#warnings: to be added per chapter

[kflixnet]

Check out our member Lana's series!

TROUBLED HEARTS 💭 hoon written series

SYNOPSIS! finally a teenager has gotten her own apartment, the only problem is that she's sharing it with the most popular boy in school, and they have to keep it a secret without getting expelled

or in which park sunghoon is a total jerk who you've been scammed into living with, will you be able to get through this no feelings involved?

✶ ﹕ find themes & genres here

open taglist (@kflixnet) @flwrshee @imhuh @luvistqrzzz @cherriruto @jlheon @beomgyusonlywife @enhastolemyheart @manooffline @haechansbbg @ikeumi @giraffeass

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Ad Astra Per Aspera (Astracorp Daxamite Invasion AU)

Guess who wrote more of the Daxamite Invasion Astracorp AU?

HERE YAH GO

The angst resumes (and ramps up a bit, but not too in depth).

[oneofreid]

Casual Tendencies

Summary: In which she’s never had an orgasm and he’s willing to please her until she cums. Straight to the point.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Inexperienced!Fem!Reader

Warnings: (18+ Content) Dry humping, oral (female receiving), explicit language, the usual smut

A/N: so here we go again…bye y’all. my ride is here. (gif by @reidgif) → my other fics are here

“So you’ve never had an orgasm a day in your life?”

You shrugged at his question which was more of a response to your sudden confession. Reverting your attention back to the book that was in your hand. Your body completely sprawled out over the couch in your best friends apartment.

Getting lost in the chapter that your were reading before a hand suddenly pried the book out of your hands. “Reid, what are you-“

“You’ve never had an orgasm before.”

He repeated back to you slowly. Still mind blown at the fact that you’ve never experienced the exhilarating feeling of exploring your body to its full purpose and potential.

“And?”

“Well, it’s typically suggested that the human body have an orgasm at least three times per week. It has a lot of health benefits and by doing that, you’re releasing your body of stress. It can also act as a pain reliever, create dopamine, lower depression, and can even make you nicer-” Spencer began to ramble.

You shook your head, “I don’t see how that’s relevant though.” Slightly gnawing at your lip out of habit since you were growing nervous.

Spencer gulped, suddenly feeling out of place in his own apartment. Yet, the question hung from the tip of his tongue.

“Do you want to know what it feels like?”

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head, the air completely being knocked from out of your lungs.

“Spencer…I-I”

“You don’t have to. Please don’t feel like you have to, I’m only suggesting it…as an option, if you want to,” he trailed off. His shy demeanor coming back, realizing he might’ve just fucked up your friendship and relationship for life.

Your heart rate picked up, feeling as if the room was spinning around you. The room suddenly becoming all too hot for you, you might as well have just stripped your clothes off in front of him right then and there.

Closing your thighs together, you grew more aware of the fact that your best friend, the man who you’ve secretly held a crush on for many years, just offered to have sex with you.

“I’m sorry. I know I probably just crossed a huge boundary and ruined our fr-,” Spencer began.

“Okay.”

“What?,” he paused.

“I’ll do…I want you to make me cum.” You uttered, barely above a whisper.

Hardly noticing that Spencer had moved closer to you, his eyes studying your every move. Yet, all you could do was talk down your nerves and doubts that began to arise.

“Hey,” Spencer grabbed your hand to gather your attention, “You don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable.”

You turned towards him, his warm and familiar brown eyes still on you. The sunset that beamed from his open window shining a cast on him, illuminating not only his figure but the beautiful features that you grew to love about him.

“I want this.” You had made your decision.

Lifting yourself to straddle his lap, maneuvering your legs to kneel and place yourself on either side of him. The cool leather of his couch adding some much needed support as you felt it dip from your weight.

Spencer looked at you in awe. His heart rate picking up as the gravity of what was about to happen between you two finally settled in.

“You can touch me, Spence. It’s okay,” you leaned in to pur in his ear. All your nerves suddenly being thrown out the window the second your clothed center made contact with his hardening one. His bulge growing at the sight and feel of you.

It’s like the forces between you had finally collided when he found his lips meeting your soft, plump ones. Your lips melting together into one as you moved to run a hand through his brown curls. Tugging slightly which earned a low moan from him.

You smiled into the kiss, suddenly feeling more relaxed and in control. The scent of leather books, peppermint, and a few spritz of luxury cologne filling your nose.

Spencer broke from the kiss, his lips traveling down to explore and pepper kisses alongside your jaw.

“You smell so good,” he complimented you. Your signature scent of vanilla and amber were his favorite pheromones.

“So,” he kissed you, “pretty.”

His big hands wandering down to play with the hem of your shirt as he began to tug it over your head with one hand. The other one inches above your ass, pulling you closer to him until you were flush against his chest.

Not paying attention as Reid unclasped your laced bra in one swift move. The cool air hit your bare breasts, your nipples hardening at the sudden lack of clothing that you didn’t have on. His hands moved to palm your tits, grabbing one in each hand as he toys with them. Rubbing your nipples in between his long fingers.

You began to grow impatient, realizing that he was still completely clothed. Your body naturally beginning to ache for him as you sat on top of him.

Rocking yourself back and forth, you started to grind against him. Circling your hips, only to press your ass down a bit harder with each roll, onto his clothed dick.

“Fuck,” Reid let out a shaky breathe.

His hands moving to grip your hips to prevent you from moving. “I have a better idea. Lie down,” he instructed.

“But I thought we-,” you began to whine. Feeling your underwear grow soaked by the friction you had just started to ignite.

“We will. Just trust me, honey,” the pet name that fell from his lips causing your cheeks to heat up.

Squealing a bit as he picked you effortlessly up by your thighs, carrying you toward his bedroom. Placing you down gently on his beige comforter before helping you tug your grey sweatpants off.

“Okay love, lie down for me,” you nodded. Doing as he said, the plush and cool material of the comforter hitting your back. Leaning against his pillows for some added support. “Just follow my lead, I will do all the work. You just get to look pretty, okay?”

You nodded again, biting your lip, looking up at his ceiling as you tried to avoid eye contact at all cost. Suddenly growing nervous again at the idea of your best friend seeing you this exposed.

“Hey,” Reid had grabbed onto your knee, “Look at me.”

You obliged, your eyes finally meeting his sincere and concern ones. He began to rub circular pattern on your knee cap as he sat on his, attempting to comfort you.

“If at any point you change your mind and decide that you don’t want to do this, just let me know. Okay?”

Your nerves still getting the best of you, all you could do was offer him a little nod. He was your best friend. Your awfully smart, handsome, charismatic, and charming best friend who you have known. And been in love with for over four years now. So the idea of him seeing you completely naked and head deep into your pussy had you on completely edge.

“Use your words, sweet girl. I got you. I’ll be here to guide you the whole way through. Okay?” He reassured you.

You let out a shaky breathe, managing to get out a small, “okay,” before sinking a bit further into his bed.

Spencer moved crawled closer towards you on his knees, using his large hands to spread your legs open. Your matching lace thong now completely on show for him.

He sucked in a breathe, his own underwear growing incredibly too tight. “You wore this just for me, huh?”

You felt your cheeks grow red again, blushing at his comment. “It’s my favorite pair,” you said sheepishly.

Spencer hummed, not convinced yet all he could do was think about indulging himself into your delicious pussy.

Dipping a finger into the waistband of your underwear, he quickly yanked the thong off. Leaving a full view of your dripping wet cunt just for him. Your folds were soaked, already coated in your arousal. The sight alone was enough to make him go feral.

“Fuck, baby. You’re so wet for me.” He gawked.

His eyes set on the beautiful masterpiece in front of him.

Not being able to contain himself any longer, he sunk down further on his knees. Propping himself up so that he was closer to your core yet still at enough eye level for you to see him devour you.

Spencer began to run his lips over your thighs, leaving sloppy kisses along the inner part of them. Using his hand to grip the side of it for extra stability.

He was hungry. And he wanted more.

Your eyes began to squeeze shut, feeling him inch closer and closer towards your core. Growing noticeably more needy and desperate for him by the second. A loud moan finally leaving your own lips as Spencer swiped his tongue across your folds. The sweet yet salty taste being something he could definitely get used to.

Spencer continued his motions, opting to trace intricate and circular patterns with his tongue. Sucking on the skin of your pussy as if it was his last meal. Gripping harder onto your thighs with every lick and pull that you had on his hair.

“Spence….God, fuck. Holy shit.” You panted.

The sight of him on his knees, face deep in you was something you never thought would happen in your wildest dreams. His moans echoed against your cunt, sending vibrations throughout your whole body. A sweet lullaby to your ears.

You cried out, “Just like that. You feel so good.” Feeling him hit what you assumed, was your sweet spot, one that sent electrifying surges through your body.

Every flick and swipe of his tongue making you see stars. Your moans filled his ears, listening to the sweet melody that you sung to him. You were loud and he loved it. Feeling satisfied with every reaction he got out of you.

You felt your stomach starting to tighten, growing anxious at this unfamiliar feeling. “Spence-“

He lifted his head from your pussy for a second, saliva and your pre-cum dripping slightly down his chin.

“It’s okay baby, when you feel it, just let go.” He sent you a soft smile, kissing your inner thigh before continuing his work.

Flicking his tongue in circular motions, getting the last few swipes in. As you started to pant more, the coil in your stomach growing even tighter and unbearable. The sudden urge to shut your thighs together yet Spencer held you in place. His brown eyes never leaving yours as he sucked relentlessly on your pussy.

Tears brimmed in your eyes as your core clenched, your chest heaving up and down in anticipation. Before a wave of relief washed over you, your legs began to shake uncontrollably. The room filled with the sound of the moans that left you and Spencer.

Spencer lifted his face to finally meet yours.

Your pussy already becoming wet again at the sight in front of you. Spencer’s long, luscious curls all disheveled from you tugging and pulling on it. His brown eyes fully dilated, anticipating his own high as he looked at you ready to pounce again. Your cum dripped down his chin, licking his lips as he savored every last drop.

Spencer couldn’t help himself from pulling you in for a long, passionate kiss. Already missing the exhilarating feeling of your lips on his. His hands shifted to pull you closer to him, your legs now straddling his lap just like you had done before on his couch. You could taste yourself on him.

“That was,” you breathed.

“Amazing,” he finished, pulling you gently by the neck to deepen your kiss before preparing himself for your next round.

[jaylaxies]

TEASER: CALL ME WHEN YOU HATE ME LESS

PAIRING: jake x fem!reader (ft. jaehyun and heeseung)

GENRE/CW: smut, angst, eventual fluff, porn with plot, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, fingering, choking, blowjob, using panties as a gag, spitting, edging, squirting, mentions of fighting, blood, usage of nicknames, slowburn if you squint, emotional trauma, lmk if i missed anything in the main fic!

TOTAL WORD COUNT: 18.3k words (estimated).

TEASER WORD COUNT: 1654 words.

SYNOPSIS: Jake Sim was a walking academic hazard—hot, broody, and failing just about everything that wasn’t football. Enter you, his new tutor: organized, overachieving, and absolutely not here for his attitude or his annoyingly perfect lips. But between late-night study sessions, petty insults, and one very inconvenient almost-kiss, things start spiraling—fast. He’s supposed to be you project. You are supposed to hate him. Instead, you both are one sarcastic comment away from either a breakdown or a makeout—and honestly, it could go either way.

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni (the full fic will include smut).

A/N: hihi, angels! if you have seen this before then yes, it is a revamp of my jeno fic as requested by a few anons! i hope you guys will enjoy it! send an ask or comment to be added! <33 (make sure to have your age visible on your blog! blank blogs will not be added to the tl).

Chapter 1: Raised in Shadows, Told to Shine. 

Comparison. 

The core of all insecurities. The onset of overthinking. The path to self loathing. 

That’s what comparison does to a person—drive them to the edge of insanity in hopes of turning into something; into someone the others will look up to, compare themselves to. 

It was a bad thing per se, but it was motivation enough for Jake to work harder in order to leave the country, to get away from his family. 

The reason? His mother ever so conveniently happened to have fallen in love with a rich guy, someone who never knew what struggle meant, and Jake was just four back then, he didn’t bother changing his surname. It didn’t take much time for him to settle into the lifestyle, however, no matter how much he could have prepared to face his step-brother, he simply couldn’t bother looking him in the eye. 

Why? Because he was known to be the epitome of perfection. Jung Jaehyun was the son every parent wanted, the student every teacher was fond of, the doctor every nurse wanted to work with. 

The sweet dimple on his cheek was a great asset in melting the hearts of everyone in his proximity or afar. 

Jake on the other hand, wasn’t quite sure why he wasn’t considered to be enough, especially when he got decent grades throughout his school life, he wasn’t a bother, kind to those who were around them, but it changed. 

It changed when he got daily reminders of how he wasn’t even close to how amazing and successful his step brother was. 

That’s when things started looking down for Jake. He stopped caring about the grades, he wasn’t sure why he was supposed to put up a I’m so good, so smart act in front of others when there was no reason for him to do that. 

Others didn’t bother doing the same for him. 

Rather, he tried to work upon the only thing he was passionate about, the only thing that mattered to him—football. 

Despite winning several trophies for playing the sport, his parents labelled it to be useless, which broke the last fragment of his heart, shattering it to the point of no return. 

Which would explain his current demeanor—moody, permanent scowl on his perfectly sculpted face and no care for the others around him. His sole focus being football, which is also the reason behind his current dilemma. 

“Being an excellent player in the sports team does not guarantee you your scholarship, Mr. Sim,” Jake’s teacher incharge spoke up, taking off her specs right after reviewing his annual grade report, “you’re failing three out of five modules, and if you don’t start getting back on track soon, then I’m afraid you won’t be able to play in the team anymore.” 

Fuck. 

Jake had been neglecting his studies, he admits, yet he never thought that he’d reach this point. It’s not that he wasn’t smart, he simply had no motivation to go on with his studies. His parents could easily pay the university to keep him around, however, he wanted nothing from them, which also explains why he got himself a scholarship in the first place. 

“I’m sorry if I’m late.” Jake’s eyes snapped wide open, turning back to see his step brother entering the teacher’s cabin. 

“Why are you here?” Jake asked, a muscle in his jaw twitching but Jaehyun only smiled. 

Jake’s professor was equally stunned, probably even more with her jaw wide open at the appearance of such a handsome young man. 

“I called him in since your parents were busy,” his professor said, handling Jake a letter, “go and find your tutor in the council room, she’ll be helping you with the upliftment of your grades, Mr. Lee, and now if you’ll excuse us, I’ve got to fill in your brother with your current situation,” she said the last part awfully sweetly as Jaehyun sat down in one of the vacant chairs, smiling at her kind tone. 

Jake scoffed, the demeanor change around Jaehyun went crazy and he wasn’t a fan of it, especially when he was called in to complain about his mistakes. 

He simply wanted to leave the university and never come back. 

He waited, taking deep breaths before punching the wall, not being able to contain his anger. The impact did hurt, yet he paid no heed to it, the blood dripping as he walked towards the council room to get over with the day. 

The name written on the sheet wasn’t unfamiliar to him, rather it only wearied the already infuriated boy as he knocked on the door of the student council room, which was empty except for you sitting there, working on a few papers which appeared to be the newsletter for the month. 

“Come in,” you allowed, not looking up as Jake made his way inside the room, observing the surroundings where he’s never been before. 

Then he looked your way, taking in your appearance. You looked cozy in your university varsity jacket, your specs sitting on your nose as you buried yourself in reading whatever it was that you were reading. He couldn’t deny you looked pretty in a way that’s comforting to eyes. 

With no words exchanged, he pushed the letter towards you, which finally made you look up at the source of disturbance, your eyebrows raising slightly as you most certainly did not expect the star football player to visit you in the council room, which he’s never been to before. 

He simply stood there, hands shoved into his pockets while still looking around, and you took a second to grab the letter, skimming over to read and understand that the letter was given by Mrs. Kim, the teacher in charge of your department, requesting you to take up the few teaching sessions you had applied for, Jake being the student you’ll have to teach for the same. 

You clicked your tongue, folding the letter exactly as it was before pushing it his way, your arms folding across your chest as you finally spoke up, “I reject. I don’t wish to teach you.”

His eyes were quick to snap towards you, finally staring right into your own eyes, irritation clear as he pushed his tongue on his inner cheek, eyebrow raised. 

“Aren’t you supposed to kiss your professor’s feet, given that you’re in student council? And here I thought you’d be a good girl.” Jake rasped, resting his arms on your table, leaning down to your level. 

You chuckled, expecting the exact response from him, “this is exactly why I don’t want to waste my time on you—you athletes don’t wish to study, you just require a passing grade, for which, I don’t have time to spare.” 

“What the fuck do you mean waste your time?” 

“Sim Jake, you’ve got more money with you than your bank account can handle, so I’m sure losing your scholarship won’t do you much harm,” you said with a sickening smile, “you’ve got no interest in studying, your attendance record states that oh so proudly.” 

“You don’t know shit about me,” Jake seethed out, messy hair strands falling over his eyes. 

“I know everything I need to know about you. Now excuse me, unlike you, I actually have work to do,” you said, passing him a tight lipped smile, not letting the proximity faze you. 

“You—” 

Jake’s sentence was cut short with two sharp knocks on the slightly ajar door, a head peeking in, successfully garnering your attention. You could feel your mood doing one eighty with the sudden intrusion of this stranger—whom you didn’t wish to be a stranger around anymore, your eyes softening, lips parting as you stared at him in awe. 

Meanwhile, if Jake thought that the day was done being a bitch to him, then he was wrong because the level of irritation that bubbled up in him the moment he saw the change in your expressions. 

“Sorry to interrupt, may I get in?” Jaehyun asked, smiling his usual dimpled smile, which had you swooning in record time. 

You could practically see veins of frustration popping out on Jake’s neck, “no. Your work is done, you should head back home,” he groaned, but Jaehyun only looked you way, continuing to get in, looking your way. 

“I’m Jaehyun, Jake’s elder brother. I can’t thank you enough for agreeing on giving him tutoring lessons, especially with how busy you must be with council duties,” he spoke up, shaking your hand, which was smaller in his warm, big hands. 

Jake scoffed, “she’s not—”

“Of course, Jaehyun! It’s my pleasure to help him out, and it’ll only help me better with my extracurricular credits! It’s no problem,” you nodded, a gentle smile on your face as your eyes practically twinkled with excitement, taking in the beauty that Jaehyun beheld. 

It was ridiculous. 

It was absurd how just two sentences; paired with a sweet smile from his brother, were enough for you to change your decision, in the span of two seconds at that. 

He tightened the hold he had on the strap of his black bag, “no fucking need. I’ll find another tutor,” Jake deadpanned, walking out of the room, not paying attention to Jaehyun who called out his name in the background. 

He wouldn’t let you use him to get to his brother. 

With that thought, he decided to detour and make his way to the gym, trying to blow off steam by practicing punching, each one getting progressively stronger as his mind replayed the difference in your behaviour when it came to him and his brother. 

It didn’t bother him that his knuckles were bruising, he knew he needed this extrinsic pain to get rid of the obvious hurt he felt each day. 

And he couldn’t understand why he felt so affected by your actions, especially when it was the first time you had met. 

Jealousy was indeed a bitch. 

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[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Ten

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Cricket Oscar I repeat Cricket Oscar! Also... you know that whole 'ten chapters per era' thing? Yeah, scratch that. I'm just going with the vibes. They have more story to tell than I thought! We're almost at the end of Boarding School era though. Almost.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

The outfield shimmered under the kind of sun you could almost believe was nearly summer, not just the British version where your nose still ran but your calves were burning.

Harper was stretched across the cricket pavilion steps, blazer bundled under her head, school skirt hitched to mid-thigh. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her legs — bare, pale, with a fresh constellation of freckles — were aimed straight at the sky like solar panels.

"Do you think it's working?" She asked, squinting behind her sunglasses.

Jane, sat beside her with her knees up and a blue slushie in one hand, sniffed. "Your thighs still look like milk, but your knees might be caramelising slightly."

"Excellent," Harper muttered. "Just what every girl dreams of. Caramelised knees."

On the pitch below, the Year 11 and 12 boys were playing some kind of friendly cricket match, which was loosely organised and entirely chaotic.

Oscar, Sam, and Matt were all in full whites — jumpers on, shirts rolled at the sleeves, trousers already grass-stained and untucked. Oscar bowled like he was in the Ashes. Sam swung the bat like he was in a pub fight. Matt had no idea what he was doing, but his mum was a big donator to the sports department, so he was on every team they had.

Jane slurped her drink loudly. "How do they look fit in cricket whites? Like. That shouldn't be hot. But it is."

Harper hummed in agreement. "Oscar looks so good."

"I'd let Sam ruin my life," Jane said mildly, tilting her sunglasses down her nose to peer over them. "Just for the record."

"That's a given," said Alfie from behind them.

He was leaning against the pavilion rail with his arms crossed, sunglasses on, his tie slung around his neck like a scarf. He looked like a bouncer at a VIP tanning party, watching the crowd.

Harper smirked. "You alright there, security?"

"I'm good," he said, not moving. "Just enjoying the weather. And making sure no one ogles the royal bump or the goth queen over here for too long."

Jane fluttered her lashes. "Aw, Alfie. That's so sweet."

"Don't get used to it," he muttered, but didn't deny it.

Two Year 10s walked by, gawking a bit too long at Harper's stomach. Alfie flipped them off without looking away from the field.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered. "It's like they've never seen a pregnant girl before. Weirdos."

Harper rolled her eyes. "Leave them alone, Alf. Our sex-ed programme here is awful."

On the pitch, Oscar had just clean bowled a year 12 twice his size. He didn't celebrate. Just walked back to his mark like a soldier reloading his gun.

Sam, meanwhile, had pulled off a sliding catch and promptly started peacocking like a West End actor. Matt attempted a cartwheel and fell flat on his face.

The girls howled with laughter.

"They're so stupid," Jane said, beaming.

"They're our stupid, though," Harper replied.

"And you're stuck with them forever," Alfie added, which made Harper laugh so hard she snorted.

Oscar looked up at the sound — squinting toward the pavilion — and smiled when he saw her, quick and quiet and just for her. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, waved once, then turned back to the game.

Jane sipped her slushie. "God, you two are cute."

"Shut up," Harper said, but she was still smiling.

The sun drifted a little lower. Somewhere in the background, the school bell rang for Sunday chapel — and nobody moved.

For a moment, just one, they weren't kids dealing with exams and babies and contracts and races and aristocratic uncles and tabloid magazines.

They were just fifteen and full of sugar, with sun warmed skin, watching the boys they liked pretend to be grown-ups in too-big uniforms and too-small egos.

It was perfect. Brief. Messy.

Life.

—

The boys came trudging up the slope from the pitch victorious — Sam with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, Matt skipping like he'd just won Eurovision, and Oscar... quiet, scuffed, a bit pink in the face and pretending he didn't notice Harper jogging down the last few steps to meet him.

"Oi, lovers!" Jane called, slapping her empty slushie cup onto Alfie's head. "We're going this way!"

Harper didn't care. She launched herself at Oscar, nearly knocking the water bottle out of his hand.

"You were so good," she said, wrapping her arms round his neck. "Seriously, I think I'm ovulating. I don't care that I already have a baby inside me."

"Jesus Christ," muttered Alfie, who had not asked to hear that.

Oscar went bright red. He kept his arms mostly around her waist but was clearly short-circuiting in front of his friends.

"Harps," he mumbled, shifting his grip awkwardly. "There's, like—people watching..."

"Let them watch," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. "You're so fit."

Sam passed by, clapping Oscar on the shoulder. "You're a proper stallion, mate. Well done."

"I hate all of you," Oscar muttered, voice muffled by Harper's hair.

Jane high-fived Matt for literally no reason. "Good effort, you absolute weapon."

Matt beamed. "I caught a ball with my face."

"And still the girls love you," Jane sighed. "Life's unfair."

As they reached the top of the hill, the group slowed — sweat-stained boys dragging their jumpers over their heads, the girls walking barefoot across the hot pavement in socks.

Alfie rolled his eyes as Harper kissed Oscar on the neck. "Get a room."

"We've got a room," Harper said sweetly. "Yours. I sleep in it four nights a week."

Sam gagged. "Alright, alright — leave some dignity on the grass."

Oscar was flustered beyond speech. He kissed Harper's temple, quickly, like a reflex, then shoved his kit bag higher on his shoulder and marched ahead of them.

The rest of the group, of course, followed him, cackling like feral hyenas.

By the time they reached the dorm block, Oscar had nearly made it to the stairwell alone — but Harper caught his wrist and tugged him back.

"You alright?" She asked, quieter now.

He glanced around — no one right next to them, just the echo of stomping boots on the stairs.

Then he nodded. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

Oscar looked at her, eyes soft now that it was just them. "I don't mind the kissing. Just...not when Sam's narrating it."

Harper grinned. "Sorry. It's the hormones."

"Okay," he said, leaning in and kissing her properly this time — quick, but real. "I like when it's just us."

She smiled. "Me too."

"Also I think Sam might throw up if he ever wakes up when we're — you know."

"Sucks to suck." She said.

Oscar huffed a laugh.

They walked the rest of the way up together, quietly bickering over whose turn it was to nick KitKats from the vending machine and which bed they were claiming tonight.

Down the hall, someone yelled that Matt had thrown a sweaty sock at the fire alarm, because Jane was already in the process of burning her toast.

Harper smiled at Oscar.

Oscar smiled at Harper.

—

The classroom windows were cracked open, but the air still tasted like too many bodies in one place — biro ink, cheap deodorant, and GCSE anxiety.

Harper sat at the back, her copy of Macbeth balanced on top of a closed ring binder. She had a pen tucked behind one ear, a half-drunk bottle of Lucozade on the desk, and one hand pressed to the base of her spine like she could physically will the ache away.

Miss Freeman was rambling up front about ambition and power, pacing between the whiteboard and her desk with her usual furious energy. Her voice was sharp, quick — trying to cram five months' worth of content into five minutes, as if the sheer velocity of her teaching could force it into their heads.

"Harper," she called without turning, "what's Macbeth's fatal flaw?"

Harper blinked, sat up straighter. "Uh — ambition?"

"Good. Expand."

