and she followed it like a good little number two.”

“Come again?” Lando’s now standing up, fuming. Carlos quickly stood up between the two.

“Number. Two. It’s the eighth Grand Prix now, isn’t it obvious enough? They’re making her your shadow, and you know it.” Lance smirked. “I don’t know why you’re this mad, it’s for your benefit, and she seems to be happy enough to just be sitting in a seat with us, no?” Lance was absolutely drunk out of his mind. 

Fernando quickly stood behind Lance, trying to stop the conversation, it was going too far. 

Lando was leaning forward, Carlos quickly held him back just in time, whispering in his ear, “Lando, too many people around, not a good moment.”

“Come on guys, sure it was shit call, but we all know strategy is strategy. It is like this in this competition, we’re not new to this. That’s respectful for Y/N’s teamwork, I got no beef. Perhaps we should be the ones learning a thing or two.” Alex stepped in between, helping Fernando to hold the drunk Canadian back. 

Lance was quickly retired to another corner with Fernando and Alex to make sure he doesn’t get involved in this anymore, seeing how drunk he was. Carlos and Charles are sandwiching Lando, making sure he calms down. 

Lando said nothing. But his fists clenched, jaw tightened, and the way he was staring into his untouched drink says everything.

“You know what, tomorrow, my yacht, we’re going on a ride, just to chill it out, it might help her. It’s her first time in Monaco, can’t have her leave my home town on a bad note.” Charles picked up his phone right away. 

“Allô, ça va merci, est-ce que c’est possible préparer mon yacht pour cet aprèm?”

(Hello, I’m well thank you. Is it possible to prepare my yacht for this afternoon?)

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The next day, you woke up with your head slightly spinning from all the crying you did last night. You probably cried yourself to sleep. 

‘16h à la porte, on attendera jusqu'à t’es là.’ - Charles

(16h at the port. We’ll wait until you show up.)

You looked at the time, it was already 13h, you dragged yourself to the shower, trying to reduce your puffy eyes and the weight behind them. You ended up ordering room service for some ice to help, along with some light food.

After a moment of hesitation, you pulled on a white maxi dress that hugged your shape softly, flowing like peace. One of the outfits you packed in the hope that Monaco would feel like a vacation, which was almost forgotten because of the race. You texted Charles apologising that you’ll be late for a bit.

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“En fin! Elle est là!” 

(Finally! Sh’e here!) 

Charles and Alexandra warmly greeted you.

“Merci pour m'inviter.”

(Thank you for inviting me.)

You smiled softly.

Even Leo wagged his tail like he knew you needed softness today.

“Mon chouchou!”

(My darling!)

You knelt to greet Leo with a little smile. You’ve built your little friendship with the little guy quickly throughout the races. The wind carried your perfume, your hair fluttering elegantly. 

Lando did not understand French, but hearing Charles’ loud voice, he came out of the cabin. You were kneeling down, playing with Leo and didn’t really notice him. Once you stood back up, Lando got a full sight of you.

For once, you are not in your fireproof suit, not with a helmet and tired eyes, not in the simulation, not with data sheets, but in something flowing and softly white, but still with a soft smile you were clearly forcing to wear, which made him pause.

He had one hand in his trouser pockets, another one holding on to his drink tightly.

“Wow, am I in the inner circle already?” You energetically smiled and joked when you entered the cabin, seeing only a couple of the drivers were on the yacht. 

Good actress. Lando looked at you on the side, somehow seeing through you, not understanding why you are like this. 

Lando almost caught you red-eyed last night, and you really don’t need more people on your tail.

The others chuckled. “You speak French, that’s already a fast lane ticket to this circle.” Pierre joked back. 

You were surrounded by your new friends, everyone was on the dock enjoying the sun. Carlos and Rebecca were laughing over a Uno game going on with Lando. Lewis was lounging quietly, sunglasses on, but you felt his gaze check on you once or twice. Pierre had his arm draped lazily over Francisca’s shoulders, the two whispering between bites of fruit. It was all easy, golden, safe.

“Don’t let the media get to you,” Lewis said gently, handing you a drink. “You did what was asked. That’s more than a lot of people would do.”

Charles approached and continued, “If it were reversed, if Lando were told to hold up traffic for you and he did, people would be calling it ‘brilliant teamwork.’ But when you do it, it’s ‘lack of pace.’ Fuck that.”

You smiled, small and tight. “It’s fine. Really.”

“Non,” Charles said firmly. “C’est grave,” (It’s serious.)

“They used you. And you took it.”

“It’s just part of the job,” you replied, trying to make it sound light.

Lando was not sitting far, he was hearing the conversation with the Uno in his hands, losing count of the cards he was pulling for the +4 card. He dropped the cards and stood up. Too suddenly.

“Stop saying that,” he snapped.

Everyone fell silent.

“Why do you keep pretending it doesn’t matter?”

Your eyes flicked up to him, startled but calm.

“Because maybe it’s not yet the time for me to start acting like it matters. That’s not what McLaren needs from me right now. Like I always said, I’m doing what my team needs me to.”

His jaw flexed. “McLaren needs your silence, then? Your obedience? You think that’s loyalty? It’s survival. That’s not the same.”

Everyone was watching intensely, this was not what Charles organised this cruise for.

Lando took a step closer, voice lower but shaking.

“You had Hadjar. You had him. And they made you back down. Then you held off half the grid with dead tires like it was nothing.”

You stood, keeping your expression even.

“Maybe it is survival for me, being the only female in this competition. It was done for you, but what’s done is done. Enjoy your victory and we move on.”

“No,” he said, voice cracking.

“You move on. But to what? Another Grand Prix where you can’t show people what you basically sleep in the simulator and a swarm of data sheets for? You act like it never hurts. Like this doesn’t eat you alive. But I see it. I saw your face yesterday. And I fucking hate that you won’t let yourself say it out loud.”

You swallowed. The wind curled around you both. His chest was rising too fast. No one said a word.

Lando was right, but so were you.

“…It’s not your job to hate it for me,” you said, quieter now.

Lando’s reply came after a beat. “Yeah. But someone has to, and you are clearly not doing it.”

Lando left for the other side of the dock, Carlos followed. Charles and Alexandra came to make sure you’re okay. It took you everything to not break down in front of everyone. 

“Suis désolé pour ça, je voulais pas de mettre l’ambiance comme ça.”

(I’m sorry for this, I didn’t want to make the vibe like this.)

You sighed and softly apologized to Charles and Alexandra, feeling guilty.

“T'inquiète pas ma belle, c'est pas ta faute.” 

(Don’t worry, my pretty, it’s not your fault.)

 Alexandra gave you a tight hug.

“J'avoue qu'il aurait pu t'approcher sur ça plus gentiment, mais c’est parce que Il tient vraiment à toi, tu sais. Il était à deux doigts de se battre avec Lance hier. Je lui ai jamais vu comme ça.” 

(I admit he could’ve approached you about this more gently, but it’s because he really cares about you, you know. He was this close to going into a fight with Lance yesterday. I’ve never seen him like this.)

Charles leaned on the rail while Alexandra kept you in a cute side hug.

You looked at Charles with your eyebrows frowned. That’s when he told you what happened yesterday at the club. 

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The atmosphere was saved by dinner, although you and Lando sat on the opposite side of the table, the perfect corner to avoid each other. You sat between Alexandra and Lewis, both have been extra nice with you the whole afternoon, making sure you feel better, at least you looked like you felt better.

After dinner, on the ride back, you sat on the end of the yacht, watching the sunset. The hum of the motor and the wave were calming, along with the wind and the orange rays of sunset. It was so peaceful that you just let your mind empty.

You heard footsteps, but didn’t bother to turn around. The person sat next to you, mimicking your position. 

Lando. 

Both of you sat there for a long while without talking, just feeling how the wind blew through.

"Thank you for defending me yesterday at the club, Charles told me." You quietly said.

“Lance was drunk and stepping out of the line." He paused, "I’m sorry for lashing out like that earlier.” He quietly said, looking straight at the water.

“You’re not wrong. But if my little sacrifice can make it easy for everyone, I do think it’s worth it.”

Your words were frustrating him again, but he tried to calm himself down, since it did not end well the way he reacted earlier. 

“You don’t owe them comfort. You don’t owe me silence either. You are my teammate, but we’re supposed to push each other and not starve one to feed another, we’re McLaren we can have enough for both of us.” 

He wasn’t just angry anymore. He was hurting.

You turned to look at him, and there was something raw in his eyes, the kind of frustration that only comes from caring too much, like he’s begging you. 

“I don’t want to be the reason the team loses trust. If I break down, it’s not just me who suffers. It reflects on every woman trying to get into this sport. I believe the team has its plan, and I want to trust their decisions.”

 “So you’re just going to bleed for everyone in silence?” It was pure bitterness in Lando’s voice.

You smiled faintly. “If that’s what it takes.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and there was something in his gaze that burns hotter than an F1 engine running at 200km/h.

“I can’t stand watching them waste you.” Lando gritted his teeth.

“They’re not wasting me. I’m still here. And you’re getting the huge top rank gap between you and Lewis.” You were saying so, but you can’t look straight in his eyes to say these words.

“Yeah, but for how long before they break you, trying to make you small? And to be honest, I won’t feel like a real champion if I’m getting it like this”

Silence again. The air between you was tight with everything unsaid.

“Don’t care so much, Lando. It’ll hurt you.” You stared at the line where the sun disappeared into the water.

Lando almost whispered, “Too late.”

You looked up at him, heart pounding for reasons that had no longer anything to do with racing anymore.

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“Should I go see if everything’s okay over there?” Carlos asked, eyes fixated on the two at the end of the yacht.

Everyone was trying to be subtle, but 8 of them all squeezing near the cabin opening to see what’s going on was very obvious and somehow comic. 

“I think we can leave them alone for now.” Charles was concerned, but the situation didn’t seem to need interfering for the moment.

“It’s scary when Lando is like that, it’s new and unpredictable,” Pierre muttered, stating what most were feeling. 

“Are you guys for real?” Lewis distanced himself from the others, looking at them as if they all had three heads.

“What?” Charles voices everyone’s confusion.

“Do you guys seriously not see why might be the reason he’s like that?” Lewis smirked.

The others looked at each other, still confused. Then Alexandra’s eyes widened and she looked back at Lewis in disbelief. Lewis shrugged, confirming what Alexandra’s thinking.

“Merde, ne me dis pas qu’il l’aime” Charles whispered.

(Shit, don’t tell me he likes her.)

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[bobzora]

they did a pretty good job at making fun escape rooms that are quick to replay once you know what to do. except door 6 i loathe that room for real i am so glad that i never have to do that again. sorry

finished 999. holy fucking shit. even with all that time spent painfully holding down the skip button and replaying puzzles the ds version was worth it. banger

[eu-nicola]

the fastest driver part 3

summary: you are a young and talented driver, who begins your journey in Formula 1 with Ferrari. despite your undeniable ability, you are constantly relegated to the background due to the Scuderia's strategies, which always favor your teammate, Charles Leclerc

warnings: take of pills

word counter: 7364

author's note: english is not my first language, this is from an amazing request, thanks for the comments 🤍

tags: @ilovechickenwings @amortentiaaaa @ananyasribughead @supertrashbread @amalialeclerc @rawr-123s-stuff @wierdflowerpower @malvikareader @freyathehuntress @sweetmuffynsblog @vjbillno

Endless hours passed after the accident before the first clear update about your condition reached the media and the paddock. Everyone was anxiously waiting for news about your health. The uncertainty left fans, journalists, and especially those who truly knew you in a state of tense anticipation.

