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stylesispunk · 21 hours ago

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"The days of you and I" | part 3

Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

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Summary: The passing of time leads you to remember how things used to be between you and Joel. Joel starts healing while you start losing yourself.

w.c: 10.1 k

warnings: angst, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of blood, suicidal thoughts, mentions of panic attacks. No proofreading. English is not my first language.

A/N: Hello. If you had felt like I've been lost for the last few days. You're right. I hope you like this chapter; it made me cry a bit as well. Happy reading, please share your thoughts with me.

AO3 account

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Jackson. One week before the attack.

Winter had dug its claws in early this year. The snow felt heavy almost every day of the week, the flakes clinging to the branches and over the ground. The cold was difficult, sharp, clinging into your bones even breathing stung on your chest.

Joel wasn’t very fond of this time of the year. Not for the snow or the cold that made his joints ache a little bit more nowadays, but because coffee became a scarce.

And you were aware of it.

So, when a passing trade group from the south came by, you’d given up half or your belongings and winter preserves for a single bag of those beans. Even the trader had looked at you as if you were mad. Perhaps you were a bit stupid for doing this, but everything would be worth it for the look on Joel’s face when he gets to try a cup of coffee.

You didn’t know at what stage of your pregnancy you were right now, but you knew that things were more emotional for you, and you would do everything to get to see Joel smiling at the little things.

You found thermos inside the cabinets at home, you cleaned it a bit and filled it with the dark brew liquid. The scent made your mouth water, but you were aware you couldn’t drink coffee now. Then, you tugged your coat tighter around you as you crossed through Jackson, boots crunching in the snow. The wind bit at your cheeks, turning them pink, but with your fingers wrapped around the thermos, warmth spread through your veins.

You found Joel at the house he’d been working on, hammering at a frame with the help of Tommy, a few others scattered around the site. The place was barely a house yet, wood stacked and windows not even set, but Joel was there, sleeves rolled up over his flannel.

You lingered for a second, just taking a look of him. Focusing on the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the little grunt he made when something didn’t line up right. You were so in love with him it made your chest hurt sometimes.

He was too focused he didn’t even notice you right away. Not until you called out.

“Hey, Miller.”

He looked up at the sound, and his face softened the moment he saw you. That small, personal smile he got just for you.

“What are you doing out here, sweetheart? You’ll freeze your ass off.”

You held up the thermos with a grin, “Oh, I just brought you a little gift for you.”

Joel’s brow arched in amusement as he set the hammer down and walked over to you. You uncapped the lid, letting the steam curl up between you, and his eyes went wide when the scent hit him.

“Did you bring me—"

“Real coffee, yes.” You replied, not getting a chance to hide a grin. “I traded something for it this morning. I know how much you missed a good cup of coffee.”

For a second, he stood there without saying anything. Just stared at you like he still couldn’t believe you were his girl. The woman he had devoted his life to for the last years.

Without a warning, his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss that tasted like snow, cold and the taste of coffee because when he pulled away, his forehead rested on your neck, planting a kiss over your it.

“You’re a miracle.”

You laughed softly. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. This shit’s expensive.”

He chuckled, taking a sip from the thermos, groaning in pleasure like it was the first good thing he’d tasted in his life.

“Goddamn it.”

You smiled, watching him like it was the only thing keeping your body warm.

“I thought you need it. Winter is only getting worse and colder.”

His eyes softened, a thumb brushing over your cold cheek. “As long as I got you, baby, I can get through any winter.”

You leaned on his palm, kissing the back of his hand, sealing a promise you both had made to each other.

I’m always going to be there,

I’m always going to have your back,

until the day death tears us apart.

Jackson, present day

You barely remembered the walk home. Your legs had stumbled more than three times and your tears didn’t stop falling.

The cold bit at your skin, the world blurring past you like it wasn’t really there. The ache in your chest wasn’t sadness settled there anymore but rage. A vicious, clawing thing that crawled up your throat and made your hands shake as you slammed the door behind you.

You made it to the bedroom before it burst out of you.

A lamp went first, shattering against the floor with a satisfying crack just as the sound of your heart. Then the chair by the window, the one Joel used to sit in when he couldn’t sleep. You grabbed the small wooden carving Joel had been working on the week before the attack, and it hit the wall so hard the pieces splintered across the floor like scattered bones.

Your hand bled where a sharp edge caught your palm, but you didn’t feel it.

You reached for the framed picture by the bed, the one taken in Jackson months ago. You standing beside him, his arm around your waist, both of you caught in a rare, unguarded moment of laughter.

The glass shattered beneath your grip. The frame clattered to the floor.

For a second, just a second, your hand hovered, and something in your chest begged you to stop.

But it was drowned out by the storm roaring in your blood.

And when it was done, when there was nothing left to throw or break, you slid down against the wall, knees pulled to your chest, hands trembling.

The pain on your chest increased with each breath. It felt like a bruising mark had settled there in the middle of your sternum, it even felt like some pair of hands tightening around your heart until every fiber of it was hurting your body, taking your life out, your breath and you will of living.

Some pairs of hands you never thought they would even hurt you.

Joel’s hands, Joel’s words, Joel’s second chance of living.

Everything you had done. Everything you had lost…Grieving the death of somebody who wasn’t dead. Someone who was alive but felt like breathing reeking air.

You could come to touch him but not to caress him anymore?

How big was the damage you had done to him to make him hate you this much to push you away as if your closeness had burnt his skin, his broken bones.

The tears couldn’t stop falling. You stood up, walking towards the closet where you kept the test and onesie hidden beneath your clothes.

You had never wanted to become a mother. In fact, you had never thought about it. This world was too cruel to bring little babies to it. To have their innocence stolen or tainted by creeps committing horrors.

Joel had also gotten older. Being a father again at his age wasn’t part of his plans and you knew it, but nature didn’t stop because the world has it. But for him, being a father again wouldn’t be a source of happiness when the girl he had taken as a daughter and committed more than thousand of mistakes to keep her alive, didn’t want to be close to him.

That had scared you that much you couldn’t utter the truth for weeks.

But the moment you had found the truth, the idea of holding a baby, your own baby, started to consume your thoughts. You had started dreaming of it, of the life growing inside you. About how that baby would look like.

And that was the exact moment you had become a mother. ´

You could remember one day patrolling with Joel, and as usual, he didn’t allow you to be paired with another person who wasn’t him. Not that you complained. In the way, the both of you found a store you decided to scavenged, expecting to find something that would serve to community.

Joel was busy roaming some old stuff that would help him to fix something at home, while your gaze had lingered over a little onesie hidden under some worn out papers.

The same one you were holding now, yellow with a duck in the middle of it.

You had become a mother and you hadn’t had the chance to taste it and you couldn’t help but ask yourself a constant why.

Why you?

Why him?

Why the baby?

What have you done to lose them both?

You came back to the room but it felt too quiet now, too strange. It was too cold for you now. You sat on the ground by the bed and you started crying, but not the silent one. The kind of crying that came with tears no one couldn’t hide.

It was a sob that tore out of you in ragged, broken sobs, your chest heaving like it was being split open.

The tears weren’t just for Joel but for everything you had gain and lost in a flicker of time. For what you’d lost. For what you still had. And for the awful truth that loving Joel Miller would never be easy.

The last remnants of twilight slipped through the window, broken glass catching the last of the light like dying stars.

Perhaps they weren’t the only losing the spark.

After going to hell and clawing your way back. After sleepless nights at his side, after forcing breath inside his book, with blood-stained hands. After watching him fight for every inch of life he didn’t want, while you begged the universe not to take him from you.

And in the middle of all that, you lost that tiny baby.

A tiny life that you hadn’t even let yourself imagine until it was gone. And no one knew. No one but Tommy and Maria. And you’d buried it so deep, let the grief fester beneath your skin, because there was no room for grief when Joel was dying.

But now, sitting there on the floor of your now ruined bedroom, surrounded by the wreckage of the quiet life you had built with him, the weight of it hit you like heavy force.

There was gnawing fear that maybe Joel Miller wasn’t coming back.

At least, not to you.

The house was dark, save for the weak, flickering light glowing from the window.

Ellie hesitated at the front door, her stomach twisting in that way it did when something wasn’t right. She wasn’t even sure what had brought her here, maybe the quiet stillness, maybe the aching pull in her gut that told her to check. She hadn’t been here much since she moved into the garage behind. Since everything had changed.

The door creaked open under her hand.

“Hello?” she called out your name, softly, but no one answered.

The stairs groaned beneath her weight as she climbed, the flicker of light guiding her like a warning. And then she reached the bedroom.

Glass crunched under her boots. The room was wrecked, drawers pulled out, shattered picture frames. And in the middle of it all, you sat on the floor, your back against the bed, face buried in your hands, shoulders trembling with the kind of grief Ellie hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Shit,” Ellie whispered, rushing forward and dropping to her knees beside you.

“Hey—hey, it’s me,” she said, voice rough as she reached for your wrists, trying to pry your hands away so she could see your face. “Talk to me. Please. Hey, please.”

But you just shook your head, a sob left your throat, while tears streaked your cheeks.

“I can’t…” you choked out.

And for the first time since she had met you, Ellie felt something crack open in her chest. She’d spent all these weeks worrying about Joel, she hadn’t seen how bad it had gotten for you too. How lost you seemed, how your eyes were nothing but a reflection of sadness.

Without another word, Ellie pulled you into her arms, holding you like Joel used to hold her when the world outside was throwing pebbles at her.

“I got you,” she whispered against your hair as if her words could soothe you into a lullaby, in a way a daughter must console her mother the first time you saw her breaking in front of you the realization that her isn’t an indestructible hero.

You didn’t even hear or flinch when Tommy and Maria came inside the room. You didn’t say a word when they gently coaxed you to your feet. Ellie stood back by the door, arms crossed tight around herself, her face pale as she took in the mess you had made.

And you, there with your hands bloodied, a yellow onesie crumpled in your fist like a scrap of hope you didn’t know you were still holding onto.

Maria stood beside you, her face etched with concern, one hand reaching for your wrist. She sucked in a breath.

“You cut yourself pretty bad,” she murmured, brushing gently at the drying blood.

You just looked past her, no crying, no speaking. There was something eerie about it, about the dead quiet in your expression. Like the light behind your eyes had gone out, and no one knew how to bring it back.

Tommy exchanged a look with Maria, something heavy without words between them. Ellie saw it, felt it settle in the pit of her stomach like a stone.

“You’re coming home with us,” Tommy said softly, like he was telling a wounded animal it was okay to come out of hiding. “We’ll clean up the-”

“The mess I made,” you finished, voice flat, detached, and it made Ellie’s stomach twist.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but her eyes fell to the scrap of fabric clenched in your hand. The tiny onesie. It was old, worn soft from time, a faded duck stitched onto the chest.

Ellie’s throat tightened. She hadn’t known, but now she understood.

She stepped closer; her voice quiet, thick. “Hey… can I… can I hold that for you?”

But you didn’t even look at her. Just kept staring out the window as if something far beyond it was pulling you away.

Tommy gently pried the fabric from your fingers, and Ellie took it, holding it to her chest like it was the most fragile thing in the world. She felt her own eyes sting.

Maria helped you to your feet, one arm around your shoulders. “We’ll get you cleaned up,” she murmured.

And as they led you out of the ruined room, downstairs to the kitchen. Ellie stayed behind a moment longer, holding the onesie tight in her hands, the weight of what you’d lost settling over her like a second skin.

The warm sting of water hit your hands as Maria guided them under the tap. The blood had dried, leaving dark stains in the creases of your skin, around your fingernails. You didn’t flinch when the water touched the cuts.

You said nothing. Just stared at the wall behind her like it held some answer you couldn’t quite see.

Maria’s hands were soft, careful as she dabbed at the cut with a clean cloth.

“You should let me stich this one,” she murmured, like speaking any louder might shatter what little you had left.

Out in the hallway, Ellie stood with Tommy, the dim light from the kitchen bleeding across the floor between them. She clutched the tiny onesie in both hands, her fingers fisting in the soft fabric.

“Is she…?” Ellie’s voice cracked, and she didn’t finish the question.

Tommy let out a long, tired breath, leaning one shoulder against the wall. He scrubbed a hand down his face before shaking his head, his voice low and rough.

“She lost it that night.”

Ellie’s stomach twisted. “What night?”

Ellie’s throat closed up, her chest aching sharp and tight. “And nobody told me?”

Tommy’s eyes flickered toward the bathroom where Maria worked in silence. He swallowed hard.

“The night we brought Joel back. Yes, she was pregnant. None of us knew. She lost the baby when she got here.”

Tommy looked at her then, his gaze softening. “It wasn’t about you, kid. It was hers to carry.”

Ellie looked down at the onesie in her hands, stained by the blood of your hands, her eyes stinging at the thought of the storm you’d been drowning in. The hollow in your chest. The way you hadn’t been able to let Joel go, because you’d already lost too much.

That maybe the blood in it was the closest thing you have had to caress the baby that should be wearing that in a few more months.

Her thumb ran over the soft, faded stitching of the onesie clutched in her hands. She could still hear the distant sound of water, the quiet murmur of Maria’s voice, trying to coax you back from wherever you’d gone.

She swallowed hard. “Does Joel know?”

Tommy’s jaw worked, his eyes dark and lined with exhaustion. He shook his head, a weight behind the gesture. “No,” he said quietly. “And he won’t. Not yet.”

Ellie’s throat tightened. “But he should—”

“I said no.” Tommy’s voice was firmer now, though it wasn’t mad. He was just tired. “He is not in any place to carry that. Not with the way things are between then, and not while he’s looking for reasons to push her away.”

Ellie bit her lip, blinking fast. “Maybe this it’s the reason he shouldn’t.”

Tommy’s gaze softened a little. “Maybe. But people like us… sometimes we don’t get to heal things in the right order.”

Ellie glanced down at the onesie again, her grip tightening. The house felt too still, too quiet, a space heavy with things unsaid.

Boston QZ. 6 years ago

The apartment was too quiet when Joel got back. The thrum of soldiers passing by, talking’s, FEDRA looming over, it was all swallowed up by a stillness that made his skin crawl.

Tess was sitting by the door, with her arms crossed tight over her chest, and there was something in her eyes that snapped every nerve in Joel’s body to attention.

“Where is she?” he asked, already moving past her before the words even left his mouth.

Tess caught his arm. “I gave her something to sleep,” she said carefully, her voice softer than he was used to hearing it. “You don’t want to-”

But he was already inside the bedroom. And there you were, curled under blanket on that old bed, a faint swell of bruises marking your cheek, your lip split. The dim light made your face look paler than it should’ve been, but you were breathing. You were here, that was the most important thing for him.

Joel’s knees hit the floor by your side. He reached out with calloused fingers, brushing your hair back from your face, his touch so gentle it barely stirred the strands.

“Jesus, baby…” he rasped, swallowing hard. “Who did this to you?”

Your eyelids fluttered open at his voice, hazy and slow from whatever Tess had slipped you. And when your gaze found him, even though the busted lip, you smiled, faintly.

“Joel,” you whispered.

“Hi, baby.” He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m here. I got you.”

And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the filth outside these walls, not the people who’d done this to you, not the bloody trail Joel would leave in his wake come morning. Only this. Only you.

“The thing went wrong” you murmured, emphasizing the “thing.” When it came to you, he was always protective. He didn’t like you were doing his business by yourself, not because he didn’t trust you or thought you weren’t good by yourself, but because he couldn’t prevent.

“I can see.” he told you, brushing your cheek with his fingertips. “Rest, baby. I got you.” He kept caressing the skin there until your eyes closed again.

“I’m always going to be next to you, baby.”

Jackson, hospital, present time.

The transition between winter and spring was going slow, the grey of the days bleed through the blinds in thin, reluctant slants. Joel woke up to the sharp, familiar ache on his chest, the one that made his breath difficult to leave his lungs. His heart felt heavy.

His hand instinctively moved to his side, expecting the familiar warmth, the weight of your head resting there the way it had every morning since he came back from the death.

But there was nothing but just the cold stretch of empty mattress, and the quiet silence of your absence.

For the first time, you weren’t there.

His throat tightened as his gaze flicked to the chair beside the bed. The blanket you always used was draped neatly over the back of it. No cup of cold herbal tea on the nightstand, no faint scent of your shampoo clinging to the air. The room felt wrong without you in int. Heavy in a way he hadn’t noticed until it was stripped of him.

Joel rubbed a hand over his face, the weight in his chest something different now. Something he couldn’t blame on busted ribs or torn muscles.

He told himself it was what he wanted, what you needed. But the hollow in the room, in him, said otherwise.

The door creaked open and Mara stepped inside with her usual clipboard and soft expression. But the moment she saw the look on his face, her steps slowed.

“She’s not coming today,” she said quietly, as if testing the weight of the words before speaking to them.

Joel’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Mara crossed to the other side of the room, busying herself with the medication tray, giving him the space to be what he was. But Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He sat there in the quiet, and for the first time in weeks, the nightmare that haunted him wasn’t some bloodied memories, that fist beaten his face, or the disappointment on Ellie’s eyes.

It was your face, your tears falling down your cheeks.

It was the fear of you leaving him forever.

Mara lifted her gaze, looking at Joel’s brown eyes and there was hurt written all over them. “I haven’t seen her, but if she isn’t here must be because she doesn’t want to.”

Joel’s voice was rough, catching on the words before he could fully get them out.

“Is she… is she okay?”

Joel’s gaze broke, but he tried hard to hide the pain.

“I’m coming back later to do the exercises, okay?” Mara said, changing the subject.

“Okay.”

Mara lingered a moment longer than she should’ve, her lips pressed into a tight line, as though she wanted to take the words back, but she didn’t. She just gave a small nod, then turned and left, the soft click of the door closing behind her sounding louder than it should have in the quiet room.

Joel let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his hand coming up to rub his face, the coarse scrape of his beard rough against his palm. The ache in his chest wasn’t from his injuries, it was deeper, old and new grief twisting together.

He looked over to the empty chair by the bed again.

You weren’t there and his stomach turned, the air too heavy in his lungs.

Some minutes had passed, heavily quiet, that thick, oppressive quiet that Joel had come to dread in the last few weeks. He sat in that bed, staring out the window as the light bled from the sky, the colors outside turning from grey to light blue in mere second. Every now and then, his fingers twitched, aching to hold something, to fix something. But there was nothing left in the room except the steady silence torturing him.

When the door creaked open again, Joel’s heart stuttered.

Tommy stepped inside, his posture tense, the lines of exhaustion deeper on his face. He looked like a man who was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Joel knew he was responsible for most of it.

Joel cleared his throat. “How is she?” It came out rougher than he meant, but the need in it was sharp.

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He just crossed the room, setting down a bundle of clean clothes on the dresser before finally turning to face Joel.

His silence stretched, thick and weighted.

Joel’s stomach twisted. “Tommy,” he rasped. “Just— tell me.”

Tommy let out a breath, running a hand over his face.

“Well, she’s finally sleeping,” he said quietly. “First time since…you know.”

Joel closed his eyes, the ache in his chest like a fist tightening around his ribs. “Is she… eating? Is she talking?”

Another hesitation.

“She’s quiet,” Tommy admitted. “She didn’t react very well to whatever thing you told her.”

Joel swallowed hard, his eyes burning. “Did she… ask about me?”

Tommy hesitated, and that alone was answer enough. “You don’t get to do that, brother.”

Joel’s throat worked around a knot of grief. “I deserve that,” he muttered.

Tommy didn’t argue. He just stepped closer, his voice lowering.

“Listen… whatever happened between you two, whatever you think you were doing by pushing her away…you’re killing her, Joel. How could you do that to her after she…?”

Joel’s gaze stayed on the floor; his jaw clenched tight.

“I didn’t want to hurt her,” Joel whispered. “I was trying to…” He trailed off, not even sure what excuse he was reaching for anymore.

“You wanted her to stop loving you,” Tommy finished for him, bitterness in his tone. “But it doesn’t work like that. You don’t get to decide when someone gives up on you.”

Joel flinched, the words cutting deep because he knew they were true.

Tommy stared at him for a long moment, then finally spoke, softer this time. “She already lost—” He stopped himself before he could spill your truth.

“What?” Joel pressed. But he was met by Tommy’s silence

“What did she lose?” Joel pressed further.

“You should rest, brother. Because one way or another you’re going to have to face her soon.” He said, changing the subject. As much as Tommy loved his brother, he also loved what you were, to him, to this community, to his family and he owned your loyalty and secrecy.

“I’ll come back later, okay?” He said before leaving Joel alone with his guilt and the quiet.

You woke to a dull, deep ache in your muscles, your head pounding like you’d been dragged through hell and back, and maybe you had. The dim light in the room felt too sharp against your eyes, and a low groan escaped your throat as you shifted, your body stiff and sore like you’d been fighting ghosts in your sleep.

It took a second before you realized you weren’t in your bedroom and another before you noticed the figure sitting quietly beside the bed.

Ellie was there.

She was perched on the edge of a worn armchair, legs pulled up to her chest, eyes shadowed but sharp as they fixed on you. There was a guarded kind of worry in her face, the kind she usually tried to bury under jokes and sarcasm.

You blinked at her, throat dry, words slow to form.

“Ellie,” you rasped.

You tried to sit up, but a fresh bolt of pain shot through your whole body and your hand, you winced, hissing out a curse.

Ellie let out a breath you hadn’t noticed she’d been holding, her shoulders sagging a little.

“You scared me last night,” she muttered, but there was no bite in it, just something soft, frayed at the edges.

Ellie moved fast, steadying you with gentle hands on your shoulders.

“Easy, easy. You’re got your hand pretty banged up,” she said quietly.

Your gaze drifted around the room, not yours, you realized now. Tommy and Maria’s guest room. A glass of water on the nightstand. A blanket draped across your legs you didn’t remember pulling up.

And then you noticed the little bundle in Ellie’s lap. The onesie.

Your breath caught. Ellie followed your gaze and swallowed hard.

“I, uh… I thought you might… I didn’t want to leave it there,” she said, voice small.

Your chest twisted, a sharp, awful thing. The grief pressed so tight against your ribs you felt like you might break open again.

“I’m sorry,” Ellie blurted, her words rushing out now. “I… I didn’t know. I— when I saw you like that, I thought… fuck, I don’t know what I thought. But I should’ve been there. Before. I should’ve noticed.”

You closed your eyes, a tear slipping free despite yourself.

“It’s not your fault, Ellie,” you murmured hoarsely.

“It’s not yours either,” Ellie shot back, voice firm, a little desperate.

A long, thick silence settled between you, broken only by the sound of the clock ticking somewhere in the room.

Finally, Ellie spoke again, quieter now. “Tommy told me not to tell Joel.”

You opened your eyes, looking at her. “Why?”

She shrugged, a bitter edge to her voice.

“Because you don’t need to see him right now. Not like this. Not when you’re barely holding it together.” She hesitated.

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest.

Ellie let out a sigh, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on between you two,” she said. “But whatever it is… it’s eating you alive.”

“He told me to leave and that he wasn’t sure if he even loved me.” You replied.

Ellie’s head snapped up at that, like you’d struck her with a thunder.

For a second, she just stared at you, her expression caught somewhere between shock and fury.

“He what?” she spat, her voice sharp.

Your throat tightened again, fresh tears burning at the edges of your vision, but you forced yourself to swallow them down. You were so tired of crying.

You let out a humorless, broken little laugh, wiping at your face with trembling fingers.

“Yeah,” you rasped. “He said he wouldn’t have done for me what I did for him, what he did for you in Salt Lake. Told me to go. Like I was a burden to him.”

Ellie was silent for a long, thick moment, her jaw clenched so tight you could see it ticking.

“That’s bullshit,” she finally ground out, voice low and shaking with anger. “That’s not true. I don’t care what the hell came out of his mouth — it’s not true.”

You didn’t answer. Because maybe part of you knew that. Knew Joel Miller didn’t have it in him to stop loving you, not after everything. But pain makes people cruel. And grief? It turns them into something else.

“He’s scared,” Ellie said, like she was trying to convince herself as much as you. “He’s scared and stupid and he’s pushing you away because he doesn’t know how to deal with any of this shit.” She gestured toward the onesie still clutched tight in her lap.

You closed your eyes, breathing through the ache.

“It doesn’t matter,” you whispered.

Ellie’s face crumpled, her eyes stinging. Ellie’s throat worked as she swallowed hard, her voice rough when she finally spoke.

“How… how far were you?” she asked, so quietly it was almost a breath.

You opened your eyes but didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. The ceiling above you blurred, swimming in a fresh sheen of unshed tears.

Your voice cracked when you answered. “Six weeks.”

Just two words, but they felt like a scream.

Ellie let out a shaky breath, her hand tightening around the fabric of the onesie in her lap.

“Jesus…” Ellie murmured, like the air had been punched from her lungs. She didn’t know what to say. What the hell could she say?

You gave a dry, humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“It wasn’t planned. Wasn’t… anything. I didn’t even tell him.”

That made Ellie flinch. She wiped at her face, trying to keep herself steady for you, but her eyes were glassy.

“I wish you’d told me,” she said softly.

“I couldn’t,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to make it feel real.”

And for a while, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the clock on the wall ticking too loud in the quiet.

“I pictured her,” you cut the silence, voice raw, like it hurt to drag the words out. “I pictured her as baby girl, how she would look like, with dark hair, brown eyes just like Joel’s. Maybe his crooked smile. I used to—” your breath hitched, but you pushed on, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, “I used to imagine him holding her in the mornings, making him coffee while she slept on his chest.”

Ellie swallowed thickly, blinking fast as her heart splintered.

“I’d think about how he’d grumble about diapers at his age, or how he’d fall asleep on the couch with her on his chest.”

You let out a shaky breath, a ghost of a laugh, so heartbreakingly sad it barely sounded human.

“And now I keep wondering if it would’ve hurt less if I’d never let myself imagine any of it.” You sobbed, “If I wouldn’t have gone there I would have her growing inside me, but I would have lost Joel.”

“And now anything of that matters because he doesn’t even love me.” Ellie was crying now, though she tried like hell to pretend she wasn’t. She reached out, hesitating, then carefully slid her hand over yours.

It was cold. Your skin rough and cut, but she didn’t let go.

“You’re not alone, you know,” Ellie whispered. “Even if he’s too fucking broken to remember how to hold you right now. You’ve still got us.”

Your jaw trembled; your free hand still clutched tight around that onesie.

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“I know.” Ellie’s voice cracked. “But I’m not going anywhere from you.”

You stared at her for a moment before hearing the steps outside the bedroom, Tommy stepped inside, worry evident on his eyes.

Worried about you, about Joel.

He was the perfect image of a helplessness man watching two people he loved tearing themselves apart.

“Hey,” he greeted softly.

You didn’t answer right away. Ellie’s hand still gripped yours, her thumb brushing against your skin in small, grounding circles.

“How’re you feeling?” Tommy asked, voice rough.

You shrugged; the onesie still balled up in your fist. “I’ve been better.”

A sad huff of air left Tommy’s chest, and he rubbed a hand down his face before sitting on the edge of the bed. “Of course, you have.” Then, he cleared his throat “I… uh, I told Joel you weren’t feeling really well. That you were resting.”

Your stomach twisted at his name. “And him?” you asked, your voice barely there.

Tommy hesitated, then finally spoke.

“He asked about you. First thing when I saw him.” He glanced at you; his gaze gentle but heavy. “He didn’t say much. He just asked if you were okay.”

Your throat tightened.

“Is he mad?”

Tommy shook his head. “No. Not mad. He is scared and lost as hell without you, if you ask me. I know that face of him. I know him” He let out a breath, leaning forward on his knees. “I think he doesn’t know how to deal with all of this.”

A sharp ache flared in your chest. The silence stretched, thick with everything no one could fix.

“I don’t know if it matters anymore,” you whispered, voice catching.

“It does,” Tommy said firmly. “You matter to him. He is broken to say it right now. And I know it don’t make up for what you’ve been through. But you aren’t alone, alright? Me, Maria, Ellie, we all got you.”

Ellie squeezed your hand, her eyes shimmering again but her jaw set.

And though it didn’t fix the hollow in your chest, for a moment the thought of having a family warmed your heart.

The room went quiet again.

“I’ll check on him later,” Tommy said, rising to his feet. “You just rest, okay?”

You nodded, your grip loosening around the onesie at last.

As he stood up, you could hear his thoughts roaming inside his head, “I think you should keep seeing Gail.”

You let out a tired, humorless breath through your nose. “I don’t need a shrink, Tommy.”

Your voice wasn’t sharp, it was flat, worn down like something eroded by the tide over too long a time.

Tommy hesitated by the doorway, one hand on the frame. “Just keep talking to her.”

You looked away, your eyes tracing the ceiling. Ellie still held your hand like she was afraid to let go.

“I’m not good at talking about that.”

“No one is,” Tommy murmured. “That’s why it eats people up when they don’t.”

The quiet stretched again, thick with everything you didn’t have the strength to argue.

Finally, Tommy gave a small, weary nod. “Sleep more, you need it.”

“Okay, at the count of three?”

“Okay.”

Joel held Mara’s hand tightly. His breath coming ragged, muscles in his arms trembling as he forced himself upright.

Mara stood beside him, steadying his elbow with one hand, the other curling tight around his rough, calloused palm.

“Come on, Joel” she teased gently. “You’re not dying on my watch.”

Joel huffed out a dry, breathless laugh as he finally managed to stand, his weight swaying just a little before he found his balance.

“Fuck” he rasped, “I didn’t think I’d miss feeling my own legs.”

They both laughed then, the kind of laugh born from something new blossoming.

Mara smiled up at him, her hand still around his. For a second, it felt like the heaviness that clung to his chest loosened, just a fraction. Like maybe, in this one brief moment, he wasn’t carrying quite so much grief inside his heart.

He laughed so much he didn’t even notice Ellie standing on the door, watching all this interaction happening with her hand on the frame, watching them.

The way Mara’s head tipped back when she laughed. The way Joel smiled, really smiled, for the first time in what felt like weeks. And something sharp twisted in Ellie’s gut.

I felt almost like a betrayal because while you lay at home, alone in a bed, clutching that onesie to your chest, Joel was here with someone else. Smiling as if he hadn’t broken the love of his life heart.

Like he could learn how to laugh without you by his side.

“Am I interrupting?”

Joel’s head snapped up, that smile on his face faltering from his face as he saw her standing in the doorway. Mara’s hand dropped from his arm, her expression shuttering into something serious.

“Hey kid.” Joel rasped, like he hadn’t expected to see her there at all.

“I came here to check on you.” Ellie said, her tone carefully neutral but her eyes didn’t hide the bitterness. She flicked a glance at Mara, then back to Joel. “Didn’t realize you were getting so close with your doctor.”

Joel opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, to stop her maybe, but the look Ellie gave him made him hesitate.

Mara took a careful step back, brushing her hands together as though dusting them off.

“I was just helping him with his exercises,” she said quickly, trying to defuse whatever tension was thickening the air. “I will go.”

Mara gave a brief nod to them both and slipped out, the door clicking softly behind her.

The room felt heavier after she left.

Joel let out a slow breath, sitting back against the bed with a wince. “What’re you really here for, kid?” he asked quietly.

Joel’s gaze dropped to his hands, the scars those palms emotionally held, the way they trembled just a little.

Ellie’s arms crossed tightly over her chest, laughing bitterly at the tone on his voice.

“I told you I came to check on you” she muttered. “Perhaps, you could ask about her, you know?”

“I asked Tommy.” It sounded weak, even to him.

Ellie wanted to shout angrily at him, to tell him the truth you hide beneath your heart but even in her anger she understood better, she was aware it wasn’t her place to tell the truth.

“Yeah? Well, maybe you should’ve asked her, Joel,” Ellie shot back, voice breaking.

“Before you lost your fucking chance.”

“Did you really stop loving her?”

Joel’s gaze met Ellie’s, his eyes teary, shaking his head. His voice came out ragged, raw.

“No.” A beat. His voice cracked. “God, no.”

Ellie’s throat tightened, the ache in her chest spreading throughout her body. She looked away, trying to steady her breathing, to hold back the sting in her eyes.

“Then why did you say it?” she whispered.

Joel scrubbed a trembling hand over his face, like he could wipe away the memory of those words. Of the way your face had crumbled. “Because it hurts not being the man she needs now, I didn’t know what to do but push her away. I thought that if I was cruel enough, she’d stop loving me too.”

Ellie let out a shaky breath, her stomach twisting. “You’re so fucking selfish, Joel. You broke her.”

Joel’s face crumpled as the tears finally spilled, his head bowing under the weight of it.

“I’ve always admired the type of love the both of you share. How you’d always been there, are there for each other. How well she knew you were in danger that day that she dragged me with her in middle of a fucking snowstorm just to save you…”

Joel’s chest heaved, his shoulders shaking with the force of the guilt he could barely contain. The image of you that day, blood on your hands, refusing to let him die, it gutted him. It had changed him as a person.

Ellie’s voice cracked, the memory of that day hitting harder than she expected. She swallowed hard, fighting the lump in her throat. “I’ve never seen anyone love someone like that, Joel.”