She swallowed. "He... wants power more than he wants to do the right thing. Even though he's full of doubt, he still goes through with it. Because he wants it too much."

Miss Freeman turned and pointed her marker like a sword. "Yes. Wanting something doesn't make you worthy of it. Write that down."

The room scratched with the sound of pens on paper.

Harper tried to focus — genuinely, she did — but her lower back was killing her. Not sharp pain, just that low, constant pressure, like someone had tied a sack of flour to her spine and told her to sit still with it.

She shifted slightly in her chair, trying to stretch out discreetly, but the movement drew a glance from the boy next to her — Toby something, always smelled like orange body spray and stale chewing gum.

He leaned slightly away, like she might suddenly explode.

"You alright?" He asked, face pinched.

Harper raised an eyebrow. "I'm fine."

He stared at her stomach like it had just started glowing.

"It's not catching, you know," she added dryly, turning back to her notes.

Toby flushed. "Didn't say it was."

"Didn't have to."

He said nothing after that, except to edge his chair a full six inches away.

Harper bit back a sigh, pressed her fingers harder into the knot at her back, and underlined the word ambition three times.

Across the room, she caught Jane's eye — Jane raised both eyebrows and mimed stabbing herself with her pen.

Harper smiled, barely, then went back to her book.

The clock ticked too slowly. The air buzzed. And the ache in her spine crept up just a little further.

—

The school nurse's office was too bright, too white. Fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, sharp against Harper's already pounding head. She sat stiffly on the low cot near the radiator, both hands braced on either side of her bump. Her back hurt — a dull, dragging ache low in her spine that came and went like waves. Not agony, but not normal either.

She'd tried to ignore it in class. Kept her head down, revising and pretending the ache wasn't spreading like warm pressure across her belly. Until she couldn't anymore.

So she'd texted Oscar.

Can you come with me to the nurse? Not urgent just... a bit of pain.

He hadn't replied.

He'd shown up at the English classroom less than two minutes later, breathless, eyes wide.

Now he was sitting beside her, not saying much, hand closed tightly over hers. She could feel how tense he was in the way his thumb didn't move, how his leg bounced nervously even though he was trying not to fidget.

Mrs. Lyle, the school nurse, was kneeling by a cabinet, flipping through a stack of maternity leaflets she hadn't touched in probably two years. That's how long it'd been since the Haileybury baby.

"You said it's low back pain? Tightening?"

Harper nodded. "Sort of like... pulling. Like pressure. Not sharp, but weird."

Oscar's fingers tightened slightly around hers.

Mrs. Lyle stood and crossed to them, sitting down on the little stool by the cot. "Sounds like Braxton Hicks. You're about what — thirty weeks now?"

"Almost thirty-two," Oscar said, before Harper could answer.

Mrs. Lyle smiled softly. "Right. That makes sense, then. These start around now — practice contractions, essentially. Not actual labour, but your body's working out the muscles. Like rehearsal, in a way."

"But it hurt," Harper said, quietly. "I mean, not properly. But it felt like..."

"Something more serious?" The nurse finished for her, nodding. "It's normal to worry. It's good you came in."

Oscar looked down, jaw clenched. "So it's not — she's okay? The baby's okay?"

"Everything sounds textbook," Mrs. Lyle said calmly. "Nothing to panic about. She needs rest, hydration, and someone to carry her backpack for the rest of the day."

"Oscar always carries my bag." She said, automatically. Then she let out a breath, trying not to sag too visibly into Oscar's side. But he felt it anyway, leaned a little closer like it was instinct. His thumb finally moved, brushing against the edge of her knuckle. "I didn't know what to do," she said quietly.

"You scared me," he replied.

"I thought maybe it was real. Like — too early. I thought something was wrong."

"I know," he said. "I thought that too."

The nurse busied herself across the room, giving them quiet.

Oscar stared at the floor, then looked at her again. "I'm going to switch English periods. So I'm with you most of the day. Only class we'll have separate is Maths."

"Thanks." She whispered.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, his hand lingering at her jaw. "I keep thinking I'm going to mess this up. Like there'll be a moment, and I won't know what to do, and you'll be hurting, and I'll just... freeze."

Harper turned toward him, forehead brushing his. "You didn't freeze, though. You ran out of class and came to get me."

"I got detention for it," he muttered.

"Worth it?"

"Obviously."

She smiled faintly, and for a second it almost didn't hurt anymore.

Mrs. Lyle came back with a bottle of water and some instructions about warning signs. Harper nodded through them, Oscar listening like it was life-or-death briefing.

Later, when they walked back toward the dorms together, Harper's bag slung over Oscar's shoulder and her hand in his hoodie pocket, she felt it again — the ache, the low pull in her back.

But she breathed through it. Didn't let herself panic.

Oscar stopped, watched her, gave her a minute.

And when she gave him a tiny little nod, they started walking again.

—

Oscar's pit garage was alive with movement — laptop screens glowing, air compressors hissing, the sharp scent of tyre rubber and brake dust thick in the air. The mechanics were everywhere, half-in and half-out of red team jackets, their radios clipped to belt loops, voices clipped and fast in the way only race days made necessary.

Harper sat on a crate in the back corner, half out of sight, a bottle of orange Lucozade in one hand and Oscar's helmet balanced beside her. She was wearing his old team fleece, zipped to the chin. Her legs ached from walking too much around the paddock that morning, and the baby — thirty-three weeks now, she kept reminding herself — was sitting weirdly on her spine. But none of that mattered.

She'd learned the names of all the engineers now. Matteo, who let her plug in tyre temp data to practice her number handling skills; Hugo, who always made her tea when it rained; and Ana, who'd secretly slipped her a granola bar the first time she nearly fainted from the garage heat.

They didn't look at her like she was a distraction.

They looked at her like she belonged.

"You're back early, Harps," Hugo said, passing her a stack of pit notes. "Track walk not worth the dust?"

She smiled faintly. "It was just Oscar doing that thing where he looks at gravel and pretends he understands how it affects his drive."

"Funny kid. Acting like he doesn't just drive like a lunatic every weekend and somehow make it work," Matteo added, grinning.

Harper smiled wider, adjusting the fleece over her bump. "We like lunatics."

There was the clatter of boots on metal and a burst of voices outside the canopy. Then Oscar pushed in through the side flap of the tent, tugging off his headset, face flushed and bright-eyed. His hair stuck up on one side, and he looked like he'd just run three miles.

He spotted her instantly.

"Harper—" His voice was breathless. He crossed the garage fast, past the prep bench, around the team radio desk, and knelt beside her like he couldn't get close enough fast enough. "Come here. Two seconds. Just—"

She blinked, startled, letting him pull her up by the hand and half-drag her toward the quiet side of the tent, near the stacks of spare slicks and a half-drunk bottle of Red Bull.

Oscar looked like he might combust.

She tilted her head. "You alright?"

He looked at her for a second like he was checking if it was real.

Then he said, "Prema wants me. For F3."

Her mouth parted.

"What?"

He nodded, quickly, still flushed, eyes almost glassy with adrenaline. "Just talked to Marco. They want me. Already. Like—next season. They said I'm tracking above expectations. They want to get me in the F3 car before the year's out. Testing. Maybe a free practice."

"Wait—wait, wait," Harper said, stepping in closer. "Oscar, are you—are you serious?"

"I think I'm going to cry or be sick," he said, but he was smiling, wide and unguarded.

She grabbed his face with both hands, stared at him like she was trying to press the words into his skin. "You're going to F3."

"Yeah."

"You're actually—"

"Yeah."

"Oh my God." She let out something between a laugh and a sob and kissed him. It wasn't a careful kiss. It was messy, hot with nerves, almost desperate — the kind of kiss that comes after months of half-holding your breath and hoping everything you're building doesn't slip through your fingers.

When they broke apart, Harper kept her forehead against his.

"You deserve this," she whispered. "You've worked so fucking hard, Osc. This isn't luck. This is you."

He didn't say anything at first. Just closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were clear and determined.

"I want it," he said. "I want it bad. But I'm scared that—"

"Don't," she said. "We'll make it work."

Someone called Oscar's name from the garage entrance.

He kissed her again, faster this time, and muttered, "Gotta go."

"Win this one," she said, still breathless.

"I will."

As he jogged back to his engineer, helmet under one arm, Harper stayed near the stack of tyres, heart hammering in time with the noise of the circuit starting to come alive beyond the paddock.

F3.

It wasn't just an idea anymore.

It was happening.

Step by step, formula by formula.

Her boyfriend was going to be a world champion one day.

And she'd be right next to him when it happened.

—

The computer lab always smelled like dust and old wires, the kind of cold room that was either boiling from server fans or freezing from the busted window. Today it was somewhere in between.

Harper sat in the corner by the window, legs tucked under her in the school's worst office chair, a hoodie tugged over her bump and a stubborn frown etched into her face.

"Line thirty-six," Matt said, leaning over her screen from the side. "You've got a missing semicolon."

She groaned and dropped her head to the desk.

"I hate JavaScript. I hate the entire concept of JavaScript. It's all chaos and no laws."

"You're learning React, which is basically JavaScript on crack."

"I chose this language because it was meant to be user-friendly."

Matt looked at her with wide eyes. "It's not. It lies."

Harper sat back up, cracking her knuckles. "Whatever. It's a project site, not a space launch. It just needs to work."

On her screen: a rough landing page — bold, accessible design, a mockup portfolio header, a contact form that mostly worked, and a bright pink font that she'd argued about with her teacher twice already.

The title read: Harper Grace Whiatt | Front-End Developer.

"You're not even doing this for class anymore, are you?" Matt asked, squinting at the layout.

"Nope," she said, popping her lips. "I've been attending this accredited course online, doing the certification stuff. Once I get my GCSEs out of the way and baby is born, I'm going to spend all my free time on it. Maybe go freelance. Build stuff."

Matt blinked. "Like... actual websites? For people?"

"Yeah," Harper said, tapping her space bar like it owed her money. "There's this girl I follow on Instagram — she's eighteen, self-taught, does Squarespace templates and Shopify setups, makes more than a junior lawyer. I figured, you know... it's smart. Futureproof."

She said it like a defence. Like she had to prove to everyone — to herself — that she wasn't going to be the story people had already decided for her.

"You don't have to," Matt said after a moment. "Prove anything. We already know you're clever. And, like. Kind of terrifying."

"Aw," Harper said. "You're sweet." Then she said . "Ever say that again and I'll launch this keyboard at your head."

Matt rolled his eyes, but grinned. "You're going to be good at it."

She looked back at the screen, the site stubby and full of placeholder text, but real. Hers.

"I want to build stuff people actually use," she said, softer now. "Not just pretty things. Useful ones. That don't assume you've got perfect eyesight or that you know where all the buttons are."

"Accessible design?" He asked, a little impressed.

Harper shrugged. "Bit ironic, right? Couldn't pass GCSE Maths if you paid me, but give me a CSS framework and I can make your entire checkout system retina-ready."

"You're the only person in this school who knows what 'retina-ready' means."

She grinned. "Maybe."

A message pinged on her screen — a Discord notification from a dev server she'd joined the week before. Someone had commented on her mock portfolio build: Nice typography choices. Would love to see more of your work.

She stared at it for a second.

Maybe this wasn't some pretend future. Maybe this was real.

Her world didn't have to shrink. It could shift. Change shape. But it didn't have to vanish.

Her laptop fan wheezed and clicked. She opened her browser, pulled up her GitHub, and started typing.

—

Oscar was lying flat on his bed, hair still wet from his post-training shower, eating Haribo one by one like they were sacred. Harper was on the floor cross-legged, MacBook balanced on her knees, pyjama sleeves pulled over her hands. Her bump curved gently under the fabric, resting against her thighs.

The screen glowed blue in the dim light.

"You're not allowed to look yet," she said, waving him off.

"It's going to be my website," Oscar muttered, tossing a Haribo into his mouth and missing.

Sam snorted from the other side of the room. "To be fair, you couldn't design a website if your life depended on it, Piastri. You'd just put a picture of your face and 'vroom' underneath."

Oscar threw a sock at him.

Harper kept typing.

They'd been working on it — quietly, between revision and races and everything else — for the last two weeks. He hadn't told anyone yet. Mark knew, obviously. And Alfie, by accident, when Harper asked if anyone had high-res images from Oscar's most recent F4 race.

They'd all gone to watch him from the grandstands like normal fans. Sam, Alfie, Jane, Matt — and obviously Harper. It'd been like a weird, fun little school trip.

Now the website was almost done.

"Okay," Harper said finally. "Try it."

Oscar leaned over and squinted at the screen. Then blinked.

The landing page was sharp and minimal, black background, bold white type. A full-width photo of him racing — visor down, car catching the light just right — stretched across the top.

OscarPiastri.com

"Whoa."

She kept scrolling for him. Stats. Race results. An embedded video reel Mark had helped them trim. A bio she'd bullied him into writing. Sponsor contact section. News feed. Instagram integration. All responsive. All accessible.

"You made this?" He said, eyebrows high.

She nodded. "Built from scratch. No Wix bullshit. I even set up the CMS so Mark can update the results and press stuff without breaking anything."

He just stared. "It's so... professional."

"I am professional."

Oscar looked properly impressed. Then a little overwhelmed. "You're literally fifteen."

"Sixteen in, like, nine weeks," she corrected, deadpan.

He reached for her, pulled her gently up onto the bed beside him, and kissed her temple.

"Thank you," he said, soft.

"'s nothing," she said, tucking herself under his arm. "I liked doing it. Made me feel like I'm... part of it."

"You are part of it."

She didn't say anything. Just closed the lid of her laptop and leaned against him.

Across the room, Sam looked up. "Wait. If you're building sites now... think you could make me one for my rap career?"

Harper didn't even blink. "No. I want nothing to do with that disaster."

Oscar laughed.

Sam sulked.

—

The early morning light filtered through the cracked dorm window, casting a pale glow on the cluttered room. Harper sat on the edge of her bed, fiddling nervously with the hem of her jumper. Oscar leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, eyes tired but trying to look calm.

"First one," Harper muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar shrugged, trying for casual. "Biology. Easy, yeah?"

She snorted. "You're joking. You've seen my biology notes."

He stepped closer, dropping his voice. "Hey, you've got this. We've done the revision, the late nights, the panic... now it's just another test."

Harper bit her lip. "I'm scared. What if I mess it up? What if I let everyone down?"

Oscar crouched down, grabbing her hands. "No one's expecting perfection. And what does a biology result matter anyway?"

She squeezed his hands, trying to hold onto that steady feeling. "Thanks, Osc."

He smiled, awkward and sincere. "We celebrate. Whatever happens."

She nodded, took a deep breath. "Okay. I think I'm ready."

He pulled her into a quick hug, warm and tight. "Go smash it."

NEXT CHAPTER

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 01. IN DREAMS WE REST

a/n: i've been stressed about this fic probably more than any other i've ever written. not because it's logan per se, but because wade wilson makes me want to rip my hair out. i love that bastard, but writing him feels like pulling teeth. i'm in love with this concept solely for the angst, so if you see more throughout and wonder if they will ever get a happy ending, please know i'm dead inside. enjoy!

summary: stuck in another universe and unsure of where he stands, logan expects things to even out as they always did. but when you cross his path and you have no idea who he is, he's in for a rude awakening.

word count: 5.9k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, wade wilson breaking the fourth wall, angst, cussing so much cussing, alcohol consumption, grief, pain, a broken man pretending he's not broken, chance encounters, awkward conversations, hope.

NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

He can hear it when he sleeps.

Their screams.

The constant ring of agony that chimes out like a bell, an alarm he never set for himself. A joke once told to him in the midst of World War II, as bullets flew by him and soldiers lost their lives each second of each day. There's no escape from hell. No running from the devil that nipped at his heels the faster he went, the longer he tried to navigate a way free.

There's no escape from the memories that ate away in his mind. Multitudes of them, of the faces he once called family, the people he used to love. They were his punishment. The boulder he continued to roll up the hill, day after day after day. Until eventually...he was crushed by his own self-hatred.

"Logan." The voice whispered long enough for him to grasp who it might be, yet never louder than a mere breath of air.

He clung to it some days. Sunk his claws into what little of his past remained good and allowed it to fill him with some amount of peace. At least then he'd be able to bear this weight, this grief he could never quite name.

Something light brushed across his cheek. Tickling the skin enough to send a flare of irritation down his spine, but the dreams held him in their grasp. What came next never surprised him. He expected it at this point—longed for it. The distant pain of losing what once made him whole; the entirety of his life now defined by one single moment he could never change.

"He sleeps so sweetly. I just want to curl up in his arms and have him read me bedtime stories."

"He's not gonna like that when he wakes up."

"Zip it Al. If I wanted an opinion, I'd go see a Hollywood therapist."

A scoff echoed in the background. "No therapist wants you on their couch."

"Not true. I hear Ryan Reynolds has a great one."

"Who?"

"Not the point." The feather dusted across Logan's face again, soft enough to keep him asleep yet annoying enough to bring a smile to Wade's face. "I wonder if he's dreaming about killing bad guys. They say it's good for the soul."

"Who the fuck is they?"

Wade laughed. "Oh you know. Them. The readers. And boy howdy do they love their blood."

Every day he was forced to listen to Wade's voice became another day Logan dragged his claw through a tally mark of his sanity. "Do you ever shut the fuck up," he growled, gripping Wade's wrist until he heard the satisfying crack of bones.

"Only when I swallow."

"I'll tear your fuckin' arm off."

The smile on Wade’s face only added another tally. "Nice kitty. No need for the claws."

Anger washed across his skin in a familiar wave as he released Wade's arm, watching it go limp. Trying to kill the unkillable walking irritation was like trying to swat a fly that never quite died. It still buzzed incessantly. Until eventually madness was the only viable option of dealing with it. In his case, he seemed to be driving head on with no brakes.

Logan wasn't sure he possessed enough sanity left within him to keep dealing with this. Sleeping on the couch didn't help the way his body never rested; always stuck in that permanent fighting mode. He'd give anything to find some peace. A small sliver of it carved off the past that continued to call him—that begged him to come back and try again.

Swinging his legs off the couch, he planted a swift kick to Wade's chest that sent him across the floor. The lack of caffeine in his system left everything hazy and half coherent. If he focused he might have caught the keys thrown at him, but being exhausted and sober didn't make for a good combination with him. An empty whiskey bottle lay discarded on the floor from last night; the memories of how he passed out barely tinged on the edge of his mind.

He could recall stabbing Wade in the leg.

Nothing beyond that.

Dried blood—now an ugly brown—stained his white shirt. He nearly stripped himself of it, prepared to throw it in with whoever was washing next, but his flannel being chucked at his head caught him off guard.

"Fuck off," he snapped, stumbling to the kitchen.

Wade sighed, following him. "Get dressed, peanut. We have to go do human things today."

"Human–”

"Food," Al retorted. "We're out."

Even in a new universe, he couldn't see himself acting normal. For so long he did what had to in order to survive. Yet now...he wasn't so sure. Accompanying Wade Wilson in order to complete household chores left a bad taste in his mouth. But the thought of fresh coffee and an unopened bottle of whiskey sounded like sweet silver bells in his head.

With reluctance, he buttoned up half of the flannel before he became annoyed with the small size of the holes punched into the fabric. There was only so much he could do with the life he had now. And sometimes shit really sucked.

"Don't scratch my fucking car," Al pointed her words towards Wade, thankfully ignoring Logan's existence for a brief moment.

"Is it safe for her to own a car?"

The door shut behind him with a bang, echoing down the vacant hallway. He was surprised people actually lived here given Wade's antics. They could hear the loud mouthed fucker across the street—if the angry notes in the mail were anything to go by. He didn't bother asking if he should be concerned with any of it. Not when he had no say in how the house was run. And choosing to insert himself where he wasn’t needed, rarely went well for him.

"God no. But I give her the benefit of the doubt. She hasn't killed anyone. Yet."

He yanked the keys out of Wade's hand. "Yeah well I don't trust you either Bub."

The car didn't leave room for his legs as he squeezed into the driver's side. His body practically folded in half as he turned it over—the rumble of the engine rattling against metal. How Blind Al managed to pay for this vehicle went beyond even Wade's knowledge, and in all honesty…he was too fucking scared to ask.

Too much seemed to be happening for him to ever catch up. While this Earth felt similar to his, small things were different. And when they began to add up...he began to wonder if he was drowning.

"Turn left to merge onto the asscrack of traffic."

He barely heard the directions as he drove, his mind drifting the further they went. Part of him sensed the grief from earlier begin to claw up the back of his throat. It begged him to fall, to be swallowed whole by the darkness he'd been stuck in before. And he nearly gave in; could feel his body shift into its constant mode of fight or flight.

The steering wheel cracked under his white knuckled grip as Wade's voice became an afterthought to the war he fought in his mind. Terror trapped itself in his throat and he slammed his foot on the brakes a foot away from a parking spot in retaliation. The car lurched forward, his claws descended. A snarl rumbled in his chest the longer he sat there thinking.

"Woah..." For the first time in days, Wade fell silent. "You alright?"

Logan ripped himself free, shoving his body out of the car before he even threw it in park. He gulped in breath after breath and did his best to wait for this fucking feeling to leave his system. The nightmares only came as he slept. A constant familiar horror show after two centuries.

Yet now he was left like this. Leaned up against a car, his eyes closed shut, and heart racing.

All because he couldn't do his fucking job.

"Logan–"

He snapped, shoving past Wade and his pity that choked him with a vengeance. He didn't deserve anyone's pity. He didn't want it. But people couldn't help but hand it over unconsciously. As if they could see the layers of broken pieces beneath his false expression of strength. Logan never pretended to be okay. Why bother with something people could see right through?

He merely wanted others to ignore he was there. Walk past him, look through him, do whatever it took to pretend that him and all his tragedies weren't standing before them. Because one day he would die and fuck how he couldn't wait for that time to come.

A small hole in the wall dive bar sat in the corner of the shopping center. He barely caught sight of it. But the unmistakable scent of alcohol poured out the door as someone stumbled out—their eyes squeezed shut against the harsh brightness of the sun. He could understand them in a way.

His world didn't have sunlight this bright. Or perhaps he never noticed it ‘til now.

Maybe his body wasn't acclimated yet; unsure of what the fuck was still happening. Everything seemed to be turned up to eleven for him, yet no off switch existed.

The dark hazy glow of the interior sent a wave of calm through him as the door swung shut with a soft thud. Four people sat scattered around the place and a bartender with white and graying hair stood cleaning a glass so foggy it was probably better to throw it out. He found himself letting out a breath that'd been trapped in his chest since that morning. Finally some peace before he had to listen to Wade yap about bullshit he didn't in fact give a shit about.

"What'll you have?" the old man asked, his face screwing up in a wince as he limped towards Logan's spot at the end of the bar.

A quick glance down let him see the brace wrapped around the man's knee. "Whiskey on the rocks."

He nodded, slowly heading towards the center of the wall—a lonesome half empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter. Logan shifted, taking the center seat directly behind the man.

"I can't say I've seen you around before son."

He grinned, his finger tracing a random carving that'd been placed in the wood. "I just moved here. Living with a coworker."

"Coworker huh?"

The word didn't sound right to Logan, but he couldn't exactly call Wade his friend. Although they were more than people who fought together, more than men who shared blood during the same battle. That was the thing about Logan though. He'd never be able to put a label on something like that. To him...things weren't one or the other as much as he wanted to pretend they were. There was nuance to his life.

Complications which made living that much harder.

The man turned, surprised to see Logan so close, but didn't make note of it. Logan could see the gratitude in the way his drink was slid carefully to him. The small silent thank you in the bowl of pretzels placed beside it.

"You look lost."

Logan grunted, biting into the salty and dry snack. "Do I?"

"More than some of the others that come around here."

"And who comes around here?"

The man laughed. "No one as of late. You're the first young man I've seen in a while walk through those doors."

He bit back his laugh at the word young. The stories he could tell would leave the man baffled. About wars that no living person had witnessed. About when the world was far different than today—when mutants were freaks of nature and humans were far less forgiving. He could list it all and then some.

But whether or not someone would listen was another thing entirely.

"This place that old?" he inquired, sipping on the amber liquid with a contented sigh.

"Oh you bet." A weary laugh filled the space. "I bought this place in the sixties. When my wife was still my girlfriend. She almost left me because of it."

Logan huffed, his lips curling slightly. "She wasn't a fan?"

The man shook his head, tossing a cloth over his shoulder. "Still isn't. Well she...wasn't." He pressed his thumb to the worn gold band on his left hand. "When she was alive she used to host a book night. Helped bring in the men's wives. Kept them outta trouble."

"Book night huh?"

"She loved to read."

Before he could down the final sips of his drink it was topped off. Logan nodded his head in thanks, his thumb digging into the thumbprint shape of the glass. If he thought about it hard enough, he could almost see himself coming here every night. He pictured a life far different than his own, a past where he might have been happy. With someone who might have even made him smile.

"I'm not much of a reader," he replied, his voice hoarse and eyes fixed on the ice that floated to the surface.

"Ah me too," the man laughed. "I just liked seeing her smile."

A soft remark was on the tip of his tongue before an entirely new image began to take shape. The face of someone lost. Of a smile he'd known better than his own. Hands that once held his face with the tenderness of a lover—a voice that sent the hair rising on the back of his neck. He could see it as clear as he did the man.

You in all your beauty. Lost to a past he could no longer rectify.

He swallowed thickly, beating back every emotion that crawled under his skin. "What's your name?"

"Travis."

Raising his glass, he tipped it towards the man with a tight grin. "Logan." The alcohol went down with a quick and biting burn. A feeling he'd grown familiar with. One he counted on.

"Nice to meet you Logan."

"Yeah you too."

He dug out some cash and tossed it on the bar as he stood with a slight grunt. He may heal quickly but the ache in his bones still existed. As if something resisted against how his body moved with each slow shift.

Fighting meant he could ignore it.

Existing is what made it worse.

The sun practically burned his eyes when he stepped out, the heat of the day encompassing his whole body quicker than he would have liked. For some unknown fucking reason, summer here felt worse than on his Earth. Then again the alcohol didn't help. He stood in the shade of the building next to the bar, searching the parking lot for any sign of Wade.