Finally, a statement from the hospital's medical team brought some relief: you were stable and conscious. While initial tests had ruled out serious spinal injuries or significant fractures, the impact had been severe, leaving you with a moderate concussion and several internal bruises that required monitoring. What concerned the doctors most were the potential psychological and emotional aftereffects: the nature of the crash, the impact, and all the built-up stress could take a toll later.

Hours later, you woke up in a hospital room softly lit by the afternoon light. Everything was quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of the monitor beside your bed. Your body felt heavy, like it was filled with lead, and the headache was sharp and constant. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you noticed someone sitting nearby.

It was Charles. He was there, his hands clasped in front of his mouth, as if praying or just trying to calm his own nerves. When he saw you stir slightly, he lifted his head, and his expression changed a mix of relief and worry crossed his face.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, as if he didn’t want to scare you. “Thank God.”

You hadn’t expected to see him there. In fact, you hadn’t expected to see anyone. And yet, here he was.

“Charles…” you tried to speak, but your voice came out as barely a whisper.

“Shhh, don’t talk too much. The doctors said you need to rest.”

“What are you doing here?” you asked, ignoring his warning, even though just talking felt like needles stabbing your skull.

He shrugged, offering a light but sincere smile.  

“Someone had to make sure you were okay.”

Charles stayed by your side for hours, even when the doctors came in and out to check on you. He answered questions from the journalists crowding outside the hospital, desperate for a statement, and refused requests from photographers trying to get a shot of you. There was something unusually warm and protective about the way he acted.

As you lay back, eyes closed to avoid making the headache worse, you heard his voice.

“You scared me, you know? I’ve never seen anything so…” He paused, searching for the right word. “So violent. Not since Jules. And when I saw the crash on the screen, I thought the worst.”

You opened your eyes and looked at him. There was sincerity in his face, something you hadn’t expected.

“I’m okay… sort of.” You tried to joke, but the pain turned it into a grimace.

“No, you’re not okay. But you will be. You have to be.”

As Charles stayed with you, messages started pouring in. Your phone sat on the bedside table, just out of reach, and Charles offered to read some.

“Everyone’s worried about you. Here’s one from Lando… and even one from Toto. Seems like the entire F1 world is waiting for you to get better.”

“Who else?” you asked, almost dreading the answer.

Charles scrolled through, his expression hardening briefly before softening again.

“Max,” he said simply.

Your heart stopped for a moment. You didn’t know what to expect. Since the accident, you’d assumed Max was too caught up in his own world to care, but the fact that he’d written at all was enough to twist your stomach.

“What does it say?” you asked, trying to sound indifferent, though you knew Charles could see right through you.

He hesitated before answering.

“‘Hope you’re okay. Sorry I wasn’t there sooner. Let me know if you need anything.’”

The neutrality of the words didn’t match the intensity of what you felt hearing them. You closed your eyes, trying to process it all. What did that message even mean? Was it just courtesy, or was there something more behind those words?

Charles noticed your discomfort and set the phone aside.

“You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to.”

“I won’t,” you said quickly, though part of you knew that wasn’t true.

As night fell, Charles finally said goodbye, promising to return the next day. There was something comforting about his presence, how he’d set aside any competitiveness or formality just to be there for you. Yet, when you were left alone, the thoughts began to overwhelm you.

The crash, the messages, the worries it all tangled into a mess of emotions you couldn’t unravel. The only thing clear was that while you were physically stable, emotionally, you were far from okay.

After that day in the hospital, Charles became a constant presence in your life. His support wasn’t limited to encouraging messages or occasional visits. He went beyond that. Where others saw a moral obligation or an opportunity to score points with the media, he saw something else: a chance to show you that you weren’t alone.  

The medical team made it clear you could return to racing, but not without certain restrictions. You had to stick to a strict combination of medications after every race: anti-inflammatories, painkillers, and supplements to manage the physical and mental stress you still felt after the accident. Charles was the first person to offer to help you with this. It wasn’t his responsibility, but he seemed to take on the role without hesitation.  

The first race after the accident was a mental and physical challenge. As you prepared to get back in the cockpit, fear swirled in your chest. The accident was fresh in your memory, and even though you knew you were capable, there was a shadow of doubt you couldn’t shake.  

The day before the race, Charles showed up at your hotel. He had a small bag in hand and a calm expression, almost as if it was meant to soothe you.  

"I thought you might need this," he said, placing the bag on the table.  

Inside, there was a box of relaxing tea, a small book about mental strategies in sports, and a handwritten note. When you opened it, you found a simple phrase: "You’re stronger than you think."  

"Thank u," you said, moved by the gesture.  

"You don’t have to thank me. I just want you to know I’m here, okay? If you need to talk, if you need anything..."  

You nodded, grateful for his sincerity. For a long time, you’d felt alone in this world. It was strange to realize someone was willing to stand by your side without asking for anything in return.  

Race day was a whirlwind. Even though you tried to stay calm, every time you sat in the car, the memory of the crash resurfaced. You gripped the steering wheel tightly, reminding yourself you’d done this thousands of times before, that you were capable—one of the best.  

The race wasn’t easy, but you finished in a solid fifth place, a result any other driver would’ve considered a success under the circumstances. When you got out of the car, exhausted but relieved, Charles was the first to approach you.  

"Well done," he said, patting your shoulder.  

After every race, Charles made sure you followed the medical protocol. Sometimes, when you forgot the pills, he’d show up holding the box, reminding you that your health came first.  

"How do you even know I haven’t taken them?" you asked one day, half-joking.  

"Because I know you well enough to know you hate depending on this stuff," he said with a smile, handing you the water and pills.  

It was strange how his presence had gone from sporadic to constant. He wasn’t just there for the serious moments; he also found ways to make you laugh, to lighten the weight on your shoulders.  

It wasn’t something you’d planned or even imagined after everything you’d been through, but your friendship with Charles was good for you. So much so that you felt comfortable asking him something after noticing he’d been off for a while. You’d seen his behavior become quieter than usual, even in the paddock, where he usually managed to keep up appearances in front of the cameras.  

"Are you okay? You seem... off."  

His response came almost immediately.  

"Do you have time to talk?"  

You invited him to your place, where you saw a different side of Charles. He’d shed his usual composure and looked... vulnerable, almost like the facade he kept in public had cracked.  

"Thanks for this," he said, sitting on the small couch as you handed him a bottle of water.  

"You don’t have to thank me, Charles. What’s going on?"  

He sighed, fiddling with the cap of the bottle before speaking.  

"It’s... complicated. Ferrari doesn’t feel like my team anymore."  

You frowned, surprised by his words.  

"What do you mean?"  

"Since Lewis joined this year, everything changed. I knew it would be different, it’s Lewis Hamilton, of course but I didn’t think it’d be like this," he confessed, his voice low, almost a whisper. "I feel like everything revolves around him. The strategies, the resources, even the engineers’ attention... It’s like I’m a shadow in my own team."  

You felt a pang in your chest hearing that. It was almost an exact replica of what you’d felt when you shared a team with him at Ferrari.  

"Charles... you don’t know how much I get it," you said, sitting across from him. "That feeling of being invisible, like your efforts don’t matter... I went through the same thing with you."  

He looked up, surprised by your honesty.  

"Really?"  

"Yeah. Do you remember all those team orders? All those moments where no matter how fast I was, they always put me aside to favor you. It’s... frustrating. It makes you question everything you do."  

Charles nodded slowly, processing your words.  

"I guess I never saw it from your perspective. I always thought the team’s decisions were fair, but now... now I know what it feels like."  

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees.  

"Charles, I know how hard this is. But what you need to remember is that your talent doesn’t depend on them. Ferrari is just one team, one stage in your career—it doesn’t define who you are as a driver."  

"How did you deal with it?" he asked, genuinely curious.  

"At first, I didn’t," you admitted. "I kept everything inside, let the frustration eat me up... until I couldn’t take it anymore. But I learned something: you can’t let them take away what you love about this sport. If Ferrari doesn’t value you the way they should, then prove your worth on the track. Force them to see you."  

Charles nodded slowly, as if your words were beginning to sink in.  

"It’s easier said than done," he said, with a bitter smile.  

"I know. But I also know you have the talent to do it."  

The conversation went on for hours, shifting from serious topics to shared memories and stories from your days at Ferrari. It was strange, but comforting, to share that space with him. He’d gone from being the rival who overshadowed you at your lowest to someone you could fully trust.  

When he finally stood to leave, Charles paused at the door and looked at you with an expression you hadn’t seen before.  

"Thank you for this. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you."  

"I’m always here. You know that."  

As the door closed behind him, you couldn’t help but smile. Charles was so much more than you’d ever thought. And somehow, he’d brought out the best in you too.

While you were helping Charles find his way in a team that relegated him to second place, you couldn’t ignore the fact that your own demons were still lurking. And, as if that wasn’t enough, Max remained a constant presence both on the track and in your personal life.  

Since your move to McLaren, the rivalry with Max had reached a new level. If before you shared moments of camaraderie and confidences, now every interaction was loaded with tension. And not just on the track.  

The championship was on fire. You and Max were leading the standings, swapping first and second place race after race. On every circuit, every corner, and every straight, it felt like only the two of you existed. It didn’t matter who else made it to the podium; the battle was always between you and him.  

During qualifying, both of you pushed to the limit, but an incident in Q3 left Max without a lap time. As soon as he got out of the car, Max stormed straight toward you, visibly furious.  

“What the hell was that?” he snapped, his voice sharp as he closed the distance between you in the paddock.  

“What was what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, though you knew exactly what he was referring to.  

“You blocked me on my flying lap.”  

“Max, you were too far behind when I started my lap. I didn’t block you.”  

“Of course you did!” he insisted, stepping even closer. His blue eyes burned with a mix of frustration and something else you couldn’t quite place.  

The argument caught the attention of journalists and members of both teams. You knew that one wrong word could make headlines the next day, so you chose to stay calm.  

“If you have a problem, take it up with the stewards, not me,” you said before turning and walking away, leaving Max with the words stuck in his throat.  

But the tension wasn’t confined to the track. It had started to bleed into your personal lives. Even though both of you tried to avoid each other outside of race weekends, coincidences were inevitable especially at sponsor events or official meetings.  

At one of these events, an FIA gala in Monaco, Max couldn’t resist looking for you in the crowd. When he finally spotted you, you were talking to Charles, laughing at something he’d said. The sight seemed to ignite something in Max, and he couldn’t hold back as he approached.  

“Can we talk?” he asked, cutting into the conversation.  

Charles glanced at you, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution, before stepping back to let you decide.  

“What do you want, Max?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral.  

“You and Charles, what’s going on between you two?” he asked quietly, though his tone carried an accusatory edge.  

“What kind of question is that?” you replied, crossing your arms.  

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing it, but… every time I see you two together, I can’t help thinking that…”  

“That what?” you interrupted, annoyed. “That maybe someone else can actually support me and understand me in this chaos that you chose to ignore?”  

Max pressed his lips together, clearly feeling the sting of your words. But instead of responding, he looked away and muttered:  

“You still know how to twist everything around.”  

The conversation was left unfinished, but the night didn’t end there. Later, as you tried to avoid him, you found Max alone on the terrace of the venue, staring out at the sea, his figure illuminated by the lights.  

“Why do you do this?” you asked, walking toward him. Your tone was no longer defiant but tired.  

“Do what?” he asked without looking at you.  

“Show up, disappear, demand things from me that you can’t even give yourself. You’re still with her, and yet…”  

Max closed his eyes, as if your words were too heavy to bear.  

“I don’t know how to handle this,” he admitted finally, turning to face you. “You and me… I don’t know how to handle it.”  

“Then maybe you should stop trying,” you said, though your voice cracked at the end.  