Her hands balled into fists trying to contain the anger she felt. “And you…you threw it away because you were too fucking scared to hurt.”

“Ellie…” he whispered, voice breaking.

“She held your hand the whole time. She didn’t sleep for weeks, sitting at your side, praying to God or whatever was out there for you to wake up. And when you started coming back, even just a little, she smiled again because the world made sense to her again.” Ellie’s throat wobbled a sob. “And then you broke her.”

Joel looked away, not being strong enough to face Ellie.

She took a step closer, her voice softer now. “She was waiting for you.”

Jackson, the day of the attack, dawn.

The snow had stop falling by the time you arrive to Jackson. Dawn was breaking into the horizon, and your body felt like it had been dragged back and fort through war. Your entire body hurt, your heart was breaking at the sight of Joel on that stretcher, as Jesse and some others were helping him.

You saw Tommy first and run, holding onto him, your hold body shaking now that the adrenaline had begun to fade. You could finally breath for a second, you had made it back to Jackson.

But then Tommy pulled back, looking at you, at his brother, and his brow furrowed as he looked down.

There was blood on your thighs, dark, smearing on the fabric of your jeans.

The air left his lungs in shock.

“Hey, what—?” Tommy started; his voice soft, terrified to ask what he already suspected.

But you shook your head, eyes lost beneath tears, throat too tight to utter words.

“It’s fine. It’s—” you croaked, your voice breaking as your arms clutched around yourself.

“We need to get you inside,” Tommy said, waving over Maria, his hand on your arm. “Come on—"

“No. Him first,” you rasped, pointing at Joel, who was unconscious now, as they began to wheel him toward the hospital “He is first priority.”

Tommy’s throat worked as he nodded, but he didn’t miss the way you swayed on your feet, or the blood trailing down your legs.

He caught you on time when your knees buckled, holding you up as you clung to him like you might disappear if you let go.

“We’ll take care of both of you, alright?” Tommy promised, his heart breaking as he realized what it meant.

+++++++

You stood beside Joel’s bed. The room was too quiet you could hear the thoughts running around your head. Tormenting you, torturing you. How much you had done to have Joel laying on this bed with a tiny chance of surviving. His face was barely recognizable beneath all the swelling and bruises, blood still crusted along the edges of his hairline, lips split. The sedatives had him still, too still.

your hand wrapped around his, though you weren’t sure if you were holding him or holding onto yourself. The tears wouldn’t stop. They ran hot down your frozen cheeks, leaving tracks that burned.

Tommy stood in the doorway, watching you with a knot in his throat. He’d never seen you like this, so small, so crumpled. He had always known the strong version of you but amidst the storm this is what you were now.

“Hey,” Tommy murmured, approaching slowly, crouching beside you. “You should rest, you both need—”

“The baby is gone.” You spoke, your voice was barely a whisper, cracked and raw.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Your gaze stayed fixed on Joel’s face, your thumb brushing along his knuckles, as if trying to memorize every ridge of bone and scar before it was ripped out of you too.

Jackson, present day

“How do you feel?”

You let a chuckle, as if that question was a joke. But Gail’s eyes kept looking at you with stern on her gaze, perhaps there was a bit

“I feel I lost the baby because I murdered those guys” you confessed, “And I thought it wouldn’t hurt because Joel was going to survive, which he did but you now see how it turned out.” You paused for a moment, gathering your thoughts. “And I don’t know if he despises me for bringing him to life or for what I did.”

You lifted your gaze to meet Gail’s.

“The day he finds out about the baby, I don’t know what is going to happen to me.”

“Do you feel betrayed by him?” she asked, trying to make you talk, to ease the pain. The truth was that Gail wasn’t very fond of you due to your relationship with Joel but she felt pain when looking at you now.

After all she knew you were a woman in love who would have burnt the whole world to bring to save Joel.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I do.” Your voice cracked at the truth, but you force yourself to keep going “I feel like I died out there, too. That day, I saved a man that is not Joel anymore. Not the man I—" You stopped yourself, but it was already out there between you.

Gail’s gaze softened. She wasn’t good at this, at being soft by someone else, but what she saw in front of her was just another woman bleed in a different way.

Both of you had lost the love of your lives in different ways.

“I know you love him,” Gail said quietly. “I never doubted that.”

You met her eyes again, not making the effort to mask the ache that had settled in your bones “I love him so much it scared me. you admitted, voice trembling. “And I still do. Even if he can’t look at me. Even if he resents me. I’d still do the same thing over and over again.”

A long silence stretched between you. Gail took a breath. “You didn’t lose the baby because of what you did.” She said it firm, leaving no room for doubt.

But you didn’t believe it. Not fully. Not yet.

“When he finds out,” you whispered, the dread sinking, “I don’t know if it’ll break him or if he’ll break me.”

“He has no right to ask anything from you right now.” She said, trying to make you understand.

“What do I do now?” you asked, changing the topic, “What do I do with all the love I was holding for that baby?”

Gail was left speechless. Ever since she met you, she had known the strong force of a woman you were, but what she got in front of her now, was a glimpse of her.

You were losing the spark, your willing to live and she didn’t know how to help you.

You wiped your tears, streaming down your face, feeling the exhaustion of the past weeks taking a tool on you, pression down on your heart with a force. Heavy. “And I don’t know how to live in a world where he hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Gail said quietly. “He hates himself. That’s a different kind of grief.”

Jackson, two week later

Joel had lost the count of how much time he had spent inside the four walls of this room at the hospital. Every time he opened his eyes it was the same view, blue walls, white covers, a small window, an empty chair where the only person he wanted truly see was you.

Joel was struggling more than anyone wanted to admit. His body was healing slowly, but his mind wasn’t at all and that was a different story.

Mara was trying so hard to get him through his physical therapy, guiding him through some stretch and light exercises to help him to recover the strength he had lost. His face pinched tight in pain and frustration.

Ellie was looking at him, sitting in the corner of the room, with arms crossed, jaw tight, with worry and simmering resentment she hadn’t managed to let go of yet.

Because she was glad, he had made it. She was glad they would have time to fix their bond, but she still couldn’t stop looking at him as the man who had stole her choice from him.

Tommy was also there, standing by the doorway, he felt helpless watching his brother falling apart. How easy it was for him to walk to steps and then not being able to truly improve anymore.

It felt like time stopped. Joel’s breath hitched; his hands started trembling violently as Mara tried to coax him through a simple movement. His chest heaved, eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. The walls closed in on him all at once, the smell he was sick of, the blinding light from the window, the ache in his bones, the emptiness inside his chest.

His voice cracked, “I—I can’t—I… I need her. Where is she?”

Mara heart went heavy, she tried to calm him, assuring she was here by placing a hand on his shoulder, but he recoiled like the touch burned.

“Not you, my girl. I need her.”he choked out, panic lacing his voice, his breathing ragged and uneven. “Nothing works without her. I can’t—I can’t fucking breathe without her.”

Ellie’s stomach twisted. She stood abruptly, “I’ll get her.”

But until what point this was fair to you?

“Please, Ellie,” Joel rasped, eyes glossy with tears, “tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I… tell her I didn’t stop loving her. I don’t know how to do this without her.”

Ellie found you by the stables, hands buried in the hay, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. She called your name four times until you finally looked up, there was so much exhaustion in your face it made her chest ache the same way it ached for Joel.

“Joel is asking for you”she said, voice hoarse by looking for you everywhere.

You didn’t answer. Not at first. The weight of it sat between you both like something heavy and jagged. Finally, you shook your head, eyes stinging.

“No.”you whispered.

“What do you mean no?”

“I can’t face him.”

Ellie’s jaw clenched, the sharp burn of frustration rising in her throat. It wasn’t anger, but she was really grieving the love you and Joel share. She didn’t know how to carry the pain you both have.

“He had a panic attack today. He couldn’t breathe. He only asked for you.” She said, stepping closer.

You closed your eyes, a tremor running through you. Her words dug into your chest.

“I can’t face him, Ellie.” Your voice cracked. “I can’t see him and not tell him. Not tell him what I lost. I don’t know if I can carry it in front of him because he will resent me even more.”

Ellie swallowed hard, her hands trembling at her sides. She wanted to grab you, to shake you, to hold you, she didn’t know what, “Then tell him. Or don’t. But he’s drowning without you, and you are too.”

You didn’t answer. The only sound was the quiet shuffle of the horses behind you, the sun faintly making the pain on your face glow.

Ellie’s voice softened. “I don’t want to lose you both, please.

Jackson Hospital, at night.

The hospital was silent at night, the kind of silence that felt almost sacred in the dead hours while everyone slept. Most of people in Jackson was asleep, including the nurses in the front room, curled in their chairs, a single lamp flickering.

You moved slowly through the hallways, the ache in your chest making every step feel more difficult than the last. It had been two weeks since the last time you had seen Joel and your heart somehow knew you were about to see his face again.

And when you reached his room, you lingered at the door.

Joel lay there, still, chest softly rising. His face had recovered color. It wasn’t pale and bruised. Now it was almost the same man you had loved for so long.

You stepped inside the room without doubt and sat down beside him, at the edge of the bed. For a long moment, you just watched him. You draw traces of his face inside your mind. Then, your hand reached for his, trembling a bit as you took it into both of yours. His skin felt you achingly familiar still it made your heart burst. You brought his knuckles to your lips and kissed them, the salt of your own tears catching in the corner of your mouth.

“Please, don’t hate me” you whispered against his skin. “I can’t live with that.”

Your voice cracked, the words breaking free from the cage you got them under. I don’t know how to live in a world without you in it, Joel.” You squeezed his hand tighter. Your forehead dropped to the back of his hand, your tears hot against his skin.

And you felt the faintest, instinctive squeeze of his fingers around yours.

A soft shuffle at the door made you lift your head, eyes blurry with tears as you blinked toward the sound.

Mara stood there with her arms crossed, the faintest edge of tension in her jaw. Her hair was loose, eyes tired, expression unreadable.

“You can’t stay here,” she said quietly, stepping inside the room.

You stared at her, your hand still cradling Joel’s as if letting go might broke you.

“But he asked for me,” you whispered, voice rough.

Mara sighed, a flash of something like sympathy darting across her face before it hardened again.

“I know. But you’ll confuse him,” she said, softer this time, glancing toward the still form of Joel in the bed. “He doesn’t know what’s real right now, what day itis, where he is. You being here…”she hesitated, “I just… it isn’t good for his recovery.”

You felt like your heart was unraveling thread by thread. “You think I’m hurting him.” you said quietly, a bitter ache rising in your throat.

“I think you’re both hurting each other,” Mara admitted, not unkindly. “And I think right now, what he needs is stability. Familiar routine. No surprises.”

She approached, kneeling slightly so you were level. “I’m just staying tonight.”

You looked at Joel again, at his face again.

“No.” she said, this time sternly.

Your body ran cold, but you nodded, brushing Joel’s knuckles with your lips one last time before slowly setting his hand back down.

“If he asks for me again…” you started.

“He won’t” she said, looking at you as if you were poising threatening to hurt Joel.

Outside Jackson, the next day.

Spring was making it presence noticeable. Landscapes were greener and flowers were blossoming everywhere on the route. You and Nick were riding in silence, the breeze caressing your skin with a delicate ease.Nick gave you a wary glance as he rode his horse beside you. He was younger that you, a few years maybe, with a heart too big for this world. You’d always appreciated that about him. Sometimes he felt like the little brother you never had.

“Are you sure you are okay about this?” he asked, frowning.

You forced a tight smile. “Yeah. Better than sitting around.”

He didn’t press it, just gave a short nod, and the two of you keep riding in silence, looking around your surroundings.

The route was quiet for a while, too quiet. You barely spoke, and when you did, it was small things. Nick trying to make you laugh, you giving him some fake smiles.

You should’ve known it wouldn’t last. You should have known it wouldn't last. Three clicks came quickly, emerging from behind a fallen tree just as you turned onto a trail. Nick yelled, grabbing his rifle. You dismounted, but something inside you, you didn't move the way it should. You didn't reach for your weapon. You just stood there.

You could hear them, the horrible, wet smacking, their bodies jerking with hunger. And a sick, empty part of you felt calm for the first time in weeks.

You could let them take you.

You barely registered Nick's voice, distant and panicked.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” he screamed, shooting one clean in the head as it lunged.

The others came closer, too close to you and you still didn’t move. Still mounted on your horse watching as them came to take you.

Nick fired again, blood spraying the ground, then stabbed another with his knife as it crashed against him. The last one came for you and you didn’t even flinch.

Nick got it first, turning to face you with fury on his face.

“What the fuck was that?! Are you out of your fucking mind?

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

And then you felt dizzy, the world lurched, wobbled, before slipping beneath you. You fell off your horse, hitting your head on the ground. A sharp pain, and then nothing but darkness.

The last thing you heard was Nick’s voice breaking, desperate.

“Follow me, it’s clear,” Joel murmured, pulling you through a gap in the fence.

The both of you had ended up in the middle of the woods, laying in the grass staring up at a sky you rarely got to stop to see.

Joel stood up, disappearing into the brush for a moment. When he came back, he was holding a little white wildflower and he knelt beside you, grinning at you.

“I can’t get you a diamond, darling, but I can make you this.”

You laughed, sitting up to look up at him better, “Joel, what are you doing?”

“Marrying you,” he said like it was the most obvious act.

Your breath caught when he looped the flower turning into a ring, a small, crooked one, from the flower’s stem, around your ring finger. His hand lingered in yours, warm.

“There,” he murmured, a bit shy now.

I’m always going to be there, I’m always going to have your back,

Where you go, I go, always.

until the day death tears us apart.

tags 💌: If you want to be removed or you're not interested in the story anymore, please tell me so I can remove you. :)

@heartpatch @jasminedragoon @picketniffler @grayandthyme @ccmoonshine

@theoraekenslover @stcrrjoon @stupidthoughtsinwriting @officialjellydoughnut @dshc99 @eleganthottubfun @mystickittytaco @fvispunk @daydreamzsworld @comicccc

@nosebeers @whirlwindrider29 @person-005 @bunnyofribbon

@ainhoetaaa @missladym1981 @keileighr @callofdiva @pinkcabinet

@tomie-it-girl @shadowpheonix @unknownomgg @22thumbs

@vanishintoyoubby @magss-07 @insertclevernamehereplease

#fic: the days of you and I #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal character fanfiction #joel miller angst #pedro pascal #tlou spoilers

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ladykailitha · 1 day ago

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Spellbound Part 14

Here we are at the last chapter. I am so sad to see it end that I have decided I'm doing a sequel. I have three stories nearing the end and as soon as the second one is complete (whatever order that is in) I will start writing it.

It will be split into four parts. The town, Chrissy and Robin, Jonathan and Argyle, and Eddie and Steve.

In this we wrap up everything we didn't get to in the last chapter and Steve gets his well earned rest.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

The next time Steve awoke, the house felt bigger somehow. He was lying in a bed in a bedroom that didn’t look like his own.

The colors were more muted for a start. It didn’t have the vibrant greens and yellows he was known for. It wasn’t the blacks, greys, and reds of Eddie’s style either, so he wasn’t sure what part of the house he actually was in.

He struggled to sit up and really look at the room. It felt like the front room with the wide open windows and the smell of flowers coming through them. The sunlight warmed his spot on the bed and he felt nothing but comfort.

Just then the door opened to see Eddie walking in with Morgana on his arm and Gawain around shoulders.

“Nice to see you awake again, sleepyhead,” Eddie teased. “Morgana told me you were awake, so I thought I’d bring her in to see you. She’s been very concerned.”

Steve held out his hand and she flew right to him.

He stroked her breast and she rubbed her beak on his cheek. “I’m sorry I worried you. But I used up more power in a day then I have used my whole life time. My body is still adjusting to the new power levels.”

She rubbed his cheek again and Steve let out a gasp.

“Oh!” he muttered. “I had forgotten that familiars help regulate power levels. I guess I got so used to Circe doing it for me all the time.”

Morgana croaked and Steve laughed. “I’m sure you’ll remind me of all sorts of things I’ve forgotten. You really are beautiful.”

She croaked again and nipped at his hair.

He grinned at her. “No, I mean it. You have such beautiful coloring.”

“Sorry to interrupt the love fest,” Eddie said with a grin, “but we should see if you well enough to go out into the front room.”

Steve threw off the blankets and moved to stand. And immediately he sat back down. “Oops.”

Eddie walked over to the bed and held out his hands. Morgana took flight and flew out the open door. Steve, now unburdened by the one pound bird could reach out for Eddie’s hands to stand on his feet.

Eddie stepped back and Steve stepped with him, soon they were at the door. Eddie turned around and slipped his arm around Steve’s waist and led him into the front room where it seemed a class of some sort was going on.

Robin, Max, and Chrissy sat around Jonathan and Argyle as the two men taught them about being a witch.

Jonathan spotted him first. “Ah ha! The hero awakens.”

They all turned to where Steve and Eddie were standing by the door and suddenly Steve was being hugged by all the girls.

“I’m glad you’re safe, dummy,” Robin murmured affectionately.

Steve was led over to a new big fluffy armchair that Bav had absolutely just created for him. “Please tell me that I wasn’t out for another week, I think I’d cry.”

Jonathan laughed. “That would be hilarious, but no. It’s only the evening of the day you woke up for the time.”

Steve let out a relieved sigh. “Oh thank god! I still feel like I’ve been punched in the chest over and over again.”

“The unfortunate side effect of losing your familiar, I’m afraid, my good sir!” Argyle explained. “Having the little lady nearby will help regain your balance, but it will be some time before you feel yourself again.”

“Speaking of familiars,” Steve asked, “how have they all been getting along?”

Robin snorted. “Merlin thought Jadis was a chew toy until she tapped his nose. But other than that, things have been fine. Bav is three times her normal size to accommodate everyone and is looking forward to things going back to something more like normal once you’re on your feet again.”

Steve rubbed his eyebrow. “Who’s all been staying here while I was out?”

Eddie started ticking them off on his fingers. “You’ve got your two apprentices, Max and Robin, me and Wayne, of course. Argyle and Jonathan, because Joyce is mad at Jonathan for not coming to get Will and taking him to his place. And Chrissy!”

Steve blinked at him for a moment trying to take in all the information. “First Jonathan, do I have to talk to your mom about a town wide fucking spell that clouded her mind, not yours?”

Jonathan burst out laughing. “Please do! She doesn’t seem to believe me even though she witnessed the destruction of the demon and its spell.”

“I’ll put it on my list of things to do,” Steve said sagely. “Next question, Chrissy, Robin’s true love, aside, what are you doing in my house?”

Chrissy winced.

“I told you he’d have a problem with it,” Max snarked. “She could have stayed with any number of the other houses in her acquaintance, just not this one.”

“But Eddie and Wayne is staying here!” Robin protested. “Why can Chrissy?”

Eddie pinched his nose and instantly Steve understood that this argument had been going on all week.

“Because, Robin...” Eddie said for what must have been the millionth time that week, “as centennial sorcerers, it’s literally painful to be apart now that we’ve touched. You know that isn’t the case with you and Chrissy.”

“Plus,” Argyle said with a grimace. “Bav hasn’t forgiven her yet and keeps moving stuff around on her.”

Robin flushed a dark red. She knew she was being ridiculous, but this was her true love...

Steve realized something and then looked around the room, hurriedly. “Hey, Bav, where did you put my clothes from the day of the battle?”

Eddie frowned. “What do you need, love?”

A little end table appeared at Steve’s elbow with the clothes. He went searching through it and pulled out the little amulet he found.

“Found it!” he called. “Chrissy, catch!” He tossed the amulet at her and she caught it deftly.

She opened her hands in confusion, then her face cleared. “Oh! You found it! I thought I had lost it forever.”

Robin peered over her shoulder. In Chrissy’s hand was an amulet very similar to the one Argyle had made for her.

“An amulet?” she asked looking up at Steve. “Where did you find that?”

“After the battle with Jason, I found it on the ground,” he said licking his lips. “Circe told me it was hers. This is what must have been protecting her from the controlling spell the Carvers put her under.”

Chrissy’s head shot up. “Oh! I thought it was just a locket my mother gave me before she passed away. I didn’t realize it was an amulet.”

“Why don’t tell us your story and see if we can’t get everything sorted out?” Steve urged her gently.

“I never knew my father and my mother sold crystals on the side of the road to help keep a roof over our head and food in our bellies,” she began.

“Her mother was a witch too?” Max huffed. “Is everyone a witch in this town?”

Eddie huffed out a laugh. “No, just descendants of them. I got looking into the nasty stuff the Carvers were up to and they picked Hawkins especially for its strong supernatural connection. If they could control Hawkins, the rest of the country would be easy by comparison.”

Steve pinched his nose. “I should have guessed. I think that’s why my mother sent me here to set up shop. For the same reason. Which ever side controlled Hawkins would control the country.”

“The townsfolk are calling for you to be mayor,” Wayne said, coming in from the back garden. “Pardon me for eavesdropping, but I thought it was relevant.”

Steve snorted. “I’m not going to be mayor thank you. I have enough trouble as it is without add a whole town’s worth of it.”

Argyle nodded sagely. “It should be someone who is both on the side of the ordinary and the supernatural. That way he or she would be fair.”

Everyone in the room turned to Wayne.

He blinked at them for a moment. “Why is everyone looking at me?”

They continued to stare.

“Oh no,” he muttered, waving his hands. “That would be a bad idea. I would make a mess of things.”

Robin half shrugged. “Can’t be any worse than a demon carrying immortal with designs on world domination.”

“Well,” he said with a huff of laughter, “I can’t argue with that. I’ll put my hat in the ring then.”

Steve smiled at him. “You’ll do a good job.” Then he turned to Chrissy. “Sorry about that, please go ahead and finish your story.”

“When I was about fifteen,” Chrissy said with a faint blush on her cheeks, “she got really sick and completely wasted away. She couldn’t eve keep food down toward the end. She wasn’t even cold in the ground when the Carvers arrived at the cottage with a writ saying that my father had turned over parental rights of me to them and that I would be their ward. I was told to call the Mayor Father.”

“I doubt that very much,” Steve murmured. “That your father handed over your rights to them, I mean. They probably didn’t even bother looking for him and just made up some random story to get what they wanted. Which unfortunately was you pregnant by Jason, then the mayor would assume Jason’s form and once a son was born, you’d be done away with.”

“Well,” Robin said wide-eyed. “That’s more frightening than I thought his plan would have been. Disgusting.”

“It really is vile,” Chrissy confirmed. “But since my birth my mother insisted I wear this amulet.” She held up the necklace Steve had returned to her. “Said it would protect me all my days.”

Steve nodded. “That’s why you were constantly able to slip their leash. The arrival at my cottage. The befriending Eddie. The ability to question them at all. And it was because of that amulet.”

The walls of the cottage turned a dark grey. Steve nodded.

“It’s still no excuse for how rude she was when she requested the love charm,” he said, glaring at her.

Chrissy ducked her head. “You’re right. I was rude and dismissive. I’m sorry. And while Robin lives here, it’s not her house. It’s yours. The only person who has the right to let me stay here is you.”

The walls lightened to a dove grey.

Steve snickered. “It appears Bav agrees. It will be a long time before I could trust you. I understand you were under the influence of a spell. But that spell merely kept you docile, your attitude was your own.” He turned to Morgana. “Hello, dearest. Would you be so kind as to send a message to Nona for me? Ask her if the Hendersons would be willing to house Chrissy until the dust settles?”

Morgana cawed, puffing out her chest proudly, before flying off.

“Max,” Steve asked. “Please would you ask Zoomer if Joyce would come here so that I can properly chastise her for blaming Jonathan about the redcap.”

Max grinned. “It would be our honor.”

Jonathan’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thanks, Steve. I really appreciate you mediating this for me. I know you just woke up.”

Steve nodded. He turned to Robin who looked properly ashamed.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” she muttered. “I should have talked to someone else about having Chrissy house with them until we get her living sorted.”

“Actually,” Wayne said with a small smile. “I think I might have the obvious solution to that.”

Everyone turned to Wayne.

“If I’m to be mayor,” he said with a half shrug, “I’ll be living in that big house, and with Eddie living here, our cottage would be empty.”

Eddie blinked for a moment. “Oh! That would be perfect. With Robin about to pass her exam, she’s going to need a place of her own, but something nearby so Max can still be taught reading and writing. Her and Chrissy can have it.”

“Oh!” Chrissy said, wide-eyed. “That would be perfect! I wouldn’t change a thing! I love the little Gothic feel it has!”

The tension in Eddie’s spine loosened at that. “Yes, thank you!”

Steve frowned and started counting off on his fingers. “Okay, so we’ve Chrissy and Robin sorted. The thing with Joyce and Jonathan to be sorted soon. Wayne as mayor. Eddie living here with me and Max. Is there anything left to sort out?”

Everyone looked around at each other.

“Billy is on the mend,” Max said with a grin. “And a master carpenter reached out to train him enough to past the master’s test so he can keep the shop.”

“That’s good to hear,” Steve said sadly. It was hard that Billy had to kill Tommy, but he was glad that the boy would be just fine. “Anything else?”

Eddie smiled down at his love. “No, sweetheart, that’s about it.”

“Yep,” Wayne said with a smile. “With the townsfolk regaining their memories about the supernatural, the good goolies and beasties are making a comeback. There is color in the town now. I’d say you deserve the rest.”

Steve looked around at his found family and smiled. Yeah, he had a lot to be grateful for.

Eddie slipped into the chair and it lengthened into a love seat, so they could cuddle.

He smiled up at his house and sighed. “Thanks, Bav.”

Tag List: COMPLETED

1- @niniel-karenine @watermelonmite @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 @cryptid-system @kultiras @kimsnooks @maya-custodios-dionach

3- @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @bookbinderbitch

4- @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006 @yikes-a-bee

5- @awkwardgravity1 @oopsallgender @fearieshadow @stedestielfrattficlover @dragonmama76

6- @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman @counting-dollars-counting-stars

7- @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gutterflower77 @just-a-tiny-void

8- @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss @wheneverfeasible @micheledawn1975 @gloomysoup

9- @dotdot-wierdlife @tartarusknight @ollyxar @yesdangerpls @two-vampires-kissing

10- @themoonagainstmers @estrellami-1 @steddieislife

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailitha writes #witch au #witch steve harrington

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uconndallas · 2 days ago

Text

Name: Whiteout

A/N: I’m not even gonna pretend to be chill. AZZI’S. PHONE. CASE. says “Paige Bueckers’ girlfriend.” i am actually unwell over this. Anyways here is chapter three of whiteout! <3

Summary: Paige and Azzi have been roommates all their college years teammates on the court but worlds apart off it. When a surprise snowstorm traps them together on campus overnight, old tensions boil up, and buried feelings start to surface. As the campus shuts down and the night stretches on, the walls between them begin to crumble. But can they face what’s really been hiding beneath the surface before the morning comes?

Chapter Three: Fracture Lines

The storm had settled into its rhythm. A constant hush punctuated by gusts that rattled the windows just enough to remind them they were still in it. Still stuck, together, in this room that had been a home, a battlefield, and now—something between the two.

Azzi still hadn’t moved from Paige’s bed.

Her shoulder was warm where it pressed against Paige’s, the blanket slung over both their legs now like a quiet agreement. Paige’s heart thudded at the closeness, but she didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. She’d been craving this nearness for too long to let it go now that it was here.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Their breathing synced like clock hands resetting.

Paige was the first to break it. “Why now?”

Azzi looked up. Her expression was soft but guarded, like someone peering through frosted glass. “Why what?”

“Why come over. Why… sit here.” Paige hesitated. “Why not keep pretending?”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, curls brushing her cheek. “Because I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Paige searched her face. “Do what?”

Azzi’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Lie to myself. Lie to you.”

The room felt smaller. Closer. Paige swallowed the sudden knot in her throat. “What were you lying about?”

Azzi looked down at their hands—still close, not quite touching now, but close enough that all it would take was the smallest shift.

“That I didn’t still love you.”

The words landed like snowfall—silent, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Paige exhaled sharply. “Azzi…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t know how to. She had waited so long to hear those words, she hadn’t prepared for how much they would hurt. Not in a bad way. But in the way only the truth can—honest and cutting and overdue.

“I thought you hated me,” she said instead. “After everything.”

Azzi shook her head. “Never. I was angry. Hurt. Confused. But never that.”

There was a pause.

“I saw your name on my phone every day,” Azzi said. “In texts we didn’t send. In songs we used to share. In old photos that kept showing up in my memories like some kind of sick joke.”

Paige’s heart thudded. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

Azzi’s voice cracked. “Because I was scared you’d moved on. That you didn’t want this anymore.”

Paige looked at her. Really looked. “Azzi, I never moved on. I didn’t know how.”

Azzi smiled, but it was watery, fragile. “You always made me feel like I had to be the strong one. The calm one. Even when my heart was screaming.”

Paige hesitated, then finally—finally—reached over and laced their fingers together. Azzi’s grip was instant and tight. Like she’d been waiting for this anchor in the dark.

“You don’t have to be the strong one tonight,” Paige whispered. “You can just be with me.”

Azzi let out a breath that sounded like a sob. “God, I missed you.”

“I missed us.” Paige leaned her head gently onto Azzi’s shoulder. “But I think we can still find our way back.”

“I don’t know if we’re supposed to go back,” Azzi murmured. “Maybe we’re supposed to start something new.”

The words hung between them—hopeful, dangerous, true.

Paige sat up slightly, looking her in the eyes. “Then let’s start.”

Azzi’s eyes searched hers. “Now?”

“I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Azzi hesitated—just a second. Then she leaned in.

It wasn’t a dramatic kiss. It wasn’t even a kiss yet. But it was close—Paige’s forehead touching Azzi’s, both of them breathing the same fragile air, steadying themselves on each other.

“I still wear that hoodie,” Azzi whispered. “The one I spilled hot chocolate on.”

Paige grinned. “I know. I saw the stain last week.”

“I only wear it when I miss you.”

Paige reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear. “You don’t have to miss me anymore.”

Azzi’s lips curved into the smallest smile. “Good.”

And then, finally, finally—they kissed.

Soft. Slow. Like an apology and a promise tangled together. The kind of kiss that feels like a beginning, not an ending. The kind that makes you forget about storms and snow and power outages and all the ways you hurt each other just by staying silent.

Outside, the wind howled again—but softer now, as if it, too, had found some peace.

Inside, Paige and Azzi held on like the only thing left was each other.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige x azzi #pazzi #pazzi fics

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queenofmorningstar · 11 hours ago

Text

See You in Hell

Lucifer x f! Overlord Reader

Summary: Will the plan in motion go smoothly?

CW: MDNI, Threesome (Angel!Lucifer x Reader x Lucifer), oral (both f and m), dp

Word Count: 4.8K

CHAPTER SEVEN

The bed looked more like a chaotic war table than a place of rest.

Coloured papers were spread across the comforter—lavenders, blood reds, golden yellows and abyssal blacks, each scribbled with doodles, diagrams, and half-baked proposals. Lucifer was on his stomach, legs swinging up lazily behind him, chin resting on his palm.

Lucifer’s smile warmed, and his eyes lingered on you for just a second longer than necessary, still not quite over the fact that he had you like this. Beside him. In his bed. In his arms. Planning the future.

He cleared his throat and rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Okay, so there’s already a court system in the Wrath Ring. Judgements are passed by the sins and Goetia princes.”

You turned to face him properly, propping yourself on your elbow. “Then we upgrade it. Add balance. The system’s rigged for nobility. What if we included everyone in the courtroom structure?”

Lucifer blinked. “Everyone? Like… everyone everyone?” He tilted his head playfully.

You started sketching a rough diagram of a new courtroom. “Then we change the structure. Overlords should have a say, they manage entire territories. Sinners should have representation, since it’s them being judged. And I don’t care how elite the Goetia think they are, if Imps and Hellhounds live here, they should get a seat too.”

Lucifer rested his hand on your thigh, gazing up at you with a soft smile that didn’t quite hide the flicker of admiration behind it. “You really believe this could work.”

“I believe in us making it work.”

He sighed dreamily, hand slipping up to your waist. “You’re gonna make me fall for you all over again…”

“You say that every time I pitch reform.”

“Because it’s hot!” he said with full sincerity. “You, talking political justice? In bed? A man can only take so much.”

You chuckled, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his nose. “Behave.”

“Never,” he said brightly, then gave a thoughtful look. “But okay. You want seats for each class of Hell. That means four more judge thrones added to the Circle. We’ll have to rewrite ancient law. Probably piss off the Goetia. Ooh, Mammon’s going to hate this. I’m in.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He shrugged, pulling you gently back down to cuddle against him. “You’ve already convinced me, remember? All that’s left is logistics. And paperwork. Lots of it. Let’s just make sure the courtroom has decent space for everyone. And maybe… a snack bar?”

You laughed and shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, deeply lovable.”

You rolled your eyes but kissed his cheek.

Lucifer stood in front of the full-length mirror, frozen, as if his reflection might offer him a script or divine guidance.