Going into the store wasn't an option and as much as he wanted to leave the annoyance behind, he didn't want to feel like a piece of shit. That is...even more than he already did.

"Fuck," he hissed, leaning against the brick wall. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

One option would be taking a walk to work off the energy that ran through his veins. At least then he'd be able to sleep at night. And the temptation almost worked. If it weren't for the shop doors that opened to his left, effectively distracting him from the chance of leaving. He could have ignored the person, probably should have given everything he'd been through.

But then his heart dropped to his stomach as you walked out. He'd never seen you in such a soft sundress before, the off white fabric draped off your curves in a way that floored him. As if you were an angel floating by without a care in the world. You were busy shoving a small piece of paper in your purse, your face furrowed in frustration, and Logan smiled. Because he'd traced each line of that face before, he'd kissed those cheeks, your eyelids as you slept.

He'd loved you in ways that would scare a normal human.

And there you were.

"Honey?" he called, unconsciously following you quicker than he intended to. "Honey."

You glanced to the side, completely unaware of the giant lumbering man trailing after you with a soft look on his face and hope in his hands.

That alone tore him in two more than the memories from before.

"Baby, it's me."

The breeze finally went through the air, pushing the skirt of your dress a bit higher on your thighs. Except that's not what he latched onto. Your scent was different. Unlike any he'd encountered before. Honey still sweetly caressed his senses, but flowers overlayed that—peonies if he guessed. Delicious enough to have his mouth watering; his body already aching for you to be closer. To look at him in the way you used to.

He wanted to call out to you—gain your attention properly—but your name wouldn't leave his tongue. Because you were there and you finally caught sight of him and you were looking at him as if nothing bad ever happened between the two of you.

You saw him as a man.

Not a disappointment.

He willed himself to stop and breathe. Take in his surroundings; realize that you weren't who he once knew. You weren't even the same fucking person.

But before he could think straight, he'd already followed you halfway to your car. His eyes were dazed, heart nearly throttling him alive as he stood there dumbly. Waiting for you to finally speak.

"Oh..." Your heart rate spiked quicker than he expected. He couldn't find it in himself to feel bad though. "Hello?"

"Honey," he sighed, the weight on his shoulders lifting ever so slightly.

He caught the way your fingers tightened around your keys, the defense mechanism an instinct by now. And Logan realized what he looked like. A strange man standing too close for your liking. So he took a step back and gave you some space. In the hopes that you wouldn't see him as a threat. That maybe...you'd listen to what he had to say.

"Can I help you?" you asked, eyes darting around the parking lot in case you needed help.

What he wouldn't give for the opportunity to reassure you. To explain that he wasn't here to hurt you. That he'd kill himself before even laying a hand on you. Yet the correct words were lost and all he seemed to get out was an incoherent babble that had him wanting to dig his own claws into his chest.

"You smell different."

You straightened your spine, eyes narrowed into a glare he felt burn across his skin. "Look, I don't know who you are. But fuck off."

Something akin to pride flared in his chest at your tone, your words. But he couldn't show it externally. How would he explain that your fight—your fire—is what drew him to you in the first place? How could he tell you about a version of yourself you'd never know? A person he thought would be with him until his last breath exhaled into the world.

"I'm not here to hurt you." He raised his hands in an attempt to prove his point, but like your variant counterpart you were willing to bite first and ask questions later.

"Yeah. Sure asshole." The shopping bag in your other hand was lifted up, until you had a tighter grip on it in case something happened. You didn't know him. You probably never would.

But Logan had to try. He owed it to you to give it all he had this time around.

Otherwise...what was the point of living?

"My name's–" He made the wrong move stepping forward and knew it the second his boot hit the gravel. With a wince, he watched you stumble back against your car, your arm coming up to protect yourself. "No. Look I'm not gonna do anything–"

"Get the fuck away from me," you spit.

He moved back as if approaching a wounded animal—his body finally on edge in a new way. The fact that you didn't know him wasn't what broke off another chunk of his heart. He could handle that. He'd been through that.

You were afraid of him.

That realization dug in too deep for his body to heal.

That...he couldn't live with.

"WOAH hey!" He'd never appreciated Wade's irritating ass more than in this moment. He jumped between the two of you, the cart of groceries forgotten as he blocked Logan from your sight. "Step away from the nice lady wolf boy." Wade regarded you with a smile. "Hi! Sorry. This is my uncle and well as you can probably tell he's lost eight of his lives. So we're going on little old nine. And well the mind just goes to shit first."

Seconds passed by like minutes and Logan watched you visibly deflate. "Wade," you greeted him, visibly calmer than before. Logan felt his stomach twist violently at the thought. "It's good to see you. How's the job?"

"Oh yup you know. Left that. But I'm really pushing through. I've got an Etsy store where I sell miniature paintings of Michael Angelo's David's penis. So there's that."

Your laughter sent a hole through his chest and Logan bit back the growl that rose up the back of his throat. What the fuck was Wade doing making friends with you? Why were you laughing at his humor?

He couldn't count how many days he'd spent longing to hear your laugh again, the shine in your eyes that always came around when joy flooded your bloodstream. He could smell the honey off your skin, the warmth of what no doubt lay beneath your thin dress. And he wanted to rip Wade to pieces knowing that he was the one making it happen. That you were comfortable with a man who's mouth ran at a mile a minute.

"Did your sister have the baby yet?"

You brightened and Logan felt his heart stutter. "She did! A boy."

"Named Wade I hope."

Another peal of laughter had Logan's claws itching to descend as you ignored he was there. "Theo actually. A cutie."

"Aww." Wade moved closer, head bent to see the small polaroid you pulled out of your wallet. "Wow, he looks like you'd find him in a Gerber's advertisement."

Your eyes drifted up, past Wade's shoulder, until you finally caught Logan's gaze. And he felt like he could breathe. Every ounce of fear was wiped from your face; interest now creeping in as you dragged your eyes down his form. Past the slight peek of chest hair and down to how his jeans hugged his hips. Logan stood taller for your benefit, as if he needed to make a good impression.

He wanted to linger in your mind for days. Until the curiosity ate you alive.

"We're gonna go," Wade announced, after grabbing your bag and placing it in your trunk for you. "Someone has to feed the blind woman in my apartment. She tends to root through everything looking for food." He gripped Logan's arm, shoving him back a good few feet. Even as your eyes still remained glued to his face. "Glad to see the Hyundai is still working. You know you could take the fattest fucking nap in the back of that puppy. Makes you feel like an Egyptian mummy."

"Bye," you said, a dazed look in your eyes as Logan smiled in your direction. At ease with the knowledge that even in a different universe, he could still fluster you with a look.

Dragging himself away from you was hell, but Wade's grip remained unbreakable as they clambered to the car. The groceries stacked in the small backseat.

He could glimpse you driving off and suddenly the nightmare from earlier was the last thing on his mind.

Wade's back hit the wall with a crack before the door could shut properly. The groceries in their hands toppled to the floor. He barely had time to duck before Logan's claws were aiming for his head—a snarl ripping from his throat.

"What the fuck?" Wade shouted, grabbing the paper bag and gently setting it on the table. "Next time just say you need to stay home and find some joy in an empty room and your hand."

"How do you know her?"

Wade smiled, assessing the furious state of chaos Logan was now left in. The tatters of his stability falling to the floor around him. For as much as he held himself together, it certainly remained easy enough to tear him a part.

"Got an eye on someone, do we honey badger?"

Logan grimaced, running a hand down his face. "Would you just fucking tell me?"

"Let me bask in this Logan. I'm about to watch a romcom come to life and need some popcorn." He rummaged through the bag, yanking out some chips. "Salty and sweet. That'll do."

"Wade," he bit out.

"Stick with us girls, we're about to get to the good stuff."

"WADE!"

He tossed the bag to the table, eyeing the way Logan never quite settled. "I'm gonna take a guess and say we know her more than just friendly hellos."

Logan couldn't answer because his grief did it for him. He did what he could to catch his breath, to stop seeing his version of you. The disappointment on your face, the pain in your voice. You'd been so angry with him. To watch the person he loved be reduced to a screaming crying mess wasn't something he wanted to relive, but Wade's question seemed to send an avalanche toppling to the ground.

"She's..." He sucked in a breath. "On my world. I...knew her."

"Knew her? Or knew her."

He reached for the bottle of whiskey Wade threw in with the rest of the groceries and popped it open before he spoke again. "It didn't end well between us. None of it did."

Wade fell silent and Logan found himself loathing the quiet more than the sound of his voice. If he was joking Logan could ignore it. He could pretend nothing happened. That you weren't here, you couldn't be hurt by him again.

You were safe from his destructive tendencies as long as you were in another universe.

"She lives across the street." Logan's head rose and whipped to see the window that faced the building across from them. "The old uncultured shit whistles that keep complaining about WHAM! the greatest thing to happen to music. They're her neighbors. Live right next door."

"Neighbors."

Wade nodded, offering him a chip. "She found their note and angel that she is, she very sweetly threatened to get them evicted. I offered to let her borrow my katanas but was rejected like younger me on prom night. You've really got yourself a catch there buddy."

Logan didn't need Wade to tell him how fucking lucky he was. He knew that the second you walked out of that store. You were everything good in his life at one point, everything he couldn't save. There wasn't much keeping him going on his old Earth, but having you made all the suffering he went through—all the pain he endured—worth it.

If you were waiting for him at the end, he'd do it all over again.

"So you want to take a dip in that honey huh? Taste that rainbow?"

His claws would have sunk into Wade's throat if a knock hadn't sounded at the door. With a huff, he stepped into the kitchen, the bottle clutched tightly in his hand. Whoever decided to give Wade some luck was of no concern to him.

Or so he believed.

"I didn't mean to accidentally take your groceries," you laughed, handing over a overpacked paper bag.

Stuffing the bottle under the sink, he met you halfway to the living room, his eyes drinking in the sight of you still in that dress. Still delicate enough for him to rip if he tugged it right. Heat curled along the base of his spine when your eyes met his, wide and glimmering with your laughter. He felt himself crumple at the sight of your lips parting, the surprise at his size still enough to make you speechless.

"Good to see you again," he greeted you, voice low and soft.

You didn't mean to grow flustered in his presence, but something about the way his gaze devoured you within seconds left you breathless. The swooping sensation in your stomach became too much to handle. Desire and attraction weren't unknown concepts to you. But this felt like more. You could sense him right down to your bones and it scared the shit out of you.

"Oh right!" Wade scooched past you to swing an arm around Logan's shoulders. He did what he could to not stab him in the stomach. "This is Logan. My hunky new roommate."

Logan groaned. "Alright–"

"No, no it's good. You remember when I was declared basically the savior of the universe?"

Your face screwed up in confusion. Logan had never wanted to kiss someone more.

"Marvel...Jesus right?"

"I prefer MJ. Since I've got a Peter." Wade's head whipped to the side. "Suck it Tom Holland." His grip on Logan tightened. "This walking People's Sexiest Magazine helped. We're talking big claws, abs you just want to lick whipped cream off of–"

Logan's elbow slammed into Wade's stomach—crimson slowly tinting the tips of his ears. "That's enough."

"AND the Wolverine."

Surprised etched itself onto your face even further. Until you finally regarded Logan with a look he'd seen once before. Awe. When you first met one another in the halls of the mansion, you stared at him that exact way. As if you couldn't quite believe that iconic figure the X-Men made him out to be actually existed.

He couldn't tell if he liked it. Or if he'd rather you view him as a stranger.

"Logan," he said, offering his hand to you politely. Your skin remained as soft as he remembered.

Warmth bloomed in your body at the feeling of his calloused palm overwhelming yours, the scars across his knuckles old and ancient. Yet you found yourself wanting to trace them over and over, until the sight of them seared in your mind. You fought the urge to press your lips to them, etch your own mark into his skin. Something told you he wouldn’t mind.

Logan could see the intrigue on your face—the distracted gaze he wanted to keep in place. You were still curious. Still willing to learn about him. To pick him a part with soft words and even softer touches.

"Logan," you murmured under your breath, your eyes catching his. He felt his stomach leap at the sound of your voice whispering his name. Memories flooding his mind quicker than he expected. Of mornings spent in bed, your skin pressed against his. Of nights alone in his cabin—your stories lulling him to sleep.

Everything he willed himself to forget, yet could never truly let go of.

"I've got to head back." Disappointment filled your heart at the thought of not getting a chance to talk to him more. He had yet to let go of your hand and you found you liked his touch on your skin. "I'll see you soon Wade."

"Logan will be more than happy to walk you back," Wade replied, waving drastically behind your back. "Can't have you getting hurt now can we? Right peanut?"

You smiled. "I'm just across the street."

"I don't mind," Logan cut in, glaring at Wade to shut the fuck up.

"Okay," your voice was soft. Happy.

Logan would have done anything to keep it that way.

The walk back wasn't long enough for him to explain his actions from earlier, but you seemed to be just as smart as your variant self. Shutting the building's door, you turned to him—your dress fluttering in the breeze. Logan choked on his spit at the slight peek of your ass before you pushed the skirt back down around you.

"Did you know me?" You lead him to the corner, waiting for the traffic to die down. "On your Earth."

He paused, his eyebrows pulling together, and for a moment you wondered if you asked the wrong question. Wade told you bits and pieces of what happened since you last saw him, but Logan's background wasn't a discussion you tried to seek out. All you knew was that Wade acquired a new roommate. Not even a name.

Certainly not that he was Wolverine.

"Yes," Logan muttered, glancing at the change in lights.

You started to walk. "In what way?"

His hands curled into fists—echoes of his past rising to the surface. "We were...friends. You're a professor."

"A professor?" you exclaimed, a smile tugging on your lips. "Am I a mutant?"

He nodded. "You're able to bend time. Or control it." He snorted, following your lead towards your building. "I could never understand it. But Charles did."

The walk up to your apartment was silent, your thoughts filled with the new information he'd given you. And no matter how hard you tried to picture it, you couldn't see yourself as a mutant. A powerful being that held the ability to manipulate time who just so happened to be a professor. Somehow even thinking about it made you wonder why Logan was bothering to entertain this version of you. When the better one existed on his Earth.

"You said were."

Stopping at your door, he nearly knocked into you. "Hm?"

"Were friends. What happened?"

The answer he couldn't give you. The words he wouldn't even admit out loud to himself.

He felt his heart twist as if a knife slowly carved through his spleen. "We uh..." He coughed. "You..."

"I don't have to know." Grasping gently onto his arm, you offered a warm smile he felt down to his toes. A look he hadn't seen in quite some time. Logan could picture the last day you were happy in his head. Laughing with Charles in his office as you shared dinner, working on theories of your powers late into the night.

A week before they came.

"It's good to see you like this," he breathed, his hand reaching out to touch your cheek before stopping midair. "Happy."

Your eyebrows knit together. "I wasn't happy?"

"No." What he wouldn't give to take that information back, but it was out in the open, and as always—he remained too late.

"Why?" you asked, your hand sliding down to his much to his delight.

"I made you a promise." He sucked in a breath, his body begging him to start running. You'd be better off if you never knew. If you never remembered him in the first place. "I couldn't keep it."

I'll always keep you safe.

Words he refused to say again.

How could he promise this version of you that? How could he look you in the eyes and lie again? Breaking his Earth's you would haunt him for the rest of his life. He couldn't fathom doing it all over. It would kill him.

Except you weren't the person in his mind. You weren't the mutant who hated him with every fiber of your being. You were you. A continuous surprise that left his heart stuttering in his chest each time you looked his way. An enigma he found himself wanting to unravel.

"Maybe this time around you can," you said softly, letting him go with a smile as you entered your apartment, effectively opening the wound in his heart so wide there was no saving him.

Although he now knew something he didn’t know before.

He didn’t want to be saved.

[dilf-docs]

Snow At The Beach, I. Day One: Arrival

harry castillo x younger fem!reader

summary: you knew doing things without thinking was bad. so now, of course, your impromptu trip to iceland gets ruined by a man who claims you have ruined his.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (late 20s/late 40s), (eventual) smut, s2l, forced proximity, one bed, tons of angst, MATERIALISTS SPOILERS +more specific to be added per chapter!

word count: 3,266 words

side note: i feel like a man who fathers too many kids who he can't take care of lmao very fitting since it's father's day in my country!! i do have a present loving dad so i'm afraid my dilfism has been earned by other worse reasons. fun fact, it's also my 21st bday! yey (づ๑•ᴗ•๑)づ🎂 shot out too to the daddiest non-dad out there, pedro pascal!!!! (i know some of these things like hotel mishaps don't make sense since it's supposed to be a luxury place but idc do it for the plot!)

part: prev | masterlist | next

He feels stupid. Sitting at the airport with luggage for a week and a ticket to Iceland that felt more like a reckless choice every passing hour and less like the romantic getaway he envisioned. Surrounded by families, friends, couples and people by themselves who certainly don't look as miserable as he does. Lonely. His gaze lingers on the lovers, as some sort of punishment. He thinks of his brother and his recent marriage and the girl who got away. Lucy. He still doesn't know how to feel about it, but he definitely isn't feeling sunshine and rainbows.

Just stupid.

Harry Castillo, billionaire, deceived by the promise of love, taken away from him by a broke waiter of all people.

He boards the plane with rage, holding his handbag so tightly, the stewardess posted at first class asks him if he's okay. He nods, but he knows he's far from it. Spends all the five hours checking his email and pending files, yet he also knows he cares about it as much as he cares about his brother's Things To Do In Iceland list. Hiking, whale watching, romantic waterfalls and the promise of a wet enchanted kiss. Those were things to do for couples. Harry is fucking alone.

Sitting next to him is a man who snores. Too loud. His eye ticks. Who sleeps on a fucking five hour flight? Alright, Harry is irritable at the moment; he thinks he's right about this though.

The plane lands in between the views of white-coated mountains and green grass. Some people clap. Harry hates people who clap when a plane lands.

Who would've thought a real romantic and composed businessman could be this full of hate?

It's Lucy's fault.

Now, Harry's moved to the stage where he blames everyone else. Not shared guilt, just her fault. Entirely hers. For her icy blue eyes, like the lakes behind his window. As well as cold. For fawning at his apartment but not at his kisses. For acknowledging he was great. Because even then, she chose not to stay.

As the car drives to his chosen hotel, the Torfhùs retreat, he thinks about her again. Lucy and him. Blames her for not opening up. But, he didn't either. Slept facing the other side after their first night together, hiding scars under expensive bed sheets. On his knees and on his heart. Hard to love, wanting to. Embarrassed to feel all at once and even more to admit it out loud.

This time, as the car parks outside and he asks the driver for a few minutes to get out and accept he's on this trip completely by himself, Harry's at the stage where he takes all the blame. For expecting. For wanting. For forcing himself on her, because she did say she wasn't what he needed. But they did work out. Maybe he didn't try too hard. That he should've been honest about the surgery, despite it being eight years ago. Maybe he tried too hard.

Either way, Harry has lost.

He sighs one last time and gets down the car. His bags are already inside the lodge.

He's about to get inside the lobby when a figure walks past him, touching the handle before him.

"Sorry. You go first" to the unknown person, then reaches his hand, because despite the quiet anger and heartbreak, Harry Castillo's still a gentleman. Then holds the door open for them.

"Thank you" voice impossibly soft. To be confused with meek, but it sounds rather resigned.

They go inside, and that's when Harry notices it's a woman.

He notices other things, always an observer. Her walk, composed. She's pretending, he thinks. Her hair, held tight by a ponytail and the way it swings with each step she takes. But it's her floral perfume that catches his attention the most. He hates cheap perfume. Still, Harry can deduce it's not expensive yet not cheap smelling either. Just... natural. As in effortless. He decides he's okay with that.

"Hello" he follows behind closely as if they came together, unable to resist a weird pull. "I made a reservation last week. Room 10"

Direct to the point. Harry hates people who talk too much. Who bullshit and lie. Which is funny, given his... Nevermind. Embarrassing.

Harry would like this, if it wasn't for the fact that number 10 is his exact same room.

You are not an spontaneous person.

Not boring either, just nothing that makes you stand out in a crowd. Another young adult with a career, a cat, and a boyfriend.

You jog every morning and pay your taxes on time. You do groceries on Sundays and cleaning on Mondays. Your circle of friends is small and you hang out every two weeks at brunch. You take the same route to work, having memorized it by now. You have goals, dreams, ambitions and a clear mind.

Keeping a straight head won you a job that allowed you to buy an apartment in lower Manhattan. Home.

You remember the first thing you bought: a small forget me not that died three weeks later. An omen of the heartbreak to come.

What died was the most important thing one should nurture.

Love.

It was a slow death, too quiet to even notice. Subtle. Late office nights, arriving at a house cold and silent. The darkness that awaits the ones who aren't being waited for. Silk sheets replacing cheap ones but gone the warmth of two bodies who searched each other even when the weather wasn't cold.

You can't remember the last time he held you close like someone worth to keep. The last time you went on dates, first because of time and then nothing at all. Just not doing it. Like you didn't eat together anymore. Or that he kept forgetting your favorite things, things he held before close to his heart, as sacred as a prayer or a secret language only you could understand.

The language written in vows. The one when you swear your heart to only one person for the rest of your life.

Then it came down with a scream. Even later nights, but the previously occupied bed was now empty. It filled in the morning, but your heart stayed empty. In the tense air lingered the things unsaid and a perfume that wasn't yours.

You threw things, bit back like a wounded dog. And he returned the pain, doubled it.

"I'm seeing someone else"

You felt the shame and anger reside in your veins. Deceived. Almost a decade with him but she had taken the last dying months, and somehow, even if she had less, in the end, she won. The other woman. The one who was this prettier newer shiny toy that had taken your spot.

"I love her"

Words you thought would always be only yours. The promise of a husband to a wife.

So, in spite, childishly maybe, you took the saved money you had in your bank account and booked a flight to the farthest place you could come up with.

That's why you're sitting at Keflavík airport alone.

Iceland.

Booked a one-week stay in one of Iceland's most expensive hotels. Torfhùs retreat: cozy cabins in Selfoss, dressed in modern luxury.

"You could've used that money for a good lawyer" your bestfriend Danna chastised. "I know one. Her office is in upper Manhattan. She's a nepo baby, but trust me, she's great. Amazing"

But you needed to get away.

For just a moment, five thousand kilometers away, you could pretend everything was fine and your life hadn't turned upside down in a matter of weeks.

That your cat meowed in anguish, asking for his absence, present in his empty side of the bed and lack of clothes in the closet.

That seeing your pictures replaced with hers didn't bring you to tears.

That there wasn't a permanent ache in your heart.

Among the waterfalls, mountains and green grass, you could show the world you weren't crying in bed for what was already over.

No, twenty-seven year old Y/n, soon to be a divorcee, could have fun among one of the greatest sadness a person could experience.

"So, Iceland?" Danna asks, finally after you had sent a picture of the airport bar you were sitting at. Well, camping at. Trying to gather some courage to face a divorce and that getaway you always imagined, but by yourself.

"Yeah, mother fucking Iceland"

You had never traveled alone before. Took a long gulp of your Brennivín and prayed for courage.

Upon arrival, you lowered your expectations and hoped just for a good trip. When a man walked before you, almost colliding into you, but realized and held the door, a gesture so small yet one you hadn't experienced in so long, it made flush rush to your cheeks.

"Sorry. You go first" and his voice is so deep and raspy, every hair in your body raises to its command. It wraps you. Soothing. Like velvet.

"Thank you" you manage to say, and even if you sound tired, you try to express the warm feeling of gratitude.

You don't think he notices your voice crack, or how each step you take is labored. That you haven't been okay for a long time and that his gesture has had an effect on you, bigger than you'd like to admit.

As you walk to the front desk, you notice the man walking close to you, his perfume and faint smell of cigarettes wafting through the air.

"Hello" you pull out your printed reservation (yes, printed. You were just that prepared). "I made a reservation last week. Room 10"

You hear the door guy stop. The man from the desk hands you the key. A throat clears up behind your back.

"No, that can't be" and a little nervous yet entitled laugh.

You turn around. "Sorry, where you talking to me?"

The man nods, smile condescending.

"I think you're mistaken, miss"

"Y/n" you cut a bit harshly, the small chivalry long forgotten.

You're tired, sad and angry. You just want to go lay down and sleep your sorrow away.

"Y/n" he repeats, and you shouldn't enjoy how much it sounds on his gravely voice. Not when he's treating you like this. How was this the same man who held the door for you?

"Yes?"

"I said I think you're mistaken"

"I don't understand" you blink, slowly.

The man behind the counter starts to look distressed. "Allir, róið ykkur niður" (everyone, calm down)

"Room 10... That's my room"

You laugh and dangle the key in front of his face.

"No, it's mine"

The man looks at you like you're a naive kid.

"Here" he pulls out his own reservation paper. Printed as well. You ex-husband used to say it was a waste of paper. You'd like to prove him wrong and make this a silly Look, we're the same! moment, except this man is far from your friend. "Now you believe me?"

Room 10.

"Ég held að það hafi orðið mistök" (i think there's been a mistake)

You start to loose your patience. "Listen, mister-"

"Harry" with the same icy tone you'd used.

"Harry" you repeat, hating how smoothly it slides across your tongue. Almost as if you were born to say it. "I made this reservation last week"

The smug grin he sports irks you. "I did it a month ago"

"Kannski var það tölvan. Eða nýjasti gaurinn" the man says. He's started to sweat by now. (maybe it was the computer. or the newest guy)

You tap your feet against the floor, both impatient and annoyed. "So?"

The man smiles, enjoying this.

"By that logic, the room's mine" he replies cooly, pleased.

The color drains from your face. What are you supposed to do? You don't know the country or the language, not to mention the obscene amount of money you've wasted.

"And what am I supposed to do?" you ask, helpless.

"Book somewhere else" he drops, carelessly.

"Do you think money grows from trees!?" you raise your voice, losing your temper. Maybe it's the accumulated stress, because you never shouted at anyone. At least, not since you last argued with your ex-husband.

He doesn't answer to that.