The silence between you was deafening. Too many unsaid emotions, too many decisions both of you refused to make. Finally, Max stepped back.  

“It’s easier said than done, isn’t it?”  

And with that, he left, leaving you alone on the terrace, feeling like the two of you were trapped in a vicious cycle neither of you knew how to escape.  

In the days that followed, you tried to focus on racing and your friendship with Charles, who had become a kind of refuge in the chaos. But every time you saw Max, every time your eyes met in the paddock, you felt the storm lingering, waiting for the right moment to break again.  

The rivalry on the track only grew more intense. Max and you raced as if every race was the last, as if the championship depended on who was stronger, more determined, more ruthless. But off the track, you both continued to grapple with the same internal conflict: what you felt for each other and what the world expected of you.  

You and Max were the top contenders for the title, and every race turned into a war. The media called it “the battle of the century,” comparing it to the legendary Senna-Prost rivalry. Every overtake, every strategy, every word in a press conference was scrutinized.  

At the Brazilian Grand Prix, things came to a head. From the first lap, the fight between you and Max was fierce. You knew every one of his tricks, every weakness, every strength. There were moments when the cars seemed to touch, pushing the limits of competition to the extreme.  

On lap 43, you attempted an overtake on the inside of Turn 1, but Max, in his trademark aggressive style, shut the door almost recklessly. Your front tires brushed his, and though both of you managed to maintain control, the incident was enough to set off commentators and social media.  

“This is unacceptable!” your engineer shouted over the radio. “We’re reporting it.”  

But you didn’t want to win the championship through a penalty.  

“Leave it. I’ll settle it on the track,” you said, with a determination that surprised even yourself.  

In the end, you finished second, behind Max, but the battle was epic. Fans were divided, some siding with you, others defending Max. But in your mind, one thought started to take root: maybe you’d had enough of this world.  

After that race, you decided to take a break. You flew back to your hometown to spend time with your family, seeking comfort in their presence. One night, sitting in the garden of your parents’ house, you opened up to your mom.  

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” you admitted, staring at the stars. “Every race feels like a battle not just on the track, but inside me, too.”  

Your mom, always wise and patient, looked at you with gentle understanding.  

“Then why do you keep going?”

You stayed silent for a moment, searching for the words.  

“Because it’s all I’ve ever known. Since I was a kid, my entire world has revolved around racing. But lately… lately, I feel like I want something more. I want a normal life, a family. I want to stop fighting all the time.”

“What’s stopping you?.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I don’t know what that life would look like, or who it would be with.”

It was the first time you’d said those words out loud. The idea of giving up Formula 1, of walking away from everything you’d worked so hard for, was terrifying but also freeing.  

You couldn’t help but think of Max. Even though your relationship was broken, and the rivalry had reached its peak, there was still something about him pulling you in. But the question that haunted you was: did he feel the same?  

Max was still with his partner, at least publicly. But his actions, his looks, even his comments during races, hinted at something more. Could you build a life with someone who seemed incapable of facing his own feelings?  

“Maybe it’s not Max,” you muttered to yourself that night, curled up on the couch in your childhood bedroom. “Maybe it’s someone else. Or maybe I just need to find myself first.”

When you returned to the paddock for the US Grand Prix, something had shifted inside you. You hadn’t made any final decisions, but you knew this chapter of your life was nearing its end. Still, as long as you were in F1, you were going to give it everything you had.  

In the pre-race interviews, journalists bombarded you with questions about your rivalry with Max.  

“Is it personal?,” one of them asked with a sly grin.  

“Everything in Formula 1 is personal,” you replied with a wry smile, offering no further explanation.  

Max, sitting next to you at the press conference, shot you a sideways glance but said nothing. The tension between you two was palpable, even in front of the cameras.  

That race turned into yet another head-to-head battle between the two of you. During the final laps, the radio chatter grew more intense.  

“He’s losing rear grip. Push him.”

“I already am!,” you snapped, pushing the car to its limit.  

In the last lap, you pulled off a risky overtake that left everyone stunned. You won the race, and as you stepped out of the car, you felt a mix of euphoria and exhaustion.  

While celebrating with your team, your thoughts drifted back to your conversation with your mom. Maybe this was the ending you’d been searching for, or maybe it was just the start of something new.  

Max watched you from the podium, his blue eyes filled with something you couldn’t decipher. In the crowd, you couldn’t help but wonder: could you ever leave it all behind, even him?  

The next race, under the scorching Qatar sun, felt heavier, both in the air and in the paddock. Everything about this second-to-last race of the season felt like a countdown to something inevitable. You and Max were tied in points, both neck and neck after a season of epic battles, controversies, and moments that had pushed you to the edge emotionally.  

The tension in the McLaren garage was palpable. Though your relationship with your team was excellent, you knew the pressure was on you. Lando tried to lighten the mood with his usual sense of humor, but even his energy couldn’t cut through the wall of your thoughts.  

“Come on, don’t be so serious. We could both use a win today,” he joked while adjusting his gloves.  

“Sure, but if you win, I won’t complain,” you replied with a faint smile, though you both knew that wasn’t true. This race meant everything to you.  

Meanwhile, Charles had sent a message that morning: ‘Remember, one race at a time. You can do this. You’ve already proven you’re the best.’ His unwavering support had become one of the few things keeping you mentally afloat during this emotional rollercoaster.  

From qualifying, it was clear this race would be another direct battle between you and Max. Both of you blocked every attempt the other made to set the fastest time, ending up on the front row: Max on pole, you in second.  

The start was clean but intense. From the first corner, Max showed his usual aggression, shutting you out in an attempt to stay ahead. But you knew this game; he had taught you how to play it. You used the slipstream on the main straight, and on lap five, you overtook him with a surgical move in turn 6.  

For a moment, the world seemed to stop as you led the race, but you knew the real battle had just begun.  

Midway through the race, things heated up. Teams began to play with strategies, and tire choices became crucial. On lap 32, as you exited the pits after a tire change, Max appeared beside you. The overtake that followed was so tight the two cars brushed slightly, sparking an explosion of shouting over the radio.  

“That was way too close!,” your engineer protested, but you were too focused to respond.  

Max didn’t back down. In the following laps, he kept relentless pressure on you, looking for any weakness in your defense. On lap 48, he attempted an inside overtake on a tight corner, but you managed to hold your position with a move that left everyone on the edge of their seats.  

In the final laps, your mind was torn between the adrenaline of the race and the mental exhaustion you’d been carrying all season. Max was glued to your diffuser, but he made a small mistake on the second-to-last corner, giving you just enough of a margin to cross the finish line first.  

Your team’s shout over the radio was deafening:  

“Victory! You’re incredible, what a race!.”

But you didn’t have time to celebrate. As you parked the car in parc fermé, reality hit you: this victory only meant you were still tied in points, and everything would come down to the final race.  

The journalists were in a frenzy. In the post-race press conference, the questions came at you like bullets.  

“How do you handle the pressure heading into the last race?.”

“Calmly. One race at a time.” you replied, echoing Charles’ words, even though calm was the last thing you felt.  

Max, sitting beside you, spoke after you.  

“I always knew this season would be decided in the end. I’m ready for it.”

His gaze met yours for a second, and in that brief moment, the tension between you two felt more personal than ever.  

Back at the hotel, you tried to disconnect, but it was impossible. Your mind raced, replaying every detail of the race and anticipating what was to come. Charles called to congratulate you but also to remind you to rest.  

“Don’t let this consume you, okay?,” he said, his tone serious but kind. “You’ve done an amazing job, and you have everything you need to win.”

“Thanks, Charles. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I don’t know what you’d do without me either,” he joked, managing to make you laugh.

However, when you hung up, you kept staring at the ceiling of your room, wondering if you were truly ready to face everything the final race was about to bring.  

Even though you hadn’t seen Max since the press conference, you knew he was just as restless as you. Despite everything that had happened between you two, you couldn’t help but think about him, about how this rivalry had consumed everything you once shared.  

Is this really what you wanted? To keep fighting, keep competing, keep losing yourself in the process?  

You closed your eyes, trying to calm your thoughts. Just one race left. One final battle. And after that, maybe you’d finally have the answers you’d been searching for.  

The last week of the season was a whirlwind of emotions, preparations, and a tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. The entire paddock was on edge. Everything would be decided in Abu Dhabi.  

Escaping the media’s attention was impossible. Cameras followed you everywhere, looking for any reaction that could turn into a headline. The atmosphere at McLaren was optimistic but tense. You’d brought the team to its highest point in years, and that was already a monumental achievement. But for you, it wasn’t enough. You wanted that title.  

During the press conferences, the questions were relentless. You and Max were the center of attention. Though both of you kept calm outwardly, the discomfort between you was obvious. Every word, every gesture was analyzed by the journalists.  

“How do you feel heading into this decisive race?” they asked you during one of the press rounds.  

“Focused. This is what we’ve worked for all year. I just want to do my job and see what happens,” you replied diplomatically, though inside your heart was racing.  

Max, sitting next to you, simply said:  

“I’m focused too. We both know what’s at stake. May the best win.”  

There was a moment when your eyes met, but it was fleeting. There were so many words left unsaid between you, and the weight of that silence felt unbearable.  

In the final strategy meeting with your team, the tension was palpable. You knew every decision would matter, every detail could be the difference between winning and losing. Your race engineer, always meticulous, reviewed the plans calmly, but even you could tell he was nervous.  

“I believe in you. You’ve proven you can do this,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder before you left the garage.  

Lando, on the other hand, tried to lighten the mood with a joke.  

“If you don’t win, can I keep the consolation trophy?” he said with a cheeky grin.  

“There won’t be a consolation trophy,” you replied with a smirk.  

That day, Yas Marina Circuit was lit up like a jewel in the desert, and the atmosphere was electric. Before getting in the car, you took a moment for yourself. You took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and visualized every corner, every move. You knew you had to give it everything.  

The anthem played, and the world seemed to pause for a moment. Max was beside you on the grid. Though you didn’t speak, you could feel his presence, his energy. You both knew this race wasn’t just about the championship but also everything that had happened between you.  

The start was flawless. From the first corner, you and Max were locked in an intense battle. Neither of you gave an inch. Every lap was a fight, every overtake a statement. The rest of the drivers might as well have been racing in a different category; it was as if this championship was meant to be decided between just the two of you.  

On lap 35, a slow pit stop almost cost you the race, but you quickly recovered, overtaking Max in a spectacular move on lap 42. The crowd went wild.  

But Max wasn’t going to give up. On lap 50, he took the lead back, forcing you slightly off the track. It was an aggressive move, but clean—classic Max.  

In the final five laps, both of you were at the limit. Your hands trembled slightly from the adrenaline, but your focus was unshakable. In the penultimate lap, you found a gap on the main straight and passed Max on the inside. This time, he had no answer.  

When you crossed the finish line, the world seemed to stop for a moment before exploding in celebration. You’d done it. You were a world champion.  

Your team screamed over the radio, their voices full of tears and joy.  

“You’re the world champion! You did it!”  

As you climbed out of the car, the emotions overwhelmed you. Your team surrounded you, celebrating. Lando was one of the first to hug you, shouting:  

“I told you! I knew you’d do it!”  

As you stood with your team, your eyes instinctively searched for Max. He was there, watching you from a distance. Slowly, he approached, his steps a mix of pride and resignation.  

When he reached you, he extended his hand.  

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice calm but heavy with emotion.  

“Thanks, Max,” you replied, shaking his hand. For a moment, his eyes reflected something that looked like regret, but he said nothing more. He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.  

That night was magical. There was laughter, tears, toasts. The tension of the entire season melted away in a whirlwind of emotions. Charles called to congratulate you, and his genuine happiness was like a balm to your heart.  