He looked perfect, of course. Still, he fidgeted, adjusting his cufflinks for the third time, then rechecking the buttons on his vest like they’d somehow rearranged themselves.

You watched from the bed, propped up against the pillows, chin in hand and amusement glittering in your eyes.

Lucifer groaned dramatically. “I haven’t done this in centuries. What if I say something stupid? Charlie’s going with me. It’ll be the first time for a while we’ve presented something together. She’s...she’s so good at inspiring people. And I’m—”

You cupped his face gently, your thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes. “You’re brilliant. And now you’re trying. That’s what matters.”

Lucifer's gaze softened as he looked at you, melting into your touch. You stepped back slightly, brushing imaginary lint off his coat before fixing his collar just right. Then, with a smile, you rose on your toes and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “For luck,” you whispered.

He smiled faintly. “I might need another one.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, and when you pulled back, you kept your hand resting against his chest. “And don’t forget to tell Charlie,” you added gently. “About us.”

Lucifer stiffened slightly, not in fear, but in that all-too-familiar awkward hesitance. “She sees us together all the time at the Hotel. Isn’t it...implied?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Luci.”

“Fine, fine!” he threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll tell her.”

You smiled. “You’ll do fine.”

He looked at you like you’d just spoken truth straight into his heart. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

Lucifer kissed your hand, lingering for a moment longer, as if drawing strength from your touch. Then he took a breath, straightened his shoulders, and conjured his staff in a burst of golden light.

He turned at the door, giving you one last grin. “If I survive this meeting, I expect cuddles.”

You smiled, folding your arms. “If you don’t tell Charlie about us, expect celibacy.”

Lucifer gasped. “Cruel woman.”

“Go,” you said with a wink. “You’ve got this.”

You went back to curl back onto the bed, thumbing through the notes you and Lucifer had scribbled during your last brainstorming session.

You were just starting on some paperwork on your own territory when you heard a slight scrape, too deliberate to be the wind. You didn’t move, didn’t even lift your eyes. But you heard it again. The faintest pressure against the window frame.

A heartbeat passed.

Then—PHWOOOOOSH!

A jet of searing golden flame shot upward from the rubber duck sitting innocently on the windowsill, which you’d placed there. Lucifer had given it to you the day you arrived at the Hotel, a ridiculous little welcome gift. You remembered him saying it with a wink later on: “Don’t underestimate Sir Quacketh. He’s more powerful than he looks.”

The assassin, a wiry imp in black leathers, crashed through the window, tumbling in with smoke curling off his scorched clothes. He rolled across the floor, smacking out flames and yelping curses, before coming to a stunned halt at your feet.

You glanced at the duck with fond amusement.

The assassin looked up at you, horror in his bulging eyes. “W-What the fuck—?! That thing nearly fried me!”

You finally smiled. “That ‘thing’ was a gift,” you said, “from the King of Hell. For me.”

He scrambled back, hands raised in surrender, blood and soot streaking across the floor. “W-Wait! I wasn’t— I mean, I didn’t know this was his room, I swear—!”

You tilted your head, stepping slowly off the bed, barefoot and graceful like a predator stretching after a nap. “Did you think you could creep into his private chambers undetected?”

Your smile never faltered. “See, now I have a very personal reason to play.”

You crouched in front of him, lifting his chin with one sharp nail. “Don’t worry,” you cooed, conjuring shackles of obsidian to drag him toward the edge of the room. “This won’t kill you. Not until I want it to.”

You hummed a gentle tune as you summoned your tools.

The teleportation to the Wrath Ring had just finished fizzling out, leaving a faint shimmer of sulfur and ozone in the air. Lucifer adjusted the lapels of his suit as he walked beside Charlie, the sky of the Wrath Ring overhead swirling in orange hues.

It wasn’t his favorite place, and frankly, he’d avoided visiting it in person for… well, let’s just say many, many centuries.

Charlie walked ahead slightly, bouncing with her usual optimism despite the ominous environment. Lucifer sighed. His palms were sweating. He cleared his throat and spoke before he could think too hard about it. “Charlie?”

Charlie turned her head, eyebrows raised, “Yeah, Dad?”

Lucifer tried to play it cool, as he looked anywhere but her face. “I, ah, just thought… y’know, while we’re on the way to this oh-so-fun-and-not-at-all-tense council meeting, I should perhaps, possibly, definitely mention something.”

Charlie slowed down a bit, curious. “Okay…?”

Lucifer winced, smile twitching. “You see, I may be, hypothetically, romantically involved with someone. Just thought you should know.”

Silence.

Lucifer tried to backpedal, his hands flailing slightly. “And it’s not, like, a fling or anything—I wouldn’t insult her like that. It’s serious. Like, serious serious. And—and she’s very important to me, and I didn’t want you to find out through gossip or—”

Charlie blinked. Then burst into laughter.

Lucifer paused, stunned. “Wait, are you…are you laughing at me?”

Charlie waved her hand, still giggling. “Dad. C’mon. You two are not subtle.”

Lucifer’s eyes widened. “You—knew?!”

Charlie laughed. “Oh my God, Dad. You two are so obvious! The glances, the way you disappear together, the giddy faces… you literally had her lipstick on your very-white collar the other day.”

Lucifer coughed. “I thought I took that out—”

Charlie burst into giggles.

“I’m happy for you,” she said warmly, reaching up and hugging him tightly. “Really, I am.”

Lucifer stood still, blinking several times as he slowly, gingerly returned the hug—arms wrapping around her as if he still couldn’t believe it.

“You’re not mad?” he mumbled into her hair.

Charlie pulled back, frowning. “Why would I be mad? You deserve to be loved too, Dad.”

Lucifer swallowed thickly. His eyes shimmered faintly with something he wouldn’t name. Lucifer stilled for half a second, then wrapped his arms around her tightly. His heart felt lighter than it had in millennia.

________________________

Just as you turned to clean up the mess, a sudden whoosh of air shifted the room’s pressure.

A glowing golden portal opened midair. You instinctively raised your guard.

But instead of another attacker, someone floated down like a feather from the sky.

Robes white and blue shimmered with divine glow. Feathered wings tucked neatly behind his back. His halo glowed faintly overhead, and his eyes—not red but blue—gleamed with almost childlike wonder.

He looked just like… well…An angel.

Lucifer? No. Not your Lucifer. Not quite.

He beamed at you. “Hello, dearest!”

You blinked.

What.

The.

Hell.

“Hi!” he chirped with a smile as bright as day. “I’m here because the other me didn’t want you to be lonely!”

You raised a brow. “Let me guess… clone?”

He nodded eagerly. “Uh-huh! He didn’t want to leave you alone while he and Charlie are away, so he conjured me from memory! Isn’t that sweet?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Memory? Which memory?”

“I think it was before I fell,” the clone replied cheerfully. “I was still experimenting with constellations! Or was it mushrooms? Either way, hi! I’ll be here with you until the real me returns. He was too happy…like he was in Eden, so I guess he conjured me.”

You sighed fondly. Lucifer had definitely not thought this one through.

You folded your arms, eyes scanning the soft baby-blue eyes and almost awkward posture. This version of Lucifer was… shy. Cheerful. Absolutely unprepared for the bloodbath you’d just mopped up.

Then his eyes landed on the blood coating your arms, the crimson splashes on your clothes. He let out a choked sound. “Oh—oh dear heavens,” he gasped, horrified.

You raised an eyebrow. He fluttered forward, hands outstretched, worried. “Are you alright? Did someone hurt you? Is this—Is this your blood?”

You wiped a bit of blood from your cheek with the back of your hand, half amused, half exhausted. “It’s an assassin’s blood. He broke in.”

Angel-Lucifer gasped. “Someone tried to hurt you?”

You shrugged. “They tried. Emphasis on tried.”

He beamed. “Of course they failed. You’re amazing!”

You tilted your head. “You really are the angelic version of him, huh?”

“Why thank you!” he chirped. Then, gasping again, he conjured a towel and immediately tried to clean the blood off your face. “No no no, we can’t have you looking like this—what if you slip? Blood is terrible for footing! And staining!”

He gently scrubbed your arms and conjured warm clothes. Finally, he stood back, nodding proudly at his work. “There. Perfect. Spotless.”

You sat on the couch, towel drying your hair after a quick shower, still amused by the celestial being cheerfully dusting your bookshelves.

Angel-Lucifer had been nothing short of doting since he arrived—he'd folded your blankets, organized your weapons drawer alphabetically, and even complimented your torture tools with a “marvelous craftsmanship, very symmetrical!”

“You know,” you said, smirking slightly, “the other you wanted me to show off the dresses he bought for me.”

Lucifer stopped mid-hover, head tilting with childlike excitement. “He did?!”

“Mhm,” you replied. “Said he picked some especially for me. Should I model one for you?”

His eyes sparkled. “Oh yes, yes please! That would be wonderful!”

Suppressing a laugh, you stepped into the bedroom, running your hand over the delicate fabrics hanging in the wardrobe. You chose one of the more elegant ones. The neckline was modest, sleeves soft and flowing.

You stepped back into the room. Lucifer turned and promptly dropped the tray of cookies he’d summoned. His jaw went slack. His wings stiffened with a visible tremble. “Oh—oh God—”

You blinked. “Too much?”

His jaw dropped slightly, lips parted in a soft gasp. “You look… divine.”

You laughed. “It’s not even the sexy one.”

“That doesn’t matter!” he said a little too loudly. His voice cracked at the end, and he cleared his throat with a bright golden blush blooming across his face.

Then your eyes dipped lower. And there it was. The bulge in his robes.

Oh?

He seemed entirely unaware for a moment, until he noticed where your gaze had landed.

He froze. You raised an amused eyebrow.

Lucifer let out a squeaky, “OH DEAR,” and immediately slapped both hands over the front of his robes like a child caught with stolen candy.

You couldn’t help it, you laughed until your ribs ached. Lucifer buried his face in a pillow. His wings twitched, as if trying to shield him from the weight of his own embarrassment.

And gods, it was flattering. You hadn't even worn something seductive. Hadn't even tried.

Your lips curled. “Do you want some help, honey?” you asked, voice smooth, casual.

He peeked over the pillow. “Help…?” he squeaked. “With—what exactly?”

You sauntered closer, slow. “With that tension of yours.”

His eyes went huge. “I—wait, no—are you—seriously—?”

You only nodded. “I’ll be gentle,” you said. “Just let me see you.”

He hesitated, but your gaze, and the gentle brush of your hand down his chest, undid whatever resistance he had left. Slowly, he lifted his robes, and your eyes widened as you took in what lay beneath.

Around his flushed, golden-tipped cock was a curious celestial adornment—three soft, glowing wing-like crests fluttering like a modesty veil, now fluttered open from arousal. It was… oddly beautiful. Like every part of him, even here, had been sculpted in divinity.

He looked down at himself and immediately panicked again. “I know! I look ridiculous, don’t I?!”

You gave a soft laugh, and shook your head. “No, dear. You look stunning.”

And then, slowly, you leaned forward, placing a kiss just above his navel. He gasped.

You glanced up through your lashes. “Just relax, angel. Let me take care of you.”

His voice was already trembling. “O-okay.”

Your kisses trailed lower, down the lines of his abdomen. The moment your lips finally brushed over his cock, he gasped, one hand flying to his mouth to stifle the embarrassing whimper that escaped.

The wings around his cock trembled and fluttered as if trying to shyly cover him again, but you brushed them aside with a soft kiss and began to tease him with slow licks.

His hips jerked, and he let out a breathy, “Oh God—” muffled by the back of his hand.

He squirmed and whimpered like the sweetest thing you’d ever heard, biting his lip, chest rising and falling in flustered waves. He moaned your name like a prayer, his hands finally gripping the sheets as he whispered all kinds of sweet nothings.

A slow lick up his length made him whimper, and he covered his mouth again with his hand. His other hand gripped the pillow beside him like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to murmur, “You're adorable, you know that?”

He let out a strangled sound. “Nghhh - love, please –”

You chuckled, warmth dancing in your chest. “But you’re doing so well, angel.”

You took him into your mouth again, slow and steady, and the reaction was immediate. His head fell back, lips parted in a helpless gasp, hips twitching despite himself.

“Y-you’re…Mnghhg…” he breathed, sounding like he was moments from transcending into another realm entirely. “P-please,” he whimpered softly, “I can’t—”

“Just let go, honey,” you whispered against his skin. “Let me have this.”

And with a broken moan that nearly cracked into a sob, he did.

His wings spasmed outward and he bucked once, twice, before spilling over with a quiet, desperate cry of your name. You held him through it, letting him ride it out, soothing him with your touch as he collapsed back into the pillows, boneless and overwhelmed.

You kissed his hip one last time and crawled up beside him. His arms instantly wrapped around you like a koala, clinging.

The meeting with the Sins had ended.

Barely.

Mammon wouldn’t stop talking, Beelzebub was halfway into a sugar crash, and Satan had nearly flung the table at Asmodeus. Business as usual. But Lucifer had held it together, until he felt something odd. A flush of warmth, a spike of tension in his chest, a stuttering beat like his body was responding to something... familiar.

His eyes widened, realization washing over him.

Oh. Oh no.

Charlie tilted her head, concerned. “Dad? You okay? You look—”

“I—I’m fine, dear,” Lucifer managed with a shaky smile. “I think I’ll retire to my room early.”

He barely waited for her nod before he portaled away. Landing in his room, Lucifer blinked once. You were curled under the blankets, tangled in the arms of... him. Well, his clone. The sweet, glowing angel-form of himself. Looked like he conjured it without thinking it clearly.

The clone's robe was askew, wings twitching in the aftermath of what could only have been one hell of an intimate session. Your fingers were still gently carding through the clone's hair.

“Now, now…” he drawled, far too casual. “I leave for a few hours and find you in bed with... me?”

You opened your mouth to explain, probably something very logical and well-meant but Lucifer only smirked, far too calm.

“Oh, dove, you’ve been so naughty,” he purred. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to tease your king without offering him his due?”

He glanced down at the angelic clone, who blinked up at him with wide-eyed innocence. “I—I didn’t mean to—!” Angel-Lucifer stammered, flustered and adorably glowing.

Lucifer gave him a wink. “Oh, I know. You’re me, after all. You very well meant to.” His eyes flicked to you with a grin both wicked and smug.

You scooted up, your gaze half-challenging, half-trying not to laugh.

Lucifer leaned back, legs crossed, his cane resting across his lap. “Well?” he said with a crooked grin, eyes glinting like mischief itself. “Go on. Don’t mind me.”

At those words, his angel self lit up like a child told he could finally open his birthday presents. “Really?!” he beamed. “Oh—oh, thank you!”

You couldn’t help the chuckle that left you, right before the angel gently pushed your thighs apart, his breath catching at the sight of you. His hands trembled slightly as they brushed along your skin, and his expression turned awestruck, almost… dazed.

The angel lowered his mouth to you, with a soft whimper of delight the moment his tongue met your slick heat.

Your hand tangled in his hair, coaxing him lower. You didn’t miss the little tremor in his shoulders as he obeyed, mouth finding your clit with a shaky breath and a whimper. The angel let out a muffled moan against your pussy. His tongue moved in slow, desperate circles, soft gasps escaping him between licks.

You let out a soft gasp as Angel-Lucifer’s tongue flicked over your clit just right and Lucifer’s brows shot up. “Oh? That spot, was it? Noted,” he said, grinning.

Angel-Lucifer whimpered again, louder this time. He was panting into you now, lips shiny and slick, and completely undone by your taste.

You arched up into the angel’s mouth, nails raking lightly through his hair, and Lucifer's grin turned wicked. “You’re just full of surprises, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flicked to him, breathless but smug. “Jealous?”

Lucifer laughed loudly. “Of myself? Never! I'm enjoying the show, darling. Carry on.”

Angel-Lucifer moaned again, deeper, fingers digging into your thighs now as he fucked you with his mouth like he was starving for you, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

Your moan spilled out before you could stop it, hips rising, breath catching, your thighs trembling under the angel’s tongue as he whined into your pussy.

“L-Lucifer,” you gasped, head tipping back… then turning, seeking him.

“Oh?” he cooed. “Is one not enough for you, darling?” But he was already standing. His coat slipped off with a whisper of fabric, and his cane vanished like smoke. He crossed the room in a few slow steps, joining you on the bed.

You were half-gone already, lips parted and eyes half-lidded from the overwhelming pleasure of the angel's mouth still latched to your pussy, but the moment Lucifer climbed onto the mattress beside you, your body reached for him instinctively.

He cupped your cheek. “I missed you, you know,” he murmured, lowering his lips to your neck, trailing kisses down your collarbone. His lips reached your breasts, and he sighed like a man finally home.

He kissed over the swell of one breast, then the other—slow, doting, entirely enamored, before flicking his tongue gently over your nipple. You shivered, moaning louder as his angelic self below you whimpered at the sound and sucked harder, more desperately.

You tugged him close by his vest, and he groaned. “I love your taste,” he whispered against your skin, grinning softly. “I mean that. It’s nice that I can say it out loud now while he’s still busy licking it straight from the source.”

Your gasp hitched into a laugh, just before another moan broke free. “Luci—”

“I know,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “I know, sweetheart.”

You kissed him, deep and aching and as his clone whimpered into you, your body spasmed with release, thighs clamping around his head.

You came hard, moaning into Lucifer’s mouth as he kissed you back sweetly, holding your face in his hands like you were his most sacred thing.

Lucifer practically scooped you up. You laughed into his neck, arms around his shoulders, glad to have him back. You both just stayed for a while, breathing each other in. For all this teasing, you’ll get back at him. You grind your soaked core down over the thick press of his cock.

“Oh, fuck—darling—” Lucifer whimpered, hips jerking upward. His teasing tone faltered for a beat, and it made you smirk.

“What?” you purred in his ear, rolling your hips again. “You enjoyed the show a little too much.”

You straddled him fully now, hands braced on his chest, lowering onto his cock inch by inch, watching his face twist in sweet agony.

Lucifer’s head thunked back against the pillows. “Oh my god. I’ve been good, darling. I’ve been so good. Please—ah, fuck, love—”

Your moan joined his as you sank fully onto him, your body clenching around his length. You began to ride him, hips moving in a delicious rhythm, skin slapping against his as his hands held your waist like a lifeline.

“I… I can’t take it anymore,” Angel-Lucifer whispered, crawling up behind you, breath ghosting over your spine. “You’re so beautiful—I just—I can’t stop—”

You felt the soft glide of his fingers on your ass, spreading you gently before one slick lubed finger circled your tight hole. You gasped, bucking on Lucifer’s cock and he shuddered, gripping your hips even tighter.

Lucifer chuckled breathlessly. “NGGHH… can’t resist you. Can’t say I blame him.”

Angel-Lucifer pressed kisses up your back, toward your neck.

“I love you,” Lucifer whispered, voice soft as he kissed you again.

You barely managed a breath before you felt it—the soft, careful push of the angel’s cock, pressing against your back hole. “Is this okay?” he whispered, voice cracking like he was on the verge of tears and bliss all at once. “Please… I need to be inside you too…”

And you nodded, dizzy, thighs quivering as he slid in. Inch by inch, he sank into you, his breath catching. You moaned, collapsing against Lucifer’s chest, trembling all over. “Too much, too good—ohgodfuckkk…”

“Divine,” the angel moaned, thrusting gently, as if he couldn’t believe this wasn’t a dream. “You’re divine—so warm—thank you, thank you for letting me—”

Lucifer kissed your temple. “You're—gorgeous—so good—I can't believe I get to have you—fuck, I love you—”, Lucifer was babbling now, his voice high and shaking, barely able to string together words through his whimpers. “Fuck, you feel—too good—I’m gonna—please, sweetheart—”

You clenched around him instinctively, and he cried out. His fingers dug into your hips as his body arched beneath you.

You felt the rush of heat flood inside you, his face buried in your neck, soft gasps spilling against your skin as he came. And then behind you, the angel shuddered violently, hugging your waist from behind. “I—me too—!” he gasped, kissing your spine as his rhythm stuttered. “I can’t—I can’t hold it—!”

With a trembling cry, he came as well, his cum spilling hot and thick inside you. You could barely breathe as you came hard.

Your body sank into his as the last of your strength gave away, warm, sated, and full in every sense. Lucifer’s arms were already wrapping around you, pulling the blanket over both of you.

Behind you, the angel clone lingered with a gentle kiss to your shoulder until Lucifer snapped his fingers, and the clone was gone. He tucked your head under his chin and sighed, as if he hadn’t taken a single breath since he left.

You lay there in silence for a moment. His fingers traced slow, absentminded circles across your back, grounding you, while his heartbeat thudded steadily beneath your cheek.

“So,” you mumbled sleepily, “how was the meeting?”

Lucifer let out the most dramatic sigh known, arm flung across his forehead. “Oh my God, I nearly died from boredom. Ugh.”

You tilted your head down. “That bad?”

“I’ve fought angels with more sense,” he groaned, snuggling closer to your chest. “They tried so hard to cling to the old system. Called your suggestion ‘radical.’’

“But anyway—yes. I got them to agree. They’re restructuring the court. Full seats for Overlords, imps, sinners. All of it.”

You sat up slightly, eyes wide. “Wait, seriously?”

Lucifer immediately beamed. “Seriously. Because you asked.”

Your heart gave a small, dangerous flutter.

His voice lowered. “I wanted to leave as soon as I got there, honestly. But then I thought about you. About what you said. And I—I just kept pushing. Because it mattered to you. And that made it matter to me.”

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, and his whole body eased into yours like he’d been waiting for this moment all day.

“I missed you,” he mumbled. “The meeting sucked. The coffee was lukewarm. But worst of all? No you. You’re my favorite part.”

You kissed him, and he made another one of those stupidly happy little whines before squeezing you tighter.

He was staring at the ceiling, brows knit together, lips parted like he didn’t quite know how to start. You looked up. “Lucifer?”

“I’ve scheduled a meeting,” he said finally. “With Heaven.”

You blinked and sat up. “You—what?”

Your mouth opened but nothing came out. You knew this was the direction you were heading. But…

“You already arranged it?” you asked, stunned.

“...And you’re coming with me…?”

Your mouth parted. “What? Really?!”

“I’m not going without you,” he said. “I don’t want to go to any meeting without you. But especially not this one.”

He exhaled, his voice cracking, just a little. “You know what that place meant. What it took. I—I can’t promise it won’t hurt to be there again. I don’t know how it’ll feel. But I know this: I’ll survive it if you’re with me.”

Lucifer smiled, but it was small, quiet, almost fragile. “I know how important this part is to you. And to me.”

Your chest tightened all at once. He was doing this for you. Because he believed in your vision. Because he was willing to walk back into the one place that had cast him out, just to support your dream.

You moved before he could say anything else, throwing your arms around him. You buried your face in his neck.

Lucifer let out a small breath of surprise, then melted into you like a thread pulled loose. His arms wrapped around your waist, like he never wanted to let go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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jackrrabbot · 3 days ago

Text

full tilt

3. meridian

masterpost (link to other chapters and warnings/description here)

frank langdon x fem!reader

word count ~6.5k

author's note: apologies for the long wait! hope you enjoy :)

10 a.m.

You’re leaving the security office and heading to the nurse’s station after having placed your bet on the ambulance thieves.

Fingers crossed that they’re stupid college kids and are caught in-zone. You could really use the money for a nice vacation.

Alone.

Without Ryan.

From across the security office, you see Myrna whispering, most likely clandestine nothings, into poor Mateo’s ear. They’re tucked against the wall, avoiding the rush of an incoming patient—and you start to jog over to the gurney, but it looks like Frank and Santos have this one covered.

You make your way over to Myrna and Mateo instead.

“You know, I normally like my men older—a lot older. But you’re pretty. You want to give little ole me a chance? Maybe get rid of these handcuffs?” Myrna winks at Mateo and lifts her wrist, the cuff clanking against the steel arm of her wheelchair.

“Hm, well, maybe I prefer the handcuffs on?” Mateo winks back, flirtatiously.

“Oh, you’re a smooth talker, aren’t you? C’mon, take these off, and I’ll show you a good time.”

You step in before the rattle of Myrna’s chain and her snaky charm hypnotize Mateo into giving her what she wants. It’s doubtful he would actually free her, but it’s happened before. What ensued then is not something you want to rehash.

“Hey, Myrna, let’s leave Mateo alone now, alright? I’m sure he’s very busy.” You glance at him, and he gives you a thankful smile back.

“Oh, you guys are no fun.” Myrna wheels off in a hurry, mumbling something about fruitcake.

He chuckles. “Thanks, you might’ve just saved me. I’ve been trying to shake her all morning.”

“No problem. She tends to latch on when she wants something. How’re things?”

“It’s going okay. I have one patient in the ER who’s been a pain in the ass, but I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“Sorry to hear that. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

He nods, then turns to leave, but you stop him with an abrupt question.

“Before you go, I have a quick question. I noticed how the new med student has been following you around all day… Javadi, was it? Is there something there?” You give him a knowing look, a grin playing on your lips.

Mateo smirks and shakes his head, looking down at the floor. He rubs the back of his neck, bashful. “You noticed? Nah—she just has first-day nerves. I’m trying to be nice—help her ease into the chaos, you know?”

After a second, Mateo meets your gaze and follows up with, “She reminds me a little of you, actually.”

“Oh! Well… I hope that’s a good thing.”

“Yeah. It is.” Mateo gives you a small smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Your eyebrows shoot up at his coyness, and your thoughts go into overdrive. You hope you’re just getting your wires crossed, because if you’re not, what you say next could be absolutely mortifying.

“Mateo… Do you—... How do I say this—?”

“—I used to have a little crush on you. Really, it’s no big deal. I’m over it now. But what I’m trying to say is that you and Javadi are both a little naive—innocent, in a way. It’s cute.”

Your mind is reeling from Mateo’s confession, but you forge ahead. Innocent?

“W-What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, I’m not the only one who’s had—or has—a crush on you. And you’re blind to it. And really, who can blame us? I feel like you’ve always brought light to the Pitt. And that’s saying something.” Mateo gives you a serious look, and you’re too afraid to ask him who else he’s talking about.

Yet, your heart flutters at the possibility it might be…

No, stop, you think to yourself.

You hang your mouth open in shock, but Mateo knocks his fist lightly against your chin to close it. “Don’t let what I said get to your head. You know what my rule is, anyway.”

He points behind him with his thumb. “I’m going to go… I need to get back to Javadi and McKay.” He winks and throws the peace sign up at you, heading to the blood draw station. “See ya!”

You’re stock-still against the wall and watching Mateo leave when in the corner of your eye, you see Frank and Santos stepping out of the room of the patient from earlier.

His agitation rolls off him in waves, and he quickly retreats from Santos, pissed. He looks in your direction and follows your line of sight toward Mateo.

Once Mateo is out of sight, you fully turn to Frank, but he’s already left.

What happened in there?

You draw your gaze toward Santos, who’s now at the nurse’s station, but Mateo’s confession still rattles around in your mind. You take a moment to reflect.

Maybe he’s… right?

Maybe you've been blind to the fact that you have people in your life who cherish you for you—even if they’re all coworkers. People who value your presence. Samira, Dana, Robby, Mateo.

Frank.

Maybe you’re not as alone as Ryan—and you—think you are. Maybe, just maybe, you can finally untether yourself from him.

But not just yet. You don’t want to ruin Pittfest with a breakup, after all.

You now walk, with a pep in your step, a few feet toward the nurse’s station to talk to Santos, who’s leaning over the counter, palms cupping the back of her neck.

You figure now would be a good time to introduce yourself—and be nosy.

She looks just as displeased—if not more—as Frank did stepping out of the patient room. Her shoulders are tense, and she’s chewing her bottom lip.

“Hey, Santos, right? How’s your first day been so far?” You lean against the station counter, with your elbow propped. Santos now crosses her arms, facing you.

“Oh, hey. Yeah, it’s been pretty good so far.” She shakes her head. “Sorry, you are…?”

You offer your name.

“Cool. Looking forward to working with you. Well… I have to get back to work. Talk later?” Santos gives you a quick smile, ready to turn around and take her leave.

She doesn’t seem too keen on talking to you—leaving your curiosity unsatisfied. So you just come right out and ask, “Did something happen in there with Dr. Langdon?”

Santos looks taken aback. “Um, no, no, it’s just… I ordered a BiPAP for Wendell Stone, the patient who came in earlier. He had a small pneumothorax from a speaker that fell on him at Pittfest. And I—uh, I did it without senior resident approval.”

You feel terrible for thinking it, but you’re glad you weren’t already at Pittfest. You would not be happy if you had to perform life-saving procedures off the clock.

“Oh, yikes… Well, I’m sure it was a good learning experience, at least.” You give her a reassuring look, but it doesn’t do much to lift her spirits. Santos looks down at her shoes as if she’d rather do that than talk to you.

“And it seems like the patient is doing okay,” you continue as you look into Stone’s room.

He’s stable, so what’s the issue?

“Yeah, well, Dr. Langdon had it taken care of with the pigtail catheter… without my assistance. Dr. Garcia was pretty understanding about my mistake, though.” She pauses, sighing. “I’m here to learn, after all, and, uh, Dr. Langdon really took his frustration out on me.”

You scrunch your eyebrows in concern at her explanation. Just how harsh was he?

Your face quickly shifts from one of worry to gentle reassurance as you give Santos a small smile and a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t let him get to you. He can be… pretty tough on people. Especially people he hasn’t warmed up to yet. But, next time, you need to run things by the senior residents or attending first. Don’t see it as a rejection of your skill—it’s just the way things work.”

“Yeah, well, I should get going—but thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.” She gives you a tight smile and nods, then walks away from you with her hands in her pockets.

“Oh. Okay, no problem. Good luck!” She’s too far away now to have heard you.

Now probably wasn’t the best time to talk to her after all.

You’ve seen your fair share of overachieving and overconfident med students and interns, and Santos does seem to fit in among that category. You understand an individual like that can be frustrating for anybody—especially someone as busy as a senior resident or attending.

But she’s seemingly smart and eager to learn and improve—that’s really all you can ask for from new doctors.

As much as you’d like to give Frank the benefit of the doubt, his behavior toward her is unfair and uncalled for. Just from Santos’ body language alone you can tell things went poorly in there.

You wonder if his hostility toward her is due to her mistake—and yes, maybe a little hubris—or if it has anything to do with what’s becoming too hard to ignore.

The side of Frank he shows only to you has already been slowly crumbling—was this anger toward Santos a one-time thing? How are his other relationships faring? If you asked him whether he’s been using while at work, would he tell you the truth? Most importantly… is he okay?

You stop your inward spiral with a shake of your head. You need to find time to talk to him. No point in getting in your head about something you can’t do anything about right now.

But the concern still chips away at you, little by little. And you’re left wondering how many pieces you have left to give before it’s too late to glue yourself back together.

You brush off the awkward conversation with Santos to finish some charting, taking a look at the time.

Only three more hours until your half shift is over.

11 a.m.

Frank briefly glances up and sees you walking toward him and Jake at the nurse’s station with your phone in hand, texting, an annoyed look on your face. Only when you look up from your phone does your frown drop, your mouth opening slightly in surprise.

You see Jake spinning on one of the chairs while Frank continues to watch him in amazement.

He’s attempting to beat his record of eighty spins—most likely making himself dizzy and throwing up in the process—not unlike last time. The projectile vomit landed all over the station as he was on spin number eighty. Even so,

He. Did. Not. Stop.

The kid’s insane.

Collins was pretty upset when she had to clean the puke from her shoes, but Frank found it hilarious.

You rush over, elated to see Jake. Frank was excited to see him too and was just as surprised as you when he popped in a little over twenty minutes ago. It’s been a few weeks since he last visited the Pitt.

“Jake! What’re you doing here?” you ask, putting your phone into your pocket. Frank can’t help but wonder who you were texting. Ralph?

Frank knows that only someone as stupid as your boyfriend could bring a frown to your face and dim your bright smile. He internally rolls his eyes at the thought.

“Hey, it’s so good to see you!” Jake stands up out of the chair, a bit too fast, and stumbles before throwing his arms around your shoulders in a side hug.

“Woah there, be careful! We don’t want you knocking yourself to the ground.” You return his warm hug. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Jake?”

“I’m actually here to pick up a Pittfest ticket from Robby. He said I could have his.” Jake lets go of you, sitting back on the chair.

“Oh, no way! I’m going later too. I guess I’ll see you there?”

Frank almost forgot that he bought you a ticket. Has it really been that long since you’ve yapped in his ear about going?

He frowns slightly. He’s not used to being so out of the loop when it comes to you. Frank finds solace in the fact that, technically, he’s the reason why you’re so excited, at least.

“Nice! We should definitely meet up at some point. You’ll be able to meet my girlfriend, Leah—that’s who Robby’s ticket is for.”

You’re surprised. “Girlfriend? Aren’t you, like, twelve?”

Jake tilts his head and gives you a deadpan look. Both Jake and Frank blurt out, “Seventeen.”

You chuckle, flitting your eyes quickly to Frank. So far—only four hours into your shift—today has been the most you’ve engaged with him in the past three months.

What’s so different about today?