"If you expect me to search for another place right now" you find your voice again, lower yet still sharp, "you're dumber than you look"

He scoffs. "You're dumb if you think you can book a place a week before your trip"

You laugh dryly. "Says the guy who's telling me to book a hotel right now"

He chuckles, a bit less meaner. "Fair"

"You're forgetting something, though"

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

You grin, victoriously. "I got the key"

"I still have more rights to it" he says with a bit of a whine.

"What about manners? Women go first!"

"And your own? Don't be a child and accept I booked it first so I deserve it"

"You're ruining my trip!" you protest, spiteful.

Harry is as angry and irritable as you.

"So are you!"

The man behind the lobby, an elder man with ashes for hair who introduces himself as Axel the housekeeper, stands in between.

"Wait!"

You both turn at the man who had remained behind the safety of his desk, both nervous and distressed.

"You speak English?" Harry asks.

"Little" he replies, more embarrassed about the situation than his language knowledge.

"Thank God" you sigh, a little too relieved. "Please, help us"

"I try, just stop shouting. Guests don't like"

Your face feels hot and Harry's ears turn red at the tip. For some reason, seeing the once intimidating man who could easily own a room blush out of embarrasment is kind of adorable.

Ugh. You so need to get laid. Get yourself a viking, Danna had said.

"Sorry. We got nervous. A bit altered" you utter.

"I apologize as well" but he isn't looking at you. "We just want to understand why we both have the same room"

"I told her. Bad idea" he sighs, shaking his head. "Wife cares of this. She sick. New guy came. He ruined it" Axel points to the computer. "I not good with this. Nor english. Wife is"

You can't help but smile at the hint of hidden adoration the explanation carries. "She sounds like a great woman"

"A true keeper" Harry agrees. He can't help but be a romantic, despite it all.

(Despite never falling in love. Not knowing how to love. What it is to be loved)

You look at the him, stunned for agreeing with you or maybe at the way there's yearning laced within his words. Your eyes briefly dart to his finger without a ring, wondering. He catches your view when you raise it, which makes you turn away, embarrased.

"The best" Alex agrees with both of you. "Anna is the love of my life"

Something about growing old and counting wrinkles on the face of a lover. The tale of years passed but love standing across time. All that's left is the ache of the person you imagined spending the rest of your life with, slipping through your fingers until he wasn't yours. Like he never was.

"Hey, I have solution" he takes out another key from the drawer and hands it to Harry. "Here"

Harry takes it, examines it and then looks back at Axel, confused.

"It's for Room 10"

"Yes" like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

He blinks, slowly. "I'm not getting it"

Axel smiles, as if the answer is easy.

"Yes. You two share room"

It takes a few seconds for both of you to react.

"What?!" you shout in unison.

"That doesn't make any sense" Harry says.

"Yeah" you concede. "There's no way I'm sharing a room with him"

Harry scoffs, crossing his arms.

"What makes you think I would share a room with you?"

"Is the solution I have" Axel shrugs. "I apologize but it's only one"

You sigh, sitting on a chair while rubbing your temples. Your head and feet hurt. Your eyes are heavy and you feel like crying.

"I can't believe it... this is why I plan things on advance"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Maybe you learned your lesson"

"Oh, definitely" you roll your eyes as well, standing up in front of him, tone daring. "Never book a luxury hotel full of snotty and arrogant people like you"

"Yeah, and I'd choose better than a hotel who allows anyone"

"Actually, we have policies-"

You both interrupt Axel with a hard "Shut up!"

He backs away, raising his hands in defeat. You finally react then.

"Look" you say, taking a deep breath and clapping your palms together for any semblance of peace. "Shouting won't take us anywhere"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, tired. "Alright. What do you suggest then?"

You take out your phone, asking Axel for the Wi-Fi. Once you get signal, you do a quick search for hotels in Selfoss. All of them are as expensive if not more than this one. Why even bother? Not like you had any money left.

"The closest hotel is almost three miles away. And it's small" you comment, looking at the picture. "I'm pretty sure it's all booked"

You give him a little look. The disarming look, as Danna would joke. The look that won you free drinks and your ex-husband to look your way the very first time.

"No" he picks up, immediately. It seems Harry might be the only man inmune to it.

"It's the only way" you speak, stern. "Don't think I'm happy about it"

"Good" Harry seconds, acidic. "Neither am I, just to be clear"

"Just to be clear" you replied, annoyed. Probably at the fact it feels like a subtle rejection. Not like you care, anyway.

Harry looks at his bags on the floor and you look at your own. The clock reads nine, and after such an emotional rollercoaster, you feel the need for a good bath and a comfy bed. After a few moments of silence, Harry speaks, defeated.

"Are we really doing this?"

"Unless you want me to drive twenty miles to the biggest hotel in Selfoss. And pay for it"

I could, he thinks, but chooses to remain silent. "I'm not cruel"

Your lips curve up slightly. "I'm sure if good ol' Axel wasn't here, you would've wrestled me for this key to death"

Harry rolls his eyes, but a faint smile adorns his face.

"You're lucky I skipped Taekwondo classes"

"Taekwondo?" you chuckle, in disbelief. "I'd never imagine so. You look like a... finance guy"

"Can't a guy be both?" voice lighter, almost playful.

You giggle. "A millionaire fighting? Only if you're Batman"

He sends a wink your way, disarming you. "Maybe I am"

There is something about the man standing before you. Something that makes it impossible to hate him, even as annoyed as you are. Something that draws you to him. Impossible to ignore. A pull that bent knees and hearts.

Axel's raspy voice cuts the moment. "When room is empty, I'll give you new key"

"I like the sound of that" you agree. Then, you hold your hand up. "Temporary roomates?"

Harry chuckles at your antics, but accepts your hand nonetheless. His palm is so big, it practically swallows yours. It's firm and warm, the security of his dominant handshake engulfing you. You haven't realized you've held for longer than necessary until Axel intervenes about showing you your room.

"Temporary roomates it is"

Yet some things are meant to be forever, and you had a feeling Harry hadn't just crashed your vacation plan but your life.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas / dts: @thecamiladiazuniverse @kaliispunk @manuymesut @QueenoftheAmazons

[tzyunaes]

1OO % NOT MY TYPE ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ » A 박성훈 SMAU.

précis almost on a daily basis, you had sworn that sunghoon, decelis academy’s model student and your former tutor's younger brother, was neither way your type. yet, due to the proximity you had for sharing the same neighborhood, it seemed inevitable that you’d find yourself constantly encountering him and per usual he was too cocky, too annoying and ridiculously attractive for your liking. you sure didn't expect ending up agreeing with fake dating him, nor did the universe.

alternatively, wherein you end up fake dating the hot senior you've always said was not your type.

genre smau&written, fake dating, “enemies” to fake date to lovers, neighborhood romance, college au, fluff, comedy, a sprinkle of hurt–comfort.

pairing .. park sunghoon ⟡ female reader

cast all of enhypen, yunjin&kazuha (le sserafim), karina&giselle (aespa), other cameos ++ ningning of aespa as fc.

warnings sunghoon is 2 years older than the reader, profanity, attempts at humor, kys/kms jokes, suggestive jokes, mentions of kissing and alcohol & more tba.

updates : slow · status : ongoing

starting from : 12/29/2024

“1OO% not my type” playlist

taglist open. send an ask/dm/reply in this post to be added !

chapters spam liking = block.

jenn’s note : hai im a lewser and back again. special thanks to my queen @flwrstqr for influencing me, we love u ! (> <)

profiles ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ highbreed143 || #mewerz&co🎀

OO1. zuha is you high OO2. rawdog it OO3. sick and betrayed OO4. landon deez nuts 😂🔥 OO5. mullet daddy oh......

more tba. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎(chapter's titles subject to be changed)

permanent taglist (open). @flwrstqr @wonsdoll @onlyjjong @mioons @dioll @junislqve

[gracieheartspedro]

Lotus Eater | chapter 1 - 3.6k words

my main masterlist - eddie masterlist - series masterlist

find the next chapter here

summary: after a series of unfortunate events, eddie is your only way to school. months of riding in the car with him turns into an unlikely friendship between him, the town freak, and you, the overachieving loser.

warnings: slow burn, 18+ mdni, abusive/shitty parents, mental illnesses (anxiety, ocd, etc.), bullying, reader has a shit friend, eddie is snarky, nicknames (sunshine, sweetheart, etc.), eddie is flirty but reader finds him annoying lol

a/n: hiiii first chapter is here! thank you all for your patience! I don't have a set schedule of posting with this one, but I do have the second chapter written and everything outlined, so maybe twice a month? idk lol! pls leave your thoughts and love <3 if you wanna be added to the tag list, please comment on the series masterlist! also thank u to @pedgito for making the gif headers for me! love u big <3

The hiss of the engine was enough to send you into pure madness. 

You are only a month into your senior year. Anxiety is the only emotion you can fester nowadays. When it was not your school work, it was your family, and if it was not that, it was stupid things like this. Your car will not start and you are already running behind your strict schedule. No thanks to your fuck-up of a father, you did not have an alarm clock. The last three days you have been banking on your body just to naturally pull you from sleep. It failed you today. 

You sit in your 1970 Vega and simply wish it would explode with you in it. 

You would miss the math test that you needed to pass to keep your A with Mr. Davis. The twist in the pit of your stomach was enough to make you retch at the thought of it. 

If you had a normal family, you would go back inside your single-wide trailer and ask your Mom or Dad to come out and help you assess the situation. But you did not have that privilege as your Mom was a waitress at Hawkin’s Family Diner in the mornings and your Dad worked at a tile-making company overnight and worked until 9 am. You had no one to come save you. 

You cannot accept your fate so you get out of the red junker and pop the hood. You could maybe bang on some metal and spark something to make it come to life. 

You prop up the hood, using the thin metal rod to ensure it does not come crashing down on your head. All you see are wires and pipes and things you do not understand. You do not even know where to start. Maybe it was the battery? You push on the tiny parts of the box, smacking it for safe measure. You go back to the front seat and try to start it again, still clicking. 

“Fuck…” You whisper to yourself, checking your watch to see if there is enough time to spare if you start sprinting to Hawkin’s High. You would be cutting it close and your heart may stop from exhaustion, but it was very possible. 

You decide to give the hood one last try. You grab the ice scraper that you keep in the back seat and carry it to the mess of metal. 

And you just wail on everything. It was cathartic, banging plastic against metal as hard as you could. When one part of the scraper flies up and hits the concrete next to you, you turn slightly, catching a person in your immediate peripheral. 

“Ain’t gonna start it doin’ that.”

His voice makes the hairs on your neck stand up. You scrunch your face, drop the scraper on the dead grass, and turn to face the guy. 

Eddie Munson. Forest Hills Trailer Park’s resident drug dealer. Hawkins High’s freak show and general nuisance.

“Wasn’t tryin’ to, Munson.”

Your voice is smaller than you wanted it to be. You were not nervous around Eddie, per se, but he did have this aura around him always. He is confident and very sure of himself. Very much the opposite of you. You may have been smart, almost at the very top of your class, but you were not popular. You were quiet and reserved around most of your classmates, only surprising them occasionally with snarky comments and slights. Most people did not have much of an opinion of you and you did not reside in one specific clique. You had your best friend, Kacey, and you had your teachers. You did not play into the politics of high school, it truly did not interest you at all. You did your school work and you left. You were only there to get a diploma and skip town.

Eddie Munson loved the politics of high school because it gave him enough ammunition to dismantle those around him. He loved to test the popular kids. He enjoyed messing with teachers and ignoring their instructions. He infuriated you mostly, but on occasion, you would find yourself pretty fascinated with him. He was older than you, only by a year. You had just turned 18 two weeks into senior year, while he was 19 and stuck in his senior year again. You silently wonder if he just wants to stay a kid forever and failing high school was his way to be treated like one. 

You could not psycho-analyze him much longer, especially when he’s leaning over you to look inside the bay of your car. 

“Looks like your battery is dead. Maybe a bad alternator,” He remarks, his voice raspy. You must be the first person he’s talked to this morning. Or he smoked extra as soon as he woke up. 

You did not know what would fix a dead battery, but buying a new one sounded like more than you were able to spend. You had a good eight dollars and fifty cents to your name. You had not picked up a shift at the diner in about two weeks, mainly because that would mean having to interact with your mother. 

And your parents were surely not going to help, their money only being theirs. 

You were filling your shampoo bottle with water to try to get the last bits of it. You ate pot noodles almost every night. You were in no way able to buy a car battery. 

The spiral was written all over your face and Eddie noticed it rather quickly. 

“Hey, hey, it’s fine… I can give you a lift to school for today.”

As he’s muttering the words, you are sputtering out a bunch of nonsense, the realization finally hits you. “It’s not fine, I’m gonna miss my math test and I need to fuckin’ pass and this fuckin’ car is all I have and I don’t have the money to spend on getting a fuckin’ battery…”

He grabs your shoulder rather abruptly, staring down at you with his curls falling in his eyes slightly. The touch is enough to shut you up.

“I can drive you to school. Just… come on,” He barks, his tone indicating it is an order. The thought of getting in his van sparks your anxiety further. You have been made aware that he drives like a maniac, riding over curbs on two wheels. And he was going to take you to school?

“Eddie, I-”

He is already walking away, “Grab your backpack, we are gonna be late!”

He was your only hope to get to school. As annoying and nerve-wracking as it was, you knew his offering was your saving grace. You jog to grab your backpack out of your back seat, shutting all your doors. You hear him start up his hunk of metal and rev the engine. You silently curse to yourself as you slam the hood of your car down. Happy Wednesday to you.

-

Your leg will not stop bouncing. The school was about a 10-minute drive, but at the rate Eddie drove, you would be there in 2 minutes. 

The idea of having to fork out an absorbent amount of money to get your car running has you sick. You had just got an oil change not too long ago and that drained all the money you had. You would have to pick up some shifts at the diner. You jokingly think that you could get in on Eddie’s lucrative market and start dealing out your Father’s pain pills. You could bank that money quickly. 

“So… a math test?”

You groan in the very back of your throat, trying your best to forget the total meltdown you had in front of Eddie. You did not do that often, only when you feel the world crashing all around you. And God did it feel like it was. 

“Yes, a math test,” You lick your lips, not looking over at him, just tapping your fingers on your pant leg. 

You can practically feel him staring into the side of your face, a smirk painting across his face, “You get worked up over math like that all the time?”

And this is why you ignored Eddie Munson. 

All the times life offered you a conversation with the guy, it only led to bitter banter. For some reason, Eddie was good at getting under your skin. Even when he was not speaking to you, you just had the urge to let him have it. He was painfully sarcastic. He was quick with his replies like he had them all banked in his back pocket.

“I can’t let my GPA slip under 3.8,” You retort, noticing some construction signs ahead. Looks like there is road work on the road that leads straight to the entrance to the school. Perfect. More actual and metaphorical roadblocks in the way. 

“They can get that high?”

Your neck practically snaps to look over at the dumbass to your left. “Eddie… what is your GPA?”

“Maybe 2?”

You are not ever stunned into silence, but his response shakes you to your core. You cannot disguise how perplexed you are. You inhale sharply, getting an even larger whiff of the cigarette buds that litter the ashtray right below the shitty radio. 

“There’s no way,” You whisper, not hiding your surprise. 

The giggle that comes from your left is almost maniacal. He thinks it is funny that he is skating by through life. Well, high school. And maybe his life. 

“If there’s a will, there’s a way, sunshine,” He beams, turning down another road to avoid the bright orange cones in the road. “I’m not the top in the class, like you.”

“I’m not, I’m second in the class. And don't call me sunshine. It's weird.”

His scoff makes your skin crawl. You truly just wish the conversation would end. “Well, must suck living in the shadow of our valedictorian.”

It has a bit of bite to it. You did not take Eddie for vicious, especially since he was nice enough to drive you to school. 

“I hope you never graduate.”

He smiles.

-

The school parking lot seems bare, probably due to the traffic coming in. Eddie parks pretty far from the front door, much to your dismay. You pull your backpack into your lap, tossing him a look. 

“Uh… thanks,” You clear your throat, trying to find a way to repay him for taking on the responsibility of toting you around.

“No problem. I can take you home today if need be,” He pulls some cigarettes out of his vest pocket, placing the stick between his lips. You pull your eyes away, trying to come up with an excuse not to rely on him again. But you did not have another way home and the bus was just not an option. They usually missed your stop every single time you were forced to be on it. Arguing with the old woman who made you walk a mile home in the rain last year was just not in the cards for you. 

You bite your lip, peeling some skin away, “Could you?”

He flicks his lighter a couple of times, sparking the fire and bringing it to the end of the cigarette. 

“Yeah, no problem. We can try to figure out your car later, too,” The offer was odd to you. Why was he trying to help you? What was in it for him?

“We?” You press, reaching for the horizontal door handle. He smiles, the tobacco hanging loosely from his lips. 

“Yeah, don’t need to watch you bang the engine with that ice scraper again. It was kinda embarrassing.”

Your cheeks heat up, instantly feeling humiliated that he watched you do that. You drive your shoulder into the door, pushing yourself out of his van. “I’ll see you after school.”

-

You were beginning to hate your best friend. Just another great addition to your Wednesday.

After a grueling time with your math test first period, you were eager to spend quality time with her during your second-period Spanish class. As soon as you entered the classroom, you did not see her in her usual spot in the back right corner with you. Instead, she was sitting in the dead center with her stupid new boyfriend. 

You and Kacey had been friends since sixth grade. She had been more popular and outgoing than you, but she always rejected hanging out with the more “in” crowds. That was until last year when she met Gabriel. He went by Gabe, but who the hell cares what he went by? He was a total asshole. 

The first day you spoke to him, he told you that your shirt looked like something you would find at the consignment shop in downtown Hawkins. It was not anything special by all means, but it was just a simple gray sweater with a small burn hole in the sleeve. When he said that to you, Kacey said nothing and just cracked a pristine smile at him and giggled. You ignored them for the rest of the lunch period. 

Now he’s all she talks about. You used to go to her house after school and work on homework, watch bad TV, and giggle about how pathetic the popular kids were, and now she’s becoming one of them. 

You were never going to fit in with that crowd, and frankly, you did not care to. All they cared about were the superficial things. You cared about school and your future while all of them wondered where the next party would be. Who would bring the alcohol? Who would they get to sleep with? 

You pout when you see her cuddled up to him, weaving your way through the desks to sit in your usual spot. Your blood runs cold when her boyfriend hands her a small baggie under their desks, a white powder settled at the very bottom. You did own a pair of glasses, but you do not believe you would need them to understand what Gabe was offering her.

You want to jump up and scream her name, stopping her from grabbing the baggie, but your teacher starts to drone on about the topic of the hour. 

You cannot peel your eyes away from Kacey as she carefully and methodically pours the powder on the very tip of her finely manicured fingernail and quickly snort it, while Gabe disguises the action with a loud cough. 

Your eyes must be deceiving you. 

She’s doing drugs in the middle of class and everyone around you is oblivious. 

You really try to pay attention to your teacher’s discussion on the Declaration of Independence, but your hand will not stop shaking. Your handwriting is messy and unreadable. You would have to copy someone else’s notes later. 

-

When the bell rings and everyone spills into the hallway to go to lunch, you practically sprint after Kacey. 

Whatever drug she took had her eyes half-lidded as her legs practically dragged behind Gabe. She is stumbling into people as you try to make your way through the crowd after her. By the time you reach her, you are in the middle of the cafeteria. You reach out for her hand, tugging her only slightly. It throws her and Gabe completely off balance and you make quick movements to stop her from crumbling to the floor. 

“What did you take?”

Your voice is accusatory, which it almost always is to a fault. Her overplucked eyebrows furrow at your question, almost like the gears in her brain do not fully comprehend what the question is hinting at. 

She clears her throat, snatching her hand away from yours. “What are you talking about?”

You search her face for any reason. She’s already being abrasive and confrontational, which makes your stomach roll. Gabe tucks his arm around her waist, practically holding her up. He looks pretty gone as well, but you did not give two shits about the state of him. 

“I saw what you did in Donaldson’s class. What was it?” You press, trying not to raise your voice. As much as you wanted to scream in her face, you knew causing a scene would only make the situation much worse.

She scoffs, tilting her head back onto Gabe’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. The better question is why the hell did I see you leaving The Freak’s van this morning?”

You swallow, tugging the strap to your fraying backpack. “My car wouldn’t start. He gave me a ride.”

Gabe’s head throws back into a booming laugh, catching the nearby table’s attention. 

“You are hangin’ out with The Freak?”

Instead of caving into his stupidity, you roll your eyes and cross your arms tightly over your chest. “Kacey-”

She cuts you off with a wave of her hand in your face. She’s dismissing you and the feeling of rejection settles deeply in your chest. Your mouth snaps shut, knowing this is going nowhere and you would just have to settle with the fact your friend was being dragged away from you. It is like years of friendship dissipates when she shoos you away. 

“Go sit with your Freak.”

You know better than to cry. Instead of arguing back, you shift to your other foot and walk out of the cafeteria. You would just eat your granola bar in the library, silent and dismissed. 

-

By the end of the day, you slowly mosy out to Eddie’s van and wait for him to arrive. Your last class of the day is right outside the front door, so you knew you would beat him. He is easy to spot in the crowd of students, much taller with those frizzy untamed curls. 

He sees you quickly, too. You try to look as unphased as possible, but you know you are being watched from across the lot by Kacey and her new goons. 

Eddie approaches with a couple of his friends. You recognize a couple of them, specifically Gareth. He was a dorky kid who shifted into a metalhead junior year. His mousey curls were always shielding his eyes and his shirts always looked overly distressed, like he took scissors to them. Eddie’s shirts were similar, but you could tell that they were just naturally overworn and abused.

Gareth catches your gaze, smiling a perfectly straight grin. He was always very polite every time you two shared a class. He was your biology partner sophomore year and he always took on dealing with the dissections and gross lab projects. For that, you were in his debt. 

“Hey, Gareth,” You say with a nod of your head, “Long time no see.”

He shakes some of the curls out of his vision, “How’s it going?”

It is a loaded question and you know he does not mean it to be. You just shrug, trying your best to not look as stressed as you feel. 

“It’s fine.”

You scrunch your nose, looking away as if to avoid your own response. He laughs, smacking Eddie as he lights up a cigarette. “Eddie told me your car is dead.”

You shoot Eddie a look as if to say ‘what the fuck dude?’. You did not really care that people knew about your car troubles. If anything, you are glad some people know so they can rationalize why you are traveling around with Eddie. 

You still wanted to give Eddie a piece of your mind. 

He raises his eyebrows at you, “What? He wanted to know why I was toting you around all of a sudden. Not every day that you see a popular-adjacent girl hanging out with the Freak.”

Gareth speaks up with a better defense. “Hey, don’t worry about him. If you need some extra help with the car, let me know. I am a bit better with them than Eddie is.”

You cannot stop yourself from smiling at his kindness. Gareth was always pretty genuine and polite. A true gentleman, unlike his counterpart. You did not even begin to understand how these two could possibly be friends. 

“Thanks, I appreciate that. I… We have to get home,” Your eyes flicker back to Eddie, whose smirk takes up most of his face. 

“That’s right, gotta get sunshine home so she can read her books and actually do homework,” He jests, pulling his cigarette out from between his lips. You watch him ash the end of the bud jokingly near Gareth’s arm, a small smile pulling at his lips. You narrow your eyes at him, trying your best to keep yourself from reprimanding him like a toddler. Gareth swats his arm away, waving to you two as he heads towards his sedan. 

You yank open the van’s door handle and climb up inside. Eddie takes a moment at the front end of the van, taking a couple of puffs before he drops the filter on the ground and presses it into the concrete with his sneakers. You watch him get in as you buckle your seatbelt, his lips pursed as he lets out smoke. 

“How was your test? Forgot to ask,” His voice is husky, probably from the dryness of his cigarette. You try to think that far back in the day, and honestly, it was the last thing on your mind. Even though this morning was what consumed your entire being, you had bigger issues now. 

“I think I passed,” You manage to say, thinking back to the events that happened right after first period. “Let’s hope.”

Eddie watches you from the driver’s side, his hands searching for the keys in his vest’s pocket. 

“Good. You probably killed it, you’re a smarty pants,” He finds the key and jams it straight into the ignition, “Do you still want me to help you with the car tonight?”

The thought of having to stand outside with Eddie while it gets dark was the last thing you really wanted to do. But you really wanted your car to work. 

“If you can.”

He throws the van into drive, slowly letting his foot off the brake, “Of course I can. What are neighbors for?”

find the next chapter here

ty @saradika-graphics for the dividers!

taglist: @moon-esque @walleloveseve @kellsck @awkward00noodle @person-005 @emxxblog

[certaimromance]

✶⋆.˚ It’s Astronomy; a series.

Spencer Reid x Mystical!reader

Playlist (updates with the chapters) ♡♬₊˚.

Spencer Reid is used to no one listening to him, that his presence usually goes unnoticed until he is needed. However, despite all the contradictions, everything changes for him when you become his partner.

main masterlist

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. located in season 1 (very out of canon, with many changes). mentions of drugs, serial killers, murder and injuries. suggestive themes. frenemies to lovers. angst. hurt/comfort. lack of communication. slow burn.

Status: In progress.

Usually at least one chapter per week!

Chapters: you should read this in order to understand the chronology.

Keys: (🌌 = angst ) ( 🖤 = fluff ) ( 🌒 = hurt / comfort )

✦ i. variable star ⸺ a star whose brightness changes (you) over the course of days, weeks, months, or years (1,4k) 🖤? : When your unusual practices get out of control in a dangerous case, your boss thinks he has a fantastic idea to keep you in check.

✦ ii. blue moon ⸺ traditionally, something that happens (to you) rarely or never (2k) 🌒 : Spending time with your new partner on the road can reveal surprising things about him that you didn't know before.

✦ iii. earthshine ⸺ sunlight (her) reflected by earth that makes the otherwise dark part of the moon (him) glow faintly (?) 🌌 :

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @withloverosse @jisungchan

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[monserelates]

ECHO ; James Potter

part IV of the series Dumb Decisions

⇨ summary: The bond broke. What happens now? You wake up with a hangover and the sour memory of James making out with a girl who is not you at a party.