“I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you,” he said, his voice full of sincerity.  

As the celebration went on, you took a moment to reflect. You’d reached the pinnacle of the world, but you knew this was just the beginning of a new chapter in your life. The future was full of uncertainty, but that night, you decided to enjoy the present, savoring every moment of your triumph.  

The emotional hangover the next day was overwhelming. It wasn’t physical, nor from the celebration, but a deep emptiness you hadn’t expected to feel after achieving the dream of your life. You’d won the Formula 1 World Championship, the peak of your career, but instead of feeling complete, you felt lost.

You woke up in your hotel room, sunlight streaming through the curtains. Around you, there were remnants of the celebration: a half-empty champagne glass on the table, the dress you wore last night carelessly thrown over a chair. The trophy, shiny and imposing, sat on the nightstand, but as you looked at it, you didn’t feel the euphoria you’d imagined for years.  

You got up and walked to the mirror. The reflection staring back at you was different from the one you were used to. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion from the season; it was something deeper a sense of disconnect with yourself.  

You spent the morning avoiding your phone, even though you knew the notifications had to be flooding in. Messages of congratulations, articles from the media, videos of the highlights... but you weren’t ready to face it yet. Instead of feeling celebrated, you felt isolated.  

The idea had been lingering in your mind for weeks, maybe even months. The crash, the endless emotional struggles, the pressure to always be the best... it had all left its mark. And now, after achieving what you’d always dreamed of, you realized something: you didn’t want to keep going anymore.  

During breakfast with your parents, you decided to share your thoughts. You’d avoided bringing it up before, afraid of their reactions, but now felt like the right time.  

“I’ve been thinking about something... important,” you said, breaking the silence while fiddling with your coffee mug.  

Your mom looked at you with concern.  

“Are you okay? Does this have to do with Formula 1?”  

You shook your head.  

“No… well, partly, yes. Like I said, I’ve been reflecting, and I think... I don’t want to keep racing anymore.”  

The silence that followed was heavy. Your dad, ever the pragmatic one, was the first to speak.  

“Are you sure? You’ve worked your whole life for this.”  

“I know, Dad. But I’ve also given it everything I had. And now I feel like if I keep going, it’ll just be out of habit, not because I really want to.”  

Your mom took your hand.  

“We’ve always wanted you to be happy, no matter what you do. If you feel this is the time to stop, we’ll support you.”  

That conversation was the turning point. Over the following days, you talked to your team, Lando, and even Charles, who, although surprised, understood your decision. Lando tried to convince you to stay for one more year.  

“Are you really going to leave me here alone? We were just starting to have fun!” he joked, though there was genuine sadness in his eyes.  

“It’s your time, Lando. I’m sure you’ll do amazing things,” you replied, hugging him.  

Charles, on the other hand, was more serious.  

“I didn’t see this coming, but I get it. Just… promise me you won’t disappear completely.”  

“I won’t. I’ll always be here, even if it’s just as a spectator.”  

That same night, after hours of figuring out how to word it, you sat in front of the camera in your room. You were nervous, not about the decision, but about how the world would react. You wore a simple t-shirt, your hair tied back. You wanted the message to be honest, without distractions.  

‘Hi, everyone. I know this isn’t the video you were expecting after the incredible season we just had, but I wanted to share something important with you...’

You took a deep breath before continuing.  

‘I’ve decided to retire from Formula 1. This year has been the most exciting but also the most exhausting of my life. Winning the championship was a dream come true, but it also made me realize it’s time to close this chapter and start a new one.’

You paused, letting your words sink in.  

‘This wasn’t an easy decision. Formula 1 has been my life for so many years that I barely remember what it was like before. But I also know I want other things. I want time for myself, for my family, to explore who I am outside of this sport.’

Your voice wavered slightly, but you kept going.  

‘I want to thank my team, my teammates, my rivals, and, of course, the fans. Without your support, none of this would’ve been possible.’

When you finished, you turned off the camera and fell onto the bed. It wasn’t immediate relief, but there was something freeing about putting an end to that chapter.  

The video was released the next day and, as expected, caused a storm. The media debated your decision, fans flooded social media with messages of support and gratitude, and some even expressed disbelief.  

Charles sent you a text:  

“I saw it. I’m proud of you. You’ll do amazing things, no matter where you go.”  

And Max, who had avoided talking to you since the last race, also sent a short message:  

“You were the best. I always knew it. I hope you find what you’re looking for and that you forgive me.”  

Even though his words were few, they left a lump in your throat.  

That night, while staring at the stars from your balcony, you realized that, even though the future was uncertain, you were ready to face it.  

Weeks passed since your decision, and life finally seemed to find its rhythm. The constant noise of racing and the pressure to be the best slowly faded. But deep down, you felt like something or someone was still missing.  

Your house, now quieter than ever, became your sanctuary. You spent those days focusing on yourself, resting, discovering what you truly liked outside the track. But even in the peace of your own thoughts, Max lingered in your mind. He wasn’t a constant thought, but you’d remember him, especially when news of his breakup with his girlfriend started circulating. That, unexpectedly, stirred something in you, a knot in your stomach.  

Late one night, your phone buzzed. The name on the screen made you hesitate for a second. Max.  

The message was short, direct.  

“Can I see you? I need to talk to you.”  

You didn’t think much about it. You knew this conversation needed to happen eventually. You’d been avoiding it, but now it felt like the universe was putting it in your path.  

You agreed to meet at your house the next day, and when the door opened, there he was. Max, with that intense, direct gaze that had known you for years. Now, though, there was something different something more vulnerable.  

“Hi,” he said, his voice softer than usual.  

You invited him in, and he settled on the couch like it was his own home. The silence between you was heavy, filled with unresolved emotions.  

“I don’t know where to start,” he began, with a nervous smile.  

“Neither do I,” you replied, sitting across from him.  

The two of you just sat there, watching each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Finally, Max spoke.  

“Breaking up with her... wasn’t easy. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I couldn’t keep lying to myself. The truth is… I never stopped thinking about you.”  

Your heart skipped a beat, and a lump formed in your throat. You didn’t know what to say. Max, always so sure of himself, seemed completely different now.  

“Max... I don’t know what you want me to say. We’ve been on such different paths. You… always so focused on F1, on competing… and me too. Things were never easy between us, and now… I don’t know if any of this makes sense.”  

He nodded, understanding what you meant.  

“I know. I’ve been an idiot. I thought I could keep everything under control, but in the end… I lost what mattered most.”  

He looked at you intently, and in his eyes was a sincerity that made you question everything you’d been thinking until that moment.  

“But that doesn’t mean I forgot about you. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about what we had. If anything, it’s taken me time to realize that… maybe there’s something here we never really figured out.”  

You stayed silent, processing his words. The tension was thick, but something in his voice made you want to listen, even though you knew the situation was complicated.  

“And what is it that you want, Max?” you asked, your voice a bit shaky.  

“I don’t know,” he admitted with a small, sad smile. “I’m not asking you to forgive me or to go back to what we had. But I think… we should at least try. Not now, not right away, but… maybe we can see what happens, without the pressures of F1, without everything that kept us apart.”  

You got up and walked to the window, staring outside without really seeing anything. Max watched you from the couch, waiting for your response. The atmosphere between you had shifted somehow, and for the first time, it felt like you had both let go of the fight to always be the best.  

You turned to look at him.  

“I’m not sure I’m ready to start something new. After all, I made the decision to retire for a reason, Max. I’ve spent so much time on F1 that now I need to rediscover myself. And I don’t know what I want.”  

Max got up from the couch, slowly approaching you.  

“I get it. I’m not expecting it to be easy, or for everything to be resolved right now. But I want you to know I’m not pressuring you. I just… wanted you to know that, no matter what happens, I’ll be here. And if someday you decide what we had is worth another shot, I’ll be ready to try, no matter the past.”  

A deep silence followed his words. You knew there was still so much to figure out between the two of you, but something about his attitude, about his willingness to wait, struck a chord within you.  

You didn’t say anything else. You walked toward him, and for a moment, words weren’t necessary. The look in your eyes said it all. Still, there were no promises, no certainties just a silent understanding that, maybe, the future could be different. Maybe even together.  

“We’ll see what happens,” you finally said.  

Max nodded, not pushing, knowing that time would have to decide the course for both of you. And with that response, the future remained suspended between you, open, uncertain, but carrying a possibility that hadn’t existed before.

[hibiscusseaart]

yesterday i had a glorious fucking migraine and i had thoughts about au of the time travel tobirama au

basically what if Tobirama fails and dies like about a year after the marriage with Madara. Konoha is building and everything, everyone is happy and then Tobirama fucking dies.

I didn't think of the reason, but maybe he was killed in battle or smth. Maybe by some clan like idk Shimura :)

(prob bc of Black Zetsu)

So, expectedly, Madara loses his fucking mind and it's even worse than when Izuna died, cuz they're supposed to be at peace what the fuck. Madara tries to raze the entire clan responsible for his sweet husband's death.

Hashirama doesn't let him do that and Madara leaves the village, where Black Zetsu catches onto him.

So basically, canon, but Tobirama was never Niidaime and Izuna lived.

The second Hokage would be, idk, Itama, who's fucking terrified and he didn't signed up for this shit!

But yeah, he's the Niidaime and he does everything in his power to implement everything Tobirama wanted to do for the village. And it's a lot. A LOT. Honestly like the dude knew he's gonna be a Hokage one day, he left MANY notes.

Itama appoints Kagami as his successor, cuz that's what Tobirama would want.

Danzo, being a bitch at the Uchiha clan, since Madara had a huge beef with his clan, kills Kagami, takes his eyes, makes it mission accident yada-yada, Itama appoints Hiruzen the next Hokage.

Idk why Itama left the position, but he never wanted it anyway. He did everything his brother wanted and peaced out to go smoke.

So, the canon happens.

The 4th war happens.

Orochimaru raises the dead Hokage, but not only him, Tobirama is there too, since he was super smart and his personal fav.

"Oh fuck, not again," Tobirama said, hiding his face in his hand. Everyone thought that's about the time Orochimaru made him fight in the Konoha crush on chuunin exams. He choose him over Itama, cuz even though Itama is a good Hokage, but he's a healer for the most part and not that useful on the battlefield.

Sasuke asks his questions and then he asks Tobirama.

"Uchiha Tobirama. The history says that you were married off to the Uchiha clan, to Madara, against your will and then took the suicide mission after a year in marriage. Is this true? You hated the Uchiha so much that you killed yourself?"

"I did what"

"Well, you were the one who created Uchiha Police Force..." Orochimaru said.

"First of all, I planned it to go further than the Uchiha and to supervise it myself. At the first stages it was supposed to be only Uchiha because it was one of the most competent clans to do this job and my clan that I trusted. Second of all, 'against my will'? Seriously?! I did not chase Madara since I was 9 to write our marriage off as a political marriage! What the fuck!"

Everyone, except Hashirama and Itama looked shocked at this confession.

"Where IS my husband? Trying to avenge my death to the whole world?"

"Uh, yeah.."

"Of fucking course. I should've left him a note specifically saying that he needs to be in the fucking village and take care of our clan. Now what? Our clan is just one a vengeful child!"

Tobirama paused, feeling up the battlefield.

"And one more Uchiha who lost his shit. Of fucking course"

Everyone shocked, cuz Tobirama had a reputation who hated Uchiha, cuz his brother married him off to them as a peace offering. Then Sasuke makes Hashirama talk about all this talk about village, Hokage, shinobi yada yada yada

Senju brothers are PISSED at Hiruzen and Danzo (thank fuck he's dead right). Hiruzen looked remorseful and said that he knew that everyone expected Kagami to become Hokage and not him.