“Congrats, kid. I hope you treat her well.” You point at him, eyes squinted, before giving him a gentle pat on the back and breaking out in a wide grin. “Well, hey, don’t stop on my account. What number spin were you on?”

“Actually, you have perfect timing, ‘cause I just hit eighty-one spins when you came over. Beat my record by one.” Jake whirls around, facing Frank and pointing at him. “Hey, Langdon, it’s your turn.”

He shrugs. “Sure, I’ll give it a shot, but I can’t promise I’ll beat your score.” As stupid as it may be, he’ll gladly accept this opportunity to try and impress you with his chair-spinning skills.

Forty-seven spins later, and Frank is about ready to pass out. You stand by the side of the chair, laughing with Jake, bent over and clutching your stomach.

So much for impressing you.

“Fuck… I give up. I think I’m about to puke. How the hell did you get to eighty?”

“‘Cause I’m young and still in shape.”

Frank chuckles at Jake’s playful jab.

“You wanna try?” Jake asks you, almost pushing you to sit on the chair as Frank slowly gets up.

“Oh no, no. I’m good. I have to check in on Tyler and a few other patients.”

“C’mon, just try. It won’t take more than a few minutes. Please? For me?” Jake pleads, using his best puppy dog eyes.

“Okay, but fair warning—I’m pretty competitive.”

No more than twenty spins on the chair later, you give up. “God, I can’t anymore. You win, Jake. I humbly take third place.” You bow to him with a flourish of your hand while still on the chair.

“More like last place,” Frank corrects you, and Jake laughs as you give him the finger.

Frank stands behind you with his arms crossed over his chest, ready to catch you before you hit the ground from dizziness—wishing he could’ve done so earlier today.

Maybe it’s dramatic to try so hard to “protect” you from something as simple as falling, but you’ve done it before. And not only today. He won’t turn down the opportunity to touch you if given the chance. The thought is innocent and noble enough, right? He’s only trying to make up for his mistake earlier.

You attempt to stand but tip over, on your way to falling on your ass for the second time today—but Frank is right there at your back before you can hit the ground.

“Shit… sorry. Christ, I’m as clumsy as ever today, aren’t I?” Your laugh dies in your throat when you look up, head pressed against Frank’s chest, and see him looking down at you with a quirk of his lips. You shrink under his gaze, frozen against him.

He feels a wicked sense of pride in getting this demure reaction out of you with his proximity.

His arms are hooked under your shoulders, and his hands are wrapped around the front of your belly, hugging you from behind. Your top has lifted a tad in the shuffle, and the pads of his fingers are digging just slightly under the elastic of your bottoms, inching close to the lining of your underwear.

You cough, embarrassed, and pull yourself off him. Frank sees you looking at Jake, hoping he didn’t catch the moment.

Luckily for you, Jake appears to be texting someone. Most likely Robby, who should be coming over in a few minutes to give him his ticket.

Robby finally arrives at the nurse’s station, and you and Frank leave to let them talk. As you and Frank walk past Jake, Frank quickly slips a condom into his palm behind his back, avoiding Robby’s eyes. But you catch sight of it.

“Oh my God, is Jake having sex?” you whisper to Frank as you walk side by side to the water fountain.

Just as you both are out of earshot, he says, “Yeah, but what’s the big deal? He’s seventeen. I would’ve just handed him the condom right in front of Robby, but I figured I’d save him from an interrogation and a sex-ed lesson.”

“I know it’s not a big deal, but I just think of him as a little brother, so it feels a bit weird.” You glance back at Jake, who’s laughing at something Robby said.

“It’s adorable how close you guys are, despite how long you’ve known each other. You’re good with him.”

“Well, it’s easy to get along with a teenager when they aren’t yours.” You shrug but smile.

Frank tilts his head at you, pausing for a few seconds, but then can’t help but blurt out, “Have you and Raymond thought about kids?”

You’re taken aback by the question and too used to Frank getting Ryan’s name wrong to bother correcting him. “Uh—wow. I guess we’ve never talked about this before, huh? Maybe?” You shake your head. “Not right now, at least. I’m far too busy and in debt.” You laugh shyly. This is not something you expected to talk about—at least not with him.

“As for having kids… with Ryan? I mean, I don’t even want to move in with the guy. That definitely won’t be happening.” You idly tap your shoe against the linoleum floor, eyes downcast. Frank doesn’t need to know that you plan on breaking up with him after Pittfest. That doesn’t concern him.

Frank lets out a little breath, relieved. It’s sick and twisted, but he’s glad to know that you aren’t happy with anyone who isn’t him—even if it’s just a lie he tells himself.

But someday he knows you’ll find someone who truly makes you happy. Someone you deserve. So, for now, even if it pains him, he’s okay that you’re with Ryan. Because it means you won’t look any further than what’s already in front of you.

When Frank doesn’t respond, you follow up with, “You already have two kids—do you think you and Abby would want any more?” You look up at Frank, more comfortable with eye contact now that you’ve shifted the attention to him.

“My kids are everything. They’re a handful… but I love them. I don’t want them to ever feel like they aren’t enough—but I might want more in the future. Maybe a girl.” Frank twists the excess string at the end of the bracelet Tanner made for him, with “Dad” written across the colorful beads.

“Your kids are very lucky to have—”

“—But Abby… well, you know. Things aren’t so great between us right now. Don’t think throwing another baby into the mix will help things. The puppy addition was bad enough.”

You do know, but you don’t want to think about it—about why your heart rate picks up when he tells you that they’re still having trouble. So you bulldoze past the first part of his statement. “You got a puppy? This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

“Yeah—only recently. I told Dana and Collins earlier, but… I guess it has been a little while since we’ve had a heart-to-heart. You should’ve been the first to know. I’m sorry.”

You wave your hands in front of you and shake your head. “Oh, no, don’t worry about it. I’m glad to know now, though; I expect to meet them at some point.” You give Frank a small smile.

That’s not the reaction he expected from you. Or more like—the reaction he wants from you. He wants you to be more upset that he kept something from you, even as small as getting a new pet. It’s irrational—he knows. But it would mean that you miss talking to him and being in his presence just as much as he does.

God, does he miss you. Even as you stand right in front of him.

He wonders if you’d even flinch if he told you his secret. Deep down, maybe a little part of him does want you to know. He tells himself he could handle your disappointment, because he’d gladly soak up any of your attention—good or bad.

“If you want… you can meet her and join us on one of our morning runs. My marathon is coming up—it’d be good to have someone to keep me accountable. Someone human, I mean.”

“Uh… I’m not a marathon runner by any means.” You’ve never spent time together outside of work—not that time outside of it exists, but still. The thought makes you uncomfortable. Why doesn’t he ask…?

You realize he doesn’t have anyone else to ask.

“Well, the offer’s on the table,” Frank says, shrugging his shoulders.

“Okay. Thanks.” You nod, then go to take a sip of water from the fountain, ending the conversation.

Frank watches you sip for a few seconds, then walks away.

This was your chance to talk to him, to ask him if your suspicions are true. But the moment didn’t feel right. Or maybe you didn’t want to break up what felt like a reminder of your intimate conversations all those months ago in the cafeteria.

So you decide to wait until it’s time to leave for Pittfest to confront him so you can run away after and avoid him until at least tomorrow.

12 p.m.

Frank is peering into Ahmad’s office at the Post-it notes that are littering the whiteboard with everyone’s bets as Dana walks up to him.

“Langdon. The ambulance thieves are en route. They got two boys who crashed into a tree, apparently. Trauma 2 is being prepped now. ETA is in ten minutes,” Dana says with a dry voice, tapping her pen against a clipboard.

He turns around to face her. “Got it. They better be meth-heads because Abby needs a Birkin.”

She blinks back at him. “A Birkin, for what?”

“For impulsively buying a puppy. That’s the agreement we settled on to keep it. Otherwise, the boys will be crushed. What else can I do?”

“Any more impulsive decisions and you’ll be out on the curb.”

“Well, when I’m an attending, I’ll be able to afford it. What’s a little more debt?”

Dana rolls her eyes with a small smile and turns to leave, but Frank asks, “Can you see if sunny’s free? I think she’d like to work this case.”

“Is that the truth, or do you just want to work together?”

“It’s been a little while since we’ve shared the same trauma room. I trust her to handle cases on her own, but Robby’s been asking me to be a good senior resident and give equal love and attention to everyone.” Frank leans against the security room window, refusing to meet Dana’s eyes and hoping that she doesn’t catch the longing in them.

“Uh-huh. Sure. I’ll see if she’s free.”

You get a page from Dana, letting you know that the ambulance thieves’ ETA is in approximately five minutes, and Frank wants you to assist.

You’re a bit surprised, as Frank never intentionally shares a case with you. At least, not recently. Of course, it’s impossible for him to completely avoid you due to the nature of your work, but he leaves you independent for the most part.

Which is fine. You’re an R3 and a very capable doctor. Still, it’s nice to be sharing a room again after so long. You’ve missed him—as a friend. It’s a simple, uncomplicated, normal feeling to miss a friend.

As you head toward the ED entrance, the EMTs stroll in with the two patients.

“Patients of the stolen ambulance tree crash here. This one doesn’t require any emergency treatment. Zac Dawson, age twenty-one, was the restrained passenger and ambulatory on scene. Good vitals, with small lacerations to the anterior thigh from glass, but otherwise no injuries.”

Frank nods, looking down at Zac. “Thanks. Alright, you okay, Zac?” he asks, doing a quick check for possible hidden injuries.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine. Where’s Miles? He’s my pledge.” Zac whips his head around from within his wheelchair, looking for him.

You reach the entrance and stand next to Frank as EMTs roll in another young man, presumably Miles, who’s in more critical condition.

“Miles Hernandez, eighteen, and the unrestrained driver of the stolen ambulance. Injuries on his right chest and left leg. Sat 91, Tachy 120s. BP 105 over 70.”

You bend down to meet Zac at eye level. “Okay, Zac, we need to take care of Miles, but someone here will find a room for you. You’ll need to speak to the police in the meantime. You can visit Miles as soon as we stabilize him.” You give Zac a quick nod before rushing to Trauma 2 with Frank and Robby following close behind.

“Posterior hip dislocation and depressed clavicle. It’s compressing his trachea. Set up for intubation—we need ketamine and Roc, with four milligrams of morphine,” Frank shouts from the head of the gurney, peering over Miles as he inspects his injury.

You’re standing at the foot of the gurney, adjacent to Robby and Jesse, who are positioned on either side of Miles.

Jesse instructs, “Let’s stabilize the leg. Ready? One, two, three, and lift.” Together, you lift Miles from the gurney onto the operating table with minimal effort.

“Langdon, get on the airway,” Robby says.

Frank waves you over. “Come over here; you’re gonna do this. Chlorhexidine swab and ten of lido with epi. Forceps.”

As Frank steps back from Miles, you replace him, and he hands you the syringe.

“Okay, Miles, your collarbone is pushing against your windpipe. We’re going to pull it up, and this will help you breathe. This is a local anesthetic. It’s going to pinch and burn for a second.”

Miles stares at you with wide eyes, nodding, and you inject the anesthetic. He clenches his teeth and strains his body to bear the pain, but only for a few seconds. Frank hands you the forceps once the anesthetic is fully injected.

Robby instructs from behind you while standing next to Frank. “All right, you’re gonna go as deep as you can to grip the clavicle. You’ll need to use all the strength you have.”

You quickly nod with your back turned and take a breath.

“Miles, this is going to be pretty painful. Are you ready?” You pinch the towel clip around both sides of his collarbone as he nods.

With all the strength you have, you begin to pull up, but the bone doesn’t give. “S-Shit, I need a little bit of help!”

Frank steps in and wraps his hands around yours, pulling gently but with enough force to lift the collarbone.

“Motherfucker!” Miles yells—a very good sign.

“Sats are up. Nice work,” Jesse says, with a thumbs-up.

You exhale, relieved, and chuckle lightly—Frank letting go of his hands from yours a split second too late. Disappointment sours your relief when you take a second to think: you weren’t able to do it. Not on your own.

But what matters is that the patient is stable.

“Okay, looks like you both got this. I need to check on Nick Bradley’s parents.” Robby leaves with a wave of his hand, leaving just you, Jesse, and Frank.

“Okay, Miles. Great job. Dr. Garcia is going to be coming down to take a look at your leg. But we reduced what’s called a sternoclavicular dislocation—that’s your dislocated collarbone—so you should be able to breathe better now.

“T-Thank you. For your help. All of you.”

“We’re just doing our jobs,” you say with a soft smile. “Depending on what Dr. Garcia determines regarding your leg, you may have to be admitted to the hospital for surgery, but otherwise you’ll be alright. You’re in good hands.”

Frank chimes in, “Sorry, dude. But I have just got to ask… why steal the ambulance? You know you’re going to prison now.”

You whip your head toward Frank, glaring at him, but otherwise lean into Miles to hear his quiet response. He already asked—might as well hear what Miles has to say.

“That’s just what new pledges do. I just wanted to fit in with my fraternity, and—... I’m fucked, aren’t I?”

“You can still turn your life around, Miles. What’s important now is that you recover—everything else can wait.” You give him a soft smile and pat his hand. “Zac is waiting in another room for you. When Dr. Garcia is done, I'll have someone send him over—and we’ve already contacted your parents. They should be here soon.”

Miles just gives you a nod and a tight-lipped smile back. You discard your gloves in the bin, say your thanks to Jesse, and leave the room with Frank trailing behind.

Frank steps in front of you before you walk off toward your next patient.

“Hey, you did good in there. The kid’ll be alright. He’s going to prison—but at least he’ll live.”

You scratch lightly at your upper arm. “Thanks… but I didn’t really do anything. I ended up needing your help—which I forgot to say, thank you, by the way.” You sigh, looking down and moving your hand to your hip. “Pulling up the clavicle is a lot harder than it looks.”

“No, you did the right thing. You asked for help when you needed it. I’ve worked with people before who would rather let the patient suffer just because they’re too prideful to ask for help. The ED requires teamwork, and you just embodied that.”

You’re taken aback, but Frank’s gaze forces you to maintain eye contact. “I—thank you. You’re right.”

“Aren’t I always?” he jokes, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning toward you.

You raise your eyebrow at him. “Nope. Just this once. Anyway… I need to see at least one more patient before 1 p.m. Mohan told me Robby was pretty strict with her about that earlier today.”

“Alright, well, if we don’t get the chance to talk again before you leave today… Have fun and stay safe.”

“I will. And—well, actually, I do need to talk to you about something before I go. But I’ll find you near the end of my shift. I’d rather we talk then.” You pray he doesn’t press for more. You’re just not ready yet.

Now Frank is the one raising his eyebrow at you. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah—it’s…” You wave your hand. “We’ll just talk later, okay? I really need to get to another patient. See you!” You break out into a sprint to get away from Frank, while he stares at your back, dumbfounded.

Frank’s heart stutters. What does she want to talk to me about?

It’s nearly the end of the hour when you pass by the ambulance bay and see Mel on her phone through the clear doors.

You decide to check in on her and say your goodbyes before heading out to meet Ryan. Over the course of only a few hours, you’ve built a good rapport with her, at least compared to the other three newcomers.

Whitaker is still, understandably, upset by Mr. Milton’s death and has been withdrawn, while Dr. Garcia has taken Santos under her wing and worked with her for most of the day in emergency surgeries. And today’s been a record day for surgical cases.

As for Javadi, she’s too busy flirting with Mateo to pay any attention to you. You don’t mind, though. If there’s anyone Mateo should bend his rule for, it should be for the girl who he can’t seem to stop smiling around.

As you walk out, you hear the tail end of Mel’s conversation.

“You have to find somebody to kiss.”

“You’re right. I do,” Mel says, laughing at the voice.

“Yeah,” the voice giggles back.

“I have to get on that right away.” Mel laughs again. “Okay, Becca, I’ve got to head back in, but I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay! Bye, Mel!” Becca says and hangs up the call.

“Hey, Mel.”

She quickly turns to face you, surprised to see you right behind her.

“Oh—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you, but I’m heading out soon and saw you out here, so I wanted to say bye.”

“Oh. No—it’s okay. I was just wrapping up a phone call with my sister. You’re leaving?” Mel asks, putting her phone back into her pocket.

“Yeah, I’m leaving early because I’m going to Pittfest. You mentioned you have a sister?”

Mel nods adamantly. “Oh, yeah, she and I are very close. It’s the first time we’ve been separated for this long, so I’m just checking in on her.”

“That’s really sweet, Mel. I’m sure she appreciates you checking in.” You pause for a second, then say, “Well, I’ll leave you to it. You’ve done a great job today, by the way. We’re lucky to have you.”

Mel smiles, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. “Really?”

You smile softly back at her. “Of course. And don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite newbie to come in today.” You wink at her, then turn away to leave.

“Wait!” You turn back around. “Um, are you going to tell me how you got your nickname?”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry, I forgot. I think I have some time.” You take a quick look at the time on your phone. It’s five minutes until 1 p.m.

Ryan won’t be happy if you make him wait.

Oh well.

“So, it’s near the end of my shift after my first day in the Pitt, and I’m still an intern.” You start, thinking back to the memory.

After the tiring first day you had, you went out to the ambulance bay to take a quick breather, just like Mel is doing right now.

The summer sun was still out, but it’s slowly setting in the west. Your body’s sore, not because you weren’t used to ER life, but because you’d gotten lost that day more times than you could count. You definitely got your steps in, at least.

It ended up taking you another month to get comfortable finding your way around.

You took a quick glance up at the sun, shielding your eyes from the harshest rays, when you suddenly started to feel dizzy.

A second later, you were on the ground, barely conscious. You recall being just alert enough to know you weren’t seriously injured.

After what felt like another hour—but was really only a few minutes—you were ready to pick yourself up.

But instead, you just continued to lie on the rough concrete—not yet ready to leave. After all, it was the first time you’ve had a chance to be off your feet all day.

You’d let yourself be sacrificed to the mosquitoes gnawing on your arms and face since you knew that someone—EMTs or another doctor—would come out and find you eventually.

A few back-aching minutes later, Dr. Langdon walked out into the bay, a Red Bull in tow, the clacks of his phone’s keyboard signaling that he was sending someone a text.

He looked up from his phone and saw you on the concrete, hands laid over your stomach—laid pretty and perfectly straight and still—like you were being displayed in a casket.

Frank would’ve laughed, but he had already seen more death that day than he cared to.

“Hey, intern, what’re you, dead? Why’re you out here on the ground? It’s the end of your shift. Go home.”

You slowly stood, but once you were at full height, you started to feel wobbly again. Frank quickly put his Red Bull down and stretched his arms out in front of him to steady you.

“Jesus, did something happen? Did you fall out here?” Frank couldn’t help but notice the dark circles underneath your eyes and your frazzled look. Even still, you had a slight grin playing on your lips at the hilarity of it all.

“Oh, ha—yeah, I fell. But I’m fine. Just… dehydrated, I think. I wanted to look at the sun for a minute, and next thing I know, I’m on the ground. I didn’t hit my head or anything, though.” You dusted off your scrubs and stood with your hands on your hips, a wide smile adorning your face.

Frank looked at you like you were insane—which, you probably still are—but lowered his arms back to his side.

He gave you a worried look. “Okay… uh—let’s get you inside and set up with an IV. You need to take better care of yourself. This is only your first day here.” He motioned for you to follow him back inside.

Following him, you said, “I know. Sorry. I have a tendency to forget to take care of myself sometimes. Especially with the stress of a new job in a new place. But I’ll get better.” You gave Frank a reassuring smile.

You realize you still have a tendency to forget to take care of yourself, but you don’t tell Mel that.

Frank gave you an incredulous look but chuckled. “I hope so, sunshine. Maybe next time don’t look right at the sun. I think I have an extra pair of sunglasses you can have.”

After finishing the story, you look back at Mel, whose eyes are locked in on yours as if it was narrated by Morgan Freeman.

“So Dr. Langdon gave you the nickname then? Is it sunny or sunshine?”

“Well—it’s sunny. Eventually the story got spread around, and the name just stuck. Dr. Langdon does call me sunshine sometimes, but it’s… well, that’s just his way of teasing me. I guess. It’s more… embarrassing.”

More intimate. But you don’t say that to Mel either.

“Anyway, I was pretty humiliated about the whole thing for a while, but now I only laugh about it. And sunny isn’t as bad of a nickname as Slow Mo.”

“Slow Mo?”

“Oh—uh, I probably shouldn’t have said anything.” You sigh. “Dr. Mohan’s nickname is Slow Mo. But don’t tell her I told you that! It’s just… mean. Really, she’s an excellent doctor who takes great care of her patients. I look up to her, even though we’re both R3s.”

“No, I—I would never.” Mel earnestly shakes her head, and you automatically believe her.

“Good. Well… that’s the story.” You look at the time again. One more minute until you can clock out. Hopefully Ryan won’t be too pissed. “I really should get going now, though. See you tomorrow, Mel?”

“Yes! Thank you for telling me. You’ve also been a really great mentor today, and well—... I just hope we can be friends.”

“Mel, we’re already friends.” You wink at her, and she abruptly puts her hand up for a high-five. You return it with a grin and turn toward the entrance to head to the locker rooms.

But first, find Frank.

#the pitt fanfiction #frank langdon #frank langdon fic #frank langdon x reader #frank langdon x you #dr langdon x reader #dr langdon #dr langdon x you #the pitt hbo #the pitt #rev.writes

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theboys-inzoi · 2 days ago

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☄️ Chapter 3: Waiting for a Star to fall Episode 7: Get the Party started Previous (Don't fear the Reaper) - Next (Fever)

Summer Solstice - Part 1

It's Summer Solstice, the day the annual event of the Yoga Class takes place. Jack and Vlad are done with their work day (and Jack obviously did find a new outfit at the fashion store. Though Vlad claimed it looks like a cheap rip-off ^^') and headed to the Music Exchange to get a the best microphone for Noxee's performance tonight. But when they entered, Jack noticed his beloved drumkit was gone!

As soon as Gun-Il saw Jack turning and stomping towards him, he'd locked himself up in his office. A wise decision. Jack was furious.

So furious, his shirt ripped ö.ö Jack: "Where? Where is it? You promised to save it for me until I got the money together!"

Gun-Il: "I'm sorry, Jack. We got an offer we couldn't refuse. You know how hard it is to keep the band together." Jack: "What's with the keyboard?" Gun-Il: "You can still have it - if you want." Argh, if he only hadn't bought the clothes! Jack: "Vlad, how much money do you have with you?" Vlad decided not to act up because he never could have imagined to see the bubbly Jack he knew (for only two days, but still) so utterly broken: "Eh, 187M." Jack: "783M, that's all I have. Makes around 1k. The rest we'll work off here. Deal?" Gun-Il "Deal. I'm really sorry." Jack: "Make sure to deliver it to the Evergreen House, tell Francine it's for my friend, her grandson." Jack teared up. Why was his life such a mess? Vlad: "Jack, come."

On their way to the park, where they were going to set up tonight's firework, Vlad tried to distract Jack from his grief: "Is the keyboard for one of your friends you've thought you'd lost? What's his name?" If Jack had other friend options, he wouldn't be that fixated on him, right? But it seemed to make Jack even sadder. Jack: "It's - complicated." Of course it was... They pulled the cart full of firework (Jack had stored in the alley behind Noxee's house for this occassion for a while now) behind a vending machine and Jack connected the detonator with his phone. Jack: "You know, even though summer solstice marks the beginning of summer, and today is the longest day of the year, it also means that after today the days are getting shorter again, and the reign of the Dark King begins. Noxee is a child of the sun, a Bonghwang. So when the sun sets tonight, she'll be a bit sad. Therefore the fireworks."

Vlad thought that sounded all sweet - but: "Is this legal? You know that I can't get myself in any trouble here, right?" Jack: "Don't worry. We have fireworks all the time here. And no one saw us anyway." Yeah, except for the street sweeper looking over at them... and who knows who else saw them. Totally unsuspicious, two guys pushing and shoving a cart full of explosives through the city.

On their way back trough the park, Vlad patted an orange tabby cat. At first glance it looked like Jack's cute fox friend - and his heart hurt. Jack wondered if he was ok - wherever he was.

Back at the Warehouse, when Noxee and Sai were setting up the tables for dinner, Saiwa suddenly sneezed. Noxee: "Someone is thinking of you." Saiwa really hoped not. Too many people were after him. Kareems, that weird stalker, Jack... Noxee: "I know Jack can be a handful, but give him a chance at least. He's a good boy beneath all ... the madness that surrounds him. There aren't that many of us around and we should try to get along, don't you think? All I can say is, I hang around with humans all day, and even if you're close, it's exhausting to constantly hide your true self. I cherish the moments I can be around Francine and Dtui and we can just be ourselves, you know? You could have that with Vlad and Jack too. At least try, hm?" If it only were that easy. Jack was responsible he's stuck here. Who knows what else he's capable of! Also, he couldn't really afford to get close to anyone. He was still on the run after all.

It was noisy at the park. Musicians and singers were competing for the publics attention. And when Jack and Vlad just passed the crossroads at the park,

the Saja had his first appointment . . . He knew this wouldn't be easy. It never was. But he was still so young. The Saja would take his time to make the transition for the poor boy as smooth and easy as possible. That was the least he could do. It was noisy at the park, not many witnessed the ambulance picking up the lifeless body of a homeless boy. No one cared, and no one would miss him.

Regulator Lunvik heard the noises from his room and thought the old ladies were making quite the fuzz about their Yoga Class event... He felt the Bonghwang near and he was fighting to hold himself back from chasing after the light she radiated. But it's not worth it risking his stay here - he'd only get hurt anyway. And he felt awful. Should he try the potions Francine left for him to survive this evening? Only a few more hours. And it was just for dinner. He could do this! After tonight, the Darkness would regain strength again. And he too. Strength to resist the temptation.

'Get this party started

Makin' my connection as I enter the room Everybody's chillin' as I set up the groove Pumpin' up the volume with this brand new beat Everybody's dancin' and their dancin' for me I'm your operator, you can call anytime I'll be your connection to the party line

I'm comin' up so you better get this party started (I'm comin' up, I'm comin') I'm comin' up so you better get this party started (I'm comin' up, I'm comin')'

Get the Party started - P!nk

Playlist Chapter 3 -> Spotify -> youtube Playlist Chapter 2 -> Spotify -> youtube Playlist Chapter 1 -> Spotify -> youtube

TMI: Our first festival in inZOI! There are three posts planned for today, since today is really Summer Solstice and we are posting kind of 'live' ^^'

Previous (Don't fear the Reaper) - Next (Fever) The 'As if it's your last' Story Hub is -> here Read Chapter 3 from the beginning -> here Read Chapter 2 from the beginning -> here Read Chapter 1 from the beginning -> here Chapter 1 Episode Overview -> here Chapter 2 Episode Overview -> here Chapter 3 Episode Overview -> here

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aiiria17 · 3 days ago

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I (re)read The Sight: Warriors, Power of Three

Using the new covers for the image now cause the paintings in the center are circles. No thank you. So now it's time for awkwardly cropped screenshots. Oh well.

I'm finally here. Power of Three is why I started rereading the books. As a kid, it was my favorite arc, Jayfeather was my favorite cat, I probably read The Sight specifically like a ton because every time I'd get a new book you gotta refresh by rereading the prior ones. So this isn't my second read of The Sight but more likely my like 10th.

And you know what, it's actually pretty good. And you know what, Jaypaw is the best. So now I'm going to take you on a journey to show why I really liked the book. And Jaypaw (mostly Jaypaw).

Also I'm going to talk about the big reveal later so spoiler warning but like... if you're reading this you've probably read PoT

Jaykit's Introduction

Unlike previous arcs, Power of Three actually introduces the three as kits, not apprentices. It's an interesting shift that, to me, indicates that the arc is more so meant to focus on the growth of the three characters alongside each other. By showing them as kits we are given a kind of blank slate. The cats are not yet effected by their world and conditions; they are pretty generic at the start. The only exception is Jaykit, due to reasons that aren't immediately obvious.

The first three chapters all follow Jaykit as he navigates the small world he currently inhabits and gets into some classic kit mischief. He helps the reader to catch up with Thunderclan after the estimated half a year Sunset. Everyone is much more ingrained in their lives, with Daisy fitting in much better than before. Their "mother," Squirrelflight, is already back to warrior duties because the kits are old enough and Ferncloud and Daisy can look after them. Not suspicious at all. We see that Sorreltail and Daisy's kits both have been made into apprentices, Daisy's for some time now, even. The first chapters are effectively just adjusting the reader to the Thunderclan that is now just comfortably existing in the lake territory, as opposed to the still-adapting clan that we left off with in The New Prophecy.

There's some subtle little writing quirks though about the first three chapters. Jaykit describes a lot of his environment by smell and sound, as opposed to sight. There's no attention called to it at first, but as a reader, the subtle changes indicate that there is something slightly different about Jaykit as opposed to the previous povs we've gotten. Then, in chapter 3, he drops the exposition equivalent of a bomb on the reader "I hate being blind, I wish I had never been born."

That one line fully changes the tone of Jaykit's character, showing a very unique and different character than all of the previous povs. Jaykit's blindness is immediately interesting because it's an issue that hasn't yet been seen in Warriors. It also establishes the first major trait for his character which is his heavy insecurity surrounding his blindness.

Other than that, the three also try to take out a couple fox cubs and fail, with Jaykit getting injured. Admittedly, it isn't super important in the grand scheme of things but highlights the important aspect of their characters that, early on, they all stick together a lot. While it's pretty typical for kits to do that in Warriors, and cats clearly remain close with their siblings over time, as is shown by Ashfur and Ferncloud still caring for each other in chapter 21, it's important to establish the basis for the three's relationship so that we can see how they all develop separately as they encounter different situations throughout their lives.

Even throughout their kithood they already grow to be rather distinct from where they started. Hollykit wants to become a medicine cat so she can be important to the clan, Lionkit just wants to be a normal warrior and protect his clan and loved ones, and Jaykit wants to become a warrior in spite of how little everyone believes in him to do it.

Hollypaw the Medicine Cat

Hollykit convinces Leafpool to let her become a medicine cat apprentice, though she technically never officially becomes one because she never goes to the moonpool. At least I think that's how that works. Anyways Hollypaw is, undoubtedly, a medicine cat apprentice.

Hollypaw's story is a mixture of her misapplying herself in pursuing her goals and struggling with the expectations she places on herself. Explicitly, Hollypaw becomes a medicine cat so that she can feel important to the clan. This isn't even analysis, in chapter 4, the first thought she has that makes her lean towards being a medicine cat is "Imagine being that important to the clan." Funnily enough, Leafpool absolutely does not care and just wants Jaykit to be a medicine cat. There's even a line where Leafpool uses male pronouns when talking about a possible medicine cat apprentice and Hollykit's like "wow that's weird." Even weirder given that Thunderclan hasn't had a male medicine cat in the entire series so far (by release, not chronologically). Boy I wonder who's going to be a medicine cat.

When she becomes an apprentice, it's kind of obvious that Hollypaw's heart isn't in the actual medicine cat duties but more so the allure of the archetype of the medicine cat; of someone who is central to and influential in clan life. However, she doesn't actually want to do the work of the role: it's explicitly stated that she hates dealing with wounds and blood and stuff, just finding it really icky. Honestly, Hollypaw's situation is very realistic and I'm surprised it isn't more common. I mentioned it with Leafpool's character, but the main conflict medicine cats have is that they choose their roles from a very young age. Leafpool, in The New Prophecy, was clearly not fully prepared, as Leafkit, for the isolation she would feel in her role, especially after Cinderpelt dies. Hollypaw kind of shows the cause to the result. From the perspective of a kit, a medicine cat is going to be viewed very 1-dimensionally. Hollykit sees what she wants to see in the role of a medicine cat as part of a subconscious desire to find a role in the clan where she can stand out; her desire for social standing is arguably one of the most important parts of her character.

So Hollypaw becomes a medicine cat apprentice, and a new dimension is added to her perspective that makes her shy away from it pretty quickly. There's no real subtle buildup to her becoming a warrior apprentice, she's explicitly just interested in fighting, notably enjoying fighting training way more than that icky plant stuff. The last piece of the puzzle is the conversation she has with Brook, who's in Thunderclan now by the way. Brook immediately calls that Hollypaw is seeking a role where she can be important and points out that the social structure of the clans does not really require a cat to have a fancy role for them to gain importance. Take, of all characters, Tigerclaw in The Prophecies Begin. In spite of the, you know, evil, Tigerclaw is a well respected member of the Thunderclan (again, before the whole murdering stuff) even before being appointed deputy. Afterwards, cats like Brambleclaw gain influence without the title and, while they both become deputy later, and are both evil and terrible examples to follow after, it shows how title is not actually super important to the clans. I'm going to try to think of a non evil example, but the best I can do is Dustpelt, who's respected a lot despite being just some dude. But I also don't like Dustpelt cause he's still kinda gross. Uhh... Cloudtail? Sandstorm? Do those count? Sure.

Tangent aside, Brook basically just tells Hollypaw to play to her strengths to gain reputation instead of pursuing a job she'd hate. So she becomes a warrior apprentice instead, going to Brackenfur. Let's go Brackenfur.