⇨ warnings/notes: james is an idiot in this as per usual but he'll make up for it in future chapters i promise, use of y/n, curse words, minor inconsistencies ?),mild angst, broken bond, stubborn!reader, denial, mutual pining, platonic marauders x reader shared sensations, platonic friendships, magnetic bond effects, chaotic Marauders, girlhood final boss

⇨ a/n: hiii hope you enjooy this chapter thank you always for the support and please keep giving feedback because it really motivates me!!! also added more gossiping professorsss

⇨ word count: 3.6k

The first thing she noticed was the cold.

Not the kind that made her shiver, but the kind that settled. That seeped under her skin, behind her ribs, and into the spaces that used to feel like… him. Her fingertips twitched against the cotton of her pillow, as if reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Mascara had bled down her cheeks in the night — proof of the crying she didn’t remember and the war she couldn’t forget. Her throat ached. Her mouth was dry. And her chest—

Her chest was hollow.

Y/N blinked slowly, the ceiling above her unfamiliar in its stillness. No tension tugging her heart toward someone else's heartbeat. No magnetic pulse under her skin. Just absence.

The bond was gone.

Gone.

Something inside her — something that had always been subtly there since the moment the hex rebounded — had vanished in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

A hangover curled low in her skull, but it was nothing compared to the gaping wound in her magic. She reached inward without meaning to, instinctively searching for the thread that had always pointed north.

But there was nothing. Just her.

Just silence.

A soft sniff came from the side of the room. Y/N shifted slightly, and that’s when she noticed them.

Lily. Marlene. Dorcas. All perched nearby, watching her like she might shatter again if they said the wrong thing.

None of them spoke. Not at first.

Marlene was curled on the end of the bed, hugging a mug between her hands, eyes rimmed red. Dorcas looked like she’d sat up all night, one leg bouncing like she couldn’t settle. And Lily — Lily just looked tired. Like she'd aged ten years in one night. The girls loved her so much they ached with her.

Y/N pushed herself upright, the sheets whispering around her, and winced at the dizzy rush in her head.

No one asked how she felt.

They didn’t have to.

Her voice cracked the silence like glass underfoot. “I feel empty. Like something was ripped out of me.”

Her own words startled her.

She wasn’t usually like this — wasn’t the kind of girl who collapsed after a boy or who got too attached, too fast. She was supposed to be fine. Supposed to be strong.

Instead, she just… folded.

She clutched the edge of her blanket like a lifeline and kept her gaze low, fixed on the peeling wood of the floorboards. Her chest rose in shallow breaths, too fast. Too uneven. Like her lungs were learning how to breathe without him.

Because even without the bond — even with that magic thread cut clean and final — she still ached for him.

She hated that most of all.

She hated that he could kiss someone else and still live in her every thought.

“Do you want tea?” Lily’s voice was soft, careful.

Y/N nodded, but the tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes weren’t about tea.

They were about James.

They were about the kiss, and the party, and the girl, and the way he looked at her like she didn’t matter. The way he kissed someone else on purpose.

The way he’d made her feel like an accident.

The bond was gone, but the pain had stayed behind — an echo with nowhere to go.

And Merlin, did it hurt.

"Let's get your makeup taken off, love." Dorcas offered her with a warm smile, and Y/N nodded.

"I feel pathetic. Like an idiot."

"Happens to the best of us, sweetheart." Marlene said.

Y/N sighed.

It was going to be a damn long week.

..

James was pacing.

Back and forth across the rug in front of the fireplace — not that he remembered lighting it. Not that he’d slept. Not that he could think straight, really, with everything buzzing in his skull like a spell gone wrong.

He hadn’t changed out of yesterday’s clothes. His hair was messier than usual — not in the deliberate way, but like he’d raked his hands through it a hundred times and might do it a hundred more. His tie was half-off. There was a smear of something dark near his collar. Lipstick?

He didn’t know.

He didn’t care.

The only thing he could focus on was the silence.

She was gone.

He’d felt it happen — not like a clean cut, not like a spell cast and done, but like something ripped. Like a wire snapped inside him, recoiled, and left nothing but static.

The bond had always been quiet, subtle. A warmth at the edge of his senses. A tug when she was near. A hum in his chest when she laughed, when she sighed, when she looked at him like he meant something—

It wasn’t there anymore.

And now?

Now his whole body felt wrong.

Like the magic inside him was confused. Searching. Reaching for a connection that no longer existed.

He kissed someone else to break the bond.

He told himself it was the smart move. Logical. Strategic. If he didn’t like her — if it wasn’t real — then proving it should’ve been easy, right?

Only…

Only when he kissed that girl, it felt like lying. Like betrayal. Like someone had shoved an Unforgivable down his throat and dared him to smile.

And Y/N saw. Of course she saw. Of course she did.

Because she was always watching him when it mattered most.

And now she wasn’t.

Now she didn’t even look at him.

He stopped pacing. Pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes until stars bloomed. Gritted his teeth.

He thought ending the bond would make the feelings go away. He thought he’d be free.

But all he’d done was reveal the truth.

It wasn’t the bond that made him feel something. It was her.

It had always been her.

And the worst part?

He'd always known that.

“Mate.”

James flinched.

Sirius stood on the edge of the common room, arms crossed, expression unreadable — but his voice wasn’t joking. It wasn’t smug or teasing. It was cautious. Gentle, even.

That made it worse.

“I—” James started, then stopped. Swallowed hard. “I think I fucked it up.”

“You think?” Sirius muttered.

James rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s gone. Not just the bond. Her.”

Sirius exhaled, slow and heavy. Walked over. Sat on the edge of the couch like he was bracing for an explosion.

“She didn’t even come down this morning,” James mumbled. “Didn’t look at me in class. Wouldn’t— She just… walked right past me.”

Sirius tilted his head. “Yeah, mate. You broke her.”

James closed his eyes. The words hit harder than he expected.

“She trusted you,” Sirius said, quieter now. “Even with the bond. Especially because of it. And you used it like it was some cursed excuse. Like the only reason you cared was because you had to.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

Silence.

James sat. Finally. His legs gave out more than anything.

For the first time in his life, he looked scared. Not of danger, not of getting expelled or losing a Quidditch game.

He looked scared of losing her.

“She doesn’t want anything to do with me,” he whispered.

Sirius didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Because James knew it was true.

And he knew that this time, magic wouldn’t save him.

James sat forward suddenly, elbows on his knees, hands laced in his hair. His voice was low. Cracked.

“She kissed me. No—I kissed her. In detention. I said it wasn’t the bond. That I wanted to. That I meant it. And then I—Merlin—”

He let out a laugh, hollow and sharp.

“Then I blamed the bloody bond the second it ended. Took it all back like a coward.”

Sirius’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

James blinked hard, eyes glassy, like he couldn’t decide whether to scream or sob. “And she looked at me like I was—like I was something she wanted to believe in. Like I was worth it.” He swallowed. “And I ruined it.”

“You kissed her,” Sirius said, slow and stunned.

James nodded, once. It looked like it hurt.

Sirius let out a low whistle. “And then you snogged some random girl at the party after that?”

“I thought it would prove something!” James snapped, standing again, pacing faster now. “I thought if I kissed someone else, it’d go away. That if it was all just the bond, it’d disappear once it broke.”

Sirius stared at him. “Did it?”

James turned, haunted. “No. It just made it worse.”

There was a beat of silence. Sirius leaned back, eyes narrowed.

“You realize what that means, right?”

James didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Sirius stood slowly, voice quiet now. Measured. “You liked her before the bond. You were falling before any of that magic ever hit you.”

James didn’t deny it.

Because he couldn’t.

Because even if he’d spent weeks pretending otherwise, even if he’d run from it, kissed someone else, pushed Y/N away so hard the bond snapped—he knew.

He knew it wasn’t the bond that made him feel like this.

It was her.

And he was losing her.

Worse—he already had.

“She’s never going to forgive me,” James said, brokenly. “Not for this.”

Sirius looked at him, really looked. For once, no mischief in his eyes. No teasing.

Just the truth.

“Then I hope you’re ready to fight like hell.”

..

The classroom buzzed with the usual Monday murmurs — parchment rustling, chairs scraping, students sleepily finding seats. But the moment Y/N stepped through the door, a quiet ripple seemed to pass through the room.

She didn’t look for him. Didn’t need to. She felt him — like muscle memory, like a sunburn that hadn’t finished peeling. That phantom ache where the bond used to pull.

But there was no pull now. Just a hollow quiet.

She had reminisced about when it was him that liked her, maybe life would be easier for her if they had never kissed. If the roles weren't reversed.

Her chin lifted, spine straight, expression unreadable. She walked calmly to the desk beside Lily, ignoring the way her friends subtly shifted to shield her — Dorcas sat behind her, Marlene diagonally across. A silent, strategic formation.

James was already seated when she arrived. He straightened visibly when he caught sight of her. His eyes burned into her profile, searching, waiting—pleading.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t fidget. Just opened her notebook and started copying the lesson objective written on the board.

Professor McGonagall walked in, followed closely by Professor Flitwick — today was a joint lecture on Animagus Theory. They began the lesson, but Y/N barely processed a word. Every nerve in her body was buzzing with awareness. Not from the bond. Not anymore.

From him.

From the heavy, smothering weight of James Potter watching her like he could will her to turn around.

She didn’t. Not once.

Halfway through class, she felt it — his foot nudging her chair, tentative. She ignored it. Then a whisper:

“Can we talk?”

She tapped her quill against her desk once, sharply, then went on writing. She didn’t even blink.

Across the room, McGonagall’s eyes flicked up from her lecture notes. She exchanged a knowing glance with Flitwick, who raised a bushy brow. Neither said anything.

But they noticed.

The whole class noticed.

James Potter, golden boy of Gryffindor, Quidditch captain, top of the bloody leaderboard, was getting iced out so completely, it made even Sirius stop doodling in the margins of his notes.

When the bell rang, Y/N stood so quickly her chair scraped. She packed her things with mechanical precision. Lily touched her wrist gently — You okay? — and she nodded once.

James reached for her as she passed his desk.

“Y/N—”

She didn’t break stride. Didn’t even hesitate.

“Please—”

But the only sound was the sharp click of her shoes against the stone floor as she walked away, leaving him standing there like an idiot. Like a ghost.

That isn't a healthy way to deal with your emotions, one might say. But with Y/N? It was probably the easiest one.

Because once you got her to open up and then neglected her feelings?

Let's just say rebuilding Hogwarts without magic is easier.

..

He chased after her like a man possessed.

Books forgotten. Bag swinging off one shoulder. She was already halfway down the corridor, walking fast, like she could outrun him, outrun this.

“Y/N—wait. Just—just stop for a second.”

She didn’t. Didn’t even look back.

He caught up eventually, too fast for her to keep pretending she hadn’t heard. He stepped in front of her, heart in his throat.

She paused. Slowly. Like the mere act of stopping for him cost her everything.

Her eyes lifted to meet his. They were unreadable. Not angry. Not broken. Just… empty.

That scared him more than shouting ever could have.

“Please,” he said, voice low. “I need to explain.”

She tilted her head. Blinked once.

“Explain what? That you kissed me like it meant something and then proved it didn’t? Already got that memo, Potter.”

Her voice wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t cold. It was worse. It was done.

James swallowed. “That’s not— That’s not how it happened.”

She gave him a sad sort of smile, like he’d just confirmed everything she already knew. “Isn’t it?”

He flinched. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“And yet,” she said softly, “here we are.”

For a moment, he saw it — the real emotion behind her eyes. The grief she was suffocating. But it passed just as quickly.

He reached for her wrist.

“I miss the bond. I miss you. I don’t know what to do without it.”

Her gaze didn’t falter.

“Funny,” she said, voice quiet, almost kind. “I thought breaking it meant you didn’t need me anymore.”

“Y/N—”

“I’m not angry, James,” she cut in, taking a step back. “I’m just ..tired.”

That broke something.

Not the loud kind of break — not shattering glass or screaming voices. No. It was the quiet kind. The kind that leaves you standing in the middle of a hallway with people brushing past and a ringing in your ears because someone just took all the air with them when they walked away.

She turned. Walked off.

And didn’t look back.

..

Y/N's POV Gryffindor Girls’ Dormitory, late afternoon

The curtains were drawn. The dorm smelled faintly of lavender and old parchment. Y/N sat curled on Lily’s bed, legs tucked under her, a steaming mug of tea in her hands she hadn’t sipped once.

Lily was pacing. Dorcas sat cross-legged on the floor, absently braiding Marlene’s hair. It was quiet — not heavy, not pitiful — just soft. Careful.

No one mentioned James.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Lily asked eventually, voice low.

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She stared into the untouched tea, watching the steam curl like ghosts of something she used to feel.

“I thought the bond made it special,” she said finally. “But maybe I was the only one who felt it.”

Dorcas looked up sharply. “That’s not true.”

Y/N shook her head. “He kissed me. And then kissed someone else to prove he didn’t mean it. The bond didn’t break on its own. I broke it.”

“You had every right to,” Marlene said. “That doesn’t mean you were the only one who felt something.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She just set the tea down on the nightstand, curled in tighter, and whispered:

“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one hurting?”

James POV Gryffindor Boys’ Dormitory, same time

James sat on the floor against his bed, head in his hands. His knuckles were raw — he’d punched the stone wall outside the common room after she left.

Sirius leaned against the opposite bedpost, arms crossed, silent for once.

Remus was seated on his own bed, reading a book he hadn’t turned a page of in twenty minutes.

“Say something,” James muttered, voice hoarse.

“You want honesty?” Remus said. “You fucked it, mate.”

Sirius frowned. “He knows that.”

“No,” Remus snapped. “I don’t think he does. Because if he did, he wouldn’t have kissed someone else to test a theory. She’s not a bloody hypothesis.”

“I didn’t— I wasn’t thinking—” James broke off, raking his hands through his hair. “I thought if the bond didn’t matter, then what I felt for her wouldn’t matter either.”

“And now?” Sirius asked.

James looked up. His voice cracked.

“Now I feel nothing. Nothing but her not being there.”

They were quiet a moment.

Then, quietly:

“We kissed. Before the party,” he said. “Properly. I told her it wasn’t the bond, and I meant it. I meant it.”

Remus closed his eyes like it physically pained him.

Peter muttered, “You told her that… and then you went and kissed someone else?”

James nodded once. A slow, gutting movement.

“I thought… if it was real, it’d survive. But she let go. She doesn’t care anymore.”

Sirius looked him dead in the eye.

“No, Prongs. She does. That’s the problem. She cares so much it’s killing her. And you? You’re just bleeding all over everything hoping she’ll come back to bandage it.”

James didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

He just sat there, curled in on himself, trying to breathe around the truth.

..

Y/N POV

She walked in like she hadn’t cried herself to sleep. Head high. Uniform perfect. Mascara intact.

But her friends saw it — the subtle stiffness in her shoulders. The way she blinked a second too long before sitting down.

She didn’t glance toward the end of the table. Didn’t need to.

She felt him looking.

Dorcas muttered, “Brace for impact,” under her breath as they sat.

Across the room, James Potter’s stare burned into the side of her face like a hex. She kept her eyes on her toast. Buttered it slowly. Mechanically.

Do not look at him. Do not look at him. Do not—

Her eyes flickered up.

And there he was.

Messy hair, uniform askew, fists clenched on the table like he’d physically anchor himself to stop from running to her.

She looked away before he could smile. Or speak. Or ruin her again.

James POV

She wasn’t wearing perfume. He could tell. Not that he was looking. (He absolutely was.)

She looked ethereal. Untouchable. Like someone he used to know. Like someone he used to have.

Like someone he could still have if he wasn't a "bloody idiot"--in Peter's words.

He didn’t touch his food. Couldn’t. Not with her sitting twenty feet away like a ghost he hadn’t earned the right to mourn.

“Just talk to her,” Sirius whispered. “Apologize. Grovel. Grope—wait no, don’t grope—”

“She won’t even look at me,” James muttered.

“You broke the magic tether between your souls, Prongs, not her peripheral vision. Try harder.”

But he didn’t get a chance. Because right then—right then—she laughed at something Lily said, and it was the worst sound he’d ever heard. Not because it wasn’t beautiful.

Because it wasn’t for him.

His heart cracked clean down the middle.

And she didn’t even glance his way.

Cut to: Hogwarts Professors’ Staff Room

Setting: Staff room, moments later Mood: Chaos. Academic gossip. Emotional exhaustion.

Professor McGonagall sipped her tea with the intensity of a woman barely restraining herself from slamming it down.

Flitwick was pacing by the fireplace like a nervous pixie.

Slughorn looked like he’d aged ten years.

“I’m sorry,” McGonagall said, deadly calm. “Did we all see what just happened at breakfast?”

“I did,” Flitwick said, flailing. “You could feel the tension from the Hufflepuff table! Pomona’s poor third-years were crying into their pumpkin juice!”

Slughorn wiped his forehead. “We created this mess. We let them bond magically.”

“You created it,” McGonagall snapped. “I told you experimental spells are a bad idea on teenagers with unresolved sexual tension!”

Flitwick squeaked. “It was supposed to be an academic tether!”

McGonagall threw up her hands.

“It was academic until he kissed her, broke her heart, then kissed another girl at a party like an absolute tosser.”

There was a beat.

Then Slughorn groaned. “They’re in love.”

McGonagall muttered under her breath, “Obviously.”

Flitwick collapsed into an armchair. “This is going to end in fire, isn’t it?”

McGonagall didn’t miss a beat.

“If we’re lucky.”

...

Flitwick was lying flat on the chaise lounge like a fainted Victorian lady.

Slughorn had loosened his tie, sipping firewhisky from a teacup.

McGonagall stood by the window with her arms crossed and murder in her eyes, watching James Potter mope across the courtyard below like the world had ended.

“That boy is going to explode,” she muttered. “And take half the castle with him.”

“They’re combusting,” Pomona Sprout added from the doorway, her cheeks flushed pink. “My sixth years had to meditate after sitting near them in Herbology. They said it felt like standing between two volcanoes that used to be in love.”

“They’re still in love,” Flitwick said mournfully, waving a limp hand. “That’s the bloody problem.”

Slughorn cleared his throat. “We need to… intervene.”

“They’re teenagers,” McGonagall snapped. “Intervening will only make it worse.”

“We intervened by magically bonding them,” Flitwick hissed. “We can’t exactly step back now.”

Sprout nodded. “It’s like watching a Hippogriff limp around with a crossbow bolt in its leg while the other Hippogriff pretends it doesn’t care.”

A silence fell.

Then McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled.

“Fine. We do something. But subtle. No meddling. Just… guided meddling.”

Slughorn’s eyes lit up. “We assign them together again. Force proximity.”

“That’s not subtle,” Flitwick whispered. “That’s psychological warfare.”

McGonagall smirked.

“Exactly.”

keep reading

tags:

@strlightfilms

@glittervame

@ifilwtmfc

@theblindhag

@vxyselectric

@spirit-of-a-b1tch

@shushbruv

@glennussy

@mp-littlebit

@fiowerbeds

@trulyyoursniki

@ifilwtmfc

@minghaossv

@prongs-moon

@j2warren

[simplygojo]

The Devil He Made Me - Masterlist

ꨄ︎ author's note: I've decided to make a masterlist for the series I am writing called "The Devil He Made Me" which is actually inspired by the song Me and the Devil by Soap&Skin, well at least one chapter (one of the final chapters) is based off this song.

ꨄ︎ series status: ongoing - updated 1x per week

ꨄ︎ series warnings: 18+ content, violence, eventual smut, angst, alcohol use (once), mentions of d*ath, memory lapses, d*ath, mental manipulation, reader uses female pronouns, reader has a vagina,

ꨄ︎ pairing: Satoru Gojo x reader

ꨄ︎ wattpad link

SERIES SUMMARY:

After being discovered by Satoru Gojo and his first-year students in a dangerous situation-and with only fragmented memories of her past-y/n is taken under Gojo's watchful supervision at Jujutsu High. As she adjusts to her new life, an unspoken bond between her and Gojo grows, intensifying as they work together to unravel the mystery of her past and how she ended up in such peril. But as they dig deeper, a darker truth within her cursed energy is revealed, drawing unwanted attention from dangerous forces. Has this sinister power always been inside her, or is it something new? With time running out, y/n must uncover the truth-before it's too late.

CHAPTERS:

Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6; Chapter 7; Chapter 8; Chapter 9; Chapter 10; Chapter 11; Chapter 12; Chapter 13; Chapter 14; Chapter 15; Chapter 16; Chapter 17; Chapter 18;

BONUS BLURBS:

Gojo’s POV: Moment on the Bench - Ch 6. Extension Chapter 8 Teaser..

SERIES TAGLIST:

@mawhoreagaa; @peqch-pie; @blue-serendipity; @simplyyyuji; @starrnai; @sorcerersseestars; @n1vi; @angryglitterperfection; @krak-jj; @coweringbear; @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni; @cococola-cocaine; @sdv98o; @theendx888; @dvmb4ssbiatch; @sugxryratz; @kinny-away; @crankyarchives; @enfppuff; @reactwithjan; @blubearxy; @mystic-megumi; @nanamisrighthand If you’d like to be added to the series tag list, leave a comment below:)

[b14augrana]

Ad Astra Per Aspera

Nothing gold can stay

Alexia Putellas x teen!reader

pt. 3 masterlist

Warnings: this story contains depictions of alcoholism, adultery, and familial issues. read at your own discretion. this chapter in specific discusses themes of abuse and alcoholism.

A/N: the long awaited part 2 to ‘ad astra per aspera’! this took a lot of thinking and scrapped passages to really get this on point, i hope you enjoy 🫶🏼

"You’re early today!”

You smiled halfheartedly at Magdalene and Dani’s teacher, nodding at her. “Yeah, uh, I’ve gotta get to work a bit earlier today so…”

“Not a problem, I’ll see you later,” the woman responded. You gave Magdalene and Dani one last hug before returning to your car, having hope that you’d finally be early to training for once and go the day without being berated by Alexia.

You didn’t want to relive the other night’s training, not in your mind, and definitely not in person. With you, Alexia was a completely different person to the patron saint of Barça that everyone painted her as. You wanted to change that and show her you weren’t as irresponsible and careless as she thought you out to be, but you couldn’t.

It was a relief to see the training pitch parking lot barely populated as it came into sight. There was maybe two cars, which meant you were on time. How incredible.

Before every training, a hopeful feeling swelled inside of you — one of happiness, because you saw football as a means of enjoyment and something to look forward to when all else came crashing down in your life. It was short lived of course, but like a phoenix, it always came back one way or another. Were you wrong for believing in your sport to help you?

"(Y/N), you're early.. for once."

You knew that voice all too well. There was a surprised tone that Alexia's voice held as she spoke, and you knew she expected you to show up late once again if not miss practice completely.

"Yeah, surprise," you replied dully, sitting down on the bench to put your boots on.

"Why are you early?" she asked, and it was a bit of a stupid question.

'Well, after you yelled at me in front of everybody the other day, I decided that if I have to drop all three of my siblings off to school, I might as well do it as early as possible so I don't have to worry about getting screamed at and humiliated at half past nine in the morning!'

"Dropped my siblings off earlier today," you mumbled instead, eyes fixated on the ground as you spoke. You were sure that eventually, your fear would be the one to corrupt your family completely, but you couldn't tell Alexia; it was equivalent to opening yourself up to her, being vulnerable even after trying so hard to maintain a tough front.

She glanced at you, her eyebrow just barely raised but her mouth idle. You cinched your laces tightly and sprung to your feet, very aware of her gaze fixed on you as you grabbed a ball from the bag and dribbled it over to the nearest wall, preparing for the training session ahead.

More of the team started to file through the pitch gates. You could hear their bags dropping to the ground as you passed against the wall, and as Mapi passed behind you she squeezed your shoulder. “I’m glad to see you, (Y/N),” she said, a smile on her face.

For once, as training started, you didn’t feel dreadful. You were excited and motivated by the good start to the morning, which showed in the newfound pep in your step and enthusiasm around the pitch.

After a long while, the sun began to set, which indicated the end of training. You sat down at the bench, unlacing your boots and trading them for sandals. Unexpectedly, Alexia sat down beside you, saying, “Good job today. You did well.”

“Graciés,” you responded, standing up while slinging your bag over your shoulder, “See you tomorrow.”

She watched you leave through the gates, her eyes unwavering on your figure disappearing around the corner.

You lived next to a lovely elderly lady named Margalida. She was a sweet woman, always saying bon día and bona tarda to you and your siblings whenever she saw you. Sometimes, after you returned from training and picked up your siblings, she invited you four into her home to share pastries with her. You always accepted, of course, because it was much better than subjecting yourself to the olfactory assault that was your home, and she was also a widow that you figured needed some company from time to time.

When you weren't home, you couldn't monitor your mother's behaviour; praying that it would stay somewhat normal would have to suffice. You didn’t know whether Margalida knew about the true nature of your household or if she thought you were all naturally raucous.

You pulled into the driveway, parking the car as the doors opened and your siblings got out of the car. “(Y/N),” Magdalene said slowly, imploring you to look at her curiously. “Who are those people?” she pointed ahead, and that’s when you noticed Margalida at your doorstep, alongside two police officers and another woman. She looked like a regular office worker, but you weren’t an idiot; she was obviously a social worker, which could only mean one thing. A bad thing.

"You three stay in the car for a bit, okay? I'm gonna go talk to these people," you said to your siblings, motioning to the car as you turned around again and walked towards the people.

You felt nothing but dread in your gut as you approached them. One of the cops, who was talking to a distressed looking Margalida, looked at you and began to speak. "Miss (Y/L/N)?"

You nodded slowly, "Before we talk, can I just send my siblings inside?"

"That won't be possible," the officer said, making you raise an eyebrow, "...Because we're here regarding a call about a person inside, which we now know isn't you."

"I heard yelling from inside," Margalida added. "It was loud, and– and it sounded like there was crashing, from things being thrown around."

She took a deep breath, looking at you sympathetically. "I thought one of you was being hurt, so I called the police."

"I know your situation with the..." she paused, gesturing to the rubbish bin. You spun around, your eyes widening at the sight of it. Cans and bottles galore filled the bin to the brim, threatening to spill out. You could count at least ten, and that was only at the surface of the deep bin. You could recall the rubbish being collected just a few days ago, and now it was basically full.