Ok, so!

Tobirama was the fastest one to rush to the battle field. He had a feral husband to calm down.

He arrived and just stood before Madara, who froze in shock.

"Husband, come here," Tobirama said, opening his arms. Alliance is just standing there gaping cuz what the fuck

Madara didn't notice Tobirama at first, since he masked his chakra by habit. But even then he was exited to meet Hashirama and fight once more. But then he sees Tobirama and FUCK all these plans, his huband is here!!!

Madara just crushed into Tobirama. He had no idea that Tobirama could've been edo tensei'ed the whole time!

"Calm down, dear. What have you done here?" Tobirama asked, petting his husband's hair.

"I just wanted to bring you back..."

"Oh dear... You stupid, stupid man," Tobirama shook his head and kissed him, while the whole Alliance watches shocked.

And this is a story how Tobirama stopped the 4th war singlehandedly.

Ofc there's Obito, but they sic Naruto on him and it's all good. Though Black Zetsu tried something, but Tobirama is fucking READY for him. He will avenge his husband's sanity.

Before they go to Pure Lands again, Tobirama said to Tsunade, Kakashi and Naruto "Fucking fix your history books! I love my husband since I was 9!" (he actually didn't, but no one should know about it, okay)

And Madara is there just clinging to Tobirama with all his body and refusing to let go. He doesn't care about Eternal Tsukuyomi anymore, cuz he can hug his husband once more.

Migraine AUs sure are interesting

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Nik flies. Ghost pines. Price... considers.

cw: hints of a future polyamorous relationship.

“Whit's he daein'?” Soap asked, folding his arms and legs as he watched Nik in the near distance.

Price looked up from the report in his lap, roll up twitching between his lips. Nik was pacing back and forth, fists, hands and arms moving in rhythmic, practised motions in front of his chest, by his hips, occasionally twisting behind him. But there was no opponent, only the imaginary one in Nik's head in the shape of the jet he was about to fly. “Shadowboxin.”

“Aye, ah c’n see tha’, sir. How come?”

Simon shifted on Price's right. He had been watching Nik with a palpable hunger. Even with his mask, the intensity of his gaze was hard to miss. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost husky. Like he was wading out of deeper, warmer thoughts. “Trainin’ exercise to practice his spatial awareness, coordination, and muscle memory before gettin’ in the cockpit. That thing ain’t his Black Hawk. Whole different animal. Second fastest jet in service.”

“That thing? S’massive. Na wey it kin shift. He'd ‘ave more fun in an F-15.”

The Foxbat was the size of a World War II heavy bomber — nine feet longer than an Avro Lancaster, two and a half feet taller than a B-24 and with a gross weight almost twenty-seven thousand pounds heavier than a Boeing B-17. Price had seen old black and white photographs on Nik's phone of Soviet technicians servicing the damn thing; they’d looked like toy soldiers scurrying around in its shadow.

The ride in the MiG-25 was a gift from Laswell as a thank you for Nik's help on a black op. Not even Price knew much about it, but it had to have been gnarly for her to pull this many strings. The Foxbat was fully fuelled and Nik's flight plan had been filed. Nik was going to throw that tank of an aircraft around the skies like he was twenty-two again, and he'd been vibrating with excitement during the walk out.

“Big man, big plane,” Simon murmured, “and he's got’a special attachment to it, even though it's a bit shite.”

Price plucked his cigarette from his mouth and tapped the ash onto the concrete by his thigh, considering Simon closely. There had been a change in him recently, especially around Nik. He spent a lot of time watching Nik - all out staring, as Simon was prone to do - standing close to him during briefings, finding reasons to talk to him in down time. He was flirting without realising it. Price knew why. Nik had told him about the hair incident, and asked whether there was any possibility of enticing Simon into a little more.

Honestly? Price had laughed at the time. ‘Better chance of gettin’ a gobby off of Makarov’ had been his exact words. But now that he had watched Simon around Nik for a month, he wasn't so sure his initial assessment was accurate. Even now, his body was enticed towards Nik. His arms were folded but his posture was open, upper back against the wall but hips in Nik's direction, his feet spread, shifting and twitching like there was something bubbling beneath his skin.

“Oh aye? Why's he so keen on it then?” Soap asked, giving Simon the side eye. The sergeant wasn't thick; he'd seen it too.

“Foxbat scared the Americans shitless during the Cold War. They got these spy satellite photos showin’ that beast, engine intakes the size of small cars. Big wings, potential for more maneuverability ‘an the F-4 Phantom II. But a pilot called Viktor Belenko defected and showed her to be a dud. Wife divorcin’ him, disaffected with communist society. In 1976, he left his sortie and went to Japan. Landed at Hakodate, overran the runway, shut down with only thirty seconds of fuel remainin’. Handed ‘em a brand new Foxbat and a fockin’ trainin’ manual to dissect.”

Simon rattled it all off without pause, and Price had to fight his grin to keep his expression passive. Well, that bloody well confirmed it. Simon had hyperfixated on the plane that Nik treasured. There were probably several more encyclopedias worth of knowledge on the damn thing in his head, ready to use with Nik later. That was how Simon tried to connect with people; shitty jokes and learning about them through what they loved.

“‘Ow the fuck d’ye know all that?” Soap asked, smirking. He'd sussed it too.

“I read,” Simon said dryly. “Try it some time.”

“Och, baltic, sir.” Soap sniffed, head tilting the other way. “So, he feels some kinda kindred spirit with Belenko.”

Simon shrugged. “Maybe. Or he's a fockin’ plane nerd and flyin’ that thing would be like the old man wankin’ over those Nortons at Bletchley Park.”

“Yeah, wondered when it'd be my turn,” Price growled, rolling his eyes.

“At least it dunnae need a drip tray and a prayer to stay together, eh?”

“Ya tolkin’ about Price or the bikes?” Simon's head lolled to the side as he spoke, tone rife with wry amusement.

Soap cackled, and Price slapped the folder closed in his lap. “Olrigh’, can it, ya muppets.”

“Aye, sir. Ah, look, mus’ be his slot.”

They watched the Foxbat taxi down the runway under the direction of the flight crew, their exaggerated hand gestures and bouncing completely alien to the three soldiers sitting by the hanger but clearly recognisable to Nik, who made a hand gesture in return before he looked forward.

Price returned his cigarette to his mouth, leaning back to watch Nik climb the jet as the flight crew assembled. Time to take off. Nik bounced a little on his toes before he hauled himself up to the cockpit, shoving the headset and helmet on, aviators still in place because Nik was absolutely permitted his cornier foibles. This was a dream come true for him. Laswell had outdone herself.

Price grabbed the ear defenders nearby and chucked another set across to Soap; Simon was already prepared. The engines roared into life, making the air shimmer with heat and power, and the big jet accelerated down the runway, leaving the tarmac in one of the smoothest take offs Price had ever seen. Well, of course it was; it was Nik after all.

The Foxbat disappeared above the clouds quickly and Price glanced over at Simon. He didn't move until the grey smudge reappeared against the open skies further to the east. The jet rolled and banked, ascending almost vertical for a stall turn that made even Price's belly do a little flip. It shot back past the hanger, the sound of its engines lagging behind its visible position as Nik pushed it hard. Price wished he could hear Nik whooping and rambling in Russian; air traffic control were probably feeling a little uneasy.

Simon never dropped his chin. He remained stoic, his arms folded, but his mind was up in the clouds with Nik. They both were. The difference was that Price knew he would be unzipping that flight suit later and enjoying everything underneath, whereas Simon would deprive himself for fear of being hurt, no matter how much he wanted it. Price hummed, stubbing out his cigarette. Perhaps it was time to indulge Nik’s curiosity, and his own carefully managed and suppressed feelings. Simon wasn't the only one who had denied the obvious for self preservation.

Eventually, the flight had to come to an end. Nik brought the Foxbat down gently, the landing gear screeching against the tarmac briefly as Nik negotiated the short runway. He taxied back round to park her almost exactly where he had pulled away from, and Price smirked as the cockpit popped open and a jubilant Russian bounced up with a roar of triumph, big arms in the air.

Ghost stooped down to his bag and Price heard the tinkle of glass as he removed his ear defenders. Simon clutched four empty glasses in his big hands and jutted his chin at the Foxbat as he glanced down at Price. “Comin’?”

“Lead the way,” Price said, grunting as he rolled to his feet.

“Ey, where's the liquor?” Soap asked as he followed.

“Mechanics used t’ call this thing the Flyin’ Restaurant,” Price said. “The air-conditioning relies on evaporation of distilled water an’ about two hundred and forty litres of pure grain alcohol. She's still got some’uv the brew in her tank."

Soap’s nose wrinkled. “Ye hae tae be jokin’. Yer gonnae drink outta the feckin’ jet?”

“Abso-fockin’-lutely,” Simon said.

Nik greeted them with all the energy of an excited puppy, gesturing at the jet and spilling in and out of Russian and English like his brain was struggling to come down from the sky. His face lit up further when he spotted the glasses in Simon's hands, slapping the lieutenant on the shoulder with a surprised, booming laugh.

The air crew left them to it and Nik did the honours. It helped that the small bowsers used to refill the air-conditioning system had conveniently placed spigots to tap the Foxbat-shaped keg.

“Poyekhali!” Nik said before he knocked back his mouthful of Foxbat bloody moonshine. Soap choked and coughed on his, and Simon grunted in discomfort.

Price grinned, toasting his own. “Za zdorovye, comrade.” He took a deep breath before downing the lot. Oh it bloody burned.

[acotarxreader]

Stress Relief

Azriel X Reader

Synopsis: Working for the Night Court has become near impossible with Azriel determined to drive you out the door but can a camping trip arranged by Rhys smooth things over.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, smut, frenemies to lovers, lots of dialogue, if you see a typo no you didn't

A/N: Hehe this kinda long but I wanted to keep the chaos to one part. I'm finding writing since Other Worlds a bit stressy so I think posting this nonsense will help with that and we can return to out regularly scheduled programming. Let me know what you think!

Requests open! (I am working on your Cass request if you see this anon👀 )

----------------------------------------------------------------

“YN you need to fucking relax”

“I suggest that you keep quiet Azriel if you'd like to keep your head attached to your shoulders” Azriel rolled his eyes at you from the couch as you paced up and down, trusty list in hand. 

“I’m just saying you’ll give yourself a heart attack”

“Hey! Do you want me to add your name to this list!”

“Az would only want to be on it if it's your To Do list” A pillow flew from alongside Azriel right at Cassian as he howled. 

“I’ll relax once we get there”

“Why do you get so fucking neurotic when it comes to travelling?”

“Why are you so fucking anno-”

“Okay okay stop it you too! We promised Feyre no fighting on Rhy’s big camping trip, she’s already upset Elain won’t come, just don’t add to her stress” You and Azriel groaned like scolded children at Cassian’s words. You counted the bags again, checking off your list as you went. Azriel stood to grab his bag, coming chest to chest with you before pushing past.

“I’m flying ahead because I can’t be around her uptight ass anymore”

“Aw you look at my ass” you smiled sarcastically as Cassian laughed in the background. 

-

You all finally arrived deep within the woods of the Night Court, luggage crashing down around the group. You couldn’t stop thinking that you had forgotten everything, glancing from the list to the pile repeatedly, your friends happily unpacking. The night had already begun to creep in, Azriel and you delaying the group by fighting about which was the fastest route to take. You busied yourself fixing up some of the tents as Azriel dug through the pile of bags in search of his own. 

“YN, what’s the plan for us sleeping together?”

“Excuse me?” you deadpaned to Azriel. 