Hollypaw's character arc is relatively one of a kind (ignoring the literal parallel arc Jaypaw has in The Sight). She is a cat who actually struggles with not really knowing what she wants to be and actually finds a relatively solid outcome. Her arc establishes a solid foundation for her goals and interests as a character: she wants to be a good fighter, respected and trusted in the clan, and probably wants to be deputy, if I had to guess. Her other interest is in the warrior code, which she at one point just randomly starts obsessing over, I think partially to give just another sign that she could not care less about that whole being a doctor thing. I know how Hollyleaf ends up, but don't remember the road that leads from point A to point B, and you know the saying: it's about the character arc, not the going missing for like half of Omen of the Stars. That's the saying, right?

Jaypaw & Brightheart

It's time for me to fulfill my role as supreme leader of the Jaypaw defense squad. Jaypaw and Brightheart do not get along well at all throughout Jaypaw's brief warrior apprenticeship, and he's a jerk about it. There's no denying that Jaypaw is unnecessarily difficult to deal with, and I'm not going to justify his behavior, he's not supposed to be defended, but instead explain it.

Obviously, as I mentioned earlier, Jaypaw's very insecure about his blindness and specifically hates when cats assume he can do less. A key point is that it is extremely rare for characters to just ask Jaypaw about anything but is very common for characters to act in protecting him without asking if he needs or wants it. Brightheart is appointed to be his mentor because she is half blind and he is full blind, which, to Firestar, is close enough. Immediately, there's an issue in logic, as Jaypaw is correct to identify, Brightheart's half blindness is not really comparable to Jaypaw's blindness. They are two different conditions and their mistaken similarity is just another example of Jaypaw being a victim of the incorrect assumptions of clanmates who refuse to just ask him. Not even to say Brightheart's a bad choice for a mentor (she'd be a good mentor to anyone, probably), but their relationship starts off on the wrong foot because the reasoning given to Jaypaw is just another example of the pattern of behavior that frustrates him constantly.

I also just think Brightheart doesn't really treat Jaypaw well. As his mentor, she's extremely ignorant of his feelings and desires, even when he does kind of just directly express them. Obviously it is her job to guide Jaypaw's mentorship but, really, she doesn't seem to listen to him at all. I think Brightheart wants Jaypaw to succeed so that she can prove herself to the clan. Part of her character is how she still has insecurities lingering under the surface, even years after TPB, and Jaypaw's treatment results from those insecurities. I don't want to read too hard into Brightheart beyond that because we're already on the border of just making stuff up, and I don't want to cross that line, but my main point is just that she isn't good at handling Jaypaw. He needs a mentor who actually cares about and respects him and Brightheart doesn't do that. There's never a moment where she actually has a conversation with him, there's never a moment where Brightheart actually tries to connect with Jaypaw as a clanmate, she just keeps on assuming how he needs to be treated, just like almost every other cat. It's why I actually like Leafpool as his mentor because, while she gets frustrated at him for good reason, you can tell she genuinely does care about him beyond just trying to churn out a fully trained cat.

The best show of how Jaypaw never actually gets spoken to at all throughout his warrior apprenticeship is when he runs off to Windclan. The uncharitable interpretation of author intent is that the scene shows that Jaypaw may actually not be able to function as a warrior. And there's admittedly a degree of truth to it. I've had a blind dog in the past, but not cat, so I don't know how accurate everything I say will be but I think there's a degree of similarity so I'm just gonna roll with it. While Jaypaw can definitely operate on Thunderclan territory just fine (blind animals tend to end up great at navigating their homes), the issue is if he ever had to fight elsewhere. Jaypaw would definitely not be familiar with the territory of the other clans, at least not enough to fight on them with cats who are native to the area. But I also just like, don't think that being a warrior is or really ever has been defined by fighting other clans. Even in battles, they leave warriors behind to defend, which Jaypaw would be capable at. Back to Jaypaw running off. The other purpose is to introduce a couple characters but who cares about that. The other purpose of the scene, the pretty obvious purpose, is that Jaypaw is just really mad about not getting to explore the territory and taking matters into his own hands. Paws. Whatever.

So I think there's enough in The Sight to paint a full picture of why Jaypaw being a warrior apprentice didn't work out. It's not his blindness- it's the clan deciding that he's incapable for him. It's not his attitude- the attitude is directly derived from the way he is treated and how little his clanmates care to try and reach out to him. It's not his lack of belief in himself- he'd probably have more apprentice skills if his mentor would train him like ever. The big battle which the next section is about is what kills his self esteem, as Lionpaw has to guide him to say where his opponent is. Jaypaw takes it as if he'd never be able to fight on his own, but the actual issue he ran into was Brightheart literally never training him, despite fighting without full use of vision being, like, the one special skill she has (other than being a sometimes medicine helper).

It's weird to say that Brightheart does influence Jaypaw way more than she's given credit for. Her mishandling of Jaypaw deeply effects him and makes him more closed off and results in him giving up on being a warrior, which was his dream. Jaypaw's a young cat and desperately needed a mentor who would respect and support him, but got one that seemingly only wanted to help him insofar as it made her look more reliable to the clan at large and dismisses his emotional trouble as just a bad attitude.

I like (liked? not sure anymore) Brightheart but wow The Sight is her at her absolute worst.

Lionpaw Aura Farming (or, the fight scenes have noticeably improved)

There isn't much to say about Lionpaw in The Sight. He doesn't do much and doesn't have a lot of chapters to himself. His only notable traits are being competitive, being protective of Jaypaw to an extent, and fighting. But I wanna take a second to talk about the way Power of Three does fights.

In previous arcs, I was really underwhelmed by all of the fight scenes. Scourge vs. Firestar is kind of underwhelming, Brambleclaw vs. Hawkfrost isn't particularly interesting, and even the fights with the badgers are pretty bland. The problem is just that they aren't very long or dynamic. The best example is Scourge vs. Firestar, specifically after the second time after Firestar comes back with his awesome leader powers. It's the last fight of the entire arc, between the (kind of) main villain and the hero, it should be very interesting and a climax point of the whole arc. Instead, it is three pages where they kind of swat at each other until Firestar gets a kill on Scourge. And the language used to depict the fights feels very objective.

Here's an excerpt of the fight. See how the language doesn't really depict Firestar's thoughts throughout the fight and instead just feels kind of bland.

To contrast, chapter 15 of Power of Three depicts a very long and descriptive fight that's much more engaging, much more emotional, than what the previous arcs offered.

To compare, here's an excerpt from Chapter 15. We see Lionpaw's individual motivation in the battle, how he has a personal interest in what he's doing compared to just blankly describing how a fight goes. Additionally, the language is much more violent. Compare the phrase "He managed to grip the BloodClan leader near the base of his tail" to "Lionpaw threw himself at Oakfur, clamping his jaws around the ShadowClan warrior's tail." Despite depicting almost identical actions, the description in The Sight has much more weight to it because the language is just better fit for the situation. Honestly it was the most refreshing surprise about reading Power of Three. I expected to just be let down more with the fights scenes but was pleasantly surprised by just how much they improved, even just from Sunset.

Anyways, to make the title not clickbait, the reason Lionpaw actually comes out seeming super cool is because the fight scenes, which are his domain, are so good. It truly is Lionpaw hype moments and aura.

Jaypaw becomes a medicine cat

Back to the real main character (Lionpaw has like 3 chapters compared to Jaypaw's majority of the book lmao). Jaypaw is convinced (coerced) by Starclan to become Thunderclan's new healer in training. He doesn't want to, but the cat gods don't care about the emotions of the actual child. Or the emotions of anyone. So Jaypaw officially becomes Leafpool's apprentice.

He hates it a lot at first. A lot of Jaypaw's job early on is literally just checking in on Mousefur and Longtail, despite them both being totally fine. And by totally fine, I mean that Mousefur has greencough. It's the first actual challenge to Jaypaw's attitude, as he no longer is just a harmless victim to the world around him but has actually directly caused harm via his neglect. Mousefur has had greencough for a little bit by the time Jaypaw notices, but he refuses to put in the effort to help her. The greencough in Thunderclan sets off the first major shift to Jaypaw's character in the positive as he begins to acknowledge the weight of his duty to the clan. Negligence for him doesn't just cause a slightly emptier fresh kill pile, it causes cats to die. He's put into a situation where "apathetic jerk Jaypaw" can't work. He has to care, and that brings out the fact that he always truly has.

Why was Jaypaw so committed to being a warrior at first? Obviously, proving himself and just conforming to social norms are both a part of it, but why is he so dedicated to that specific path. He knows that being a medicine cat is respectable, but seems set to become a warrior anyways. I'd argue that his dedication to warrior comes from him wanting to help the clan. Jaypaw never seems to hunger after the title of "warrior" more so than the actions associated with it. While this is a very arguable point that seems somewhat contradictory, I do have some reasonings. If Jaypaw just wanted to be a warrior, there's no reason that he would ever really care about being able to fight super well or whatever. At the end of the day, he's almost guaranteed to get his name eventually, especially having grandpappy Firestar as leader (it's just now hitting me that Firestar and Sandstorm are grandparents in this arc which is wild). Jaypaw specifically wants to hunt and fight and do everything and, while yes, he does want to prove his equality to the clanmates who don't believe in him, I do think he wants to also provide and care for his clan, just as other warriors do.

Greencough in Thunderclan awakens that desire to care for the clan within Jaypaw, who no longer is being lazy and careless towards his duties. He works himself beyond what he can handle, with Leafpool not even being able to convince him to sleep throughout the worst part of the epidemic. All of the changes to Jaypaw's character come to a point when he literally revives Poppypaw from the dead. Jaypaw walks into Poppypaw's dream/walk to Starclan and just... convinces her to not die. Two things: 1. crazy power implications for the Jaypaw powerscalers (I got curious - only two cats on the vs wiki are Scourge, 9C, and Firestar, 9C OR 8C with whatever is meant by "environmental destruction. Therefore, Firestar with environmental destruction is even with Sly Cooper), 2. Jaypaw's actions show the culmination of the care he has for his clanmates when he will literally bring them back from the dead personally while working himself to the bone to help them.

Now you may argue that guilt is a factor in how Jaypaw acts, and you're not wrong. Jaypaw's negligence worsens the greencough epidemic early on as he basically ignored Mousefur's case, and he directly blames himself for everything, which is why he wants to save people. Their deaths would be on his hands. But guilt doesn't work in a vacuum; if he didn't care he wouldn't care, simple as that. Jaypaw's guilt is something born from his love of his clan. Jaypaw shifts from a medicine cat out of obligation to a medicine cat who truly wants to help his clan, even if he'd rather die than earnestly show it.

There's two other main events with Jaypaw in The Sight to talk about real quick: his moonpool trip and the daylight gathering. I'm giving the Cat Olympics its own section because... come on I gotta it's the CAT OLYMPICS. So instead let's watch Jaypaw fail at making friends and learn to hate atheism. He's talking to Willowpaw, when she just randomly grabs him and pulls him away from a rabbit hole. Now, I will say. In the reddit aita way of viewing the scene, Jaypaw is the asshole. He attacks Willowpaw for trying to help him, which is taking it way too far. But again it's more interesting to ask the question of "why?" and the answer is because Willowpaw, someone who Jaypaw was supposed to be an equal to, acted as though she was having to watch after him like he was a child. Before, the figures who were treating Jaypaw as though he couldn't care for himself were at least literally a step (or more) up on the social hierarchy, but Willowpaw's action, which Jaypaw interprets as her seeing him as lesser, provokes him because, to him, she's treating him like he's incapable. Also: Jaypaw knew about the hole Willowpaw took him out of the way of. That part is very important, as it means that Willowpaw was, looking objectively, incorrect; Jaypaw didn't need her and, as a cat in that instance, they were equals. To reiterate though, Jaypaw is still an aggressive jerk and Willowpaw didn't deserved a unsheathed claw attack for just being a tad bit rude on accident.

More importantly, Jaypaw asks "hey how come Mothwing doesn't care about Starclan?" Leafpool says "hey how come you won't shut up." Yeah that's really all there is to say about that.

Warrior cat Olympics??? HUHHHH?

I somehow completely forgot that this even happened. It's such a funny part of the plot.

For those who don't remember, the clans are mad about how winter was really mean to them. They are doubting the still new territory. Many of the cats are also blaming Thunderclan, saying Starclan is smiting them for taking in outsiders. Or something. So, to ease the tension, Squirrelflight proposes a fun competition between the apprentices in the clan during the day so that they can not be sad any more. All the leaders love the idea, except Blackstar, who only loves being vaguely mad at Thunderclan. But nobody asked him so the plan goes on anyways, and Shadowclan is involved in spite of their leader's pro tier hating.

The two main events that the reader sees are Heatherpaw and Hollypaw's fight and Lionpaw and Breezepaw's hunting competition. It's a really cute way to let the cats scuffle and show off some things without the weight of battles to the death. Hollypaw gets to show off her skills in battle to indicate that she made the right choice, Lionpaw gets to show off that he's way cooler than Breezepaw, and Jaypaw gets to show off that he's really, really sad.

Hollypaw and Heatherpaw's for funsies fight is still more dynamic than the actual fight to the death between Brambleclaw and Hawkfrost. The main plot event is when Jaypaw gets a weird prophetic vision of Lionpaw dying in a hole. What could it mean?

It means that Lionpaw nearly dies in a hole, obviously, so Jaypaw sets off immediately to go help him (and Breezepaw, but the only thing he does is stir up more romantic tension between Leafpool and Crowfeather). He succeeds and gets recognized as a hero by all of the clans. It's a moment that should be a highlight for Jaypaw- he is finally being recognized for what he does, blindness set aside- but the key thing is that Jaypaw doesn't seem interested. It seems contradictory for a character driven entirely by external validation to reject it, but he's not logical. He's young and not emotionally healthy, no single action is going to be able to fully help him see the world brighter. It's a really sad resolution, showing that Jaypaw is a character who will never be satisfied despite his eternal craving for satisfaction. In a series fully built around characters seeking being seen as powerful, see Brambleclaw shooting to be deputy, Leafpool's dedication to be a medicine cat, even abandoning Crowfeather for it, Firestar ending up as a leader through his intense dedication, Jaypaw stands out quite a bit. He doesn't feel comfortable within any title, he always wants more. At the very end of the book, he's given it. Jaypaw learns from Starclan that he is powerful and unique, and, for the first time, he is satisfied with himself.

The Sight and The Spoiler

Fellas, foreshadowing is so cool.

There's a lot of things mentioned that seem like obvious indicators for Squirrelflight not being the mother that are funny in retrospect. Like her leaving the nursery early? Yeah that's normal and only entirely unprecedented. I mean generally speaking Squirrelflight is not really involved with the three beyond like Firestar calling her in to tell them off with the fox. She's kind of an absent mother for them. Almost as if...

The other big spoiler is that Ashfur is evil. He's abnormally present in a lot of random conversations, even taking a random jab at Brambleclaw that he (is too stupid to) doesn't pick up on, seemingly (though he still doesn't trust Ashfur). The line in question is "...Ashfur growled. 'Some cats will always try to take what another cat has.'" I wonder what he could mean by that. Overall, his villainy, for now, peaks at making Squirrelflight and Brambleclaw uncomfortable, but the set up is there. Ashfur is obviously not quite over what happened in Sunset (to be fair, I'm also still mad about Sunset, though for different reasons) and, despite how normally he comes across, there's that looming backdrop of jealousy that sets up... nothing in particular I'm sure.

Conclusion!!

I didn't wanna mention it when I originally brought it up because I do try to at least mostly keep on topic (to varying degrees of success) but small lore question, if it's ever answered or even hinted at: how come Poppypaw can literally just be told "yeah you can live." Like she is explicitly dead and walking to Starclan, but Jaypaw says "please don't" and Spottedleaf just... turns her away? I think you can tell the question I have: why can they just do that? Why do any cats die if Starclan is able to just let them not die? Like imagine Nightstar. He died of sickness and, no disrespect to Poppypaw, but was extremely important to the clan. If Starclan had just let Nightstar go home, Tigerstar would not have even happened. So why don't they let cats who die just simply not die? The narrative reason is that it would be dumb but is there a lore reason? I am actually just asking (unless it's a spoiler)

Okay now for the proper conclusion. The Sight is the Jaypaw book. He takes up the most "screen" time of the three, slightly beating out Hollypaw and eclipsing Lionpaw. I actually got bored and control-f'd the names "Jaypaw" and "Lionpaw" and Jaypaw shows up literally twice as often as Lionpaw (701 vs. 350). Luckily, Jaypaw is also the most compelling character the series has to offer right now. I see why he was my favorite. Everything about him is so distinct and interesting in contrast to other pov characters seen so far.

I'm excited to read Dark River. I decided to not start the next book until I finish the post, at least for Power of Three. The reason I chose that is because I tend to actually think through my thoughts a lot while writing. It's why a lot of the posts tend to lean on the rambly side (though hilariously enough, the most rambly post is the Sunset post, which is the one where I came in knowing exactly what I wanted to write).

While writing this post, I started reading, and got about halfway through, The Book of Eels. Very interesting book so far, would recommend. It is, contrary to the title, not entirely about eel facts. Don't worry, it still has a heaping tablespoon of cool eel facts.

Okay well if you disagree with anything or just have an opinion you wanna throw at me do it I throw one back like opinion frisbee.

bye bye

#jayfeather #lionblaze #hollyleaf #warrior cats #wc #warriors #power of three #the sight

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gyusvalentinesz · 3 days ago

Text

OFFLINE

HELLO YA'LL!!! This week I've been SUPER busy with work, but I'm finally done so I wrote chapter 3 of OFFLINE. Here is Chapter 1, and Chapter 2! This chapter is a little bit longer than the other two, so I hope ya'll don't mind. (It's all cause of these damn texting scenes...) ˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆ After what seemed like a whole lot of nothing, you make a deal that got you further than what you ever expected. Though, you might be in a little trouble. ˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆ WORD COUNT: 3.9K!

!CHAPTER 3!- Deal with Her Number One Fan

It’s been two days since Douma’s last reply. Ever since that night, you’ve been texting— no, begging him to tell you at least one more thing! But guess what? He just had to be an asshole and leave you on read.

In the meantime, you've been going back on OmeTV every chance you get. You constantly try finding Ume and her brother. At this point, it’s becoming an obsession.

It might seem weird how absorbed you are in the whole thing, and getting involved into a stranger's life, but you truly mean no harm at all. Your heart shattered when her brother ended the call with you.

Ume seemed so desperate to keep talking to you, because you were the only person who really saw her.

But of course, it had to come to an end.

Now, you’re here.

☆ !Sub Chapter 1!- Fair Exchange

It’s a cloudy, foggy, and scorching hot day. Earlier, you tried to sit on a bench— but long story short? That shit was made out of metal and you completely burnt your ass.

“Great.” You muttered under your breath. “Exactly what I needed to start the day off. Just beautiful.”

After the bench incident, you dragged yourself through the rest of the day. One brainless, ignorant, impatient customer at a time.

Now, you’re finally in the break room. You’re slumped in a plastic chair that squeaks every time you shift. The whole day, your brain has been locked on one thing. Douma.

You open your laptop and check your messages, and as always, there’s nothing new. You can’t take this anymore. There has to be a way to get him to talk, right?

“Ughh…” You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “What the hell am I gonna do?” You say as you lean your head back and stare at the ceiling tiles.

Why is he doing this? Your eyes stay glued to the ceiling, your mind running through every dumb idea possible. You’ve already tried guilt tripping him, leaving him on read, and bribing him with compliments. Spoiler alert? None of it worked.

After two minutes of nothing, it finally clicks! Your eyes widen, and your head snaps forward.

“Wait…” you whispered. “Wait, wait, wait.”

A slow, smug grin spreads across your face as you stand up straight in your chair.

He’s obsessed with Shinobu, you remembered. You’ve seen the way Shinobu describes him, all dramatic and wanting attention from her.

He wants her so badly? Well he can get her. All he needs to do is get through you and tell you where the hell Ume lives. It’s not that difficult.

“If I give him her number,” you mutter, “he’ll definitely talk.”

You grabbed your phone and opened your messages with Mitsuri, typing so fast that you misspelled almost everything.

MITSURIII I HAV A PLAN! it’s kinda eviil but its aldo kinda genuous *genuouf *genioud *genius

Mitsuri 💗🌸: WHAT. WHAT DO YOU MEAN?? WHAT PLAN? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

You smirked, already typing.

i’m gonna give douma shinobu’s number if he talks

You watched the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. Then, finally—

Mitsuri 💗🌸: girl no she’s gonna kill us, are u crazy?? but also… on second thought wait that might actually work??

You smile a little, because you can practically hear her panicked gasp through the screen.

Mitsuri 💗🌸: do NOT tell her I said that she’ll poison my boba tea

You start laughing, and go back to typing.

i wont tell on u if you don’t tell on me first 😇

Another pause, then—

Mitsuri 💗🌸: …fine.

Just as your fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to type the most mischievous message of your life—

BAM!

The break room door flew open so hard even the doorstopper couldn’t stop it. You flinched so hard that you almost threw your laptop across the room in fear.

“Y/N!”

Your coworker Sanemi stormed in like a hurricane. He looks insane. His hair is sticking up in all directions, and his name tag is crooked. It’s always crooked.

“What the hell are you still doin’ back here?!” He snapped, voice echoing off the tile. “You’re fifteen minutes late to cash!”

You blinked, still processing what is happening.

“…Okay, but was slamming the door necessary?” You muttered.

“Get your dingy ass out there before I start clockin’ your hours for you. Those self checkout machines are fuckin’ broken, and I’m the only damn cashier out there! Customers are pissed.”

He jabbed a finger towards the door like it personally offended him.

You stand up, and close your laptop with a sigh. “Ugh, I hate it here.”

“You think I don’t?!” Sanemi yells as you pass by him.

☆

After surviving your shift and barely escaping Sanemi’s wrath, you finally made it home. Your feet hurt, your back ached, and your eyes somehow got sunburnt. Despite that, none of it mattered.

You refreshed the chat, still nothing. You sighed, fingers already typing.

Y/N_Is_N/Y! heyy, I have something you want. 👀

You didn’t even get a chance to blink before the typing bubble popped up.

ThatOneLeader_DoumaMWAH oooh? is it cake? is it a kiss? is it someone’s number??

Your eyes narrowed as you read the messages. He’s such a cocky bastard.

Y/N_Is_N/Y! maybe the last one. Do u remember meeting a short girl with purple hair in a bun?? she might’ve been wearing a butterfly hair clip i’ll give u her number, but only if u actually tell me where ume and gyutaro live.

The typing bubble stopped, then came back.

ThatOneLeader_DoumaMWAH um okay! ask me anything, girly!!

You sat up straighter, staring at the screen. You did it. You finally did it! You got Douma to stop ignoring you! Shinobu will be so pissed off at you— but you finally got him to talk!

“Oh my god, YES!” You squeal, taking a deep breath before going back on your laptop.

Y/N_Is_N/Y! can u tell me the neighbourhood ume and gyutaro are in??

ThatOneLeader_DoumaMWAH Okay okay okay… but if i tell u this, u owe me. Big time. Maybe set up a date with that girl for me??

Y/N_Is_N/Y! dear lord… okay??

ThatOneLeader_DoumaMWAH thanks darling 😘 anyways… they live on RR Court. one of the houses closer to Wara Street.

You squint at the screen, trying to picture the area in your head. You had actually passed by there before. Most of the homes in that area are either covered in vines, or slowly corroding with time.

Y/N_Is_N/Y! can u take me there? U said u used to live there, so u must know how to get there

ThatOneLeader_DoumaMWAH …U wanna meet up? 👀 That’s wonderful! Are we gonna have a little date? U and me?

Y/N_Is_N/Y! Douma. Please.

ThatOneLeader_DoumaMWAH Okay okay!! Meet me tomorrow. At night though, bc that’s when their mom is at work. Outside the laundromat near the intersection. I’ll walk u there. U gotta wear sneakers though in case we have to run, it's sketchy as hell.

You stared at the screen. This was actually happening. Tomorrow, you are finally going to see where Gyutaro and Ume really lived, and if it’s as bad as it seemed.

☆ !SUB CHAPTER 2!- Location Found

It is exactly one hour before you’re supposed to meet Douma, and the anticipation is eating you alive.

You sat by the window in your bedroom, bouncing your knee. You had already gotten ready two hours before, so now all you have to do is wait. You watch a stray black cat claw on a fence, before hopping over it. The streetlights flicker behind the cat.

All of a sudden, your phone buzzes. You check to see a message from Douma saying,

“Don’t forget our little date tonight 💕bring a fork in your bag or something if u wanna survive the walk lol”

You roll your eyes as you read the message. Of course he was treating this like a game! Though, bringing a fork might not be a bad idea. Deep down, you were grateful he agreed to do this for you. Your thoughts were glued to Ume and Gyutaro, and the way you could still hear her begging in the background even when the camera cut out.

You haven’t been sleeping much, or even eating right either. And now, here you are— getting ready to sneak out and meet a guy you barely knew, all for the sake of learning more.

You checked your backpack again just to make sure you have everything you need. Keys? Check. Pepper spray? Again, check. Fork? Right in the bottom of your bag.

You turn your phone on again to check the time, and it’s 8:30PM, already time to go!

“Shit!” You exclaim, picking up your bag and slinging it over your shoulder before rushing downstairs. You try not to stomp too loud, since Mitsuri is half asleep on the couch. The last thing you need right now is a pop quiz about where the hell you’re going.

You rush out the door, and swiftly lock it. The night air immediately hits you like a train. You wish you could just sit out here and enjoy the breeze, but you don’t have time to waste. Douma was probably on his way, skipping like a freak.

After fourteen minutes of walking, you finally make it to the laundromat. You hug your jacket nervously as you stand outside the place you and Douma agreed to meet up at.

“Douma? Are you there?” You mutter as you look around. You seem like an idiot. Every few minutes, a car would pass and light up the empty sidewalk, but Douma still hadn’t shown up.

You put your hands in your pockets, and start walking away. You were just about to leave until—

“BOO!” Douma shouts as he jumps from behind a trash can.

“AHHH!!” You scream as you feel your soul leave your body.

Douma laughed, stepping from out behind the trash can like a horror movie character. He was wearing baggy jeans, a t-shirt with the graphic design of some lady made of ice, and a red hoodie.

“You scared the hell out of me!” You hissed.

“I know!” He grinned, “That was the point!”

As he steps closer to you, you’re finally noticing how tall and unique this guy is. His frame stands tall at a staggering 6’1ft, looking down at you with his colorful eyes. Shinobu wasn’t lying when she said this guy was strange.

“Ready for your little field trip?” He teased, bouncing on his heels. “It’s about a ten minute walk. Hope you don’t mind… the scenic route.”

You don’t know what that meant, but you followed anyway.

You walked side by side down the cracked sidewalk and the broken curbs. Douma is slightly ahead, humming something that sounded too cheery for this hour. For some reason, he’s not stepping on the cracks.

“You’re braver than you look, you know?” He said, swinging his arms as he walked. “Most people would completely ghost after a call with Ume. But you? You’re diving in head first!”

“I didn’t really have a choice,” you mutter, eyes scanning the cracked sidewalk ahead.

“Her brother and her mom were fighting. Ume looked scared. And that house? Something is wrong.”

“Oh, baby, everything’s wrong in that house.” Douma snaps his fingers, replying sassily. “Always has been.”

You look over at him. “You said you used to go there?”

“Mmhmm,” he nodded, too cheerful.

“Back when Gyutaro was, like, twelve? Thirteen? He used to show up on this one bench, always bleeding from somewhere. Never said why. He’d just ask for food and go. Oh! One time he brought Ume— she was super tiny at the time. She was clinging onto his shirt like he was a human teddy bear. I suppose their mom hated it when he took her out, since I never saw her outside again.”

Your stomach turned. You want to ask why, but you already know why. Ume’s mom treats her like she's been blessed from birth, and her brother’s a demon from hell who’d ruin her life.

“It’s so fucked up.” You say flatly, “I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

“Right?” He smiled.

You two kept walking, and the houses started looking worse. More windows boarded up, untrimmed lawns, and everything covered in dirt.

“Almost there,” Douma said, his tone suddenly lowered. “You’ll know it when you see it. Their place is the one that feels like it’s watching you.”

You look at him, slightly confused. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Not even a little…” He says.

The second you turned the corner, you knew which house it was. The house sat like it had been left there to rot. It’s leaning behind a bending fence, half swallowed by overgrown hedges.

Douma slowed down, strangely quiet now. He gestured to the porch with the nod of his head. “This is it.”

You look at the house, and swallow hard. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest. This is the place where Ume and Gyutaro live, where secrets could possibly be hiding in every corner.

Douma steps on the porch and confidently knocks on their door. As seconds pass, you can hear faint sounds from inside. All the rustling quickly gets replaced by slow, heavy footsteps approaching the entrance.

The door slowly creaks open, revealing a figure looming in the dim light. He’s clearly tall, and he’d certainly be taller than Douma if he’d just stand up straight.

He’s lean, with wild untamed black and green curls falling messily around his face. His icy blue eyes immediately darted to Douma’s, and this man looked so bent out of shape…

“Douma?” Gyutaro's voice is low, curious at first, but quickly turning protective. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Douma, being an idiot, gave a lazy grin. “Just came to check on some old friends!”

After settling his gaze onto Douma, Gyutaro sets it onto you. It’s obvious that he’s curious, and instantly protective. That's no surprise though— because who even are you? To Gyutaro, you’re just some random woman that Douma brought along to mess with him.

“And who the hell is this?” Gyutaro demanded, stepping forward. He straightens his back, his posture turning aggressive.

You take a deep breath, stepping forward aswell.

“My name’s Y/N,” you said clearly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I—uh, I’ve met Ume online. A couple days ago? I wanted to see if she’s okay.”

At those words, Gyutaro’s face twists into a grimace. “Ume didn’t fuckin’ invite you. Don't think for a second she did.”

Before you can say anything else, Gyutaro’s eyes flash with anger. His jaw clenched, and his voice dropped lower.

“She’s my sister. I’m the only one who gets to protect her.” He says, reaching his hand up to scratch the back of his neck.

You watch as his long fingernails dig into his skin, tearing apart his own flesh before it regenerates in an instant. You don’t know whether to be concerned, disgusted, or both.

Douma steps in between you and Gyutaro, raising his hands mockingly.

“Easy, Gyu. Chill. She’s not here to hurt anyone!”

Wrong move, Douma. Wrong move.

Gyutaro hates being told to “chill”. Something about that word just makes his blood boil, because who is anyone to tell him to “chill”? With all the anger and pain he’s experienced in his life, he has the right to be mad at everything.

“Chill?” He snarled as he stepped forward, ready to snap. “You think I’m just gonna act chill when some stranger shows up at my doorstep acting like she owns the damn place?!”

His fists clenched tightly, knuckles whitening. His whole body is radiating this negative, dangerous energy.

“I don’t care who the hell she thinks she is. This isn’t my family. And I’m not gonna sit back and watch you drag her into whatever shit you’re in!”

Gyutaro swiftly steps forward, stepping on Douma’s foot. His right arm has already lifted, ready to throw a punch at Douma.

“HEY!” A soft, worried voice cuts through.

Behind Gyutaro’s shoulder, you see Ume step forward and pull her brother’s arm back. She looks at her brother, then at you. At first, she’s like, “Oh, another visitor.” But then she realizes it’s you. Y/N.

Her eyes widen as they lock onto yours. “Y/N?” She whispered, her voice full of disbelief and relief at the same time.

Gyutaro froze, his other fist still held raised. His head snapped towards his sister, confusion flickering across his face.

“You know her?” He growled.

Ume nodded frantically, “Yes! Yes! Onii-chan, she’s the girl from a couple days ago! Remember? She was the who… who tried to help me.”

Her voice trembled slightly, but carried a determination that surprised you.

Gyutaro's glare shifted from anger to something raw and unsure. “I told you to stop talking to her!” His voice is sharp, but there’s a hint of worry buried underneath.

“I know you did! But I didn’t know she was gonna come visit…” Ume said quietly. “You’re always out there, and Mom’s… Mom’s always watching. I just wanted someone to talk to.”

Gyutaro stood still, thinking about whether or not to let you in. His jaw is clenched tight, and the veins on his neck are still visible from how close he’d come to knocking Douma out.

Finally he exhaled hard through his nose, then turned his back and muttered, “Fine. Get in,”

Ume smiles at you and nods, but you still hesitate.

“I said get in.” He snaps without looking at you. “Before someone sees you out here.”

“Okay.” You say quietly as you step inside. Their floors are extremely creaky, so you try not to step too hard. The air inside is humid, with their walls yellowed from cigarette smoke. There’s a long hallway that’s only lit by a dim lamp near the end. You glance around, heart still thumping.

Ume followed close behind, her hand briefly brushing your sleeve.

Gyutaro didn’t look at either of you as he walked down the narrow hallway.