She looked at you, her eyes pitiful. You hated it, so much; pity made you feel like a kid, and it angered you that the only time you got to relive any sort of childishness was when someone noticed you were suffering, not because you actually had the liberty to behave like one again. Where was the pity when you actually were a kid, having to wake up and stay afloat to support three other kids?

"Who else lives here, other than you and your — I'm assuming — siblings?" the other cop asked.

"My mother. My dad left a few years ago," you mumbled, looking at the ground.

"Is she home right now?" he asked, and you nodded. "Yeah. She's probably asleep, so if you did knock on the door, that's why nobody opened it."

"Asleep or blacked out?" his partner suddenly added. You looked at him, clenching your jaw as you shrugged. "How am I supposed to know? I've been at work all day."

"What do you do for work?"

"I'm a footballer."

"For FC Barcelona?"

"Buy a ticket and maybe you'll find out."

You ended up sitting across from the two officers and the social worker in a dingy, dark room scarcely furnished with only a table, three chairs and a dirty window to accessorise it. This time, the woman did most of the talking while the cops just surveyed the conversation. Magdalene, Dani and Lorenzo were sitting in the waiting room of the station — you didn't want to drag them along, but you didn't have much of a choice.

"Can you tell us a little bit about your family history that might correspond with the things reported to us today?" she asked, leaning across the table.

"My dad left when I was, I think.. 13. Cheated on my mum and left us all for another woman. My mum, uh, got out of control. She didn't take it well," you replied, not looking up once as your gaze was fixed on the chestnut-stained, chipped table.

"I see. Well, from the contents of the rubbish bin, I presume her coping had something to do with alcohol," the woman said. As if her apathy hadn't been obvious from the start, it was dripping off her every word and showing her true intents; not to help you, but to get this over and done with and throw your siblings into foster care, then consider her job done and get paid for it.

You nodded at her claim nonetheless, picking at the paint of the table. "Yeah."

"Have you or your siblings ever been subject to abuse, from either of your parents?" she continued

"No no, absolutely not, they never hit–"

"I'm not just talking about physical abuse, (Y/N)," she interrupted. It was the first time of the entire questioning you had looked up as you met her gaze, your eyes saying more than your mouth ever could.

"It was just a few arguments,” you responded coldly.

“When we asked Margalida, your neighbour, about if there’s been any incidents like this, she said there has been. Yelling, screaming, and lots of it,” the woman told you. “How many arguments are you considering a few, (Y/N)?”

The table shook from the impact of your hand slamming it sharply as you shot to your feet. "If you consider a couple arguments to be verbal abuse, go ahead. My mum is hurt and angry, very angry about her husband leaving her, so yeah, she drinks and we argue about it!"

"Listen, please sit down. I understand that you and your siblings are troubled children but–"

"I hate being a– I hate that term, 'troubled kid', you know? We aren't troubled! If we were troubled, wouldn't we be dead? Wouldn't we be troubled by an inability to continue living in these conditions, these... ruins?"

Silence. You sat down once again, your head in your hands.

"Do you have another location you can stay at?" she asked you. You shook your head, the feeling of dread burying itself deeper in your gut.

"Unfortunately, we will have to place your siblings in foster care. The living conditions are unsafe and unstable for kids their age to be living in," the social worker finished.

You wanted to burst into tears. You wanted to sob and sob and sob, harder than you ever have, but the tears wouldn't summon.

"There is another option," she spoke slowly, making you immediately look up from the darkness your palms shrouded you in.

"...we contact your father and see if he wants to look after them."

It sounded just as bad as placing them into foster care. Now, you wanted to scream in her face and call her utterly stupid for assuming that a man who abandoned his kids would want to take care of them years later to keep them out of the foster system. Why on God's green earth would he want to reap the consequences of his infidelity?

"Are you hard of hearing?" you scoffed. "Yeah, so, I said earlier that he left us years ago for another woman, you know, to make another family. He didn't want us."

"He's the only other option at the moment. Unless your mother can be moved to a rehabilitation center in sufficient enough time, and you become their legal guardians, they will end up with foster families. Possibly not even the same one."

The news weighed on you like bricks. It was all so much, you couldn't think straight and contemplate possible outcomes and solutions. You put your elbows on your table and held your head in your hands once again, taking a deep breath.

"Can I at least find someone myself who's willing to foster? Someone I know?" you asked, your tone being nothing short of desperate.

She took a moment to respond, and it was probably the most nerve-wracking few seconds of your life, until the ultimatum was spoken.

"I suppose, yes. That is basically the whole principle of fostering, so I see no issue. Until then, they will be placed in a temporary home before we start looking for a permanent family. A pair of officers have gone to detain your mother and we'll review the information from this questioning to determine whether she should be charged or put straight into a rehabilitation program."

"Thank you," you almost cried, your body relaxing from the little bit of relief and reassurance you had just received. There was still a possibility that you could get your siblings back.

The problem standing in your way now was, you didn't know anyone willing to foster. You had no idea who you'd turn to, and it actually made you realise that you were pretty alone in this whole ordeal, and life in general. You really did have nobody but yourself, and clearly there came a time where that wouldn't be enough.

"Magda, Dani, Enzo, come on. We're going now," you said as the door of the interrogation room swung open. You beckoned at the kids, who stood up and ran to you, following you out of the door.

You didn't want to go home yet, just in case the officers were still there and you'd arrive to the horrible scene of your drunkard mother getting dragged of her own house by the authorities, so you drove to the training pitch. You were in search of one person in particular, and hoping to avoid another one.

Parking the car in the same spot you had parked in the same morning, you quickly got out of the car and ushered the kids onto the pitch to play for a little bit while you went into the gym.

As soon as you walked through the automatic glass doors, the person you were searching for was stretching on a yoga mat, her resistance bands discarded above her head.

She sat up, looking at you with a mixture of surprise, confusion and concern, probably achieved from your sorrowful expression.

"Vicky, I need your help. Now."

[jaylaxies]

TEASER: CALL ME WHEN YOU HATE ME LESS

PAIRING: lee jeno x fem!reader (ft. jaehyun and jaemin)

GENRE/CW: smut, angst, eventual fluff, porn with plot, unprotected sex, mentions of fighting, blood, more to be added!

WC: 15k words (estimated).

TEASER WC: 1654 words.

SYNOPSIS: Jeno Lee was a walking academic hazard—hot, broody, and failing just about everything that wasn’t football. Enter you, his new tutor: organized, overachieving, and absolutely not here for his attitude or his annoyingly perfect jawline. But between late-night study sessions, petty insults, and one very inconvenient almost-kiss, things start spiraling—fast. He’s supposed to be you project. You are supposed to hate him. Instead, you both are one sarcastic comment away from either a breakdown or a makeout—and honestly, it could go either way.

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni (the full fic will include smut).

A/N: hihi, angels! i'm back with a jeno fic (oh finally) i was and still am too invested in writing this, i hope you guys will enjoy it! send an ask or comment to be added! <33 (make sure to have your age visible on your blog! blank blogs will not be added to the tl). ps. happy jeno day <3

Chapter 1: Raised in Shadows, Told to Shine. 

Comparison. 

The core of all insecurities. The onset of overthinking. The path to self loathing. 

That’s what comparison does to a person—drive them to the edge of insanity in hopes of turning into something; into someone the others will look up to, compare themselves to. 

It was a bad thing per se, but it was motivation enough for Jeno to work harder in order to leave the country, to get away from his family. 

The reason? His mother ever so conveniently happened to have fallen in love with a rich guy, someone who never knew what struggle meant, and Jeno was just four back then. It didn’t take much time for him to settle into the lifestyle, however, no matter how much he could have prepared to face his step-brother, he simply couldn’t bother looking him in the eye. 

Why? Because he was known to be the epitome of perfection. Jung Jaehyun was the son every parent wanted, the student every teacher was fond of, the doctor every nurse wanted to work with. 

The sweet dimple on his cheek was a great asset in melting the hearts of everyone in his proximity or afar. 

Jeno on the other hand, wasn’t quite sure why he wasn’t considered to be enough, especially when he got decent grades throughout his school life, he wasn’t a bother, kind to those who were around them, but it changed. 

It changed when he got daily reminders of how he wasn’t even close to how amazing and successful his step brother was. 

That’s when things started looking down for Jeno. He stopped caring about the grades, he wasn’t sure why he was supposed to put up a I’m so good, so smart act in front of others when there was no reason for him to do that. 

Others didn’t bother doing the same for him. 

Rather, he tried to work upon the only thing he was passionate about, the only thing that mattered to him—football. 

Despite winning several trophies for playing the sport, his parents labelled it to be useless, which broke the last fragment of his heart, shattering it to the point of no return. 

Which would explain his current demeanor—moody, permanent scowl on his perfectly sculpted face and no care for the others around him. His sole focus being football, which is also the reason behind his current dilemma. 

“Being an excellent player in the sports team does not guarantee you your scholarship, Mr. Lee,” Jeno’s teacher incharge spoke up, taking off her specs right after reviewing his annual grade report, “you’re failing three out of five modules, and if you don’t start getting back on track soon, then I’m afraid you won’t be able to play in the team anymore.” 

Fuck. 

Jeno had been neglecting his studies, he admits, yet he never thought that he’d reach this point. It’s not that he wasn’t smart, he simply had no motivation to go on with his studies. His parents could easily pay the university to keep him around, however, he wanted nothing from them, which also explains why he got himself a scholarship in the first place. 

“I’m sorry if I’m late.” Jeno’s eyes snapped wide open, turning back to see his step brother entering the teacher’s cabin. 

“Why are you here?” Jeno asked, a muscle in his jaw twitching but Jaehyun only smiled. 

Jeno’s professor was equally stunned, probably even more with her jaw wide open at the appearance of such a handsome young man. 

“I called him in since your parents were busy,” his professor said, handling Jeno a letter, “go and find your tutor in the council room, she’ll be helping you with the upliftment of your grades, Mr. Lee, and now if you’ll excuse us, I’ve got to fill in your brother with your current situation,” she said the last part awfully sweetly as Jaehyun sat down in one of the vacant chairs, smiling at her kind tone. 

Jeno scoffed, the demeanor change around Jaehyun went crazy and he wasn’t a fan of it, especially when he was called in to complain about his mistakes. 

He simply wanted to leave the university and never come back. 

He waited, taking deep breaths before punching the wall, not being able to contain his anger. The impact did hurt, yet he paid no heed to it, the blood dripping as he walked towards the council room to get over with the day. 

The name written on the sheet wasn’t unfamiliar to him, rather it only wearied the already infuriated boy as he knocked on the door of the student council room, which was empty except for you sitting there, working on a few papers which appeared to be the newsletter for the month. 

“Come in,” you allowed, not looking up as Jeno made his way inside the room, observing the surroundings where he’s never been before. 

Then he looked your way, taking in your appearance. You looked cozy in your university varsity jacket, your specs sitting on your nose as you buried yourself in reading whatever it was that you were reading. He couldn’t deny you looked pretty in a way that’s comforting to eyes. 

With no words exchanged, he pushed the letter towards you, which finally made you look up at the source of disturbance, your eyebrows raising slightly as you most certainly did not expect the star football player to visit you in the council room, which he’s never been to before. 

He simply stood there, hands shoved into his pockets while still looking around, and you took a second to grab the letter, skimming over to read and understand that the letter was given by Mrs. Kim, the teacher in charge of your department, requesting you to take up the few teaching sessions you had applied for, Jeno being the student you’ll have to teach for the same. 

You clicked your tongue, folding the letter exactly as it was before pushing it his way, your arms folding across your chest as you finally spoke up, “I reject. I don’t wish to teach you.”

His eyes were quick to snap towards you, finally staring right into your own eyes, irritation clear as he pushed his tongue on his inner cheek, eyebrow raised. 

“Aren’t you supposed to kiss your professor’s feet, given that you’re in student council? And here I thought you’d be a good girl.” Jeno rasped, resting his arms on your table, leaning down to your level. 

You chuckled, expecting the exact response from him, “this is exactly why I don’t want to waste my time on you—you athletes don’t wish to study, you just require a passing grade, for which I don’t have time to spare.” 

“What the fuck do you mean waste your time?” 

“Lee Jeno, you’ve got more money with you than your bank account can handle, so I’m sure losing your scholarship won’t do you much harm,” you said with a sickening smile, “you’ve got no interest in studying, your attendance record states that oh so proudly.” 

“You don’t know shit about me,” Jeno seethed out, messy hair strands falling over his eyes. 

“I know everything I need to know about you. Now excuse me, unlike you, I actually have work to do,” you said, passing him a tight lipped smile, not letting the proximity faze you. 

“You—” 

Jeno’s sentence was cut short with two sharp knocks on the slightly ajar door, a head peeking in, successfully garnering your attention. You could feel your mood doing one eighty with the sudden intrusion of this stranger—whom you didn’t wish to be a stranger around anymore, your eyes softening, lips parting as you stared at him in awe. 

Meanwhile, if Jeno thought that the day was done being a bitch to him, then he was wrong because the level of irritation that bubbled up in him the moment he saw the change in your expressions. 

“Sorry to interrupt, may I get in?” Jaehyun asked, smiling his usual dimpled smile, which had you swooning in record time. 

You could practically see veins of frustration popping out on Jeno’s neck, “no. Your work is done, you should head back home,” he groaned, but Jaehyun only looked you way, continuing to get in, looking your way. 

“I’m Jaehyun, Jeno’s elder brother. I can’t thank you enough for agreeing on giving him tutoring lessons, especially with how busy you must be with council duties,” he spoke up, shaking your hand, which was smaller in his warm, big hands. 

Jeno scoffed, “she’s not—”

“Of course, Jaehyun! It’s my pleasure to help him out, and it’ll only help me better with my extracurricular credits! It’s no problem,” you nodded, a gentle smile on your face as your eyes practically twinkled with excitement, taking in the beauty that Jaehyun beheld. 

It was ridiculous. 

It was absurd how just two sentences; paired with a sweet smile from his brother, were enough for you to change your decision, in the span of two seconds at that. 

He tightened the hold he had on the strap of his black bag, “no fucking need. I’ll find another tutor,” Jeno deadpanned, walking out of the room, not paying attention to Jaehyun who called out his name in the background. 

He wouldn’t let you use him to get to his brother. 

With that thought, he decided to detour and make his way to the gym, trying to blow off steam by practicing punching, each one getting progressively stronger as his mind replayed the difference in your behaviour when it came to him and his brother. 

It didn’t bother him that his knuckles were bruising, he knew he needed this extrinsic pain to get rid of the obvious hurt he felt each day. 

And he couldn’t understand why he felt so affected by your actions, especially when it was the first time you had met. 

Jealousy was indeed a bitch. 

© jaylaxies | tumblr

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Fifteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, rising tension (not between Amelia and Lando), a lot of Oscar!!!!!

Notes — Bit longer than usual! I wanted to cover 3 races per chapter, but it's not worked out that way. So we're covering Bahrain and pre-Imola. This is going to be a long 2021 season, so... yeah, get ready for a lot of chapters lmao.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021 

Bahrain

Amelia perched at the edge of a padded hospitality seat overlooking the circuit, knees tucked up slightly, elbows resting on them. The sun cast sharp glints off the tarmac as the F2 grid wound their way through the formation lap, engines whining as they lined up. Her gaze didn’t waver, eyes narrowed into thoughtful slits, tracking each car with sharp precision.

She’d missed the first sprint race that morning, buried in set-up notes with Max, buried in everything Max in general, really, but she’d made sure to find time for this one. 

Her eyes followed car number 81 as it weaved through the final corner. Oscar. 

She wasn’t quite sure what it was that had snagged her interest after watching her first F3 race with Max, only that it had. And now she was here, legs bouncing with unconcealed energy, eyes fixed on one driver who rose above the sea of talent. 

A shadow cast itself across her legs.

She looked up.

Mark Webber. A polite smile, hands in his pockets like he’d been waiting for her to notice him.

“Do Red Bull usually start sniffing around this early?” He asked, one eyebrow raised. 

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “I don’t work for Red Bull anymore.”

Mark’s eyebrows rose a touch. “No?”

“No,” she said. “Just Max.”

He hummed, shifting his weight. “Alright… it’s a personal interest in my Oscar, then?”

She hesitated for a beat. “It’s… I don’t know. He’s very good. Talented.” 

Mark studied her for a long moment. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t playing politics. That was what made her so bloody difficult to read. “Well, whatever you’re seeing,” he said eventually, “he’s locked into Alpine. Long-term. Management contract’s done. They’ve promised him a seat in 2023.”

Amelia didn’t react at first. She simply nodded, eyes back on the track as the lights began to count down. But something flickered behind her expression, something uncertain.

She’d been to the Alpine garage. She knew how things felt there. Knew what Fernando had told her over coffee and biscuits. The uncertain politics. The disorganisation. The fractured attention span of a team trying to be four things at once and pulling in opposite directions. It didn’t sit right.

But she didn’t say any of that.

She just said, “Okay.”

Mark nodded. “Thought you’d want to know.”

She offered him a small nod in return, and then turned her eyes back to the track as the five lights went out. 

Oscar’s launch was perfect.

Of course it was.

— 

Lando was sitting on a low wall just outside the McLaren motorhome, nursing a smoothie and checking scrolling through Instagram when someone stepped into his peripheral vision.

He glanced up to see Mark Webber standing in front of him, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his face. “Uh. Hey,” Lando said slowly, slightly weary, wondering if he’d done something to accidentally pissed him off. 

Mark nodded at him once. “Got a question for you.”

Lando blinked. “Okay?”

“Why is your girlfriend obsessed with Oscar?”

Lando stared. “What?” he said eventually, like the words had taken a full second to download.

“Oscar Piastri,” Mark repeated, tilting his head toward the mini F2 paddock. “Your girlfriend. Amelia. She’s been watching him like a hawk all weekend. I thought she might be there on Red Bull’s behalf, but no.” 

Lando blinked again, processing. Then he laughed. “Oh! Oh, Oscar. Yeah.” He nodded, shaking his head with a fond grin. “She’s, like, imprinted on him or something.”

Mark stared. “She’s what.”

“You know. Like a duckling.” Lando made a vague motion with his hand. “It’s harmless. She gets like this sometimes. Sees someone drive well and suddenly she’s emotionally invested in their entire career trajectory.”

Mark looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“She was like that with Nyck for a bit,” Lando added helpfully. “And Latifi for exactly one afternoon, until he missed an easy breaking zone.”

“...Right.” Mark said. 

“Honestly, it’s kind of sweet,” Lando shrugged. “Means she cares. She’s not gonna steal him from you or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried,” Mark said, slowly and clearly. “I’m confused.”

“You’ve just gotta learn to roll with it,” Lando grinned, sipping his smoothie again like the conversation was over.

Mark just stood there for a moment longer, processing the oddity of it all, before muttering something under his breath and walking away.

—

iMessage — 1:40pm

Lando Norris Mark Webber is very concerned Am I supposed to be jealous of this Oscar bloke 

The reply came almost instantly.

Amelia He has perfect apex management Do you think if I go and talk to him he’ll let me critique him

Lando Norris PLEASE go and critique the baby driver. I’m sure he’ll love that

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, still grinning. 

Oscar Piastri, whether he knew it or not, had just gained the most intense silent sponsor in all of Formula 1.

— 

Oscar had just unclipped his helmet when he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

He turned, still half in his overalls, hair damp with sweat, and found himself face-to-face with a vaguely familiar woman who was wearing a white skirt, a T-Shirt with a lion and the number 33 on it, and sneakers that looked like they had a smudge of orange marker on the side. She also had a clipboard tucked under one arm, dark sunglasses pushed up into her hair, and an unreadable expression fixed on her face.

"Uh—hi?" he offered, polite and cautious.

"You're Oscar Piastri," she said, more like a statement than a question.

He blinked. “Yeah…?”

She nodded once, then added, "You braked too late into Turn 4. Could’ve gained three tenths if you’d taken a wider entry and stayed tighter on exit. But your apex work in Sector 3 was perfect."

Oscar stared at her. “I—thanks?”

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “You’re consistent. Calm under pressure. Don’t overcorrect. You keep your steering inputs clean, which is rare for a driver at this level.”

“…Okay.”

“And you’re doing that in a car that under-rotates on entry. That’s even more impressive.”

Oscar looked around as if someone might confirm whether this was real, if anyone else was seeing this happen. “Are you… scouting me or something? My manager—”

“No,” she said flatly. 

“Oh.” He said. There was a pause. “Right,” he said again, more awkward now. “Cool.”

Amelia squinted at him. “Have you spoken to your engineers about your differential settings? You’re losing too much on cold tyres, especially first lap out of the pits.”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck. “I—I guess I could mention that. I mean, I didn’t think—"

“You should.” She told him. 

Another pause. “…Who are you, exactly?” He asked on a wince. 

She smiled at him. “Amelia Brown. I work with Max Verstappen.”

Oscar’s eyes went comically wide. “Oh. Oh. I knew I recognised you.”

She nodded, glanced at her clipboard. “You’re fast.” 

Oscar opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She shrugged. And with that, she turned on her heel and walked off toward the Red Bull garages, clipboard swinging at her side.

Oscar stood there for another full thirty seconds before one of his engineers passed him and said, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just— yeah. Hey, can who should I talk to about my differential settings?” 

— 

Oscar was adjusting the straps of his shoes when someone nudged his elbow.

He looked up and nearly choked on his own spit.

“Hey,” Lando Norris said, all cheeky grin and casual posture. “You Oscar?”

Oscar scrambled to stand properly, knocking into the side of the pit wall in the process. “Yeah! Uh—yeah. I mean—yeah, I’m Oscar. Piastri. You’re—uh. Obviously.”

Lando chuckled. “Relax, mate. Just wanted to say good luck in the feature. Great win yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Oscar managed, ears already starting to go pink. “It’s… really cool to meet you.”

Lando grinned wider. “Appreciate it. My girlfriend’s actually the big fan.”

Oscar blinked. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Lando said, folding his arms. “She’s a bit obsessed with you.”

Oscar’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Uh… what?”

Lando held back a laugh. “Not like that. Jesus. No, look, Amelia. That’s my girlfriend.” 

Oscar’s brain stalled for a full second. “…Oh. I knew that, I think.”

“Yeah,” Lando nodded. “Look, she’s mostly with Max on race weekends, but if you spot her lingering around your garage, don’t freak out. She’s just… a bit fixated at the minute. It’ll pass.”

Oscar straightened a little, finally finding his footing. “I’m not freaked out. I mean—it’s kind of nice, actually. Having someone that smart in my corner.”

Lando’s smile softened. “Helpful, ain’t it?”

Oscar nodded.

“Shame she’s Max’s on race weekends,” Lando added dryly, nudging Oscar with his elbow. “But she’s mine the rest of the time, so I win.”

Oscar laughed, a little awkward but genuine. “Tell her thanks for the advice, by the way. Make some adjustments and I’ve already noticed a difference.”

“I will,” Lando said, already turning to leave. “Don’t let her scare you too much.”

“No promises,” Oscar muttered under his breath.

— 

Lando sat on the edge of the halo, half in his car, helmet perched on the shelf behind him. He was tapping one foot, not even aware he was doing it, gaze flicking back and forth between the screens in front of him.

Then he looked up; felt her before he saw her.

Amelia ducked in under the divider flap like she’d done a hundred times. One of the engineers gave her a small nod of hello, and no one moved to stop her. 

Lando stood up automatically.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up, smoothing a wrinkle in the sleeve of his fireproofs, adjusting the zip at his collar. The kind of quiet, grounding touch that could settle a world spinning too fast.

Then, softly, “I love you. Do well. Be safe.”

He leaned down, and she kissed him; gentle and steady and just long enough to make his knees threaten to go out from under him.

When they pulled apart, Lando’s grin was crooked and dazed. “Love you.”

“I know,” she said, brushing her thumb across his jaw.

—

The Red Bull garage was settling into that uniquely pre-race stillness; that suspended hum of controlled chaos. Final checks. Monitors flickering. Tyre blankets off. Nothing wasted, not a second nor a movement.

Max sat low in the cockpit of the RB16B, suit zipped, gloves halfway on, helmet resting beside him. His eyes were locked forward, watching but not really seeing the telemetry screen across from him.

GP crouched at his side, tablet balanced against his knee. “Steering feedback still alright after FP3?”

“Yeah,” Max said, barely blinking. “No pull on the straights anymore.”

“Rear end?”

“Still twitchy through ten,” Max replied. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. I’m having to correct.”

GP nodded, tapping the screen. “We can tweak the diff map slightly, smooth it out mid-corner.”

Max didn’t answer immediately, just flexed his fingers inside the glove.

Footsteps approached, steady and unhurried.

Amelia.

She didn’t need to say anything; Max’s head turned the second she appeared at the edge of the garage. She had a MV33 jacket thrown loosely over her shoulders, a data sheet in one hand, iPad in the other. Her hair was pulled back in a messy clip, sunglasses on her head despite the garage shadows, and ear defenders around her neck. 

“Steering sorted?” she asked, skipping hello.

Max nodded. “Almost. GP’s dialling it in.”

GP gave her a glance over his tablet. “You here to give me more setup notes?”

“No,” she said dryly, flipping her iPad around and showing Max a highlighted map of sector times. “You’re a tenth down in sector two. Get that under control.”

Max took the tablet from her, scanning. “Shit. I can sort that, yeah.”

“I know you can. You shouldn’t be struggling on that part of the track in the first place.”

GP snorted. Max handed it back with a smirk.

Amelia took a step closer, arms folded now, eyes flicking over Max’s face. She tilted her head. “You nervous?”

He looked at her for a moment, like he wanted to say no. Then he just nodded once. “A little.”

Amelia didn’t flinch. “Good. You should be. You’re about to start a season-long war with a seven-time world champion.”

GP side-eyed her. “Amelia.” He warned quietly. 

She ignored him, eyes firmly on Max. “Just remember, you have the car. You have the talent. Just put it all together.” 

He glanced up at her then. Her expression hadn’t shifted; calm, focused, familiar. Grounding.

GP looked between them and stood up, giving them space. “I’ll give you two a minute. Don’t let him spiral,” he added, aiming that at Amelia.

“I’m the one who built the spiral,” she muttered.