“Sor-Sorry I meant the plan for sleeping?” he quickly corrected himself, his shadows doing their best to cover his rosie cheeks. 

“Well, Feyre & Rhysand, Cassian & Nesta, Amren & Mor and then I guess you and Lucien and then I get my own tent” you beamed, shaking a sleeping bag from its case. 

“Funny how that worked out isn't it” he remarked and you rolled your eyes but the group agreed to the sleeping arrangements, with further prodding for Lucien to agree. 

You gathered around the fire, feasting on the fire-roasted food Cassian did his best not to cremate, trading life stories in pure unadulterated ease, everything Rhysand had wanted for this trip. You swaddled yourself deeply into your sleeping bag as the fire began to sink beneath its tinder. 

“Do you regret leaving Summer Court for us YNN?” 

“I think I love the Night Court more than I ever could Summer” You smiled in reply to Cassian, your eyes flashing to Rhysand briefly before he launched into his favourite Tarquin story, Azriel noticing the fleeting glance seemingly tinged with an element of sadness. 

“You like it even though being an emissary to the Seasonal Courts clearly makes you want to pull your hair from your head?” Azriel whispered to you. 

“You and your antics are the only thing that causes me to do that, I seriously think you need a refresher training on diplomacy” you bit back to his sharp whisper. You had shared the job with Lucien but soon found yourself taking on the brunt of the work as Lucien was lost in Elain.

“You need to stop being so uptight seriously, I think you need to be fucked or something, anything to get you to relax” Your head whipped towards him, the group laughing at Rhysand's story, choosing to ignore the two of you, assuming it was an argument. You huffed out in disgust at Azriel, he watched your chest release the full capacity of air from your lungs before taking another deep breath. You shuffled slightly in the sheet, wrapping the sleeping bag tighter around yourself and facing back towards the fire. It was then Azriel realised he was fully staring at your chest. 

“I didn't…I didn't mean that I want to be the one to….fuck you…I meant …” 

“Just stop talking Az” you scoffed, choosing to listen to Rhysand instead as Azriel mentally cursed himself for losing his edge over you. The fire sank until it went out, the laughter from the group lighting the forest. 

“Okay, it's like 2am, time for bed kids especially if we’re going for the hike tomorrow” Rhysand stood, pulling a sleepy Feyre to her feet. The group said their good nights as you climbed into your canvas home. You stretched along the fabric floor and sank into sleep easily, tired from the day as you balled up in your opened-out sleeping bag. 

-

“Hey! YNN! Wake up!” 

“I swear to the Gods you better be a super polite Naga about to rip my head off otherwise you’ll wish you were” you breathed out without opening your eyes, the sound of your tent zip worse than a blaring alarm to your sleepy state. 

“It’s Az, I need to sleep in here, push over” he collapsed next to you without invitation, your hand sailing outwards to clock him flat into the chest with a thud. 

“Az, what the fuck? It's like 3am, get the fuck out we’re not braiding one another's hair!” you whisper-shouted at him while you sat up. 

“Lucien is snoring like he’s trying to deafen me and I don’t fancy interrupting Mor and Amrens beauty sleep and as for the mates, I don’t need to explain why I don’t want to go in there” you sighed at him as he gave you a look that said he wasn’t going anywhere. You sank back into the canvas, Azriel pulling the sleeping bag from you. 

“Az” you bit out. 

“I’m not going to freeze to death because you’re a blanket thief”

“You’re going to find yourself on the other side of the zip if you don’t go to sleep” you said, rolling into the slack of the sleeping bag, pulling it fully from Azriel. He almost grunted at the action, catching the end and whipping it from under you, sending you rolling into the wall of the tent. 

“Az!” you barked and he raised his hands up in surrender. You sank beneath the cover again, moving closer to Azriel to spread the sleeping bag more evenly. Azriels eyes fixed on the mesh vents on the tent roof, the sound of the night filling the tent.

“Do you ever think you’ll go back to the Summer Court?” Azriel broke the silence that filled the tent, you sighed before replying. 

“If you keep being a prick then maybe” you deflected the question successfully.

“I’m a prick because I care” You laughed at his joking tone, rolling to your side to face him more, hands tucked in under your cheek. 

“As much stress as you and Cass and your antics cause me, which is a lot might I add, I would find it very hard to leave you freaks” you half laughed, eyes still heavy. 

“We’d miss you” he admitted

“I mean who would keep your secrets from one another if not me” you teased. 

“What secrets?” you tapped the side of your nose lazily and Azriel nudged you slightly in annoyance at your grin. 

“Fine fine emmm.... Cass is the one who told all those females in the Rita's where to find you when you were home” you yawned into a light laugh. Azriel felt annoyance grow in him at this revelation, that had caused him months of being harassed by all sorts from every walk of life. 

“I swear I’m going t-”

“Just leave it Shadowsinger” you gave a small laugh, grabbing his hand as he went to leave the nest you’d both made, pulling him back down and forgetting to let go, you lost your fight to sleep then, entirely drifting back off. Azriel glanced at you sleeping peacefully next to him and found himself surprised at enjoying holding your hand beneath the sleeping bag. 

Azriel stayed awake for half an hour, staring up at the canvas above him, torn between the growing pain in his shoulder and not wanting to let go of your hand. The nerves felt like they were screaming as the muscles went dead in his arm, an idea coming to him. He quickly rolled towards you while releasing your hand and grabbing the other but he greatly misjudged the distance, sending his head straight into yours. You almost immediately dropped his hand to place it on the bump growing on your head, Azriel feeling regret for waking you but more so for letting you go. 

“You're such a freak Shadowsinger” You laughed half asleep before rolling in closer to him and draping your arm across his waist, pulling yourself closer to him softly, resting your head between the pillow and his chest. Azriel felt such an unfamiliar level of comfort at the movement but also a new level of confusion. 

You moved from next to him then, leaning on your elbow to prop yourself up and look at him as puzzled as he looked at you. 

“Sorry I-I don't know why I did that”

“Emm it’s okay YN…it was actually kinda comfortable…I’m ok-ay if you’re okay with it” he spoke the words with caution and you found a sigh of relief leave you that you didn’t know you had. You rolled away from Azriel to face the tent wall, his face slightly greying with nerves, had he been vulnerable to the wrong person? He braced for your rejection only for it not come, instead you shuffled slightly down and laid your back flat into his chest. Azriel cautiously moved his arm across your waist, only to have you catch hold of his hand and move it across faster, forgetting to release his hand again. 

Azriel nestled his chin on top of your head, pulling you in as close as he could as you both tangled your legs together. He felt so entirely comforted by how close you were to him…too close he thought suddenly. He shuffled in the bed a little to try to hide the part of him betraying any sense of secrecy he had about his changing feelings towards you. You just moved back to where you were, leaving him no place to hide. Azriel felt your whole body smirk against him as you traced little circles along the back of his hand with your thumb, he hated how you were winning. 

“You’re not hard for me to read Azriel” he definitely heard the smirk from you. He refused to let you win, he tried to push the embarrassment from his voice before speaking again-

“Well I hardly think that's surprising, I already told you what I think needs to happen for you to relax” he barely whispered, your body's turn to stiffen in the bed alongside him, he smiled with the point he won. 

Azriel slowly moved to hover his mouth above your neck, both so still in the movement that he could almost see the hairs on your neck stand on their end. He gave little thought to his next movement, now acting on his instinct as he met your neck almost painfully softly. He kissed you there until you found your neck flexing to allow him more access. A betraying soft moan of approval escaped you as Azriel smiled into the nips he gave you, gaining a further point advantage. 

You couldn’t let him hold the win for long as you began to push yourself into his growing length, a low growl escaping him before he reburied himself in your neck, more feverishly this time. Your hand wrapped tighter around his as you began to grind into him, encouraging him further. You rolled onto your back, Azriel now almost hovering over you and moved without thinking. He leaned down and met his lips with yours. Electric, you were electrifying one another. This night was going further than you both thought it would. Sex was one thing but kissing someone like that and feeling such overwhelming desire as a result was another thing. You both separated almost surprised at the waves of confusion mixed with yearning. 

“I-I didn’t mean to… I shouldn’t have…” Azriel didn’t know what he was saying, almost begging you with his eyes to say anything. 

“I-” you were cut off by the sound of Lucien's loud sneeze from across the fire pit causing you both to almost jump. It hit you both then what you were about to do, with all your friends mere metres away. 

“Night Azriel” was all you found yourself saying before rolling back to face the wall of the tent, not taking his arm with you. Azriel cursed in his head before lying back down on the canvas. He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, the thought of what could have been controlling his thoughts. He didn’t think you were asleep either but didn’t challenge you on it, what had you both done?

-

You rolled over to find the space next to you empty as the sun leaked in the thin canvas the next morning. You ran your hands down your face, cursing your actions from the night previous. You got dressed haphazardly, removing a mirror from your pack to braid your hair back, your eyes falling on deep maroon markings on the side of your neck. You traced them gently with your fingertips, a small smile escaping you at the memory. 

“YN! Get up! We’re leaving in 10” Cassian's voice accompanied him banging on the top of your tent, chasing your smile away. You ran your hands through the loose braid, separating it out again to cover the evidence of your lapse in judgment. 

You hauled yourself out through the soft door once you were dressed to find your friends all laughing at one of Cassian's stories, ready and waiting for you to set off. Your eyes landed on Azriel as he tilted his head back laughing before his eyes met yours, he almost instantly tore them from you and looked back to Cassian. 

-

The group set off bounding along the mountain in total ease, Nesta winding Rhysand up ahead of you and Cassian. 

“So YN…you gonna tell me why Az won’t look at you?” 

“How am I supposed to read that pain in the ass’s mind?” you replied almost too quickly to him as he raised an eyebrow, catching your hand and helping you up a steeper part of the path. You looked at the back of Azriel’s head ahead of you as he lead the group along the path to the waterfall. 

“Hmm likely story YN and tell me why I could have sworn I heard Az leave your tent this morning?” he couldn’t bury the teasing tone as you sighed. 

“Lucien was snoring so Azriel just stayed in my tent, no big deal” You could see the thoughts race through Cassian’s grinning face, you tilted your head slightly forward, ensuring the truth was still covered by your hair. 

“Interesting, I don’t know Lucien to be a snorer” He gave a small laugh as you raised your eyebrow, only getting a playful shake of the Illyrian's head in return. A sudden slap of mud met the side of Cassian's face. 

“That’s for Rita’s!“ Azriel shouted back the path, his hand having just released the ball of mud. 

“You told him YN!” Cassian’s head snapped to you as you howled with laughter.

“Must have slipped out?” you tried your best to lie, only to have the broad male throw you over his shoulder as you screamed in hysterics. He ran with you, the group all roaring laughing as they followed. You suddenly couldn’t feel Cassian under you as he flung you from his arms, landing with a splash into the large lake. 

“Cassian! I’m going to kill you!” you shrieked, the cold water bursting through you sending power coursing. You sent a tendril of water, playfully pulling Cassian from where he stood straight into the water alongside you, the group following suit in fits of laughter, leaving Azriel to watch from the rocks. Azriels eye caught the slight glimpse of his handiwork beneath your soaked hair, a pang of pride beating through him then replaced by panic. A shadow met the side of your face, draping your hair back to cover the markings. You looked towards Azriel and found yourself laughing at the action, he returned a smile. 

-

After a day of hiking and swimming and being a bunch of fools, you all came back to the campsite ready to feast on whatever you could scrounge up. 

“Okay everyone, it’s time to announce the reason behind this little trip” Rhysand announced to his family gathered around the roaring fire. 

“Well, as you know, YN has been with us now for some months now-”

“Unfortunately” you hit Azriel into the chest at his sarcasm.