“Don’t touch anything. Don't wander around. Don’t say her name,” he muttered, referring to their mother with venom in his voice. “You wanna talk? Fine. But don’t think for a second that I trust you.”

“I’m not here to make things worse. I just wanted to help.” You explain, glancing down at Ume with sadness in your eyes before looking back at him.

He stops walking and slowly turns around. “You showing up here, with him?” He flicked a look towards Douma, who was examining a picture on the wall like this was an art museum. “That’s already worse.”

“I didn’t bring her to hurt anyone, Gyutaro.” Douma sang from the corner, voice filled with fake sweetness.

“Shut up before I kick your ass out.” Gyutaro growled, not even turning to face Douma.

Douma raised his hands playfully in surrender, lips twitching into that same careless grin he always has. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave.”

Before another word could slip out of anyone’s mouth, you feel a gentle tug on your wrist.

You look down, and it’s Ume. “Come with me,” she whispered quickly, tugging on your sleeve before you could answer.

You barely had time to glance back at Gyutaro before she’s dragging you down the hallway. He didn't stop her, but his eyes followed you the whole way.

Eventually, she led you into a small room tucked at the very end of the hall. Her room. The same one she was in when you two first met.

It looked even smaller in person. Like before, there’s still a pile of pillows on the floor— just in a different spot this time. A few stickers were peeling off the cracked walls, and the only light came from the moon, and the little lamp glowing on the floor.

Ume finally let go of your wrist and sat cross crossed on a blanket on the floor, motioning for you to sit with her. You did, careful to not mess anything up.

“I’m sorry he was so mean,” she says softly, eyes low. “He’s not usually like that. I think he’s just… he’s just scared.”

You nod, your heart still pounding. “It’s okay, I understand.”

“He doesn’t trust people. Especially not when they know about us.” Her voice dropped. “He thinks they’ll take me away.”

You stare at her for a second. “Would that be a bad thing?”

Ume looks up at you, and it’s clear to see she’s thinking about your question. She's not allowed to leave the house, she’s not allowed to make friends… She can’t even live with her own brother without having to sneak him in. So wouldn’t the best choice be getting taken away?

“…I don’t know,” she said.

“But I know that he won’t hurt you,” she added. “He only hurts people if they hurt me.”

You nod slowly, make a little promise in your heart to not upset Ume. “Okay.”

After a minute or two of silence, Ume scoots over to the wall beside the blanket and opens a makeshift drawer, which is really just a broken plastic bin.

“Wanna see something cool?” She asked, eyes lighting up just a little.

You nodded gently, not sure what to expect.

She reached in and pulled out a bundle of nearly rolled up belts. Different colours, different textures, some old and weathered, and some new ones oddly fancy for a house like this. You watch as she lays them across the mattress one by one as if they’re precious artifacts.

“My mom says they’re from her job! They give her belts a lot for her outfits, and when she doesn’t want them anymore, she gives them to me.”

“The one was for my eighth birthday,” she said, holding up a pink one studded with gold spikes. “And this one was for Christmas I think. And the black one? That’s the one Mama wears on her good days.”

Dear lord. The “good days belt” Ume is talking about isn’t even the kind to hold your pants up. It’s a thigh belt, which obviously won’t fit around her hips. And she said her mom gave this to her?

“I like my belts,” she says softly, interrupting your thoughts. “I think they’re stylish. My mom says they’re special, since her boss gave them especially for her.”

“But,” Ume continued, still smiling faintly, “I don’t like when she uses them on my brother.”

Oh my goodness. You immediately feel sick. She said it so simply, like it isn’t an issue.

You look at her, but her expression doesn’t change.

“He doesn’t cry.” She adds. “Even when the jewels cut him. He just… breathes really hard.”

Words can’t even come out of your mouth, no matter how hard you try. Your hand drifts over hers without thinking, resting gently over her fingers.

She then looks up at you, her smile now a little dimmer. “I don’t want him to leave,” she whispered. “But I think he’s going to.”

At her words, you feel your heart crack. “Not if I can help it,” you say, voice low and steady. “I promise, okay?”

Ume nods and squeezes your hand back, then gently picks up the pink belt again. She runs her fingers along the gold studs, knowing that only a week ago they were covered in her brother’s blood.

Despite that, she still smiled like it was another part of her collection.

#gyutaro #gyutaro shabana #gyutaro x reader #gyutaro x y/n #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #x reader #y/n #ume shabana #ume kny

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ekingston · 6 months ago

Text

SO HERE IS THE WHOLE STORY (SO FAR).

I am on my knees begging you to reblog this post and to stop reblogging the original ones I sent out yesterday. This is the complete account with all the most recent info; the other one is just sending people down senselessly panicked avenues that no longer lead anywhere.

IN SHORT

Cliff Weitzman, CEO of Speechify and (aspiring?) voice actor, used AI to scrape thousands of popular, finished works off AO3 to list them on his own for-profit website and in his attached app. He did this without getting any kind of permission from the authors of said work or informing AO3. Obviously.

When fandom at large was made aware of his theft and started pushing back, Weitzman issued a non-apology on the original social media posts—using

his dyslexia;

his intent to implement a tip-system for the plagiarized authors; and

a sudden willingness to take down the work of every author who saw my original social media posts and emailed him individually with a ‘valid’ claim,

as reasons we should allow him to continue monetizing fanwork for his own financial gain.

When we less-than-kindly refused, he took down his ‘apologies’ as well as his website (allegedly—it’s possible that our complaints to his web host, the deluge of emails he received or the unanticipated traffic brought it down, since there wasn’t any sort of official statement made about it), and when it came back up several hours later, all of the work formerly listed in the fan fiction category was no longer there.

THE TAKEAWAYS

1. Cliff Weitzman (aka Ofek Weitzman) is a scumbag with no qualms about taking fanwork without permission, feeding it to AI and monetizing it for his own financial gain;

2. Fandom can really get things done when it wants to, and

3. Our fanworks appear to be hidden, but they’re NOT DELETED from Weitzman’s servers, and independently published, original works are still listed without the authors' permission. We need to hold this man responsible for his theft, keep an eye on both his current and future endeavors, and take action immediately when he crosses the line again.

THE TIMELINE, THE DETAILS, THE SCREENSHOTS (behind the cut)

Sunday night, December 22nd 2024, I noticed an influx in visitors to my fic You & Me & Holiday Wine. When I searched the title online, hoping to find out where they came from, a new listing popped up (third one down, no less):

This listing is still up today, by the way, though now when you follow the link to word-stream, it just brings you to the main site. (Also, to be clear, this was not the cause for the influx of traffic to my fic; word-stream did not link back to the original work anywhere.)

I followed the link to word-stream, where to my horror Y&M&HW was listed in its entirety—though, beyond the first half of the first chapter, behind a paywall—along with a link promising to take me—through an app downloadable on the Apple Store—to an AI-narrated audiobook version. When I searched word-stream itself for my ao3 handle I found both of my multi-chapter fics were listed this way:

Because the tags on my fics (which included genres* and characters, but never the original IPs**) weren’t working, I put ‘Kara Danvers’ into the search bar and discovered that many more supercorp fics (Supergirl TV fandom, Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor pairing) were listed.

I went looking online for any mention of word-stream and AI plagiarism (the covers—as well as the ridiculously inflated number of reviews and ratings—made it immediately obvious that AI fuckery was involved), but found almost nothing: only one single Reddit post had been made, and it received (at that time) only a handful of upvotes and no advice.

I decided to make a tumblr post to bring the supercorp fandom up to speed about the theft. I draw as well as write for fandom and I’ve only ever had to deal with art theft—which has a clear set of steps to take depending on where said art was reposted—and I was at a loss regarding where to start in this situation.

After my post went up I remembered Project Copy Knight, which is worth commending for the work they’ve done to get fic stolen from AO3 taken down from monetized AI 'audiobook’ YouTube accounts. I reached out to @echoekhi, asking if they’d heard of this site and whether they could advise me on how to get our works taken down.

While waiting for a reply I looked into Copy Knight’s methods and decided to contact OTW’s legal department:

And then I went to bed.

By morning, tumblr friends @makicarn and @fazedlight as well as a very helpful tumblr anon had seen my post and done some very productive sleuthing:

@echoekhi had also gotten back to me, advising me, as expected, to contact the OTW. So I decided to sit tight until I got a response from them.

That response came only an hour or so later:

Which was 100% understandable, but still disappointing—I doubted a handful of individual takedown requests would accomplish much, and I wasn’t eager to share my given name and personal information with Cliff Weitzman himself, which is unavoidable if you want to file a DMCA.

I decided to take it to Reddit, hoping it would gain traction in the wider fanfic community, considering so many fandoms were affected. My Reddit posts (with the updates at the bottom as they were emerging) can be found here and here.

A helpful Reddit user posted a guide on how users could go about filing a DMCA against word-stream here (to wobbly-at-best results)

A different helpful Reddit user signed up to access insight into word-streams pricing. Comment is here.

Smells unbelievably scammy, right? In addition to those audacious prices—though in all fairness any amount of money would be audacious considering every work listed is accessible elsewhere for free—my dyscalculia is screaming silently at the sight of that completely unnecessary amount of intentionally obscured numbers.

Speaking of which! As soon as the post on r/AO3—and, as a result, my original tumblr post—began taking off properly, sometime around 1 pm, jumpscare! A notification that a tumblr account named @cliffweitzman had commented on my post, and I got a bit mad about the gist of his message :

Fortunately he caught plenty of flack in the comments from other users (truly you should check out the comment section, it is extremely gratifying and people are making tremendously good points), in response to which, of course, he first tried to both reiterate and renegotiate his point in a second, longer comment (which I didn’t screenshot in time so I’m sorry for the crappy notification email formatting):

which he then proceeded to also post to Reddit (this is another Reddit user’s screenshot, I didn’t see it at all, the notifications were moving too fast for me to follow by then)

... where he got a roughly equal amount of righteously furious replies. (Check downthread, they're still there, all the way at the bottom.)

After which Cliff went ahead & deleted his messages altogether.

It’s not entirely clear whether his account was suspended by Reddit soon after or whether he deleted it himself, but considering his tumblr account is still intact, I assume it’s the former. He made a handful of sock puppet accounts to play around with for a while, both on Reddit and Tumblr, only one of which I have a screenshot of, but since they all say roughly the same thing, you’re not missing much:

And then word-stream started throwing a DNS error.

That lasted for a good number of hours, which was unfortunately right around the time that a lot of authors first heard about the situation and started asking me individually how to find out whether their work was stolen too. I do not have that information and I am unclear on the perimeters Weitzman set for his AI scraper, so this is all conjecture: it LOOKS like the fics that were lifted had three things in common:

They were completed works;

They had over several thousand kudos on AO3; and

They were written by authors who had actively posted or updated work over the past year.

If anyone knows more about these perimeters or has info that counters my observation, please let me know!

I finally thought to check/alert evil Twitter during this time, and found out that the news was doing the rounds there already. I made a quick thread summarizing everything that had happened just in case. You can find it here.

I went to Bluesky too, where fandom was doing all the heavy lifting for me already, so I just reskeeted, as you do, and carried on.

Sometime in the very early evening, word-stream went back up—but the fan fiction category was nowhere to be seen. Tentative joy and celebration!***

That’s when several users—the ones who had signed up for accounts to gain intel and had accessed their own fics that way—reported that their work could still be accessed through their history. Relevant Reddit post here.

Sooo—

We’re obviously not done. The fanwork that was stolen by Weitzman may be inaccessible through his website right now, but they aren’t actually gone. And the fact that Weitzman wasn’t willing to get rid of them altogether means he still has plans for them.

This was my final edit on my Reddit post before turning off notifications, and it's pretty much where my head will be at for at least the foreseeable future:

Please feel free to add info in the comments, make your own posts, take whatever action you want to take to protect your work. I only beg you—seriously, I’m on my knees here—to not give up like I saw a handful of people express the urge to do. Keep sharing your creative work and remain vigilant and stay active to make sure we can continue to do so freely. Visit your favorite fics, and the ones you’ve kept in your ‘marked for later’ lists but never made time to read, and leave kudos, leave comments, support your fandom creatives, celebrate podficcers and support AO3. We created this place and it’s our responsibility to keep it alive and thriving for as long as we possibly can.

Also FUCK generative AI. It has NO place in fandom spaces.

THE 'SMALL' PRINT (some of it in all caps):

*Weitzman knew what he was doing and can NOT claim ignorance. One, it’s pretty basic kindergarten stuff that you don’t steal some other kid’s art project and present it as your own only to act surprised when they protest and then tell the victim that they should have told you sooner that they didn’t want their project stolen. And two, he was very careful never to list the IPs these fanworks were based on, so it’s clear he was at least familiar enough with the legalities to not get himself in hot water with corporate lawyers. Fucking over fans, though, he figured he could get away with that.

**A note about the AI that Weitzman used to steal our work: it’s even greasier than it looks at first glance. It’s not just the method he used to lift works off AO3 and then regurgitate onto his own website and app. Looking beyond the untold horrors of his AI-generated cover ‘art’, in many cases these covers attempt to depict something from the fics in question that can’t be gleaned from their summaries alone. In addition, my fics (and I assume the others, as well) were listed with generated genres; tags that did not appear anywhere in or on my fic on AO3 and were sometimes scarily accurate and sometimes way off the mark. I remember You & Me & Holiday Wine had ‘found family’ (100% correct, but not tagged by me as such) and I believe The Shape of Soup was listed as, among others, ‘enemies to friends to lovers’ and ‘love triangle’ (both wildly inaccurate). Even worse, not all the fic listed (as authors on Reddit pointed out) came with their original summaries at all. Often the entire summary was AI-generated. All of these things make it very clear that it was an all-encompassing scrape—not only were our fics stolen, they were also fed word-for-word into the AI Weitzman used and then analyzed to suit Weitzman’s needs. This means our work was literally fed to this AI to basically do with whatever its other users want, including (one assumes) text generation.

***Fan fiction appears to have been made (largely) inaccessible on word-stream at this time, but I’m hearing from several authors that their original, independently published work, which is listed at places like Kindle Unlimited, DOES still appear in word-stream’s search engine. This obviously hurts writers, especially independent ones, who depend on these works for income and, as a rule, don’t have a huge budget or a legal team with oceans of time to fight these battles for them. If you consider yourself an author in the broader sense, beyond merely existing online as a fandom author, beyond concerns that your own work is immediately at risk, DO NOT STOP MAKING NOISE ABOUT THIS.

PLEASE check my later versions of this post via my main page to make sure you have the latest version of this post before you reblog. All the information I’ve been able to gather is in my reblogs below, and it's frustrating to see the old version getting passed around, sending people on wild goose chases.

Thank you all so much!

#fandom #plagiarism #AO3 #speechify #word-stream #Cliff Weitzman #writers on tumblr #fan fic writing #AI plagiarism #independent authors #Ofek Weitzman #please share

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bunnis-monsters · 3 months ago

Text

Hybrid Shelter

Ch1

prologue

chapter 2

warning: milking the cow/bull hybrids, handjob, thigh fucking

summary: after becoming a full time worker at the hybrid shelter, you realize it’s not going to be as easy as you thought.

🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃🌃

Working at the Hybrid Shelter full time was as hard as you thought it would be.

The younger hybrids started fixating on you lately. When you had only been working part time shifts, you only saw them in passing.

Now, every day you walked in, ready to wake them up and get them all fed.

“Mama!”

A puppy hybrid greeted you with a yip, their puppy teeth gnawing in your pants leg as you prepared a few bottles. “Mama, play?”

You gently pulled the puppy hybrid off of your leg, keeping him balanced on your hip. “Not right now, pup. You all have to have your bottle first.”

A few kitten hybrids toddled and crawled around nearby, while an infant mouse hybrid wailed from his crib.

The nursery was a fairly new addition to the hybrid shelter. In the past, only adults had been allowed to stay, meaning occasionally some men with children would be denied shelter.

Now they were both accepted. A few of the babies here belonged to men in the shelter, while others had no parents.

As you fed the infant mouse hybrid, a puppy hybrid knocked on the door. “Is my brother awake?”

Alex was 19, and had been separated from his parents a few years back. His brother was 3 years old, and stayed in the nursery while Alex tried to find work and a stable home for the both of them.

“Yeah, he’s right here.”

The puppy hybrid that had been gnawing on your pants before, Ollie, toddled to his big brother and decided to chew on him instead. “Hey, I told you not to do that…”

Though the older pup scolded the little one, there was no bite behind his words. He picked Ollie up and licked his head, giving him a quick bath. “You will be good for her today, alright? I’m mopping the halls today, so I’ll be close by if you need me.”

You buried the infant in your arms before giving him a diaper change and tucking him back into bed. Privacy was something a luxury when you lived in a shelter, so you tried to give the two some space.

“Okay, bubba. I won’t pee on the floor!”

A nurse took over the nursery once the shelter opened, and you left to begin your other daily chores.

“(NAME)!”

You were nearly tackled by the cat hybrid you had tamed a few weeks ago. “Hey, Midnight. How’s everything going?”

He purred and butted his head against your cheek affectionately, immediately beginning to groom and preen you. “It’s always scary when you’re not here. I don’t like the doctors or the other hybrids.”

That seemed to be relatively common with the abused hybrids. They didn’t like the situation they’d been forced into, having no home left to return to and being abandoned by abusers they still loved.

“You should try getting along with the others, okay? You know next week we’re introducing you to the group, your quarantine is almost over.”

He didn’t respond for a moment, too busy rubbing his scent on you. “Don’t wanna… can’t I just come home with you?”

As much as you wished he could, all employees were forbidden from adopting any hybrids from the shelter. If they wanted to, they’d have to quit.

“You know I can’t… at least not right now.”

You didn’t want to give him hope, but you also knew that the possibility that he could come home with you eventually was the only thing keeping him going.

After he ate his breakfast and you spent some time cleaning his space and making sure he had enough enrichment for the day, you left to continue your chores.

Your first stop was the domesticated hybrid building.

The more common type of hybrid to be abandoned were the domestic ones. Puppies, cats, bunnies, birds, goldfish, and hamsters.

“Have you guys had breakfast?”

Several heads turned to look at you once the door opened. “(Name)’s here!”

The hybrids gathered around you, all sniffing and licking your body and hair. You had grown used to this, and simply waited until they were satisfied before speaking. “I’m assuming you have, considering you all smell like bacon and eggs.”

“Mhm, it was good! Alex said you would be here soon!” one of the puppy hybrids said, his tail wagging furiously.

A goldfish hybrid swam in the pool area, poking his head out of the water. “(Name), you said you’d swim with me this week.”

“I will, Goldy, but it’s gonna be after I finish up with the wild building.”

The cat hybrids rubbed against you as a bunny hybrid relaxed in your lap. “The wild building? I can’t believe you’re still meeting with them every day.”

A week ago, you were tasked with helping to domesticate the wild animals in the shelter. That was no easy task, considering it consisted of big cats, wolves, and other dangerous hybrids that saw humans as a source of food.

“It’s not all that bad, I have a few allies there that keep me safe.”

The bunny hybrid, Momo, huffed and nibbled on your finger. “Wild hybrids will always be wild at the end of the day. Don’t be fooled, they’re only being nice to you so they can get what they want.”

“What do they want..?”

None of the hybrids seemed like they wanted to answer that particular question.

“Well… you all will be getting a new roommate this week. He’s had a tough time, so I hope you’ll remember that when I introduce you to him.”

They all glanced at one another. “We’ve all had a hard time, (Name). As long as he doesn’t attack us, we won’t do anything.”

If only you could promise such a thing. With Midnight, you weren’t so sure.

As you did some minor cleaning up around the building, you were approached by a hamster hybrid.

“Quinn? Something wrong?”

He looked down at his feet, his hands twisting and pulling at the hem of his shirt. “… it’s just…”

The man sighed, puffing out his chubby cheeks. “Isn’t it strange? Lately, you’ve been the only one visiting us every day.”

You blinked, pausing your work. “The only one..?”

“Mhm. Before, multiple female workers would come to check on us. Of course none of them were as personable as you. They came in, asked how we were doing and cleaned up, then left.”

That was rather confusing. You always remembered the entire place brimming with female employees. Though lately, it was rare to spot more than a handful in each building.

“I’m sure we must be short staffed at the moment. Are you looking for any employees in particular?”

He shook his head, looking up at you. “No, we don’t even know the names of the others.”

Quinn left after that, and you pushed that information aside for now. You’d ask your boss about it later, your work came first.

Though as you comforted a small parrot hybrid after a nightmare, you wondered if they had been receiving the same care from the other employees. You knew that there was only so much one person could do, and that everyone’s role to play was different…

But did they even ca-

You shook your head, carefully wiping away the hybrid’s tears before settling him down for a nap. You shouldn’t think about the shelter that way. When you started working there, you saw firsthand how draining it was to work with so many different hybrids.

Perhaps they were all taking a break, and a new rotation of employees would be coming in to fill in for them…

Once the parrot hybrid was asleep, you tiptoed out. The poor thing was nearly your age, but he still needed to be soothed to sleep. His beautiful feathers had been plucked out of stress, leaving bald patches that were covered up by a fluffy sweater.

You had a lot of things to do every day. Your job was to comfort, feed, play with, and socialize the hybrids and get them to the point they could either be adopted, get a job, or be reintroduced to the wild.

It was strange, though. Despite the fact the shelter encouraged each member to strive towards some sort of goal, none of the hybrids there had managed to achieve anything.

They stayed there, stagnant and bored out of their minds.

Perhaps they just needed a little push. That’s what your boss told you he needed you for. Most of the hybrid seemed to enjoy your presence and wanted to impress you!

As you moved towards the farm building, you wrote some notes next to each hybrid’s name.

“(Name), how’s it going?”

You jumped when you were embraced from behind, your cheeks turning red. “C-Cecil, you shouldn’t be outside of your building!”

The white tiger hybrid chuckled, purring as his large, rough tongue licked your hair. He always ended up giving you such a huge cowlick!

“Mmm, I just returned from the infirmary, actually.”

You immediately softened. Cecil had a number of health problems, stemming from the bad breeding conditions that white tiger hybrids were born from.

Although he looked like a beautiful white tiger hybrid with striking grey eyes, his vision was impaired and he suffered chronic aches and joint pain.

Cecil couldn’t live with the other wild hybrids due to his immune system deficiencies, so he stayed with hybrids like him with similar health problems.

“What did they say..?”

A purr left his throat. He knew bringing up his worsening health always meant a little extra time with you. “They think that the organ transplant is working well, and that I’ll be able to eat solid food again soon.”

“That’s great news!”

His cheeks warmed when you patted his head and gave his ears a scratch. “Go rest, okay? I’ll come check on you when I visit the sickbay.”

Cecil watched you go, clutching his chest. He hoped he’d live long enough to someday make you his.

Your next stop was the farm. Outside a few sheep and pig hybrids trotted about, gracing or lying atound in the sun. When they noticed you, they gathered at the fence.

“(Name), right now might not be the best time to… uh… go in there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

The group glanced at one another, and you joined them in the grass. A young lamb curled up in your lap, suckling on one of your fingers as he napped.

In hushed whispers, the sheep across from you began to speak. “Well, no one has been by the farm to milk the bull and cow hybrids. They’re… uh… a bit testy right now.”

You heard a few off handed comments and complaints from your coworkers that had to take care of the cow and bull hybrids, but you never had any problems with them!

“It’s my job to ensure every hybrid here is comfortable, safe, and healthy. If no one else is here to milk them, I’m sure I can handle it.”

Though the other hybrids looked nervous, they didn’t stop you.

Your phone struggled to load the protocol for milking the cow and bull hybrids as you walked in. The sound of frustrated and pained groans could be heard from the back.

“Hello?”

The sounds stopped, an eerie silence falling over the barn. The sudden creaking of the back door slowly opening made you jump.

Before you could call out again, you were pulled into the back.

“(Name)… please… you have to help us!”

You felt arms wrapping around your body… and several long, wet things rubbing against you…

“Beau?”

Beau, one of the new cow hybrids that arrived last month mooed nervously. His eyes were full of tears, and his tongue gave your cheek a lick.

“No one has been by to milk us… it’s been two days, the bulls are angry and pent up, and…”

As he sniffled, you reached out to pet his head. “Hey, it’s okay. I came to take care of that for you. I used to milk cows with my grandpa, he had a farm.”

Beau blushed, his tail swaying. “W-well… with male cow and bull hybrids… it’s uhm… a little different.”

He slowly pulled back, and you finally got to see what was rubbing against you.

His fat cock was poking out, his balls heavy and swollen from the days he hadn’t been milked. It was all coming together now…

It took you a moment to gather your thoughts. You were a professional, and these hybrids were in obvious pain! You needed to take care of them, no matter now embarrassing it may be!

The arousal growing between your legs was the wordy part. It was making you horny, seeing so many cow hybrids desperate for your touch.

“They usually have a machine for us to g-get off with…” Beau murmured, twiddling his thumbs. “Sometimes we can even use it ourselves if we think we need to… but it’s gone.”

Being understaffed was one thing, but the disappearance of machinery that bettered the hybrids’ lives was… concerning. Where had it gone?

You sighed softly, the information finally loading on your phone ten minutes too late. A bucket was placed on the ground, and you slowly reached out to grab hold of Beau’s cock.

His hips bucked as you stroked his shaft carefully, aiming the tip towards the bucket. A whine left his throat, and with a few strokes he came.

The semen smelled like milk, but had a thicker and creamier texture. Your eyes were focused on the tip of his cock, how it oozed and twitched with every touch.

God, you just wanted to take it into your mouth and-

“Ahh, that’s so much better…” Beau said, interrupting your dirty thoughts. You blinked and your cheeks heated up as you let go of his softening cock.

“I’m… glad I could help.”

After milking every cow hybrid, you moved to the bull hybrids’ quarters. There were only three of them, since taking any more on may result in territorial behavior.

The moment you walked in, your skirt was lifted up and a cock was slipped between your thighs.

“Heard our (Name) was coming to milk us ourselves…” Brody cooed, already beginning to fuck your thighs.

“We’re way too big to jerk off, missy. We’ll be using these.”

The three took turns fucking your thighs, their thick cocks occasionally brushing against your wet panties. This wasn’t the correct protocol, what if someone saw? Would you be fired!?

Did you even care when you were hoping they’d pull your panties to the side and fill you with their milk instead of that bucket?

The bulls weren’t easy on you, leaving your thighs a sticky mess before it was all said and done with. You were almost disappointed they didn’t just go ahead and fuck you…

You left the barn, face burning with shame and arousal as you ran towards the staff building.

After a shower, you’d have to continue on with your duties…

If only you knew how your day would progress from there… you may have just gone home.

———————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi @flamefoxx @sandramalikstyles-blog @breathingstarlight

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twilightofthesandwiches · 16 days ago

Text

…So we do have some implications that Kris… at the very least, does not care for Ralsei as much as they care for Susie, or as much as Ralsei cares for them. Most notably with Chapter 2’s Teas;

I think also maybe their tendency in the recent chapters to point out the differences between Ralsei and Asriel might be related to it. They don’t want to compare Ralsei to their beloved older brother.

But I wonder if that’s beginning to change. Most notably with all the scenes of Kris and Susie comforting Ralsei and encouraging him to be himself… Obviously we are the ones telling Kris to say the words, but... it seems like it was their choice to give him a hug.

Which kinda reminds me of our first indication that Kris genuinely considers Susie their friend.

Plus, like, sure we CAN force Kris to say certain things, but they can also subtly rebel against it by saying things 'weirdly'

or immediately contradicting our words with their own.

So.... not only do they don't really resist this attempt to help Ralsei, here is how they react if you try and pick one of the most flagrant "no Ralsei you and your feelings don't matter (:" options.

They are literally fighting against the Player's control to try and emotionally support Ralsei.

I wonder if this was a matter of Kris' thoughts about Ralsei actually mirroring many Players, that they also thought he was weird and shady and that his niceness was too-good-to-be-true and that he's probably manipulative and evil. And with the revelations about Ralsei and the way he thinks about himself and his reasoning for keeping secrets in Chapters 3 and 4, it's only now that Kris is starting to let their guard down around him and allows themself to like him.

Or if it's a matter of... clearly Kris' situation with the SOUL (AKA us) is a very unhappy one for them. Even if it also seems to be part of the plan Kris and Evil Phone Voice are on, it is not a pleasant experience for Kris. It might be that the thing that endeared them to Susie so much in the first place is the way that she also chafes and rebels against being 'railroaded' by the prophecy stuff all through Chapter 1 - and therefor they were always put off by Ralsei's happy-peppy lack of resistance to following anything the prophecy said....

Hell... we STILL don't know what these two talk about when the SOUL is away following Susie... if Ralsei told Kris they need to put on a happy smile and accept being a 'Cage' for an Amoral Time God, that will certainly sour their relationship.

But now Ralsei is opening up to how much this fatalism has caused him pain, and now he's starting to push back against it. And maybe now Kris can understand that Ralsei is also in the same boat as them and Susie, that they are kindred spirits.

Or maybe... that whole deal with Kris and the Evil Phone Voice seems to indicate they might've known about Dark Worlds and how they work before the story of the game properly starts, and at least that they understand them more than Susie does. Maybe Kris themself thought of Darkners the same way Ralsei thought. Maybe they were distant from Ralsei because they saw him as not 'real'. And watching Ralsei unlearn this mindset is causing Kris to reconsider the way they were thinking of Dark Worlds and Darkners.

Or... well... it could just be as simple as Kris seeing how much Ralsei matters to Susie. We have constant reminders through these two chapters of how much Susie cares for Ralsei and how much she sees them as a trio. So even if Kris just doesn't Vibe with Ralsei, thinks he's annoying or weird or creepy or whatever, Kris cares for Susie, so they know they have to care about her other very best friend.

I wonder if the reason behind the Person-Flavor-Teas being 'Rotten' past Chapter 2 is because Chapter 3 and 4 actually have a lot of subtle shifts in the characters' relationships and it would've been unpractical to keep track of them all, or simply narratively unsatisfying to spell them numericaly out like that.

#deltarune #deltarune spoilers #deltarune thoughts #deltarune analysis #kris dreemurr #kris deltarune #ralsei #kris #ralsei deltarune #ralsei dr #deltarune kris #deltarune ralsei #dr kris #dr ralsei #deltarune chapter 3 #deltarune chapter 4 spoilers #deltarune chapter three #deltarune chapter four #deltarune chapter 4

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carrotsnake · 11 months ago

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THE BOOK OF BILL: decoded message masterpost

now it's officially released, here's nearly all the codes in order. cataloguing these all in the same place for my convenience, i recommend solving these for yourself first. major spoilers for the entire book below the cut, obviously. continue reading at your own risk.

final warning broski. 3, 2, 1....

there are a bunch of new codes introduced, of which i'll name the first time they appear. starting off with the spine's inside cover:

i'm naming this one axolotl: EVEN HIS LIES ARE LIES

cipher's code on the bottom: REMEMBER US

runes [small vertical]: OLAF WAS HERE

angel: PRAISE THE FALLEN ANGLE

inside of the paperback (not pictured) just says BLACK & WHITE.

LET HIM IN AND BREAK THE SEAL BETWEEN WHATS FICTION AND REAL

GLUTTOSLOTHENY

MY OPTOMETRIST NEVER SAW IT COMING

PAPER IS BOOK SKIN

LIES / BOOBERRY

left: LONE SURVIVOR OF THE EUCLIDEAN MASSACRE

upper right: TANTRUM

WHICH HENCHMANIAC RATTED ME OUT? (dramaa)

TITANS BLOOD (owl house ref?)

SUCK IT MERLIN

lobster lord's name is DARYLL

CURSE WITTEBANE (definitely owl house ref!)

COUNTRIES ARENT (wut)

author's code upper left: SIX FINGERED FREAK

bottom: STANLEY COULD HAVE MADE HER LAUGH (and he did!)

IF LOST RETURN TO BILL (bro got microchipped)

cipher: FORGET THE PAST

author: HOPEFULLY FS GLOVES WILL HIDE WHAT CIPHER HAS DONE TO MY HANDS...

bro's secret code: HAVE I BEEN TOO HARSH ALL ALONG?

cipher's code: I CAN WRITE CODES TOO IT'S NOT THAT HARD!

patients from left to right:

SPHEREMONGER / ETERNALOR / BILL CIPHER / THE LOGIC CUBE / PAINGORIOUS / JESSICA / SHADORG / MR SILLY / THE BEAST

the silly straws chapter is missing, i might add that later. i tried to collect all of them but there may be a few i missed.

#tbob spoilers #the book of bill spoilers #tbob #the book of bill #gravity falls #bill cipher #book of bill #gravity falls spoilers #stanford pines #gravity falls fandom #gf

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i-get-obsessed-fast · 4 months ago

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Family | Criminal Minds

.・゜✭・. Spencer Reid x F!Reader .・゜✭・.

Summary: under unexpected and intense circumstances, the team uncovers you and Spencer Reids biggest secrets- your relationship and the baby on the way.