Max breathed out a quiet laugh.

Then Amelia broke the silence. “I’ll be at pit wall with GP during the race. Nothing else I can do with the car until afterwards anyway. Don’t fuck it up, trust the strategy.”

“I’ll try.”

As she turned to walk out, Max called after her. “Amelia?”

She glanced back.

“If I can’t—”

“You can,” she cut in, with the blunt certainty of someone who refused to consider any other possibility.

Max blinked once. Then nodded. 

GP returned with the headset. “You alright now?”

Max exhaled, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “Yeah.”

—

The lights went out, and the grid thundered into motion. 

Amelia flinched slightly at the roar. Twenty cars launched toward Turn 1, and already her eyes were scanning; Max on pole, Lando P9. A clean start. Good. Clean was all she could ever ask for.

Max’s start was near-perfect; no wheel-spin, held the lead into the first corner. But Lewis was there. Always there. Breathing down his neck like more of an inevitability than a challenge.

Her stomach flipped.

Lap 5. Max radioed about rear grip. She already knew. She could see it in his lines, a little hesitation through Turn 10, just a touch of overcorrection. She scribbled something on her iPad, handed it off to GP without a word, let him relay the information to Max.

On the screen, she watched Lando pick off Charles. Nice. Brave. She smiled softly.

Lap 13. Bottas boxed. Mercedes going aggressive. Amelia tapped her fingers against her thigh.

Lap 14. “Box, Max. Box now.”

The pit stop was clean. Not the fastest, but smooth. Max rejoined behind Hamilton. The chase began.

Lap 28. She was quiet now, arms crossed. Watching Lewis manage his tyres like some kind of magician, Max clawing back the delta. 

Lap 31. Lando passed Daniel. Amelia’s stomach swooped with pride. Forgotten, he’d worried. As if. 

Lap 38. GP’s voice came in sharp over the comms; “Purple Sector Two, Max. Good job.”

Amelia didn’t smile. Not yet. She was holding her breath now.

Lap 45. Hamilton dove in. The final phase began. Max had the advantage. But not for long.

Lap 53. Two laps to go.

Max took the lead with a stunning overtake around the outside of Turn 4. Amelia’s heart leapt. 

But he ran wide. Track limits. The order came like a whisper, a curse; “Give it back.” 

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Fuck,” she whispered.

Lap 56. Final lap. Hamilton led. Max was there, nearly pushing him through every corner, but it wasn’t enough.

The flag waved.

Hamilton won.

Max finished P2.

Lando P4 — a breath away from the podium. 

GP exhaled beside her, already offering reassurances. "It's only round one. We'll get them next time."

She nodded. She believed it. But still.

Still.

— 

Amelia found him on the balcony of their shared hotel room, one leg propped on the low wall, still in a McLaren team hoodie, curls damp from a rushed shower. He looked up when she slid the door open.

“Hey baby,” he said, soft and tired.

Amelia didn’t say anything at first. She just walked over, reached for his hand, and tugged him gently toward her.

He didn’t resist. Just leaned into her, let her wrap her arms around his waist and press her face into his chest.

“P4,” she mumbled.

He laughed quietly. “I know.”

“You were amazing.”

He let out a long breath, arms looping around her back. “Felt good. Car was sharp today. We had more in it, maybe, but... yeah. I’m happy.”

Amelia leaned back just enough to look up at him. “You should be. You outdrove your teammate, held your own against the Ferraris.”

Lando grinned at her. “You gonna make me a trophy?”

She frowned. “No. Why would I do that? You didn’t win.”

He snorted, kissed her forehead. “Yeah. Good thing I’m patient.”

“You are,” she agreed. “That’s why you’re doing so well.”

They stood like that for a moment, wrapped in the hush of midnight Bahrain, the warm breeze brushing past them. Her hand found the edge of his hoodie, fingers sliding underneath to touch warm skin.

“You looked good today,” he said softly. “On the pit wall, working hard.”

She nodded. “I really feel like I’ve found my place there.”

“And Max?” He asked. 

She paused. “He was… good. Disappointed. But he’s focused. It’ll come.”

Lando hummed, then pulled her closer, swaying them gently. “Chances of me winning before he does this year?”

Amelia looked up at him, amused. “Slim to none, unfortunately.”

“I know,” he grinned. “But it’d make you smile, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. And then I’d be crucified for sitting on Max’s pit wall and smiling at another drivers win.” She told him. 

He leaned in and kissed her, slow and warm and sweet. When they finally pulled apart, Amelia cupped his cheek.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said.

His eyes crinkled. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Completely.”

He brushed his nose against hers. “Cool. So… we celebrating with cake or sex?”

Amelia blinked. “Both?”

Lando laughed, pulling her back inside. “You’re perfect.”

— 

Following the first race of the season, Amelia got sick.

It started slowly, just a scratch in her throat, a little bit more fatigue than usual, but by the second day back in the UK, it hit her like a truck.

Fever. Shakes. Headache. Nausea. The works.

She tried to power through it, of course. She was Amelia. She didn’t do sick days. But when she nearly passed out standing in front of the mirror brushing her teeth, Lando had carried her back to bed, tucked the covers up around her chin, and handed her a glass of water with a stern but incredibly gentle, “You’re not moving for the rest of the day, okay?”

It was awful for her.

And somehow, somehow, it was worse for Lando.

He hovered. Kept her topped up with expensive coffee and water, made a heroic effort in the kitchen (which resulted in some aggressively average tinned soup, but it was warm and made with love), and sat with her on the sofa, leaning back against her, giving her the exact amount of deep pressure that she needed since she felt so out of sorts.

He ran cool cloths over her forehead, whispered soft reassurances when her fever spiked in the middle of the night, and called his mum every few hours for advice on what more he could do to help her feel better. 

Now, on day three, she was finally stable enough to sit upright without swaying. The lights were low, the flat was quiet, and she was curled into Lando’s side on the couch, her face smushed against his bare chest as Pretty Woman played softly on the TV in front of them.

He was scrolling on his phone with one hand and the other was moving up and down her thigh absently. She snuffled a little, still congested and gross, and pushed herself impossibly closer to his warmth. 

Safe. Comfortable. At peace. 

— 

Max showed up mid-afternoon on the Thursday. 

“Did you rob a pharmacy?” Amelia croaked from the couch, her voice still rough with congestion as she blinked blearily over the edge of her blanket.

He dropped the bag on the coffee table with a dramatic thud. “Maybe.”

Inside was everything she could possibly need; throat lozenges, vitamin C gummies, a fresh box of tissues, eucalyptus balm, electrolyte drinks, chocolate buttons (“for morale,” he’d muttered), and even a miniature hot water bottle shaped like a bear.

Amelia stared at it all. “Did the girlfriend that you’re still lying to help you with this?”

“No,” Max said quickly. “Okay yes. But I picked the bear.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re weird.”

“So are you,” he shot back, tugging off his jacket and flopping unceremoniously onto the living room floor. “Now come on. We’ve got work to do.”

That was how they ended up there, Max stretched out on Lando’s living room rug with his laptop open, Amelia curled up under a blanket beside him with tissues stuffed up her sleeve like someone’s grandma, hunched over notes and telemetry data.

They worked in a familiar rhythm; Amelia with her sharp, observant critiques and Max with his quiet nods, letting her voice guide the direction. She sounded like hell, sniffly and hoarse and congested, but her mind was still as razor-sharp as ever, and Max didn’t miss the way she caught every subtle shift in his sector times, every inconsistency in brake response.

“You’re annoyingly good at this,” he muttered, glancing sideways at her.

She shrugged, wiping her nose. “I know.”

They kept at it until the sun dipped low in the sky and the flat was soaked in golden light. Max had just asked about tyre degradation when Amelia stopped responding.

He turned to look, and there she was—head tipped against the arm of the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin, tissues still clutched in one hand. Out cold, mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed with fever.

Max sighed softly, closing the laptop with a quiet snap. “Stubborn zusje,” he muttered, a fond smile tugging at his mouth as he stood.

The front door clicked open a second later.

Lando stepped in, looking wrecked from a day of intense training, hoodie clinging damply to his shoulders. He paused when he saw Max still there, eyebrows drawing together. “What’s going on?”

Max jerked his chin toward Amelia. “She insisted on coming back to work. I told her she was still sick. She told me she wasn’t. So I drove here instead of dragging her to Milton Keynes.” He gave a small laugh. “She made it three hours. Then passed out mid-sentence.”

Lando dropped his gym bag with a quiet thud and crossed to the couch. He crouched beside Amelia, fingers gently brushing sweat-dampened hair away from her forehead. His voice softened. “Jesus. She really doesn’t know how to stop, does she?”

“Her only flaw,” Max said, grabbing his own bag. “Take care of her, yeah? I need her sharp again by Imola.”

Lando adjusted the blanket up around her shoulders, gaze never leaving her face. “Yeah. Of course. Thanks for watching out for her, man.”

Max gave a short, understanding nod and let himself out with a parting, “Later.”

Lando waited a beat, listening to the quiet, before slipping his arms under Amelia’s knees and shoulders. She stirred the moment she was lifted, letting out a tiny groan and curling instinctively into his chest.

“You’re home?” she murmured, voice rough and small.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “And now we’re going to bed. Proper bed.”

She hummed, already half-asleep, nuzzling into his neck. “Still feel like shit. But I love you.”

He chuckled, arms tightening around her. “Love you too. Can’t believe you actually wanted to drive to Milton fucking Keynes like this.”

“Would’ve been fine,” she mumbled, stubborn as ever.

And then, right on cue, she dissolved into a coughing fit that tore through her chest and effectively killed her argument.

Lando didn’t even try to hide the grin. “Yeah. Super convincing, babe.”

She sniffled, still curled against him. “Shut up.”

— 

It was sometime past midnight. The lights were low, the sheets tangled around their legs, and the soft hum of the street barely made it through the slightly open window.

Amelia lay on her side, head tucked into the crook of Lando’s shoulder, one arm draped lazily across his stomach. He was warm beneath her, skin soft and comforting, his voice a quiet murmur above her head.

“…and then Jon made me do this set of banded sprints that absolutely murdered my quads,” he was saying, his fingers absently tracing lazy circles along the bare skin of her arm. “Swear I almost fell flat on my face in the gym. And then we had the simulator session, but I kept getting distracted ‘cause the brakes were feeling off, like they were biting too soon.”

She didn’t say anything, just listened, eyelids heavy but not quite ready to let go of the moment. There was something in the way he spoke, like he didn’t even realise how animated his hands got when he was into something. Like he didn’t know his voice softened a little when he said her name, even in passing. Like he didn’t realise how easy it was to love him.

“Baby?” he asked quietly, glancing down when she didn’t answer.

She blinked up at him, smiling sleepily. “I’m listening, Lan. Promise.” 

— 

Imola 

Teams were setting up, media outlets milling around, and the familiar hum of power tools being tested echoed through the paddock. Amelia wandered a little ahead of Lando, distracted by the sight of a familiar dog trotting toward her through the crowd.

“Roscoe!” She grinned, crouching just in time to be enthusiastically tackled by the massive bulldog. His tail thumped against her legs as she scratched behind his ears.

“Hey, kid,” came a low, warm voice from above her.

She looked up, and there was Lewis, hands tucked into his Mercedes jacket, sunglasses perched atop his head, watching her with a soft but unmistakably distant look.

She rose slowly, brushing fur off her trousers. “Hi. I like his new collar. It’s so cute,” she said lightly.

Lewis glanced down at Roscoe, then nodded. “Yeah. He’s missed you.”

There was a moment of quiet, just slightly too long. The smile dropped from Amelia’s face.

She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

Lewis blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re being weird,” she said flatly.

Lando caught up, hovering behind her. “Baby…” he said gently, tone a soft warning.

She looked back at him, frowning. “He is!”

Lando’s jaw jumped at the slight tremble in her tone, his gaze moving back to Lewis, a dark warning on his face. 

Lewis’ gaze was steady but guarded. “I can’t help it, Amelia. You’re working with Max now, yeah?” His eyes flicked to her, searching, almost like he was trying to measure her response. “And that… that does change things. You, working with my biggest rival.”

Amelia shook her head, the confusion and frustration beginning to bubble up inside her. “I’m just doing my job.” Her voice cracked a little, an undercurrent of hysteria creeping in. “I don’t want things to get weird between us. Please, don’t make it weird.”

Lando’s voice cut through softly from behind her. “Amelia…” he murmured, a note of concern threading through his tone. He knew how much Lewis meant to her, knew how much this was tearing her up, but it was only inevitable, wasn’t it?

Amelia didn’t turn to look at him, her focus solely on Lewis now, her pulse racing. “I’ve always looked up to you,” she continued, a little more frantic. “And you have always been so nice to me. I don't want to lose you in my life just because I'm working for Max. Nothing’s changed except that I’ve got a job to do now.”

Lewis sighed, his eyes flickering with uncertainty as he took in her words. He glanced away for a moment, processing everything before settling his gaze on her. “It’s just hard, kid,” he admitted, quieter now. “Seeing you with him, knowing what that means for me, for my team…”

“I’m not picking sides,” she snapped a little more forcefully than she intended, the frustration now bubbling over. “I’m not picking anyone. I’m picking myself. I always have. And that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Lewis.”

There was a long, heavy pause as the tension hung thick in the air, with only the soft panting of Roscoe breaking the silence. Lewis seemed to deflate, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, kid,” he said finally, his voice softer. “I get it. I’ll get over it. I just… selfishly wish you’d chosen Mercedes, that’s all.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice steadier now. 

As Amelia bent down to give Roscoe one last scratch behind the ears.

“Hey, zusje,” Max called, strolling to to them in his usual Red Bull jacket and skinny jeans. “I’ve been looking for you. GP’s waiting on us,” he told her. 

Amelia huffed softly, brushing down her skirt. “Alright, I’ll see you guys later,” she turned to Lando, leaned in to kiss him, feeling his hand squeeze hers lightly in response.

“See you soon, baby,” Lando murmured, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before his attention shifted to Max, who was already gesturing for her to follow him.

Amelia turned to Lewis, her expression softening just a touch as she gave him a small wave. “Take care, okay?”

Lewis looked back at her, his eyes still carrying a trace of the tension that had been there before, but his voice was more measured this time. “Yeah, you too, kid.”

But just as she was about to turn away, she caught the faintest flicker of something in Lewis’ expression; a mix of caution, hesitation, and maybe a hint of something else — she hated that she couldn’t tell.

Max, noticing the look from behind her, turned his head sharply. His gaze locked with Lewis’ for a moment, something unspoken passing between them, a brief and subtle challenge.

Lewis didn’t flinch but held Max’s gaze, the tension hanging in the air like a low hum before Max spoke up, his voice casual but his body language firm.

“Let’s go, Amelia,” Max said, his hand gently guiding her away from the pair of them.

As they started walking, Lando took a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched them leave. “Christ. Good luck with that, mate,” he muttered under his breath. 

Lewis, still standing in the same spot, let out a long sigh, the edge of his frustration softened but still there. “Yeah, thanks,” he replied, his voice low as he looked after the pair of them. 

— 

Lando and Amelia had found a quiet spot in the paddock, away from the bustling journalists and photographers. It was early afternoon, the Italian sun still high, but the relentless rush of the morning had started to wind down.

They sat together at one of the outdoor tables, with the faint sounds of conversations and laughter filling the air. Amelia took a bite of her sandwich, eyes scanning the surroundings lazily. The day had been full of interviews, photos, and the usual whirlwind of the F1 circus, but now she could finally give herself a moment to relax.

Lando sat across from her, munching on his lunch, eyes flickering between his phone and Amelia. After a moment, he looked up, a playful grin on his face.

“You know,” he started, a teasing edge in his voice, “you’ve got a rating on WAGFASH for today’s outfit.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “What’s the rating?”

“Nine,” he said, smugly.

She glanced down at her outfit; a white, low-waisted rara skirt paired with a baby tee emblazoned with an Italian flag and her little orange gem belly button piercing. “Huh. Not bad.” She said, slightly proud of herself. “I should comment and say thank you.”

But as she rifled through her handbag, her expression turned into one of mild panic. “Oh. Oh no.”

“What is it?” Lando asked, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve lost my iPad!” she exclaimed, voice rising slightly.

— 

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Lando N. Ok who has it?

Esteban O. Not me, mate.

Pierre G. Haven’t seen it!

George R. Yeah mate, not seen it today, sorry.

Mick S. You told me to just leave it if I saw it.

Lando N. You fucking what? Are you serious? Where did you see it?

Mick S. I gave it to the Alpine kid!

Lando N. What fucking Alpine kid?

Mick S. Pastry?

Lando N. Oh thank god. You’re lucky, Schumacher. She likes him.

George R. There’s an Alpine driver called Pastry? LMAO

Lando N. Piastri.

George R. Not as fun.

NEXT CHAPTER

[wildestdreamsblog]

Latibule Season 2: VIII

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader (Mafia/Detective AU)

Summary: In which he lost his latibule.

Warnings: Secret Identity, Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Violence, Mention of death, Disability, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: We actually made it to the last chapter???? I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did!

Masterlist, Latibule 2.VII

“Are you not going to stop them?” You asked in exasperation at the extremely relaxed Kim Seokjin despite the violence you knew was occurring several floors down, or also known as Yoongi’s torture chamber as per Taehyung.

He was staring down at his phone, lounging on the sofa while browsing through expensive baby clothes you knew your son would just grow out of in a few months.

“Does baby Yoongi like pink? I think he’d look dashing and adorable in this,” he asked nonchalantly as he showed you his phone. Meanwhile, you only gave him a blank look. “Ah. Right. I forgot you’re almost a 100% blind. My bad.”

You groaned at the unmovable man in front of you. As soon as Namjoon declared the two of you married, Yoongi softly asked you to take the baby from Hoseok and before you knew it, he punched the aforementioned man too hard that blood trickled down his busted lips. You knew Hoseok was insane, you just didn’t know he was insane enough to laugh at Yoongi while he was dragged down the basement. Namjoon was sighing as he followed them down, together with Jungkook and Jimin.

On the other hand, Kim Taehyung opted to stay here because he claimed that he would only be bored there. He was just sat there on the sofa, intently watching a documentary on poverty. His gaze never wavered from the face of the journalist. You supposed her voice was strong and her way of telling the story was both compelling and evocative.

“What about you, Taehyung? Shouldn’t you stop them?” you implored as you grasp his surprisingly hard arm.

Taehyung didn’t even tear his eyes off the journalist. He pouted as he shook his head. “No, noona. Sorry. I’m busy watching my future-”

“Future what, Taehyung!?” Seokjin suddenly quipped up, his eyes sending daggers of suspicions at the younger man’s direction.

Taehyung blinked owlishly as he turned to his hyung. “Hmm. I haven’t gotten to the part yet. I just know she’ll be in my future.”

“I cannot emphasize this enough, Taetae. But we absolutely do not need another Yoongi in this family who ran rampant when he lost her-” Seokjin said as he pointed at you.

“Then do we need another Namjoon hyung?” he asked innocently.

“You mean that lunatic who relocated his secretary’s ex-boyfriend to the afterlife and claimed their child as his own? No!”

Taehyung nodded thoughtfully, “What about another you, hyung? You know, someone who sabotaged doctor noona’s transfer to other hospitals but still ended up losing her after being together for several months who also moved her to his house one week in dating and now cannot find her and is desperate enough to-”

“Anyway!” Seokjin cut him off before sighing so deep you thought he lived three lifetimes and was already tired of it. “Don’t worry about Hoseok. That bastard is an idiot, but he is also intelligent as fuck. He will come out of it alive. Yoongi just has to make him bleed.”

“But what if he kills him?”

“Then he doesn’t deserve to be a Bangtan if he can’t come out of that alive.”

“Come on, fucker, also known as Satan’s competitor to the throne, is that all you got?” Hoseok asked amidst the busted lips and beaten and bloodied body of his.

Yoongi was not fairing any better. He was just as bruised as Hoseok but the devil didn’t even care. He was smirking even as he got hit by Hoseok, and even laughing loudly as he hit him back.

“He really is crazy,” Namjoon commented as they watched the two beat each other to death. “No. They are both insane.”

“At this rate, they’re going to end up both dead,” he added when a new batch of blood drops on the floor.

Jungkook watched from where he was standing, his eyes following the pair’s movements. Sure, they were both doing this to inflict pain to each other, yet he noticed something peculiar. All of Yoongi’s attacks was to end Hoseok. On the other hand, that man was attacking to just to inflict pain on him. Interesting.

“Shouldn’t we stop them? They’ve been going at it for a while…” Jimin brought up in concern, biting his lower lip. This was a thing that he always did when he was anxious, a habit he never outgrew.

“I should stop th-” Namjoon was about to step forward when Jungkook spoke.

“Let them, hyung.”

“Jungkook!”

The aforementioned man looked at them with his doe eyes. “What? Hoseok hyung deserves to hit Yoongi hyung just as much as he deserves to hit Hoseok hyung.”

“What the fuck is that logic, Jungkook?!” Jimin asked in exasperation as he turned to the youngest.

“Well, Yoongi killed noona-”

The aforementioned man pushed the bloodied Hoseok down to the ground, their breathings hard as he stared down at the Hoseok. “This was the reason?”

Hoseok spat down the blood to the ground before he wiped the side of his mouth. He was now sneering up at Yoongi. “What else would it be, fucker? You killed the only person I love! You ended her when you knew doing so would end me as well! I thought you were my brother! I treated you like one!”

Yoongi scoffed up, his eyes clenched shut. “You fucking idiot,” he whispered. “She was our sister. Why would I fucking kill her?”

“Stop fucking lying, Yoongi!” he screamed as he stood up, facing the man head on with renewed anger in his eyes. “I saw you that night!”

The thing that was the most peculiar was that despite Hoseok’s blazing anger, Yoongi only now reciprocated it with his cold and calm demeanor. “And what exactly did you see?”

13 years ago

The mansion was in chaos.

Everything was on fire.

The war they waged against Seokjin’s father was not without any casualty. The soldiers took sides; the younger ones sided with the mafia prince, as well as those that wanted a change and those that were fed up with the senseless battles the mafia king was leading them on. On the other hand, the traditional and older mafias that were higher in hierarchy didn’t want the change. Why would they want it when they benefited the most from the current leader?

But they underestimated Kim Seokjin. They underestimated the monster they raised.

And that night, as the mafia prince watched the mansion burned down with a satisfied smile on his face, Hoseok was desperately looking for her. He lost track of her amidst the battle. He knew she could hold her own, having trained alongside the brothers. He didn’t doubt her ability. But damn it, he had a bad feeling about it. And so he braved the fire, he braved the unbearable smoke and went inside the blazing mansion.

He just wished the bad omen he was feeling was nothing.

But alas, it was a wishful thinking. He barged into the main office, desperately calling out her name, just in time to see Yoongi pulled a knife from her shoulder. The squelching sound of blood was sickening, the look on her face as she gasped from the pain was a nightmare. The fire illuminated the scene, and the suffocating smoke was thick, curling through the air, choking every breath with its acrid sting.

“Yoongi hyung?” Hoseok asked with a small voice. What…what happened? Why was Yoongi holding the knife?

Yoongi turned to him slowly, looking like the devil he knew he was, the fire surrounding them made him looked like one. The fire emphasized and illuminated the scar in his eye.

“W-what happened, hyung? Did you hurt her?”

“Hoseok.”

Hoseok turned to her and saw tears slipping down her face. It was the face he loved so much. He loved her so much and now she was dying.

“What did you do?” he asked in disbelief, his feet moving before he could even think of the danger. He was so near her, he could have saved her, but the ceiling gave in.

He would have died had Namjoon decided not to follow him.

He would have followed her had Namjoon not pulled him back just in time.

When he woke up in the hospital, he learned that everyone was safe.

Everyone was okay, except her.

Even the fucker Yoongi who was last seen holding her survived. How could he survive when she didn’t?

There were whispers that she was a spy…but surely, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t kill her over mere whispers, right? They grew up together. There was no way in fucking hell that he killed her over it…right?!

Moreover, there was no way she could betray him. She wouldn’t. Hoseok refused to believe she did.

Because if she could easily betray him, that meant that she never truly loved him. Not like he did.

“You know what I saw.”

“But did you know what you really saw that night, Hobi-ah?”

Jungkook turned to Jimin who was listening just as intently as he was. “What mental gymnastics type of shit is hyung saying?”

He was quiet for a moment, and Jungkook would have believed he wouldn’t answer when he finally did. “In this case, I’d like to believe it’s nothing but the naked truth,” Jimin responded, never taking his eyes off the two men. The way Yoongi pulled back when he heard of Hoseok’s belief was enough to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I saw you. You pulled the knife from her! She bled in front of you. If you didn’t kill her, why then were you the only one that survived when you were with her?!” At that point, Hoseok’s vein was protruding, his words got louder and louder. They never saw him act that way. They never saw him lose control.

They should have known he only let go when it came to her.

Maybe, he should have done this long ago. Maybe then, he wouldn’t house the decade-old hatred he had been feeling in his heart. Maybe then, they could have the brother he used to be.

“So you tried to kill my angel because of that? You tried to kill her. You tried to kill me. And when that wasn’t enough, you stole the life that should have been mine. You stole my son away from me. You did all those things because of that?”

“And those were still not enough to atone for killing her!”

Yoongi sighed and shook his head. He turned around, walking away from Hoseok and to the chair before he slumped down on it in weariness. His white shirt was bloodied, and no way was it salvageable. His dark hair was disheveled, and the eye that did not house the scar was shut close from the swelling. He regarded Hoseok for a moment as though deep in thought.

“I agree. Those aren’t enough. You should have done more,” he conceded as he leaned back on the chair.

“Hyung!” Jimin protested.

“Why? He’s right. All those things won’t be enough. If I really killed noona knowing full well that she was the center of this moron’s world, then what he did to me was simply not enough. Right? Oh wait…” he trailed off before a smirk graced his busted lips. “Except that I didn’t kill her.”

“That’s enough, hyung! I saw what happened,” Namjoon quipped, wanting nothing but for all of this to have the conclusion it deserved. Everything was in chaos, and the Bangtan itself was in the brink of collapse if this would not be fixed.