“Anyways-” Rhysand threw a warning glance “-YN has helped to negotiate many our trade agreements and cleaned up many of our messes-” Cassian raised a glass to you at Rhysands words, the group laughing “-But anyway, I’m sorry to announce that I have failed as your High Lord in convincing her to stay with us” the group turned to face you in almost shock. 

“I know everyone I said-”

“-You said you wouldn’t leave” Azriel cut across you, semblances of pain dripping from his quick words. 

“I know Az but-”

“-No, you said you wouldn’t leave” his words turned to tones of anger, the group looking amongst themselves, feeling as though they were intruding. 

“Yes but Az, I’m needed at home, they’re still recovering from Amarantha and Tarquin needs m-”

“-But I- I mean we need you!” He stood from the log to look down at you, your sad eyes meeting his. Suddenly aware of the scene he was making he dissolved into shadow as you tried to call after him. 

“I better go-”

“No Cass, I'll go” you winnowed out of the clearing. 

-

Azriel crashed into his room in the House of Wind. Mixtures of emotions spinning in his head like the shadows around his heels. 

“Az” he whipped around to see you stood with your hands up chest level in surrender. 

“Here to pack your bags?” he chewed out. 

“Oh fuck off Azriel, don’t actually pretend you want me to stay” you matched his tone. 

“And why do you say that?” he snapped back.

“Because you’re the reason I’m leaving!” he took a small step back in shock at your sharp admission. He sat down on the edge of his bed, brow furrowing in thought. 

“What have I done to you?”

“What haven’t you done!? You go out of your way to make my job difficult, every motion I put forward you try to shoot down, you’re constantly following me watching every move I make waiting me to fuck up! Now you have what you want, I’m leaving!” you paced up and down in front of him, releasing the tension you held in your shoulders. 

“I don’t want you to leave” he sounded almost offended that you thought so. 

“What?”

“You really think I want you to leave…especially after last night” he stood from the bed, stepping in front of you to stop your pacing.

“I thought that especially after last night you’d want me to leave” You half laughed.

“At least I guess I’ve given you something to remind you of me” he gave the smallest smile, his hand sweeping your hair off your shoulder to look at his busy work as you felt yourself blush.

“Don’t leave YN, who would I play with?”

“Cass maybe” you grinned, something seemingly darkening in his eyes. 

“I don’t want to fuck him” he breathed out.

“That’s not what Rhys told me” You laughed again before noticing his serious eyes. 

“Please don’t leave me YN”

“And what will I tell Tarquin?” you chuckled, unsure what to do with Azriels edgy tone. His hand found yours, hazel eyes fixated on you.

"Tell him you're preoccupied" "With what exactly" he moved closer to you with your words ever so slightly rattling out of you.

“Az if we kiss…this might become more than what either of us wants”

"What if its what we both want?" he was mere millimetres from you now, unable to fight against this magnetic force pulling you forward. Something bubbling between you both, the electricity coursing through the space between you both again as you kissed so sweetly. Your eyes snapped open to find his eyes meeting yours, gently pulling back from one another. Mate. Mate. Mate.

“YN- you’re my-”

“-Mate” you breathed while looking at him with such unadulterated love. Azriel burst into laughter with you following suit.

“Now you really can’t leave me”

“How convenient” you smiled, running your hands through your hair, Azriel tracing the bitemark's outline with his heated gaze.

“Care for some stress relief YN?” Azriels hands went straight for your hips, the feeling of the small calluses meeting your soft sides sent pulses down you both. He met your neck, the same place he had last night, cupping his hands beneath your lower legs and lifting you from the ground, your legs wrapped around his waist

“Why can't I keep away from you?” You breathed, the hairs on Azriel’s neck standing on their end.

“Why does that make me so happy?” Was all he could manage before reconnecting to your neck. Azriel carried you to the bed before throwing you down and closely following in pursuit. You knotted your fingers through his hair and forced down the moan trying to escape at the pleasure of having him nip you. You tugged his hair until he pulled from you to face you.

“I want all of you”

Azriel cautiously lowered his mouth to yours until they met again. Much like the first time electricity coursed through both of you but unlike the last time, neither pulled away, only growing hungrier.

You could feel him hardening against your thigh, no longer able to fight the little victory you were going to give him, you moaned gently. He smirked hard into the kiss before it became more feverish. Your hand ran across him beneath the fabric of his trousers, his turn to groan.

“You're wearing too many clothes” he rasped as you smirked and pulled your shirt from over your head, he gently caught your jaw as he kissed along it. 

“I want revenge for these” you smirked, wrapping your leg into his side to flip him so you straddled him on top. Your teeth grazed his neck with heat as he sat up in the bed with you on his lap. He pulled his shirt from over his head, his hands replacing on your hips to support you, his groaning encouraging you on.

“Enough teasing YN, I need you” he said darkly, flipping you onto your back and yanking your trousers free from your legs to discard them. Azriel kissed you sweetly before moving down the shape of your body, peppering kisses along the trail to your entrance. You felt your legs begin to tremble under his touch, begging for more as his fingers began to play with your clit, your hands tangling in his hair with a moan. 

“You’re so ready for me YN, its intoxicating” he began to kiss around you and slowly his fingers began to move in and out while he sucked your clit. You felt the tension build in your abdomen, the greatest realess you ever had just a few movements away until he stopped entirely. You looked down between your legs to meet his eyes as he moved to hover above you again, discarding his own trousers in the process. 

“You’re so beautiful YNN” Your hand met the side of his face softly before pulling him back down into a searing kiss. Your fingers began to drag up and down his bear back before tracing the spines of his wings as they began to splay in their relaxed state. 

“Is that okay Azriel?” you whispered watching his eyes close with the building pleasure. 

“Nothing has ever been more okay” he leaned his head towards your hand, taking the waves of pleasure in his stride before lowering back down to meet you sweetly. 

Azriel slowly then began to enter you, you both almost meeting your release at the feeling. He slowly began to drag in and out as the sensation grew with its addictive nature, he increased his speed, spurred on by your hitching breath. The pressure growing and growing and growing, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your back arched until the band snapped sending you into overdrive as every nerve in your body stood to attention and then exploded. You practically screamed his name sending him over the edge, returning the sentiment by moaning your name, collapsing next to you while riding out his high. 

“I had no idea how much I needed to hear you say my name like that YN” Azriel finally found some composure to rasp out, his arm wrapping around you, pulling you in. You tried not to cringe in embarrassment as you buried a laugh into his chest. 

“Don’t go shy on me now” he laughed, kissing the top of your head. You rolled onto your elbows to look into his eyes as they lit up for you. You hauled the duvet up around you, leaving a small corner for Azriel to tug at.

“Why must I be mated to a blanket thief?”

“Why must I be mated to a pain in the ass?”

-------------------------------------------------

Whatcha think friends!

[miryum]

Pirate Captain!James Potter x Princess!Reader part 1 (pt 1.5, pt 2, angst ending, happy ending)

A princess should know her kingdom and her people. That thought kept rushing through your head as the ship with the black flag steadily approached yours. And her people include the ones roaming the seas, right? If only you could go to your mother and tell her, "I told you so," as the pirates began to board your ship. Of course, your guards surrounded you, faithful until the end, but there wasn't much they could do on a ceremonial ship that prized decorations and etiquette over weapons and speed. Perhaps you shouldn't have commanded your ship to leave the harbour, but there was a traffic jam with all the merchant ships and whatnot. You thought it best to sail around them to get to the far peninsula. 

It wasn't long until your guards were either dead or captured and their blood stained your dress. You were in shock when the pirates hoisted you onto their ship and began to sail off. "Do you know who I am?!" the cliched words spilled out of your mouth. "My- my mother and father are very influential!"

"Don't sell yourself short, princess," one pirate dressed in a loose black shirt that paired with his shoulder-length black hair chuckled. "We know damn well who you are. Our captain picked you out himself."

You hiccuped and tried to fight back the impending tears. You would not cry in front of these brutes. Words failed you as the black haired pirate tied your hands behind your back with rough rope and shoved you down sitting onto the deck. Your dress poofed out around you and the pirate chuckled again. "Mighty fine fabric," he commented. He crouched down next to you. "Could get a pretty penny for it."

At that, you shot him a confused look. "I'm sorry?" you asked, voice thick with unshed tears. "I'm worried for my life and freedom and you're thinking about my dress fabric?" 

The pirate held up his hands in surrender. "Pardon me, princess," he said sarcastically. "But the world doesn't revolve around you."

"Right now it does!" you exclaimed. "The moment the guards on the mainland saw the smoke from my ship, they would've sent a frigate to check on me. Once they see the blood in the water, the blood of my men, they will alert my parents, also known as the king and queen of this land. Once my parents hear of this, they will send out all the ships in their fleet to bring me back to safety. They will not rest until I, the heir to the kingdom, is rescued, and you and your men are held to trial and hung."

The man sat back on his heels and commented, "brigantine?" 

After a beat, you asked, "pardon?"

"Your parent's ships? They're brigantine, aren't they?" At your hesitant nod, he continued, "yes, so, first off, bold of you to assume I am the captain, though I blush at your praise." He threw you a grin before standing in front of you. "Second, the ships in my captain's fleet are all sloops. They're the fastest type of ship ever and with the crews, almost a hundred on each, we know how to push them even faster. Your parents won't ever catch you unless we wish them to."

"Are you torturing the poor girl?" A new voice rang out. The rest of the crew had just finished setting the ship up for top speed to rejoin the rest of their fleet and were now wandering over to you, curious, but not malicious intent in their gazes. The new speaker had hair a little shorter than the first man’s, but it was lighter and messier. He had scars riddling his face and shoulders, but they had healed long ago.

“Remus, you know torture makes me sick,” the first man grinned. “I’d much rather leave that to the captain. Or Wormtail,” he added. 

A scruffy looking boy in the crow’s nest peeked down. “What?” he called. 

“Nevermind, Peter!” the dark-haired man shouted back.

“Where are you taking me?” you demanded, pulling against your bonds. They rubbed against your wrists painfully and you winced. 

The dark-haired man scoffed. “Oh, look at that. Can’t handle the ropes, love?” he taunted and Remus smacked him on the chest.

“Be nice, Sirius,” Remus reprimanded. “We just kidnapped her, for god’s sake.” Remus bent down behind you and undid the ropes. You stared at him, trying to figure out his motive, but he just said to Sirius, like you weren’t even there, “and what would she do? Her dress would sink her to the ocean floor and even then she can’t swim back to the mainland.” You glared at the pirates once you realised he was right.

“Where are you taking me?” you asked again, still sitting on the deck. 

Remus gave you an odd look. “To our captain,” he said as if it were obvious. “Didn’t Sirius tell you? Captain requested you himself.”

“What does that mean?” you pressed, standing up. Your legs shook slightly and you swallowed thickly. “What on earth are you heathens going to do to me?” When they didn’t answer right away, you continued, “I- I’ve heard stories of how wretched you pirates are. And I would rather die than give up my dignity and autonomy.”

“She’s feisty,” Sirius said once you were done. “Captain will like her.”

Remus crossed his arms and said, “Sirius, stop scaring her.” He sighed and turned to you. “We have a fleet of ships a few knots from here. The Captain is waiting for you. He’s very eager to meet you and I can guarantee he won’t hurt you in any way you’re thinking.”

“Why isn’t he here now?” you glared at the two men.

“Captain doesn’t like the mainland,” Sirius said simply. He took out a strip of cloth from his pocket and began wrapping his hand, playing with the fabric. “And if anyone ever caught a whiff of him, he’d be good as dead.”  