A/N: sorry for the wait!! I wanted this chapter to be perfect and hopefully it is! Lmk your thots<3 xoxo

BYR(b4 u Reid): kind of suggestive, use of y/n, child abuse, mentions of blood, and hospitals. | lmk if I missed anything<3

read the first half to understand a bit more -> Oh Baby | Criminal Minds

The weekend passed quickly, uninterrupted by work, a rare occurrence, but one that gave you and Spencer the chance to just be with each other. Wrapped up in blankets, tangled together on your couch, the two of you spent most of the time talking about everything and nothing.

Spencer had been at your place since Friday night. The only time either of you left was to grab some extra clothes and a few belongings from his apartment, bringing them back so he wouldn’t have to leave again.

“I’ve been thinking.” He murmured, his voice low and thoughtful. You were nestled against him, your head rested on his chest, fingers lazily intertwined.

“You’re always thinking.” You teased

He huffed a quiet laugh “Yeah, I am.” He paused for a moment “I want us to move in together.”

That made you lift your head, searching his face “Don’t you think it’s too soon?”

Spencer didn’t hesitate “I think moving in together is probably going to be the last thing we’ve done to soon.” You thought about that for a moment “That’s true.”

His grip on your hand tightened just slightly “I just— I want to be with you, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving you here alone.” His voice was quieter now, but there was something heavy in it.

“Spencer, nothings going to happen to me.” You assured him

He exhaled, but it didn’t seem like it made a difference. He still looked at you like the thought of you two being apart even just to sleep was something he couldn’t bear.

You softened “Alright.” You murmured, “If moving in together is what you want, then I want it too.”

His head tilted down to look at you, a slow, relieved smile pulling at his lips “Yeah?”

You nodded “Yeah, but it has to be somewhere new, somewhere we choose together.”

“Of course.” He quickly agreed, pulling you closer “So when do we tell the team?” You asked, he hummed in thought considering the best timing

“I think we should wait until you're in your second trimester, but for now, we could at least tell them about us,” he says

You let out a small laugh “I’d rather just hit them with everything all at once.”

Spencer shook his head with a fond smile “Of course you would.” you shrugged “might as well get it all over with at the same time, right?”

“If that's what you want, then we’ll do it that way. I just don't think I’ll be able to hide it any longer.” He admits

“You know,” you started biting your lip as you laid your head back down on his chest “Penelope told me the team already knew we were…” you trailed off feeling awkward “We were what?”

You rolled your eyes “That we were sleeping together. She said it was obvious.” He let out a small laugh “Well I think Penelope’s crazy.”

“She is.” You admitted with a grin “But she’s probably right, we were terrible at keeping things lowkey. I honestly wouldn’t doubt they somehow found out we started dating the night we made it official. I don’t think they’ll be to surprised with that news.”

Spencer shrugged “Well if they do know, they won’t say anything until we confirm it. So at least we can all just pretend for now.”

You nodded, amused “Yeah.”

“What time is it?” Spencer asked, you sighed glancing at the clock “Time to get up.”

He groaned clearly not wanting to leave the comfort of you “Five more minutes.” You smiled shifting to look at him once again, your fingers threading through his messy hair. His eyes fluttered shut at the feeling, completely content.

You couldn’t help yourself, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

Morning breath don’t matter. Spencer could never be gross to you, and you knew he felt the same.

“Come on.” You coaxed “I’m starving. If we hurry, we can grab breakfast on the way in.” Spencer cracked an eye open, feigning offense “You're choosing food over staying in bed with me?”

You nodded, grinning “Right now, yes.” You kissed his cheek before smirking “Shower together? You know… to conserve water. I’m very environmentally conscious.”

Spencer huffed a laugh “Oh, So thoughtful. I suppose I’ll help your noble cause.”

You giggled as you both got up, making your way to the bathroom. . .

By the time you stepped into the bullpen, coffee in Spencers hand and a breakfast sandwich in yours, Dereks suspicious gaze was already locked on you.

“You two ride together?” he asked, brow raised. You took a casual bite out of your sandwich “Yeah, he's on the way.” Derek hummed knowingly “hmm. Alright.”

As he walked away, you turned to spencer, grinning “You think he suspects anything?”

Spencer didn't hesitate “Of course he does.”

You shrugged. “Oh well, I'm gonna talk to Penelope. Talk later?” he nodded “Be safe.”

You snorted “She’s just right there.” you tell him as you walk away towards her door

You knocked on Penelope's office door, relieved to see her already settled in “You may enter.” she dramatically called

Closing the door behind you, you barely had time to sit before she grinned “How was your weekend? You and the good doctor disappeared. The group is talking.” She wiggled her eyebrows

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling “It was good.”

Penelope gasped, leaning in “Really? How good? Spill.”

You kept it simple “We talked… and he finally asked me to be with him.” she squealed “That’s adorable! So, are you guys having this baby?”

You nodded “Yeah. He’s excited, I am too. But we’re waiting until I'm past my first trimester before telling everyone.”

Her hand flew to her chest “Oh, my heart! I feel so special knowing this.” she lowered her voice “Are you telling JJ and Emily?”

You shook your head “Just you and Spencer for now.” she nodded “Right, right.”

You sighed, feeling a wave of gratitude. “Thanks, Penelope. I'm really glad I have someone to talk to about all of this.”

She reached out, squeezing your hand “Always, sweet pea.”

You stood, ready to head out, but Penelope hesitated “Wait, one last thing. I was thinking… How are you going to keep working in the field?”

“JJ did it.”

“Yeah, but JJ doesn't do as much field work as you.”

You shrugged “I guess we’ll figure it out.”

She gave you a pointed look “I just don't want you getting hurt.” you gave her a soft smile “I know.” you assured her “Thanks, P. Talk later.”

As you stepped out David caught sight of you, smirking “Someone’s looking better than last week.”

You played it cool “Told you guys, just a stomach bug. A weekend off did the trick.”

Rossi nodded, then subtly tilted his head toward Spencer, who was at his desk “That, and some time with him, huh?”

You rolled your eyes “You guys are crazy.”

But you didn't deny it.

They’d have their confirmation soon enough.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The past two weeks had been exhausting. Squeezing in house hunting between cases, late nights, and early mornings. It felt nearly impossible to find time, but you and Spencer made it work because it wasn’t just about finding a house, it was about finding a home.

As the both of you pulled up to the Victorian house, you exhaled “Hopefully, this is the last house we ever have to look at.”

Luckily, you and Spencer finally had the chance to tour this house together. With your hectic work schedules, and to avoid drawing any more suspicion you had both been viewing homes separately.

You looked out the car window, even in the dark the house stood beautiful. It had charm, history, and character, exactly what the two of you had been searching for.

The both of you stepped out of the car, eyes scanning every inch of the home with quiet appreciation “It’s beautiful.” you murmured

A woman approached with a warm smile “Hello! Spencer Reid, and Y/N Y/L/N?”

“That’s us,” Spencer responded, the both of you stepping forward to shake her hand “Thank you for meeting us at this hour.” Spencer politely said “Our work schedule is… unpredictable.”

“I completely understand.” The realtor assured “I’m happy to accommodate. This house was built in the early 1900s, passed down through generations, but recently, the family found themselves unable to keep it.” There was a hint of sadness in her voice but she quickly brightened “Shall we go inside?”

The moment you stepped through the front door, it felt like stepping into a different time. The natural wood floors creaked under your feet, the rich paneling carried stories of the past, and the fireplace, grand and inviting, felt like it belonged in a home meant to be filled with love.

“How many bedrooms?” You asked, wandering into the living room, already picturing a life here.

“Four.” She answered “All upstairs. Perfect for a family.”

You turned to Spencer “Four seems like a lot of space.” He tilted his head, the way he always did when he was thinking “Not really.” counting on his fingers “One is ours, one is for the baby, one can be a library.” he smiled as he said that “and the last… for another baby.”

Your eyes widened “Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I just found out I’m seven weeks. Let’s focus on one baby at a time.” You laughed

Spencer only shrugged, as if the idea of another child was already a certainty in his mind.

You continued exploring, making your way upstairs, and the moment you stepped into one particular room, something inside you clicked.

It wasn’t the biggest, but it had a large, beautiful window overlooking the quiet neighborhood. Soft moonlight filtered in, painting the space in a glow that made it feel warm, safe, and perfect.

“This is it.” You said, taking it all in. Spencer’s hand found yours, his fingers threading through like second nature. You looked up at him. “This would be our babies room.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he took a slow glance around, and you could see it, him envisioning the nursery, picturing you both painting the walls, him struggling with a screwdriver as he attempted to assemble the crib, you teasing him for overanalyzing the instruction manual.

He could see your child taking their first steps in the living room below, and could hear laughter throughout the entire house. He wanted it, he needed it.

“Is this the one?” He finally asked, locking his eyes on you “I love it. A lot.” You nodded

A smile tugged at his lips as he pulled you into him, embracing you in a secure hug “I love it too.” your arms wrapped around his waist as his hand came up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before cupping your cheek, his touch lingering.

“We should put in an offer right?”

“Absolutely.”

Determined, you both headed downstairs, ready to fight off anyone who might try to take this house from you guys.

After filling out the paperwork, the realtor smiled “I’ll call you in the next few weeks with any updates from the owners.”

“Thank you.” you said, shaking her hand “Really, thank you.” Spencer echoed, his grip firm but grateful

You didn't want to leave. You wanted to stay, to imagine furniture placements, to map out the future in your mind. But Spencer opened the car door for you, waiting patiently as you slid into the passenger seat. He quickly made his way to the driver's side, but before starting the car, he turned to you.

“I can see us here.” He said softly, his gaze lingering, you met his eyes, your heart swelling “I can too. Playing in the yard, reading a book under the tree…”

A small smile tugged at his lips as he reached for your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. It wasn’t just affection, it was a promise. A silent vow that he would give you this home, this future, this life.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You and Spencer were sat in the waiting room of your doctors office, waiting for your first official prenatal checkup.

The last visit had only been to confirm your pregnancy, a whirlwind appointment where the doctor estimated you were around seven weeks along. Now, at ten weeks, the reality of it all was settling in. And with it came nerves, fear, even.

You had read online that the first trimester was the most nerve-wracking. The uncertainty of it all made your chest feel tight.

“Y/N Y/L/N.” a nurse called Spencer's fingers immediately tightened around yours as he stood, guiding you forward. The two of you followed the nurse down the hall and into a small exam room.

“The doctor will be in shortly.” she said with a polite smile before stepping out.

You sat down on the exam table, exhaling “I’m nervous.”

Spencer didn't even try to pretend “Me too.” your stomach twisted “What if something’s wrong? What do we do?” the question left your lips before you could even stop it, your mind already spiraling through worst-case scenarios.

Spencer's hand moved up and down your arm, in slow, soothing motions. “Let's not think about that, okay? Everything is fine.” He tried his best to push aside his fear to be strong for you

You nodded

“If anything happens, I’m here.” His eyes locked on yours, filled with quiet determination.

“okay.”

The appointment went better than you could have hoped. Relief washed over you the moment you heard the rhythmic thump of your baby’s heartbeat. Strong and steady, exactly as the doctor assured you, several times, because Spencer had insisted on triple checking.

“Is there anything we should be looking out for in the next few weeks?” Spencer asked, the doctor chuckled “First-time parents, right?”

You both nodded in unison.

“You’ll know if something feels off, mom.” She said reassuringly “And Dad, just be there every step of the way. Give her massages, help her relax. You two are going to do great.”

Spencer gave a polite nod, but it was clear he still wanted more information. “Thank you.” He said, though his expression remained contemplative as the doctor stepped out.

As soon as the door closed, you turned to him “I need to hear the heartbeat again. We need one of those at-home monitors.”

He nodded immediately “We can get one.” No hesitation, no questions, just unwavering agreement.

After leaving the doctors office, Spencer took you out for food. The two of you sat in a booth at a small diner, waiting for your orders.

You stirred your milkshake. “You know, since I’m ten weeks now, that gives us about two weeks to figure out how we’re going to tell the team.”

Spencer leaned back, considering. “I was thinking… since we found that house we both loved, when we finally get accepted for it, maybe we can have a cookout and just tell them there.”

You grinned “That’s actually a really good idea, a house warming party with a baby announcement.”

He looked pleased with himself.

Your excitement grew. “We have to get that house now. My baby needs that room with the gorgeous big window.” you dramatically say

“We’ll get it.” He promised, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand.

Spencer had always been thoughtful, but lately, it felt like he was operating on an entirely different level. Whatever you wanted, he was already one step ahead, ready to make it happen. It was like you unlocked some primal instinct in him, the need to protect, to provide. To make you feel like the most important person in the world.

And, truthfully, to him, you were.

“Spencer.” You spoke his name softly, drawing his attention. His eyes flicked up from his coffee “Yeah?”

“Thank you.” Your voice was steady, but full of emotion “I’ve never felt like this before. No one has ever made me feel this special. I know our situation is different from tradition, but you make me feel like none of that matters, you make me believe everything is going to be okay.”

His expression softened, something tender flickering in his gaze “You make me feel like everything’s going to be okay too.”

You smiled “I can’t wait for us to be in our home, together.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The next day after your appointment, you and the team were called in before the sun even had a chance to rise. It had to be serious, Hotch never called anyone in this early unless it was that urgent.

“We’ll be on our way.” Spencer said groggily into his phone as he sat up on the bed, there was a pause before Hotch responded, his tone pointed “We’re?”

Spencer’s eyes widened in panic “Oh no, I meant I’m on the way. Sorry sir, I’m just half asleep.”

Hotch didn’t buy it one bit. “Reid, just make sure you and Y/L/N get here soon.” The call had ended before Spencer could say anything else. He sat there mouth slightly opened in shock.

“I think Hotch knows.” He muttered, glancing at you “Yeah, I wouldn’t doubt it after that slip up.” You teased, rubbing his shoulder reassuringly “It’s alright.”

The two of you hurried to get ready, grabbed your go-bags, and rushing out the door

By the time you arrived, the entire team was already gathered in the briefing room, including Garcia, which meant she’d be traveling with the team. You always loved when she did. JJ stood at the front, briefing everyone on a case out in Los Angeles.

Children were being kidnapped. Held hostage for days before being found again, alive, but barely. Most were so traumatized they couldn’t speak or even remember what happened to them.

Scanning over the photos, your heart clenched. These were people’s babies. Your throat tightened at the thought of what these parents must be going through. The fear, the helplessness. Your eyes stung.

A gentle touch under the tables startled you. Spencer’s hand found yours, squeezing lightly. He didn’t say anything, but you knew it was to comfort you.

You blinked rapidly, forcing yourself to stay composed.

Hotch’s voice cut through the room. “Wheels up in thirty.”

Everybody nodded, absorbing the severity of this case. “This is sick,” Emily muttered as she flips through the files. “Yeah.” JJ agreed, pressing a hand to her chest “These poor kids.”

Morgan clenched his jaw “We’re gonna get the bastard that’s doing this.” He was determined.

“Hopefully.” You whispered, pushing back from the table. You needed air.

On the jet, your nausea hit full force. You pressed a hand to your stomach, trying to keep yourself together.

“Here, Drink some water.” Spencer handed you a water bottle, his expression tense. “You're supposed to stay hydrated.”

You smiled despite the queasiness “Thank you.”

Across from you, Emily raised an eyebrow “That’s really sweet, Spencer.”

“Just trying to help.” he awkwardly smiled but quickly made his way back to his own seat, avoiding everyone's eyes.

Garcia leaned close, whispering in your ear “Lover boy isn’t very good at hiding things.”

You chuckled softly. “He’s just worried. I don’t think he cares at this point.”

Closing your eyes, you tried to rest, but it was impossible.

David’s voice pulled you back “Rough morning?”

“Yeah, went out last night. Just feeling sick from all the drinks.” You lied Morgan snorted “you? Going out?”

“Yes.” You shot back “Don’t be jealous I didn’t invite you.” He smirked “The more I learn about you.”

Unfortunately thought David wasn’t done “Who’d you go out with?”

“Just some old friends.” You shrugged, hoping he’d drop it, he just nodded, thankfully.

You shifted, suddenly hyper-aware of Hotch watching you. His gaze was sharp, calculating.

He knows.

They all probably do. Who were you and Spencer kidding? You were surrounded by the best profilers in the country.

At the Los Angeles police department, you all set up quickly diving into work. The weight of the case, combined with your exhaustion, made it hard to focus.

“Agent, are you listening?”

You snapped back to reality. Hotch was staring at you expectantly.

“Sorry, I-I got distracted.”

His expression didn't soften. “Now is not the time to be distracted.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “I know, it won't happen again.”

“You're coming with JJ and me. We’re interviewing the most recent victims' parents.”

You straightened “Got it.”

Spencer watched as you walked away, his jaw tight. There was nothing he could do, but he was grateful you were in trusted hands.

Interviewing the parents was brutal. They sobbed, pleading for their twelve-year-old son to come home.

“Please.” the father begged “Tell us you're close to finding whoever is doing this.”

Hotch’s voice was steady. “We just got here, but I assure you, we’re working as fast as possible.”

You leaned forward gently. “Has your son ever mentioned any adults he trusted? A teacher, a coach, a counselor maybe?”

They thought for a moment before the mother spoke. “He saw a school counselor every two weeks.”

JJ frowned. “Do you know their name?”

The parents shook their heads.

“We only found out about it a month ago.” the father admitted. “The school never told us.”

Hotch’s expression darkened “They didn't notify you?”

“No.” the mother said. “We thought it was odd, but it seemed to help him, and maybe he didn't want us to know.”

Back at the station, Garcia worked fast, digging through school records. It didn't take long to connect the dots, two school counselors, both men in their late forties, working at different schools but targeting kids the same way.

“That has to be it.” Morgan said

Hotch nodded “We have addresses. Move now.”

He started assigning teams. “Y/L/N, Rossi, and JJ, you're with me. Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid take the second location.”

As you checked your vest and gun, spencer stepped in front of you. “You can't go.”

Your brows furrowed. “Spencer-”

“I can't let you go.” his voice was firm, but there was desperation in his eyes. You exhaled sharply. “Spencer, we don't have time for this. There are kids who need us.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“What's going on?” Hotch’s voice cut in. You hesitated, searching for an excuse. But spencer beat you to it.

“She’s pregnant.” he said without hesitation

Silence.

Hotch’s eyes flicked to you, he gave a small nod. “Stay here.”

And just like that, they were gone.

You watched as they left, feeling betrayed. Spencer hadn't even given you a choice.

“He did it because he cares,” Garcia said softly. You shook your head “he picked the worst possible moment. This is my job, and I'm still capable.”

She just gave you an apologetic look

You sighed and sat down.

It had been thirty minutes. No updates. No calls. Nothing.

The silence was suffocating, and every passing second made your anxiety climb higher.

“I should go.” You said suddenly pushing up from your chair, Garcia’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “No, you shouldn’t. Hotch told you to stay.” She reminded you firmly

You bit the inside of your cheek, restless “I can’t just sit here-”

Before you could finish, Garcia’s phone rang, cutting through the tension. She answered immediately, and as soon as she did, the color drained from her face.

“What?” You demanded, stepping closer.

Garcia swallowed hard “okay, okay. We’ll be there.” She said into the phone before looking at you with terrified eyes “Spencer’s been shot.”

The words barely registered at first. It was like she had spoken in a language you didn’t understand.

“What?” You choked out, shaking your head, but she nodded “We need to go now.”

For a moment, you couldn’t move, the room felt like it had tilted slightly, but you snapped out of it, instinct kicked in and you grabbed the SUV keys without another word.

Garcia gave you the address of the hospital, and you barely remembered the drive. Your hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles were white.

When you finally arrived and rushed inside, the first thing you saw was a team of EMTs pushing a gurney through the sliding doors.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Spencer.

There was so much blood, his skin looked pale, almost ghostly.

Your heart dropped, the world around you blurred, and muffled as if you were underwater.

You moved without thinking, trying to get to him, but someone grabbed you, holding you back.

“Let me go!” You struggled, twisting, trying to break free, but the grip was firm. You turned, frantic, only to see Hotch standing there. He was saying something, his lips were moving, his expression serious, but you couldn’t process a single word.

Everything was too fast and too slow all at once.

Tears ran down your face as you stood frozen, helpless, watching Spencer disappear down the hall.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Hours had passed as you waiting in the waiting room for any updates on Spencer, every hour feeling longer than the last.

The nurse had came by an hour or two ago with a small update informing that things were going well in surgery and he was expected to pull through but your mind wasn’t letting you rest, worried that anything could go wrong any minute.

The waiting room felt suffocating, and no matter how many deep breathes you took, the anxiety wouldn’t settle.

Most of the team had drifted off to sleep, curled up in the uncomfortable hospital chairs. But you couldn’t. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind played worst-case scenarios, refusing to let you rest.

“How are you feeling?”

The voice startled you, and you turned to see Hotch taking the seat beside you.

You blinked, not really sure how to answer that question. “I’m fine.” You answered

Hotch studied you for a moment before speaking again. “How far along are you?”

It took you a second to remember that little argument you and spencer had before he left, you couldn't believe you were upset with him and now he was in surgery.

“Ten weeks.” you softly say “Almost in my second trimester.”

Hotch nodded, a small hint of a smile crossing his face. “That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah.” you softly smiled “Spencer’s the father,” he said but he wasn't asking, he said it like he already knew, which of course he did, and you were sure everyone else definitely already knew too.

You looked down at your hands, as you nervously twisted your fingers “Yeah.”

Hotch didn’t hesitate. “You two are going to be great parents.”

The certainty in his voice made you smile. “I hope so.”

Before he could say anything else, a nurse entered the waiting room. “Spencer Reid?”

You were on your feet instantly, Hotch right beside you.

“He’s out of surgery.” The nurse informed you two. “Everything went well, and he should be waking up soon.” A breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding finally escaped. Relief flooded you so fast.

“Go. Stay with him.” Hotch gave you a reassuring look. You nodded, already moving. “I’ll call when he wakes up.”

The nurse had led you down the hall to Spencer’s room. He was lying peacefully on the bed, his face pale but his chest rising and falling steadily. The sight of him, alive and breathing, almost brought you to your knees.

The nurse gave you a small smile before stepping out, leaving just the two of you. You sat in the chair beside his bed, your eyes never leaving his face.

He looked so beautiful.

Minutes had passed, and then an hour. Finally, Spencer stirred. His fingers twitching against the sheets before his eyes fluttered open.

“Y/n?” His voice was groggy. “I’m right here.” You whispered, reaching for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

His eyes locked onto yours, and his brow furrowed. “I’m so sorry.”

Tears pricked your eyes. “What? Why are you sorry?”

“I shouldn’t have- at the station, I shouldn’t have made that decision for you.” His voice cracked, and a tear had slipped down his cheek.

“Spencer.” You whispered, letting out a soft laugh. “I don’t care about that anymore. I’m just happy you’re okay.”

Of course, only Spencer would wake up from surgery apologizing. He was the kindest, most selfless person you knew.

“Where’s everyone?” He asked, his fingers still curled around yours “in the waiting room. Do you want me to get them?”

He shook his head “Not yet. I just want it to be us for now.” Your heart swelled “Okay.”

He shifted slightly, wincing, then looked at you with pleading eyes. “Lay with me?”

You hesitated. “Spence, I don’t want to hurt you-”

“Please.” He whispered “I just need to feel you close.”

That was all it took for you to carefully climb onto the bed beside him, mindful of the wires and IVs. His arm wrapped around you as best as they could, his warmth seeping into you.

You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “Spencer.” You murmured, he hummed in response, his fingers tracing soothing patterns along your arm.

“I love you.”

There was a pause, and then his arm tightened around you. “I love you more.”

You tilted your head to look at him, and he was already smiling. “So all I had to do was get shot to hear those words?” He teased “I’d get shot a million more times if it meant hearing you say it again.”

You let out a small laugh. “Well luckily for you, that won’t be necessary. I’ll tell you every day. Every hour, if you want.”

Before spencer could say anything, your phone rang.

You glanced at the screen and saw your realtors name. Spencer raised an eyebrow “You should answer.”

You sighed, debating it, but Spencer gave you a small nod so reluctantly you answered.

“Hello?”

“y/n! I was just calling to tell you that the owners want to continue moving forward with you and Spencer! You guys got the house!”

Your mouth fell open slightly, and you looked at Spencer in shock. You were excited and happy but after today, nothing could make you more happy than just being in Spencer’s arms.

“Oh.” You breathed “That’s…that’s great.”

“Isn’t it?” She beamed “Unfortunately, Spencer and I we are away right now.” You inform her

“That’s no problem! Once you’re back, we can move forward with the paperwork.” You nodded even though she couldn’t see you. “Sounds good.”

After a few more exchanges, you hung up.

“Wow. Talk about timing.” Spencer softly chuckled, you smiled tiredly “I know.”

“This is good, though, right? We got the house.” He said sensing you weren’t as excited. You nodded, but your focus was on him “Yeah, it is. But right now, I don’t care about that. I just want you to recover.”

He grinned “I will. Now I just get to recover in our dream home… With my girlfriend.”

You wrinkled your nose “Girlfriend sounds weird.” You admit to him. “What would you prefer?” He asked smirking, you shrugged. “I don’t know.”

But you did know.

His fingers brushed your cheek, his touch featherlight. “I’d marry you right this second if that’s what you wanted.”

Your breath caught.

“But,” He continued “You don’t deserve to be asked in a hospital bed. You deserve something romantic. Something perfect.”

You curled into him, holding him as close as you could.

“Then I guess, I’ll just have to wait.” You whispered, Spencer smiled pressing his lips to your head “Not long.” He promised

You and Spencer spent the next few hours in each others comfort, neither of you saying much. There was something comforting about the silence, about just being together after everything that happened today.

Then, as expected, there was finally a knock at the door.

“Come in.” Spencer called, his voice still a little hoarse.

The door swung open, revealing the entire team. Penelope, Derek, Emily, JJ, Rossi, and of course Hotch. Each of them were holding some combination of flowers, balloons, and gift bags.

Spencer let out a soft chuckle as they all piled into the tiny hospital room, barely fitting. “Sorry for the wait, guys.” He said, his fingers still loosely tangled with yours.

“Hey, man, it’s alright.” Derek said, setting a bouquet down on the table. Then he smirked. “Understandable you wanted some alone time with your girl.”

Spencer’s face immediately turned bright red, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“You really thought you could keep that from us?” Rossi teased, raising an eyebrow.

“We called it, we knew it.” JJ added, exchanging a look with Emily.

“This is somehow both surprising and completely unsurprising.” Emily said with a smirk. “Though, I am personally offended you didn’t tell us the moment we found out you were pregnant in the restroom.”

Derek’s eyes widened “Wait, you guys knew before?”

“Of course.” JJ said, shrugging. “We just didn’t know who the father was, but you know we had our suspicions.” She shot Spencer a pointed look

Spencer, still red-faced, shifted slightly in the bed. “Well. Uh-”

“Oh please!” Penelope cut in, grinning “I knew everything.” She bragged

The entire room erupted into laughter, the teasing only growing as everyone started sharing their theories, their suspicions, and all the little ways you and Spencer had definitely not been as sneaky as you thought.

“Like earlier on the jet, I knew you weren’t sick from drinking.” Rossi added with a knowing smirk

“Yeah, I should’ve figured something out then.” Derek sighed, shaking his head “I knew you weren’t a party girl.”

“I think the lesson learned today is that y/l/n and Reid are horrible at keeping things quiet.” Hotch said with his arms crossed a small smile showing

You groaned, embarrassingly hiding your face in your hands. “Okay, okay, we get it. You laughed, thoroughly embarrassed “We’re never hiding anything again.”

“Good.” Rossi said, looking pleased.

The teams teasing quickly spiraled into playful arguments, bets being placed on whether the baby will be a boy or girl, and a heated debate over who would be the babies favorite.

“I mean, lets be honest.” Derek smirked “It’s going to be me.”

“Excuse me? Its obviously going to be me.” Penelope said rolling her eyes

You laughed, shaking your head as the bickering continued.

Spencer had squeezed your hand, and you looked up at him both of you clearly grateful for the family you have and now the family you get to share with your little one. . .

I just want to say thank you all for the nice comments on the last chapter, I'm so glad a lot of you loved it sm<3

I also want to clarify, I am not a realtor nor ever been pregnant so if anything seems off or doesn't make sense, I'm sorry. lol.

Tag list :)

@coraline-jones353 @sleepysongbirdsings @alastorssimp @we-flower-fan @eg-dr3amer3 @bondwithme-murderstyle @cheriesbucky @criminallyvenomous @justlivinginadaydream

Don't forget to check out my other works<3 Here

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diamonddaze01 · 6 months ago

Text

Full Throttle (i)

pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader chapter wc: 20.6K (dont look at me)genre: humor, fluff, angst, smut (?) au: f1 au (i am sorry i am a nerd abt this) rating: m (MINORS DNI)warnings: SLOOOOOW BURN. mentions of injuries, car crashes // eventual smut.

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

summary: jeonghan's not used to someone who pushes his buttons as easily as you do, and you're not used to someone who challenges you as quickly as he does. maybe it's time to go full throttle, both on and off the track.

a/n: this one is gonna be long. buckle in. this is dedicated to kae @ylangelegy , who was the one who pushed me to write this in the first place, and also graciously beta read this // this is also dedicated to alta @haologram , who watched me lose my mind over this for so long and gave me so much love and support as i wrote this. // huge thanks to lola @monamipencil and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta-reading and giving me their thoughts, especially about when things were too technical // and finally, an ENORMOUS thank you to jupiter @cheolism for the banner!

read part 2 here! <3

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

The Australian Grand Prix had come to an end, but the buzz from the race still lingered in the air. The paddock had started to quiet down, though the echo of cheers and the scent of champagne were still fresh. Jeonghan stood at the edge of the pit lane, watching as the last of the mechanics began to clean up, the high of the win beginning to settle into a low hum of satisfaction.

His fingers absentmindedly brushed over his helmet, the familiar weight grounding him after the chaos of the race. But his mind wasn’t on the mechanics or the trophy waiting for him. No, it was on you.

You had walked away with that smug grin of yours, and even now, hours later, the image of you—cool, collected, and far too clever for your own good—lingered in his thoughts. The way you’d turned the tables on him, effortlessly making him feel like the one caught off guard. For once, it hadn’t been about the race or the rumors swirling around his personal life—it had been about you and the way you knew how to press all his buttons without breaking a sweat.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, a grin creeping onto his face despite himself. "I should’ve asked her to dinner."

But there was no time for that now. The press was waiting. The fans, too. He needed to play the role of the cool, collected champion for the cameras, the last thing he needed was another round of gossip, another round of teasing from the people who loved to stir the pot. And yet, the thought of you, the way you’d made him feel a mix of frustration and something else entirely, was almost too tempting to ignore.

The crew cheered as he finally made his way back to the motorhome, the world still swirling in a whirlwind of victory and flashing cameras. But inside, it was quieter. More personal.

"Jeonghan!" His manager greeted him with a smile, the kind of smile that signaled the end of a long race and the beginning of yet another whirlwind of interviews, photos, and meetings. But Jeonghan only half-listened as his manager spoke, his mind flickering back to the conversation earlier.

"You sure know how to keep things interesting, don't you?" His manager chuckled, noticing the distraction in his eyes. "The headlines are still buzzing. You planning on setting the record straight anytime soon?"

Jeonghan chuckled under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "Let them talk," he muttered, flashing a grin. "It’s part of the game."

But that wasn’t what was on his mind. It was you. The way you’d baited him, just enough to make him feel the heat of the moment. He had never been this distracted by anyone—or anything—before.

"You have a minute?" a voice interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. It was his publicist, holding a phone in one hand, the other gesturing toward the press conference set up for him in the next room.

Jeonghan looked at her, then glanced over his shoulder as if expecting to see you again. But you were gone, just like that. He gave a small sigh, almost imperceptible to anyone watching.

"Yeah, yeah. Let’s do this," he muttered, before stepping forward. Jeonghan’s footsteps echoed through the motorhome hallway, the thrum of victory still running through his veins, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the way you’d looked at him—those piercing eyes, full of challenge. He'd seen that expression before, but this time felt different. You weren’t just some reporter stirring up a bit of drama—you were someone who knew exactly how to get under his skin.

His publicist was waiting outside the press room, ready to brief him on the upcoming interviews and meetings. "You’ve got a full schedule, Jeonghan," she said, giving him the rundown with practiced precision. But Jeonghan barely heard her, his mind still distracted by the way you’d turned the tables.

"Hey," he cut in, slowing to a stop in front of her. "What do you know about Y/N?" he asked, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

The publicist blinked in surprise, and beside her, his manager gave a short laugh. "Y/N? You mean the reporter?" the manager asked, voice dripping with amusement. "The one you’ve had run-ins with over the past couple of seasons?"

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them. "Run-ins?" he repeated, his lips curling into a small, knowing smirk. "What exactly are you implying?"

The publicist shrugged, exchanging a look with the manager. "She’s been covering F1 for a while, pretty sharp with her articles," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "Some of them have definitely gotten attention, especially that one a few weeks ago... the one about you and the whole ‘mysterious love life’ thing." Her eyes flicked to his manager, who made a face at the mention of that piece.