“You saw me pulled the knife. You’re a fucking attorney, right, Namjoon-ah? Then answer me this. Is what you saw conclusive enough for you to decisively say that I put the knife in her?”

“You fucker. What the fuck are you saying?” Hoseok asked in disbelief.

“I didn’t kill her, Hobi-ah.”

“You did!”

Yoongi laughed. He laughed for such a long time before he stood up and calmly walked to the door. He was so relaxed as though he wasn’t trying to kill Hoseok mere moments ago, or that he just didn’t drop another perspective from what Hoseok religiously believed in for the past 13 years. He was to the door when he stopped laughing.

“You know what, now that I think about it…I’m not entirely even sure she’s fucking dead.”

The elevator dinged, announcing Yoongi’s presence.

You were sick in worry. It had only been more than two hours since he dragged Hoseok down, and you felt every ticking second of it. No one would tell you anything. The two men with you were completely useless and they couldn’t have been more disinterested even if they tried to. The hatred between Yoongi and Hoseok was more than a decade deep. From what you gathered over the years, Hoseok was retaliating over something that Yoongi committed. And now, Yoongi was retaliating for what Hoseok did to them.

It was a never-ending cycle. You just hoped that it wouldn’t end with either of them dying for it to stop.

The elevator door opened. Min Yoongi was staggering as he walked to where she was. He was using the walls for support, his other hand clutching his stomach.

He was drenched in blood, his immaculate face covered with bruises and wounds. He was obviously hurt, and yet, the sight of you trembling with tears in your eyes was what pained him more.

“Why are you crying, my angel?” Yoongi asked in concern as soon as he reached you, his hand cupping your face gently as he looked down at you with worry in his eyes. “What happened, my love?”

You grasped his hands, feeling the cuts scattered on them. “Y-you need treatment. You-you’re hurt-”

Yoongi pulled you softly to his chest, encircling your crying form to him securely. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being alive,” Yoongi whispered. “For giving me a family. For existing the time as me. For…loving someone as twisted as me.”

But most of all, he wanted to thank her for coming back to him.

At that time, Yoongi wanted to believe that he did the right thing. Removing noona from Hoseok’s life was what was necessary back then. It was the right thing.

But was it really?

He took the fall for noona’s absence. His naïve, younger self surmised that it was better to not say anything, that his silence was enough. He thought everything would go away with enough time, that Hoseok would eventually move on. He couldn’t have been more wrong. He suffered the consequences.

And you… yousuffered the consequences, too.

He was foolish to think that his love for noona was something that would dwindle in time. That love such as Hoseok’s, or rather, his obsession, was not heavy enough to do all this. But now that he had you, he knew better.

Yoongi was wrong.

“Eomma?”

The events of the day had surely exhausted the toddler. Despite the chaos and Seokjin’s annoyance when Yoongi pushed him out of the penthouse after he treated him, he slept soundly. Now that he was awake, his curious eyes observed his surrounding, taking in the unfamiliar place in silence.

“Hi, my love,” you greeted him, reaching for him. His smell calmed you. You hadn’t seen him for what felt like forever. You wanted his life to be better, for calm to reign for the rest of his life. And yet, you were back to where you started.

All those bad thoughts vanished when he wrapped his little arms around you. “Eomma!” he squealed excitedly. He was giggling as he hugged you when the bedroom door opened.

Yoongi was freshly showered and sported a black cotton shirt and comfortable pants. His hair was damped. He was a confident person, yet when his son turned to look at him, he seemed to not know what to do.

"Eomma, who?" Your son asked, his little lips pouting as he glanced up at you, wide-eyed and full of curiosity. He looked so much like Yoongi when he was younger—his expression, the innocence in his gaze, even the way he furrowed his brow when he didn’t understand something.

You were quiet for a moment until you extended your hand to Suga. It was all he needed. He reached for your hand and sat beside you in the bed. His pale skin was just like his son’s. He wanted to hug the little boy, but he knew he was nothing but a stranger to him.

“That’s appa,” you answered with a smile. Your son tilted his head to the side, the way he always did when he was thinking hard, his brows knitting together in the sweetest frown. Yoongi’s heart clenched at the sight. His son.

"Yoongi, meet Jiwon," you said gently, your voice barely above a whisper. You said his name with such tenderness, as if bringing him closer to Yoongi with just the sound of it.

“Jiwon,” he muttered, saying his son’s name for the first time. “Min Jiwon.”

The little boy blinked, still not fully understanding the significance of the man beside him. He regarded Yoongi for a long moment, brow furrowing again, but then a soft smile appeared on his face, the kind of smile only a child could give—pure and uncomplicated.

“Owwie?” Your son asked, pointing at the bruise on Yoongi’s face, his voice filled with concern. The small frown still creased his forehead, a mix of innocence and empathy as he tried to make sense of the man’s injury.

Yoongi smiled, holding the small hand that was pointing at his face.

His son.

He was finally holding his son.

“Not anymore, my son.”

“Owkay I kiss to heal!” he declared earnestly, his face brightening with the simplicity of his gesture, his little lips pressing gently against the wound.

Yoongi froze for a moment, his breath catching in his chest. He couldn’t believe it—this tiny child, this little person who had never known him, was offering him a piece of innocence and love that he didn’t deserve. He had always imagined this moment, but he never could have predicted how much it would pierce through him.

Yoongi blinked, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. He smiled, though the emotions swirled inside him, raw and unspoken. "Thank you, my son," he whispered softly, his voice barely above a murmur.

“Thank you, my wife,” Yoongi looked at you with tenderness in his eyes.

You gave him more than he deserved. You gave him a family.

Yoongi’s eyes snapped open.

It was late, much later than Yoongi had realized. The stillness of the night wrapped around him, the only sound being the steady breathing of his family beside him. He could hear the soft inhale and exhale of your chest, and Jiwon’s tiny, rhythmic breaths between you and him in the bed. It was the first night he had spent with his family, the first night he could legally say that his angel was now lawfully his. A feeling of warmth spread through him as he watched you both sleep soundly, Jiwon nestled safely in the crook of his arm.

It should have been peaceful, this night. It should have been perfect.

But Yoongi’s instincts were screaming at him. A sudden prickle of unease skittered down his spine. Something was wrong. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

He smelled danger.

Every muscle in his body tensed. He needed to divert the threat, to keep you both safe, no matter the cost. His training kicked in, adrenaline flooding his veins as he silently slid out of bed. Every movement was practiced, swift, calculated. He stepped lightly on the cold floor, his feet making no sound as he crept toward the door.

He could hear it now—three sets of footsteps. Slow, deliberate. They were methodical, careful, but not quiet enough.

Yoongi’s lips curled into a barely perceptible sneer as he made his way to the door. He slipped out into the hallway, his footsteps just as silent. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. It was no different than the shadows of his past—quiet, lurking, hiding danger.

He knew the layout of this place better than anyone else. He had memorized every corner, every blind spot. Crouching down behind the table in the hallway, his hand grazed the knife he had hidden there, the cold steel meeting his palm like a promise.

They had no idea who they were dealing with.

Yoongi exhaled slowly, his heart pounding but steady. His grip tightened around the knife, eyes trained on the shadows at the far end of the hallway. They were still a few steps away, but he knew time wasn’t on his side.

Three men?

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, mixed with a bitter, cynical edge. Who was this asshole who sent only three men to eliminate him? Seriously? Was that supposed to intimidate him? It almost felt like an insult.

The first man rounded the corner, his shadow barely visible in the dim moonlight streaming through the window. Yoongi’s fingers flexed around the knife’s hilt, his breath steady. The man was just a few feet away, and Yoongi knew he couldn’t hesitate.

With a swift motion, Yoongi darted from his hiding place, slamming the knife into the man’s side before he even had a chance to react. The man crumpled to the floor, gasping as Yoongi pulled the knife free with a quiet flick of his wrist. Blood stained the floor, but Yoongi didn’t even flinch.

One down.

The second man was already drawing his weapon, but Yoongi anticipated his movements, lunging forward with lethal precision, using the table as leverage to knock him off balance. The sound of the man’s body hitting the floor echoed in the silent house, and Yoongi was already on top of him, pressing his knee into the man’s chest and twisting his wrist until the gun slipped from his grasp.

Two down.

The last man was quicker, his eyes darting frantically between Yoongi and his fallen comrades. But he was already too late. Yoongi’s hand reached for the gun in his waistband, bringing it up in a single fluid motion as the man tried to raise his own. Yoongi fired once, twice, the shots ringing out sharply in the quiet night. The man’s body jerked with each bullet, before he collapsed, lifeless.

Three down.

Yoongi stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, his gaze scanning the hallway. It was over. But the danger wasn’t gone—not yet. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then slipped the gun back into his holster. His heart was pounding, but his movements were calm as he wiped the knife clean with a cloth.

Quietly, he fished the phone from his pocket and mindlessly took a picture of the scene and sent it to their group chat, prompting for an emergency meeting at the Bangtan’s headquarters. Next thing he did was dialed for Jimin. He knew what to do.

The first to step through the door was Park Jimin, his presence commanding, his eyes scanning the scene with practiced precision. He barely glanced at the bodies on the floor before his gaze locked onto Yoongi, a silent understanding passing between them. Behind Jimin, the rest of the crew filed in—armed, alert, ready to take action. The air thickened with the weight of their presence. Yoongi knew the drill. The storm was only just beginning.

The troop saluted at him and they were quick to assess the situation, recording and preserving the evidence of the crime. They couldn’t allow this to slide, not when the chief of police, Min Yoongi, had been targeted. The idea of him being a victim? Unthinkable.

Jimin gracefully walked to where he was standing. Yoongi stood apart from the chaos, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around his face like a shield. His anger was palpable—his body rigid, his eyes narrowing as the team moved around him. He was barely holding onto the thin thread of sanity that had kept him grounded. His hands were steady, but his mind was a storm. His family was safe, on their way to the headquarters now with the army of men he trusted, but the unsettling calm in his chest only made his rage more dangerous.

“Reporting this to the police?” Jimin's voice broke through the silence, a smirk tugging at his plump lips as he approached. His footsteps were light, almost graceful, as he surveyed the room, his eyes flicking over the men as they worked. “Bold move, hyung.”

Yoongi scoffed, his gaze flicking to Jimin, but he didn’t move a muscle. His fingers tapped the side of his cigarette, the ember glowing in the dark. The sarcasm in Jimin’s voice didn’t faze him. “I’ve already been beaten up by Hoseok earlier, so I’ll just tell them those three assholes did this to me. Self-defense, you know? Trespassing. I’m sure the story will hold up fine.”

Jimin chuckled, shaking his head, but the amusement in his eyes faded as he studied Yoongi. The older man’s expression was cold, a warning to anyone who dared to underestimate his resolve. The anger simmering beneath the surface was a storm just waiting to break free.

Yoongi’s lips curled into something between a grin and a snarl, his eyes sharp as they narrowed on the scene. He tossed the cigarette aside, grinding it into the floor with his heel, and turned toward Jimin. “You know what’s even better?”

Jimin raised an eyebrow, his expression cautious but curious. “What’s that?”

Yoongi’s voice was low, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Call the reporters. I want this shit to be known throughout the country. Making an unprecedented attack on the chief of the police? And his family? His wife that is blind? And his young son? Guess whose sympathy the public will side?”

Jimin blinked, clearly surprised by the request. But Yoongi’s eyes were steely, full of something dark and dangerous. His gaze flicked to the team, who were still working meticulously in the background.

“They need to know who fucked with the wrong man,” Yoongi continued, his voice a low growl. “And the first person who reacts? The first one who does anything different… will most likely be our fucking enemy.”

Jimin's smirk faltered, replaced by the same steel in his leader’s eyes. He didn’t need to ask who Yoongi was talking about. He understood. It wasn’t just about the attack anymore. It was about sending a message—a statement. Whoever was behind this wasn’t just after the chief of police. They were challenging the entire fucking empire.

Jeon Jungkook was the last to enter the room. He held his hand up, silencing the comment Seokjin was clearly about to make on his pajamas.

“It’s 3 in the morning. Don’t, hyung,” he stated, placing his trusty laptop down on the table.

All of them were gathered there, their faces that of seriousness except for Taehyung who was just playing on his phone as though the situation was not grave enough to merit his attention. But the situation was bigger than they initially thought. Someone was foolish enough to go after one of the leaders of Bangtan. An attack to one was, and should be, considered an attack to all.

This ends now.

All of them was there…well, except for Hoseok who they hadn’t seen since the confrontation. However, to what Namjoon divulged, Hoseok was in his own mansion.

Yoongi sat at the head of the table, the whiskey glass in his hand the only thing that betrayed his seething anger. He didn’t speak, but they all knew that a quiet Yoongi was the most dangerous of them all. The air around him seemed to hum with unspoken rage, his silence more ominous than any outburst.

Jungkook sighed, rubbing his eyes. He’d barely slept, and now this. As if things weren’t already complicated enough. He didn’t have the energy for the usual banter. Seokjin, on the other hand, was pouting dramatically, his voice whining as he complained about how the stress of Bangtan’s messes was taking years off his life.

“JK,” Namjoon called for his attention before smiling at him. “Tell us about what you found.”

He nodded before quickly tapping on his laptop. The hug screen in front of the table reflected his findings. “Among our known enemies, as well as people who have been acting strangely lately, these three are the main suspects. First, the one we blew out the ship last year. Second is the-”

Jungkook nodded and immediately began tapping away on his laptop. The large screen in front of the table illuminated as his findings were projected for everyone to see. His fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard, and soon the list of suspects was clear.

“Among our known enemies, as well as people who’ve been acting strange lately, these three are our main suspects,” Jungkook said, his voice steady despite the overwhelming tension. “First, the one we took down last year—the one we blew out of the water in the shipping deal. Second—”

“It’s the third one,” Taehyung interrupted suddenly, his bored eyes finally lifting from his phone to the screen. His voice was casual, as if he wasn’t dealing with the aftermath of an attack on their own.

“What?” Jimin asked, his eyes narrowed in curiosity. He looked at Taehyung, confused by his nonchalant interruption.

Taehyung rested his chin on his hand, the playful air about him from earlier gone as his expression became serious. “It’s the senator. The aspiring president in the upcoming election.”

There was a brief silence before Jimin spoke up again, his brows furrowing. “The senator?”

Taehyung nodded, his tone unchanged, still calm as ever. “He’s been in our pockets for a long time. We’ve been backing him for years, keeping him in line, helping him with his ambitions. But suddenly, we told him we wouldn’t be supporting his bid for president anymore.”

Jungkook looked up from his laptop, his expression now tense. He knew where this was going.

Taehyung continued, his voice growing colder. “The only dirt he has in his ledger? Us. The Bangtan. If we don’t support him, then we’re supporting the other guy. And that’s the last thing he can afford. Losing our backing would destroy everything he’s been working for.

And they all know what happens if they lose our support.”

“Taehyung-ah, that’s a heavy accusation. Do you have any proof?” Seokjin asked.

He nodded, showing his phone to them wherein it showed how he messaged several people with one sentence.

You messed with the wrong people.

The only one who didn’t answer? The senator.

“And well, my sources tell me he’s on the move right now. The fucker is on his way here. So…should we keep going with this pointless meeting or should we head out for war? Because, you know, this is getting honestly boring.”

Before anyone could respond, a loud explosion rattled the walls of the headquarters. The sound of glasses shattering echoed through the room, sharp and continuous, as the windows cracked under the force. Instantly, all six men were on their feet, instinctively reaching for their weapons and preparing for what was about to come. The tension in the air now felt like static, crackling with violence.

The senator had moved first.

Fucking politics.

Yoongi sneered as they all moved to action. “If you get out of here alive, Namjoon-ah, I’m making you a fucking senator!”

“Hyung!”

Well, they did need a political backing. And who better to do that than Namjoon?

The sound of another explosion came, followed by distant gunfire. The senator’s men were already here. They didn’t have time to waste.

Jimin’s sharp eyes narrowed as he pulled on his jacket, his hands readying his gun. “What a fucking foolish man,” he muttered angrily, his voice low but carrying the weight of experience. The last time a chaos with this magnitude was unleashed was when they overthrew Kim Seokjin’s father.

Jimin was already up, moving fluidly, shooting back with precision. His aim was flawless, every bullet finding its mark. The others moved with the same deadly efficiency, but Yoongi’s mind was already a step ahead. His eyes darted to the monitors, where enemy positions were flashing in real-time. He knew the layout of his headquarters inside and out, but it was clear: the senator had come prepared. This wasn’t just a raid—it was a full-on assault.

The next blast came from the front entrance, a massive explosion that blew the doors off their hinges, sending fragments of concrete and wood scattering across the hallway. The force of it sent Yoongi stumbling back, his ears ringing. He recovered quickly, shaking off the disorientation, and rose to his feet.

“Stay alert! They’ll breach the back soon,” Yoongi ordered, voice cold and commanding. He was already heading toward the armory. This wouldn’t be over quickly.

"Taehyung, take the right flank. Namjoon, the left. Jimin, Seokjin—get to the control room. Jungkook, you’re with me. We take the front. Clear?"

"Clear," Taehyung responded, his voice low and focused as he sprinted toward the hallway.

Jimin didn’t need to be told twice—he was already moving. The rest of Bangtan didn’t hesitate either. They were soldiers in their own right, and they knew what was at stake.

Gunfire erupted in the hallway as the attackers advanced. Bullets ricocheted off the walls, but Yoongi was already moving with ruthless precision, his weapon blazing. He took out two men in quick succession, his face impassive as he executed the moves he had perfected over the years. Jungkook was at his side, equally efficient, his gunshots timed perfectly with Yoongi’s.

The sound of the explosions and gunfire seemed to blur together, the chaos intensifying as more men poured into the building. Bangtan’s headquarters had become a battlefield.

Yoongi’s eyes scanned the area, taking note of the positions of his enemies. Every move was calculated. He ducked behind cover, reloading his gun, then came up again, firing without hesitation. The senator’s men were aggressive, but they were no match for Bangtan’s precision and training.

In the distance, the unmistakable sound of a helicopter's rotors beating against the air told Yoongi that their enemies weren’t just coming on foot. The senator had everything planned. It was a full-scale operation.

"Hyung!" Jungkook’s voice cut through the noise, and Yoongi's gaze snapped to him. The younger man was taking down enemy after enemy with ruthless precision, but his face was set in a grim expression, his tone heavy with urgency. "You have to take noona and Jiwon away from this! We’re being surrounded! Backup is a good ten minutes away. You have to keep your family safe!"

Yoongi’s throat tightened at the mention of you and Jiwon. The very thought of you being anywhere near this madness made the blood in his veins run cold.

His eyes flicked to the doorway where you and his son were hidden, safe for the moment, but Yoongi knew that wasn’t enough. He could feel the pressure mounting, the walls of the building seeming to close in with every passing second. The helicopter overhead was a clear indication that the senator wasn’t messing around. This was orchestrated. This was personal.

“We’ll survive. Noona needs you more than us,” Jungkook repeated, his voice a low growl as he fired off a few more rounds, taking out two more of the senator’s men who were sneaking up behind Yoongi.

He hesitated only for a moment, before his jaw set in grim determination. His eyes darted toward the hallway where he had last seen you and Jiwon, the precious little family he thought he could protect.

“Go. Take care of yourself, hyung,” Jungkook said before dashing off into the fray, moving with the precision of a seasoned soldier, disappearing into the shadows as he fought off another wave of enemies.

Yoongi didn’t wait. He moved quickly, every muscle in his body tense as he pushed his way through the chaos, his gun at the ready. As he passed the hallway leading to the room where you and Jiwon were, he felt his chest tighten with a sense of urgency. He couldn’t afford to hesitate.

"Stay low. Stay quiet. Don't make a sound," Yoongi ordered as he approached you, his voice calm but sharp, like steel wrapped in velvet. His gaze was burning, determined. He could feel the weight of his promise to protect you.

He found you in the small, dark room where you were trying to comfort Jiwon, who was clutching a stuffed bear to his chest, eyes wide in confusion. You looked up, your face pale, but there was a quiet strength in your expression. You already knew. You could feel it, too.

Yoongi moved to you quickly, kneeling in front of you. He cupped your face gently, brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek, and locked eyes with you.

“We’re leaving now,” he said softly but firmly. “Stay close. Don’t look back.”

You nodded, your grip tightening around Jiwon. There was no question in your eyes. The world outside was in chaos, but you trusted Yoongi, and that was all that mattered right now.

With one last glance at his son, Yoongi turned and led you down the hallway, his mind racing. He wasn’t just fighting to protect you—he was fighting to keep his family whole. And no one—no one—was going to take that from him.

The getaway car was so nearby. He moved his family as quickly as he could, but with you being almost full blind made it difficult. As they rounded the corner, a sharp noise shattered the air. Yoongi’s heart lurched as three masked figures emerged from the shadows, blocking their path. Their weapons gleamed ominously in the dim light. Yoongi’s blood ran cold, but his movements were swift—he spun, instinctively pushing you and Jiwon behind him, using his body as a shield.

Before he could even point the gun at them, three successive shots pierced through their head and their bodies fell down with a thud, revealing Hoseok.

Hoseok lowered his gun, his expression unreadable, his stance calm yet deadly. The hallway, once filled with the sounds of chaos, was eerily silent now, save for the heavy breaths from Yoongi and the distant crackle of the fighting outside.

Yoongi blinked, the shock of the sudden shift in the situation still gripping him. Hoseok? He had barely registered his presence, too focused on the danger ahead.

“What? Are you not going to hurry?” Hoseok’s voice was light, almost amused, but his eyes were hard. There was no room for hesitation, no room for weakness. He was the last person to show any sign of mercy, but right now, there was a flash of something in his gaze that told Yoongi everything—Hoseok had no intention of letting anything happen to his family.

Yoongi didn’t waste time on words. His instincts took over. With a sharp nod, he motioned for you and Jiwon to move faster.

Once Yoongi had secured his family in the car, he took a moment, standing still in the chaos that surrounded them. Without a word, he stepped closer, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing away the tears that had fallen. His gaze was soft but filled with a sorrow that hurt more than anything. And then, as though time itself had stopped, Yoongi leaned down and kissed you deeply.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It wasn’t just a goodbye. It was everything he couldn’t say, everything he couldn’t protect you from. It was the way his lips moved against yours—slow, desperate, full of meaning. It was a kiss that burned with the intensity of his love and his fear. He kissed you as if he were memorizing every sensation—the way you fit against him, the way your breath mingled with his, the way your heart raced in sync with his own. This moment, this fragile piece of time, was all they had.

You clung to him, your sobs breaking through as you gripped his hands with a desperation that mirrored his own. “Come back to me, okay? Come back to us,” you cried, voice trembling, raw with fear and love.

Yoongi’s chest tightened. He smiled, but it was the kind of smile that felt like it could tear him apart. Instead of answering you, he whispered those three words that had always meant everything between you two, but in this moment, they felt like a promise, a plea, and a goodbye all at once.

“I love you.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before he pulled back, his eyes never leaving yours. But there was no more time. He stepped back, heart breaking with every second that ticked by. His gaze flickered to Jiwon, and without hesitation, he reached for his son. Pulling the boy into his arms, Yoongi hugged him tight, pressing his forehead against his son’s.

“Be safe, Jiwon,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

Then, with one last lingering look at you, he straightened up, his face hardening into a mask of resolve. There would be no time for hesitation. He turned and walked away, each step more purposeful than the last. He knew what he had to do. But with every step, the ache in his chest only grew.

Hoseok looked at Yoongi who was marching to him instead of inside the car. “What the fuck? We have no time. You have to leave–”

Yoongi threw him the keys. “You take them to safety. You get them out of here. You get them to safety, no matter what happens. You take care of them, Hoseok. Don’t let anything happen to them.”

“H-hyung,” Hoseok muttered in confusion.

“You’re the better driver between the two of us. Keep them safe, Hoseok. Keep them safe, and I’ll take you to noona myself.”

Yoongi had five minutes.

Five minutes until backup arrived, and he had to make every second count. His heart pounded in his chest as he rushed back to the scene, every step calculated, every movement with purpose. His family was safe—for now. You and Jiwon were miles away from the chaos, out of harm’s way, but Yoongi knew this fight wasn’t over. Not until every last enemy was on the ground.

He weaved through the wreckage, his men fighting tooth and nail. The sounds of gunfire, shouts, and explosions filled the air, but Yoongi moved like a shadow—silent, swift, and relentless. The tide of battle had already begun to turn. His team, the Bangtan, were forces to be reckoned with. Their enemies were dropping like flies, overwhelmed by the sheer precision and ruthlessness of the Bangtan army. They’d been underestimated, and Yoongi intended to make sure they’d never make that mistake again.

There was no hesitation now. Victory was within their grasp. Yoongi could feel it, in his bones, in the tension of every muscle, in the pulse of adrenaline thrumming through his veins. He was going to win this. He would make sure of it.

But just as Yoongi allowed himself to believe victory was imminent, it came—the sharp, searing pain of a bullet tearing through his shoulder. His body jolted, the force of the impact sending him crashing to the ground.

The battle was still raging, but it was quieter now. The enemies’ numbers were dwindling. Yoongi knew they were on the verge of ending this. He had to keep fighting.

Meanwhile, miles away, a car sped down the road, the tires screeching as it rapidly approached the getaway car. It was coming for you. Hoseok’s eyes narrowed as he watched the car in the rearview mirror, knowing that the danger wasn’t over yet.

In a split-second decision, Hoseok swerved the car, taking a sharp turn that threw everyone inside off balance. The vehicle came directly into the path of the oncoming car, his body bracing for the impact. His mind moved faster than his body, and in that moment, he knew what he had to do—he had to take the hit. His team, your family—they were more important than him.

The crash was deafening. Glass shattered, metal crumpled, and Hoseok’s body jerked violently from the force of the impact. But he didn’t care. All that mattered was that you were safe.

As the world around him fell into chaos, Yoongi’s world came to a halt. His pulse raced, but his vision began to darken. He had to finish this, he told himself. He had to finish it for you, for Jiwon, for his family, and for the legacy of the Bangtan.

But in that split second, everything stopped. The roar of battle, the screeching tires, the pounding in his ears—everything faded into the background.

Epilogue