“If they could catch him,” Peter shouted from where he was descending from the crow’s nest. 

It was then that you realised that these weren’t the pirates you had heard tales of. They weren’t there to torture or assault you. They had even released you from your bonds. They clearly had loyalty towards their captain, but were also oddly well kept. Other than Remus’ scars, they all looked perfectly healthy and fit. You only hoped their captain was as well-mannered as his crew.

“Who… who is your captain?” you asked slowly. “And will I ever be returned to my kingdom?”

“Ah, well let him introduce himself,” Remus smirked. “Only two or three hours now until you meet him.”

Sirius then shrugged. “And who knows about returning you? Whatever the captain thinks is best.”

“You make it sound like I’m a commodity to be bought and returned,” you spit out, hands gripping at your skirts.

Neither man said anything. 

It was another three hours before the ship began to slow. By that time, you had sat down on the steps leading up to the wheel, having resigned to your fate.

Yet, you couldn’t help when your lips parted in awe when you saw the dozen ships appearing from over the horizon. Their flags all shared the same black cloth with an ‘M’ stitched on them. “Impressive, hmm?” Remus came to stand next to you. He held out a hand for you to take and you pulled yourself up. Your hands pressed along the sanded wood of the railing. 

“Yes,” you admitted. “I… I never knew the extent of pirates in our waters. It gives you chills, does it not? Being on the sea. You never know what’s out there.”

“On the contrary,” Remus said. “It’s liberating.”

 His words sunk in and you stared out at the approaching ships. “Why an ‘M’?” you asked.

“That’s our name,” Remus looked over at you, leaning against the railing too. “We’re Marauders.”

You tried to smother your smile. “Clever,” you admitted. 

“Yes, he thought so. In truth,” Remus revealed, “he employs only those who need it. He creates a community forged not by stealing and gold, but by camaraderie and love for the waters.”

“But you still are pirates,” you said. “You still steal and plunder and purge.”

Remus tilted his head to the side in acquiescence. “Yes,” he replied truthfully. “But not from villages or towns who work hard to earn their keep. Not from merchant ships. We only plunder and purge nobility vessels and that of the royal navy.”

“Those are my men!” you exclaim, turning to face Remus. “But you are slaughtering and maiming my men! I know those men, some of which are barely out of boyhood. I’m the one receiving the reports of who has passed at sea at the hands of you pirates and I am the one who has to send letters to grieving mothers or wives or children.”

The man with the scars bowed his head and didn’t say anything for a while. “If it makes you feel better,” he muttered, “captain orders that we give them all a proper funeral.”

You throw your hands in the air in anger and disbelief. “Oh, yes! That will make me feel better! Let me write to their widows so that may console them.”

“Princess,” Remus stopped your outburst with a firm stare. “I suggest you calm yourself. May I remind you who is in charge.”

“Your captain whom I have not even met.” You scowled and crossed your arms like a petulant child.

Remus nodded towards the fleet they were quickly catching up to. “You will soon.” Sirius called for Remus’ help with manning the sails or something of the sort – you weren’t particularly paying attention to the people who had kidnapped you – but Remus paused and looked you in the eye. “You know,” he muttered, “if you talk to the captain about the men we’re killing… he will probably stop.”

“Do not jest with me.” Your face twisted into an unpleasant expression. “Why on earth would he listen to the princess he kidnapped?”

The pirate’s own expression softened in contrast. “A man will go to lengths for someone he’s supposedly in love with.”

“In love?” you repeated in a whisper after a moment to process what you heard. “But- why- I mean, he’s never even met me!”

“He has,” Remus told you. “You may just not remember.”

The pirates, to their credit, tried to be chivalrous when sending you from one ship to another. Sirius held the rope ladder steady when you climbed down to the rowboat where Peter sat, ready to row. There were numerous times when the ladder swung back and forth and you let out a squeal, clutching to the sides and hoping your satin shoes didn’t slip off the small wooden planks that served as rungs. You were sure you looked ridiculous, both crews watching as you yelled down to Sirius to not look up and consequently under your gown. 

Once you finally settled in the rowboat, casting a disgruntled look to Sirius, Remus climbed down after you and the four of you made the short journey to the other ship. They had you climb the ladder before them and the pirates on the captain’s ship grabbed your forearms to help haul you up over the railing. By the time you stood on the captain’s ship, you were a bit sweaty, the ends of your dress were wet, and you were thoroughly annoyed. 

Sirius and Remus disappeared into the captain's quarters. From your position on the deck, you couldn’t hear much, especially with the waves lapping on the side of the boat and the soft conversations of the crew. 

As much as you tried to be afraid, you couldn’t find it in you. Some gut feeling told you that no matter if these were gross, stinky, immoral pirates, you wouldn’t get hurt. 

Soon enough, you were ushered into the captain's quarters. 

The first thing you noticed was that it was decorated with stolen goods. Pieces of art from all different countries, furniture from four kingdoms, velvet embroidered drapes, and a small bookshelf of books behind glass that looked as if they were crumbling apart. 

The second thing you noticed was the man. He was lounging on the chaise, a leg thrown over the armrest and a tricorn pirate hat held lazily in his fingers. You scoffed and said, “this is not how one should greet a princess, pirate captain or not.”

Instantly, the man bolted to his feet and cleared his throat. “Right. Yes, I’m so sorry, princess.” He was a tall, lean man with a mop of frizzy curls on his head. His skin was tanned from his years at sea, but his hazel eyes shined with utter joy. “Princess,” he repeated, holding his hat to his chest.

“Are you… the captain?” you asked slowly, thinking a pirate captain should’ve been much more fearsome. But this man simply looked… lovestruck.

“Yes,” the man said. “Captain Potter. James Potter.”

Your head tilted to the side inquisitively. “You don’t seem like a pirate.” 

James’ eyebrow lifted up. “Is that an insult?”

“No,” you decided. “You’re simply not what I expected when your crew regaled your triumphs.”

The captain let out a chuckle. “And what accomplishments were those?”

“Well, is this your fleet?” You nodded towards the dozen ships that you could see from the porthole.

“If you think I only have a dozen ships to my name, you’re daft. I’m the most wealthy and respected pirate to sail these seas,” James boasted, a hand to his chest. “Terror runs through the veins of the ships who dare cross us.”

You pressed your lips together in annoyance and James immediately straightened up and cleared his throat. “You know, if you truly wanted terror to run through my veins, you may want to make my capture more unpleasant,” you said.

James snorted in amusement. “And how would you like your kidnapping next time, your highness?” he asked.

“First, I would like to know why you decided to slaughter my men and kidnap me!” you exclaimed, voice rising in anger. “Those men had families! Children! And I have a family too! You think my parents aren’t worried sick, not knowing if their daughter is alive or not? If- if they’ll see her again or not?” your voice shook slightly; obviously, you were projecting your own fears onto your parents.

“It wasn’t intentional to slaughter your men,” James said, as if that was consolation. He stepped forward, but didn’t offer you any more comfort than that. “If they had given up, they would be back on their way to the mainland. Unfortunately, they are loyal to you, so they had to be stopped. And I truly am sorry for all the pain I have caused you, your parents, or the kingdom. I would love to sail you back and return you, but I’m afraid I can't part from you quite yet.”

“And what could you possibly gain from me? Is it money? Because I assure you, there will be a hefty sum to be rewarded if I am brought back alive and well.”

James shook his head, almost sadly. “While I am glad that neither Remus or Sirius told you the true intent of your bringing here, it does give me the embarrassment of having to do it myself.” He shifted his weight foot to foot and it looked as if the dreaded pirate king was almost… nervous.

“Tell me. Now,” you commanded.

James ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up and your nose wrinkled as you watched. “I believe it was… three years ago,” James said, “when I fell in love with you.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Oh, no. It’s entirely possible when it comes to you.”

[portagas-chan]

Platonic Yandere Doflamingo and teen daughter reader

Overprotective Dad

Platonic Yandere Doflamingo x Daughter Reader

I tried my best. I hope you like it!

Doflamingo adored you and spoiled you rotten because you were his only child. His only daughter. To him, you were the most important person in his life and no one could prove him wrong. He will kill anyone who hurt you physically and mentally.

There was a time when you were a child and a maid accidentally spilled hot tea on you. You cried because the tea felt so hot on your skin and he quickly called a doctor and soothe you. After that incident, you noticed one thing. You never saw that maid again.

You were too young to understand back then but now you do. You turned 18 a few months ago. You were happy because you thought Doflamingo would finally let you leave the castle and explore the outside world. You thought you could finally travel the seas. That was your dream.

However, during your 18th birthday, you asked him if you could become a pirate like him and travel the seas but before you could even finish your sentence, he cut you off.

"No," just that simple one word was able to crush your dreams in an instant.

"Why?" You argued.

"The outside world is very dangerous, [Y/n]. How many times do I have to tell you that? There is no way you can become a pirate. This castle is the only safe place for you."

You furrowed your eyebrows, "But dad, I wanted to become a pirate like you. I just-"

He raised his voice, "[Y/n]! I don't want you to become a pirate like me. You know, I hate repeating myself. I don't want to hear about this topic again! Do you understand me?"

"Yes," You muttered.

"Now go to your room!"

That was the first time your dad had ever raised his voice at you. You left crying and feeling dejected.

But you were determined to leave. You loved your dad but sometimes he is just too much. You heard that he had to attend the Warlord meeting and will be back in a few days. You took this opportuinity to sneak out and it seems like luck was on your side because it was successful.

"Where is [Y/n]? Where did she go?!" Diamante panicked.

"I think she left. I checked every room in this castle and she is nowhere to be found," Baby 5 sighed.

"Fuck!" Diamante cursed.

"Doffy is going to be so mad," Trebol said.

"We have to tell him."

And they did. They told him about the terrible news through the den den mushi. He was flying in the sky heading towards Marineford but the news made him paused and he was thankful that he was still near dressrosa.

Doflamingo did not take it well. His frown deepened, his veins popped out on his forehead and he looked like he will kill anyone who gets in his way. Abandoning his meeting, he wasted no time and flew at the fastest speed back to Dressrosa.

An hour later, he arrived at his castle to see you tied up in your room. He glanced at Diamante, "Where did you find her?"

"Green bit. Thank god she didn't go too far. If we were a little late, she would have been gone for good."

He narrowed his eyes at Diamante's words, "Untie her."

Diamante nodded, obeying his orders.

"Fufufu~ You are very persistent, my daughter," He walked towards you with a grin. You could tell that even though he was grinning, he was very angry inside.

You were scared of what was going to happen next. You were born isolated from the world and now you sneaked out but got caught. There was no way he was going to continue let you live like you used to.

"I'm sorry, dad but I won't do it again! I promise!" You apologized hoping he would let it slide this time.

"Sure but can I trust you? I don't think I can. Last time, you asked me about this and I told you to never bring it up again. You said you won't but now look at what you did. You crossed the line, [Y/n]," He was no longer smiling. He looked upset, mad and most of all, disappointed in you.

You stayed silent because he was right. You lied to him but how could you not? You were getting tired of being restricted from leaving the castle.

When he saw that you have given up on going against him, his signature grin returned to his face.

"Starting from now on, you will be locked up in your room. And for extra precautions, I will have to put these bracelets on you" He took them out of his pocket.

"What?" You were confused. Bracelets for extra precautions?

Doflamingo took your hand and put on the bracelets on both of your wrists, "They will explode if you leave this castle."

You froze in place. Your eyes widened as you looked at your dad in fear and despair.

Doflamingo grinned and hugged you.

"Don't worry, [Y/n]. In this world, I will be the only one who loves you and care for you. I am the only one that will always be by your side. And that is why you can never leave your dad. Fufufu~"