Jeonghan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He’d tried to forget about that article, but your earlier conversation (read as: challenge) had baffled him. "I shouldn’t have said anything," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "But you know she always gets a rise out of me, don’t you?"

The manager snickered. "Oh, we know. It’s not every day we get to watch you struggle to keep your cool. She’s got a way with words, that one." He winked. "But hey, I get it. She’s a great reporter—sharp, clever—and always knows where to find the juiciest stories. You just might want to be a little more careful with what you say around her next time."

Jeonghan smirked. "Careful? Since when have I ever been careful?"

His publicist gave a pointed look, clearly not impressed. "That’s not the problem, Jeonghan. It’s that you tend to forget she knows exactly what buttons to push."

Jeonghan chuckled, his eyes glinting with a new energy. "Oh, she’s good, I’ll give her that. But I’m not so easily rattled." His mind wandered back to the way you’d smirked and walked off, leaving him standing there feeling like he'd just been served a dish of his own medicine.

"Don’t underestimate her," the manager added, half-joking. "You’ve been in this game long enough to know, no one gets a rise out of you like that without knowing exactly what they’re doing."

Jeonghan hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose you’re right. But maybe..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing as a plan started to form in his mind. "...Maybe it’s time I gave her a taste of her own medicine."

The publicist and manager exchanged a glance but didn’t say anything. They knew that look—the one Jeonghan got whenever he was plotting something, usually with a dash of mischief and just the right amount of charm to make it impossible for anyone to say no. The same charm that had gotten him into trouble more times than they cared to count.

"You’ve got your interviews now, Jeonghan," his publicist reminded him gently, pulling him back to reality. "We can revisit this later. Just keep your head in the game for now."

He nodded, though his mind was still fixated on you. "Yeah, yeah. Later."

As he entered the press room, he was immediately hit with a barrage of questions. The usual ones about his win, his performance, and his plans for the rest of the season. But even as he answered, his thoughts lingered on you and that damn article. You were always one step ahead, always stirring the pot just enough to keep things interesting. But now, it seemed you had caught his attention for real.

And maybe—just maybe—he was going to have some fun with this.

FORMULA 1 MSC CRUISES JAPANESE GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Suzuka Ciruit

The neon lights of Tokyo cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the bustling streets, the city alive with energy even late into the night. After a long day of prepping for the upcoming race, you’d decided to wind down with a quiet drink in a tucked-away bar that promised a moment’s reprieve from the chaos of the paddock.

The bar was small and intimate, the kind of place that felt like a secret only locals knew about. Jazz music hummed softly in the background, and you found a seat near the corner, ready to savor your drink in peace.

But of course, peace wasn’t in the cards tonight.

“Y/N?”

The familiar voice made you freeze mid-sip. Turning your head, you found none other than Yoon Jeonghan standing a few feet away, his face lit with mild surprise and unmistakable amusement. He wasn’t in his Ferrari team gear for once—just a sleek black jacket and jeans, looking effortlessly casual in a way that somehow made him even more irritatingly attractive.

“Jeonghan,” you replied evenly, setting your drink down. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, sliding onto the stool beside you without an invitation. “Same as you, I’d imagine. Taking a break from the madness.” His eyes flicked to your glass. “Whiskey? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”

“And what type is that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He leaned back slightly, his lips quirking into that trademark smirk. “The type who drinks whiskey alone in a bar and pretends they’re not thinking about work.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, you’re wrong. I’m not thinking about work. I’m thinking about how nice it is to not deal with questions about lap times and tire strategies for five minutes.”

Jeonghan chuckled, signaling to the bartender for a drink. “Fair enough. Though, if memory serves, you’re usually the one asking those questions.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shot back. “And if memory serves, you’re usually the one avoiding them.”

“Touché.” He raised his glass when it arrived, a silent toast that you reluctantly mirrored with your own.

For a while, the conversation meandered through safer topics—Tokyo’s sights, the food, the insanity of race week—but there was an undercurrent of something sharper, a game of verbal ping-pong that neither of you seemed willing to let go of.

“You know,” Jeonghan said after a particularly clever jab from you about his less-than-stellar start in Australia, “I think I’ve finally figured you out.”

“Oh?” you asked, amusement dancing in your tone. “Do tell.”

“You act all cool and collected, but deep down…” He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in slightly. “…you love the chaos. You thrive on it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, though a grin tugged at your lips. “And what about you, Mr. Reigning Champion? Aren’t you the one who said chaos is just part of the game?”

“True,” he admitted with a lazy shrug. “But I like to think I’m more strategic about it.”

“Strategic?” you echoed, incredulous. “You literally said ‘let them talk’ after crossing the finish line in Australia. That’s not strategy, Jeonghan—that’s reckless arrogance.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, and you hated how it made your chest tighten just a little. “Maybe. But it keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

You didn’t respond, sipping your drink instead, determined not to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Jeonghan tilted his head, his gaze flicking over you with a knowing glint. “This feels familiar.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What does?”

“Let’s just say you have a knack for leaving me with something to think about,” he said casually, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

A flicker of amusement crossed your face. “Still losing sleep over it, Jeonghan?”

He leaned in, his voice dropping low, laced with mischief. “Not quite. But I’ve been wondering if you’re all talk or if you actually mean half the things you say.”

You smirked, leaning back just a little. “And what are you planning to do about it?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Guess you’ll have to find out next time,” he said smoothly, signaling to the bartender and slipping his card onto the counter.

You frowned, catching on quickly. “Jeonghan, you don’t have to—”

“Of course I don’t,” he replied, his smirk growing as he leaned in just enough for his voice to drop, intimate and teasing. “But what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t treat you every now and then?”

“A terrible one,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms.

He chuckled, standing up and adjusting his jacket. “Always so quick with the comebacks.”

You tilted your head, not backing down. “And yet, here you are, still trying to keep up.”

He grinned, leaning down so his face was level with yours. “Oh, I’m not just keeping up, sweetheart. I’m leading.”

With that, he threw on his jacket, turning to leave, but not without one last playful remark. “Enjoy your night, Y/N. And next time…” He flashed a grin over his shoulder, his voice dipping lower. “Try putting that mouth of yours to better use.”

Your mouth dropped open, and you could hear his laugh as you watched him disappear into the neon-lit streets.

Damn him.

The Suzuka Circuit’s air was heavy with anticipation, the disappointment in Ferrari’s garage palpable. Jeonghan leaned against the barrier in the media pen, his crimson Ferrari suit contrasting with the growing dusk. Despite his relaxed posture, the tension radiating off him was hard to miss.

"Yoon Jeonghan," you began, stepping forward with your mic. "P11 today—your first time not making it to Q3 since your rookie season. What happened out there?"

His smile was thin, masking the fire simmering beneath. "Suzuka’s a tough circuit. I put in a solid lap, but in the end, it just wasn’t enough. A couple milliseconds make all the difference."

"Kim Mingyu of McLaren knocked you out in the dying seconds of the session," you pointed out, your tone as neutral as possible.

"Yeah, Mingyu had a great lap," he said, though his smirk betrayed a hint of frustration. "Kudos to him for that. It’s the nature of the game—sometimes you’re the one knocking others out, and sometimes you’re the one being knocked out."

You tilted your head, pressing just a little. "Ferrari’s upgrades were supposed to shine here at Suzuka. Do you think the car—or the driver—fell short today?"

His eyes met yours, sharp and knowing. "Is that your way of asking if I’m losing my edge?"

You smiled faintly. "Just doing my job, Jeonghan."

"And doing it well," he replied smoothly. "I’ll make sure to give you something better to write about tomorrow."

Yoon Jeonghan’s Q2 Knockout: A Sign of Ferrari’s Struggles or a Driver Underperforming?

Your analysis was live before the sun set over Suzuka, dissecting Jeonghan’s performance lap by lap:

"While Ferrari’s SF-24 showed promise in Q1, Jeonghan’s Q2 lap exposed cracks in execution. Hesitant braking into Spoon Corner cost him vital time, and a wide exit through Degner 2 raised questions about his confidence under high pressure. Kim Mingyu’s decisive lap in the McLaren only highlighted the contrast, leaving Ferrari fans wondering if Jeonghan can rebound from this rare stumble."

It didn’t take long for the article to ripple through the paddock—and reach its subject. The article was sharp, critical, with the same bite that you had become a household name for. And Jeonghan read every word.

He must have been an idiot to assume you would be kinder after the way he’d left you gobsmacked a few nights prior at the bar.

You had just wrapped up your interview with Mingyu, the day’s pole sitter, when Jeonghan found you.

"Got a minute?" he asked, voice deceptively light.

You glanced up, startled to find him so close, still in his Ferrari suit, his hair slightly damp from the cool-down lap.

"Something on your mind?" you replied, keeping your tone professional.

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. "That article."

You raised an eyebrow. "Specificity helps, you know."

He chuckled darkly. "The one where you ripped apart my Q2 performance like you’re a technical director." He took a step closer, and for the first time, the calm façade cracked - his smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Hesitant braking? Lack of confidence under pressure? You really think I’m losing my touch?"

"I think Suzuka demands perfection," you replied evenly. "And today, perfection wasn’t what we saw."

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "You love this, don’t you? Watching me stumble so you can tear me apart in print."

"Jeonghan," you said, straightening, "if you want me to write glowing reviews, give me something to work with."

"You should’ve mentioned how close I was to Mingyu’s time," he shot back.

"Close isn’t enough," you countered, coolly. "Not in this sport."

His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Careful, sweetheart. Don’t let them think you’re this obsessed with me."

"Careful, Jeonghan," you shot back mockingly. "Sienna Hartley might not like hearing you get so worked up over me."

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could walk away. "Here’s an exclusive for you," he said, his voice sharp. "Me and Sienna? Not together."

You blinked, thrown off for just a moment before you schooled your expression. "Good to know. Now let go."

He released you immediately but lingered just long enough to murmur, "Don’t think this is over."

The Suzuka chaos worked in Jeonghan’s favor.

When the lights went out, Jeonghan’s start was perfect—clean, aggressive, calculated. By the first corner, he had already gained two places, capitalizing on a sluggish Alpine and threading the needle between a Williams and an AlphaTauri.

The midfield battle was fierce. Suzuka’s notorious esses demanded precision, and Jeonghan attacked them with surgical efficiency, his Ferrari responding like an extension of his own instincts. He overtook the Aston Martin of Lee Seokmin into Turn 11 with a move so bold the crowd audibly gasped.

Each pass felt like a small victory, but it wasn’t enough. The podium still felt miles away. His fingers tightened on the wheel as he navigated the sweeping Spoon Curve, catching a glimpse of the orange McLaren far ahead—Mingyu.

The memory of your post-quali interview slipped into his mind. Close isn’t enough. Not in this sport.

He exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. Now wasn’t the time. Jeonghan approached Degner 2, the car planted firmly under him. He could feel the wear on his tires but knew he still had grip to spare. He glanced briefly at the digital display on his steering wheel, calculating the gap to the car ahead—P5, the Red Bull of Choi Seungcheol.

As he accelerated toward the Hairpin, your voice echoed in his head again. Hesitant braking. Confidence issues.

His jaw clenched. It wasn’t anger—it was something more complicated. Why did you always manage to get under his skin? He should’ve been focusing on tire wear, fuel management, or his next target, but instead, his mind betrayed him.

He thought of the way you’d smirked during the interview, how your tone had been sharp, almost daring. The way you’d walked away, leaving him with more to say.

Focus. He snapped himself back, braking perfectly into the Hairpin. The slip of attention hadn’t cost him, but it had been close. Too close.

A well-timed pit stop under a virtual safety car catapulted him to P4. He rejoined the track with fresh mediums, slicing through the field with an aggression that stunned even his team.

By Lap 40, he was staring down the rear wing of Kwon Soonyoung—his own teammate. The team’s radio lit up, the pit wall hesitating.

“Jeonghan, Soonyoung ahead on a different strategy. Keep it clean.”

He didn’t wait for a direct order. Into 130R, the fastest corner on the track, he swung to the outside. His car shuddered with the force of the maneuver, but he held his line, leaving Soonyoung no choice but to yield.

“P3, Jeonghan. You’re on the podium now. Great move.”

With only two laps to go, he was in P2, chasing Mingyu, who had a comfortable lead. Jeonghan knew catching him was impossible, but that wasn’t the point anymore. This was about proving something—to his team, the fans, and maybe even to you.

The Ferrari hummed beneath him, a symphony of power and precision. Every turn, every braking zone, every shift felt like redemption. When he crossed the line in P2, the roar of the crowd was deafening, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat.

The media room was packed, buzzing with questions for the podium finishers. You started with Mingyu, still glowing from his dominant victory.

“Kim Mingyu,” you began, “another win for McLaren. How does it feel to catch up to Jeonghan in the driver’s championship?”

Mingyu smiled, leaning into the mic. “It feels incredible. The car was perfect today, and the team did an amazing job. Credit to everyone back at the factory.”

Before you could move on to the next question, Jeonghan interjected from his spot.

“Must feel nice to start up front and stay there,” he quipped, his tone light but pointed.

Mingyu grinned, unfazed. “You would know, Jeonghan. But you kept me looking over my shoulder the whole time.”

The room chuckled, and you shot Jeonghan a warning glance, which he ignored entirely.

Later, when a question was directed at Jeonghan about his race recovery, his response was pointed. "Oh, you know. I’m pretty good at managing tire degradation. And I had a lot of people doubting me on this track specifically, so I had to prove them wrong too."

His gaze locked on yours as he delivered the last line, and the meaning wasn’t lost on you—or anyone else in the room.

Jeonghan barely made it three steps out of the press conference room before Soonyoung intercepted him, leaning casually against a stack of Pirelli tires like he had all the time in the world. The amusement on his face set Jeonghan’s internal alarms blaring.

“What the hell was that about?” Soonyoung asked, arms crossed in mock authority.

Jeonghan blinked, expertly schooling his expression into one of pure confusion. “What was what about?” he replied, his tone dripping with innocence.

“Oh, don’t even try to play dumb with me, Jeonghan. I know you too well.” Soonyoung’s grin widened as he stepped closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “You were doing something during that press conference. I’ve never seen you look that smug unless you’re—”

“I was answering questions,” Jeonghan interrupted smoothly, plucking a water bottle from the cooler without breaking his stride. He unscrewed the cap with deliberate calm, taking a slow sip. “That’s what press conferences are for, in case you forgot.”

Soonyoung squinted at him, unconvinced. “Right. And here I thought press conferences were for you to pretend you’re unbothered while delivering backhanded digs at Kim Mingyu.”

Jeonghan barely managed to keep a straight face, though he felt the tiniest flicker of pride. He had been particularly good with his barbs today. Still, there was no way he was admitting that. “Don’t project, Soonyoung,” he drawled. “Not everyone uses media day as therapy.”

Before Soonyoung could retort, a new voice joined the conversation.

“I know what it was,” said Kim Sunwoo, strolling up with the unshakable confidence of someone who didn’t yet understand how much trouble he was about to cause. The young mechanic had a smirk plastered on his face, the kind that made Jeonghan instinctively want to flee.

“You know what?” Jeonghan asked warily, his eyes narrowing.

“That look you had during the Q&A,” Sunwoo continued, leaning casually against a tool chest. “You were staring at her, man. Like, full-on laser focus. It’s like you were trying to send her a message.”

Jeonghan’s grip on the water bottle tightened. He felt his ears heat up but refused to let it show. “I was answering her question,” he said evenly. “It’s called eye contact. You should try it sometime—people like that sort of thing.”

But Sunwoo wasn’t done. “And don’t think we didn’t notice you getting all flustered when Mingyu’s name came up,” he added, his smirk widening.

“Flustered?” Jeonghan repeated, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. That’s definitely the word I’d use to describe me.”

“Come on, dude.” Sunwoo shrugged, undeterred. “Admit it. You’ve got a crush.”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Jeonghan froze mid-sip, choking slightly as the water went down the wrong way. He coughed, spluttering as Sunwoo and Soonyoung erupted into laughter.

“Alright,” Jeonghan said sharply once he’d recovered, pointing a finger at Sunwoo. “You’ve been spending too much time on TikTok. Get back to work before I have you polishing rims for the rest of the season.”

But Sunwoo only grinned wider, completely unbothered. “Jeonghan’s in loooove,” he teased, drawing out the word in a sing-song voice.

“I said that’s enough,” Jeonghan snapped, the slight pink tinge creeping up his neck completely betraying his forced composure. “Shouldn’t you be tuning an engine or something useful?”

Soonyoung, meanwhile, was doubled over laughing, clearly enjoying himself far too much. When he finally straightened, he clapped Jeonghan on the back. “Hey, don’t worry about it, man. If you need advice, just let me know. I’m great with women.”

Jeonghan groaned, brushing him off. “The day I take advice from you, Soonyoung, is the day I retire. He shoved past them toward his motorhome, muttering under his breath. “Insufferable. Both of you.”

But even as he slammed the door behind him, Jeonghan couldn’t stop the echo of Sunwoo’s words from rattling around in his head.

You’ve got a crush.

He scoffed aloud, shaking his head. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, tossing the water bottle onto the couch. But as he sank down beside it, arms crossed and jaw tight, he couldn’t quite stop himself from wondering.

Jeonghan didn’t want to be here.

The club pulsed with energy, a humid swirl of bodies pressing too close, the bass reverberating in his chest like a persistent headache. Strobe lights sliced through the haze, and the air smelled faintly of spilled drinks and cheap cologne. Somewhere in the chaos, Soonyoung had disappeared, leaving Jeonghan to fend for himself.

He’d been ready to make his exit the moment they walked in, but Soonyoung had insisted. “You need to loosen up, Jeonghan. Let the adrenaline from the race wear off. Have a drink, maybe dance.”Jeonghan had scoffed at the idea, knowing full well that his reason for not wanting to stay wasn’t exhaustion.

No, it was you.

Even when you weren’t in the room, you lingered in his mind like the ghost of a song he couldn’t stop humming. The podium had been a nice distraction. But now, surrounded by the chatter of strangers and the clinking of glasses, his thoughts drifted back to the press conference and the pointed, teasing look you’d given him when he spoke.

And then there was Mingyu—always Mingyu—whose name you’d said with just a little too much warmth. Jeonghan had pretended not to notice, but it had been impossible to ignore.

Shaking his head, Jeonghan pushed through the crowd, determined to leave. He had almost made it to the exit when someone collided into him, hard enough to send him stumbling forward.

“Whoa—watch it!” a voice slurred, sharp with irritation but unmistakably familiar.

He turned, already scowling, but the expression froze on his face when he saw you.

“Jeonghan?” you said, blinking up at him, your voice teetering between surprise and amusement. Your cheeks were flushed, lips curling into a slow smile as you adjusted your grip on the drink in your hand.

“You?” he blurted, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second.

“What are you—?” you started, only to trail off as a giggle bubbled out of you. Shaking your head like you were trying to clear it, you added, “Wow. Small world, huh?”

“I guess so,” Jeonghan said, his tone carefully even, though his gaze lingered on the way the dim light caught the sheen of your hair, the curve of your smile. His eyes dropped to your drink, then back to your face. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you said, far too quickly, before adding with a sheepish laugh, “Okay, maybe. Just a little.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to curve into a smile. “Sure looks like it.”

You waved him off with a dramatic flourish, nearly spilling your drink in the process. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be... I don’t know, brooding on a podium somewhere?”

He tilted his head, pretending to be affronted. “I don’t brood. And besides, this is a celebration.”

“Oh, right,” you said, stepping closer. Your gaze softened, and your voice dropped just enough to make the words feel like they were meant for him alone. “The big comeback.”

“Lots of doubters, huh?” you added, the slight slur in your voice doing nothing to dull the edge of your words.

Jeonghan blinked, caught off guard, before a chuckle escaped him. “Well, your article did the talking for you.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, your eyes a little too bright, your smile a little too slow. “What a way to get my attention, pretty boy.”

His breath caught, his carefully built façade cracking for just a second. “You think I’m pretty?”

Your lips parted, but before you could answer, a hand landed firmly on your shoulder.

“There you are!”

Jeonghan looked up to see one of your friends glaring at him as they steadied you. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re... what? Flirting with Yoon Jeonghan now?”

“Not flirting,” you protested weakly, though your lopsided smile said otherwise.

Your friend wasn’t convinced, nor were they interested in his response. They tugged you into the crowd with an apologetic glance over their shoulder. “Sorry about her—she’s had a night.”

Jeonghan stayed rooted in place, his gaze following your retreating figure. His lips curved into a faint smile as your words replayed in his mind.

“What a way to get my attention,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head.

And yet, as he stood there, the thought struck him that maybe you’d already gotten his.

FORMULA 1 GRAND PRIX DE MONACO 2024Track: Circuit de Monaco

The paddock at Monaco was alive with its usual glitz and glamour, the unmistakable hum of anticipation hanging thick in the air. Cameras flashed, team personnel buzzed around, and the harbor glistened under the sun. Monaco, the crown jewel of the F1 calendar, had a way of amplifying everything—victories felt sweeter, defeats more crushing, and the stakes impossibly higher.

Jeonghan, fresh off securing pole position, had his usual air of nonchalance, but the glow of triumph was undeniable. The fans chanted his name; the cameras adored him. Yet as he stepped off the podium erected for the post-qualifying festivities, his sharp eyes caught sight of something—someone—that brought him up short.

You.

You were standing just beyond the throng of journalists, your press badge gleaming under the midday sun. It had been weeks since he’d last seen you, weeks since your sharp quips and piercing questions had filled the air between you like sparks on dry wood.

Those weeks had been… odd, to say the least. You’d been reassigned to cover Formula E, a shift Jeonghan had learned about only after noticing your absence at the paddock in China. He had played it cool, pretending it didn’t matter, but he had found himself seeking out your byline anyway—reading articles that had nothing to do with him or F1, just to feel the rhythm of your words.

Even the searing critiques you usually aimed at him had been sorely missed. It was maddening, really, how much quieter the world had felt without your fire.

Now, here you were again, back in the fray of Formula 1, as though no time had passed. Jeonghan’s expression remained casual, but his stride toward you was deliberate, cutting through the chaos of the paddock.

When he stopped in front of you, his smirk was already in place, a shield against the strange, unwelcome flutter of relief in his chest. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, tilting his head with practiced ease.

You looked up from your notebook, arching a brow at him. “Missed me, Jeonghan?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

The word landed between you like a drop of rain on hot asphalt, its simplicity taking you aback. Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard, and Jeonghan couldn’t help but notice how the sharpness in your gaze softened for a fraction of a second.

But then, as quickly as the moment arrived, he leaned in, his smirk deepening. “Someone had to keep the paddock interesting.”

You rolled your eyes, recovering your composure. “I see the Monaco air hasn’t done anything for your humility.”

“And I see Formula E hasn’t dulled your wit,” he shot back, stepping closer so the noise of the paddock faded slightly.

You shook your head, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You’ve done not too bad these past few races, huh?”

The comment was offhand, tossed in almost as a formality, but it hit Jeonghan harder than he expected. Compliments—genuine ones—were rare from you, and they stirred something unexpected in him.

Jeonghan blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second before he quickly replaced it with mock arrogance. “Not too bad?” he echoed, feigning offense. “I dominated in China, held my ground in Miami, and destroyed Emilia Romagna. Give me some credit here.”

For all his ego, Jeonghan knew he wasn’t wrong. He’d won China by a jaw-dropping 22.3-second margin, Mingyu so far behind that Jeonghan had time to deliver an entire thank-you speech over the radio before the McLaren driver even crossed the checkered flag. In Miami, even a grueling five-second stop-go penalty hadn’t stopped him; he finished P2 (behind Kim Mingyu, annoyingly) and picked up the extra point for the fastest lap, earning him Driver of the Day. And in Emilia Romagna, he was the clear favorite from the moment the race weekend began. The Tifosi were relentless, their cheers in the grandstands so deafening that Jeonghan could barely hear his engineer’s voice over the radio.

When he crossed the finish line first, the sea of red under the podium roared with such thunderous applause that his ears rang for hours afterward. In just three races, Jeonghan had cemented himself as the best contender for the 2024 World Champion.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t as sweet without you there to write about it.

“Alright,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on. “You’ve been exceptional.”

The word struck like a sucker punch. For once, Jeonghan didn’t have a clever retort.

"Congrats on pole, Jeonghan," you said, your voice cool but sincere, offering him a small smile. It made his heart skip a beat.

Jeonghan’s lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You called me exceptional."

You glanced up at him, closing your notebook with a flick of your wrist. The corner of your mouth quirked into a smirk. "Yes. Now, thoughts on pole?"

He's silent for so long that you politely clear your throat, hoping to cut through the sudden stillness. "Maybe this should be my headline for the day, Jeonghan. Monaco's Maze Leaves Golden Boy Spinning Out."

It's like someone doused him with ice water. His easy, sun-soaked posture stiffens, and the small smirk he'd been wearing evaporates.

You're still a journalist. He forgets that sometimes.

"Why do you do that?" he mutters, voice edged with something unfamiliar—disappointment, maybe.

You blink, caught off guard by the abrupt change in tone. “Do what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely between you and the notebook tucked in your hand. The lenses of his sunglasses catch the sunlight, but there’s no mistaking the intensity behind them. His gaze pierces, searching for something in your expression. “Bringing the shitty headlines into every conversation."

You arch a brow, tucking the notebook closer to your chest as if shielding it from his line of sight. “Shitty? You mean accurate, Jeonghan.”

His jaw tightens, a subtle movement, but enough to draw your attention. There’s a faint crease forming between his brows now, and you realize it’s not your usual back-and-forth banter. “You know what I mean,” he mutters, voice low and barely audible over the hum of the paddock—the distant rumble of engines, the echo of voices, the clinking of tools in nearby garages.

For a moment, you’re at a loss. Jeonghan doesn’t let things like this bother him—or, at least, he’s always been good at pretending they don’t. His whole brand is carefree charm, a perpetual smirk, and the confidence of someone who knows he’ll always be the center of attention. This feels different.

“You’re upset about a headline?” you ask, genuinely curious now.

“It’s not about the headline.” His tone sharpens, but he stops himself, jaw clenching like he’s swallowing something bitter. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, his fingers brushing over the brim of his cap. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, tinged with something almost vulnerable. “It’s about how you never let up, even when it’s me.”

The admission lands heavily between you, unexpected and disarming.

You shift uncomfortably under the weight of his words, the way they seem to strip away the professional distance you’ve been clinging to. “Why should I?” you counter, keeping your voice steady despite the flicker of doubt creeping in. “You’re just another driver, Jeonghan.”

His laugh is short and humorless, cutting through the charged air between you. “Right. Just another driver.”

There’s something about the way he says it—low, almost resigned—that catches you off guard. The bitterness in his tone isn’t theatrical; it’s real, raw, and so at odds with the image he projects to the world.

You glance at him, searching for the Jeonghan you’re used to—the one who shrugs off criticism with a knowing grin, who always has a teasing retort ready. But for once, he’s not hiding behind a smirk or a cocky quip. He looks tired, the weight of his words pulling at the edges of his carefully maintained charm.

“Jeonghan,” you begin, unsure of what you’re even trying to say.

But he shakes his head, cutting you off before you can find the right words. “Forget it.”

He takes a step back, and it feels like a gulf opening between you. The mask of indifference slips back into place with practiced ease, but you’ve already seen the cracks. “You’ve got your job to do,” he says, his tone clipped and distant. “Make sure you spell my name right in that next ‘shitty headline.’”

You hate the way your chest tightens at his words, hate the instinctive urge to reach out and stop him as he turns to walk away, his figure retreating into the chaotic swirl of the paddock.

But you don’t.

Instead, you grip your notebook tighter, the edges digging into your palm as if the physical discomfort might drown out the ache building in your chest. The buzz of your phone in your pocket snaps you out of the moment. Grateful for the distraction, you pull it out to see a text from your editor: Post-qualifying article. Deadline: 6 PM.

Just another driver.

The words echo hollowly in your mind, unconvincing and painfully untrue.

Because the truth is, Jeonghan has never been just anything to you.

And that’s exactly why this is so damn complicated.

Jeonghan spends the night refreshing his Twitter feed.

He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, honestly.

Maybe it’s the rush of validation that comes from a clever reply, or the sting of criticism that reminds him he’s still human under the helmet. Or maybe it’s something else entirely—something he doesn’t want to name. The applause of the crowd is long gone, and the adrenaline from securing pole position hours earlier has settled into a restless hum. His phone feels heavier in his hand as he scrolls, tapping at random links and skimming comments that veer between praise and criticism.

The article finally pops up, your name bold and unmistakable at the top. His stomach tightens, a sensation he’ll never admit to anyone, least of all you.

He clicks it immediately.

The headline strikes first:

Kim Mingyu’s Risky Qualifying Lap Keeps Rivals on Edge

For a moment, he freezes, his eyes scanning the words again to make sure he didn’t misread.

Mingyu?

Confusion knots his brow as he scrolls down. The opening paragraph is a glowing analysis of Mingyu’s audacious lap—a near miss in the second sector, a masterful recovery in the final corners. The kind of detailed, evocative writing that Jeonghan knows you reserve for stories you care about.

Then, buried halfway through, he finds his name:

“Jeonghan, true to form, delivered a flawless lap to secure pole position. His consistency and precision were unmatched, placing him at the front of the grid for tomorrow’s race.”

That’s it.

No breakdown of his sector times, no mention of the deft control it took to navigate the tight Monaco corners under immense pressure. Just a single, clinical acknowledgment, overshadowed by Mingyu’s second-place drama.

Jeonghan stares at the screen, his thumb hovering over the refresh button. He doesn’t know what he was expecting—a parade in words? A headline with his name front and center?

It’s ridiculous, he tells himself. Pole position speaks for itself. It doesn’t need a poetic article to back it up.

But that doesn’t stop the irritation bubbling under his skin.

He tosses his phone onto the bed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. His hotel room feels quieter than it should, the distant hum of the city barely seeping through the windows.

He can’t shake the feeling that you’re making a point. That this is your way of reminding him that while he might be the golden boy on the track, he doesn’t get special treatment in your world.

Not in your writing. Not from you.

It’s infuriating.

And yet, a part of him—one he’s unwilling to examine too closely—wants to know why you didn’t write more about him. Wants to know what he’d have to do to make you look at him the way you clearly look at Mingyu.

Not just another driver.

But the one worth writing about.

The morning of the Monaco Grand Prix dawned with the soft hum of engines filling the paddock and the gleaming streets of Monte Carlo radiating under a cloudless sky. Jeonghan arrived early, his customary calm masking the roiling anticipation beneath. Pole position was his—secured with a lap so clinical it had left his rivals chasing shadows. Yet, the sharp sting of your article still lingered, buried beneath layers of pride and annoyance.

By mid-morning, the paddock buzzed with tension. The Monaco circuit—narrow, unforgiving, and relentlessly demanding—left no room for error. Victory here wasn’t just about speed; it was about precision, strategy, and an unwavering mental edge. Jeonghan knew that all too well.

As he suited up, the familiar ritual steadied his thoughts. Helmet, gloves, fireproofs—each piece transformed him into the driver everyone expected him to be. His engineer’s voice crackled over the comms. “Focus on the start, Jeonghan. Turn One is everything.”

He gave a curt nod, stepping into the car. The roar of the crowd was muffled as the cockpit enveloped him. Lights on the dashboard blinked in sequence, a visual metronome syncing with his heartbeat.

The engine roars to life beneath Jeonghan as he settles into the cockpit, the familiar hum of the Monaco Grand Prix vibrating through the seat, up his spine, and into his very bones. His focus sharpens like a blade, the heat of the sun seeping through his visor, but he’s not thinking about the sweat trickling down his neck or the weight of the helmet that obscures his field of vision. He’s thinking of the laps he’s put in, of the sacrifice, the years of work that led him here, to this very moment, pole position in Monaco.

He has no illusions about the challenge ahead. This track has always favored the one at the front, especially when that one is someone as methodical and precise as Jeonghan. It’s not often that the pole sitter falters here. But that’s not what has his stomach in knots. It’s not the track or the other drivers. It’s you. The thought of your words, your perspective, your gaze.

What if this win isn’t enough? What if I’m still just another driver to you?

His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and for a moment, he considers the possibility of failing, of cruising through the race without the sharp, passionate energy that has always pushed him. What if he doesn’t even get the headline he’s chasing? What if all this effort amounts to nothing more than another expected victory, no deeper praise, no recognition?

He blinks, pushing the thought away. He can’t afford distractions. He’s here to win—nothing else matters.

The lights blink, one by one, before finally turning off, and he’s off, the car surging forward into the narrow streets of Monaco, engines screaming in unison. His concentration narrows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. The first few laps are a blur of tactical moves, maintaining the lead, setting the pace. Behind him, Mingyu is close—too close—but Jeonghan has enough room, enough air to breathe.

The laps tick by, the gaps between drivers stretching and shrinking like the ebb and flow of a tide. In Monaco, you can’t make mistakes. The barriers are close enough to bite, and one slip-up could send everything into chaos. Jeonghan doesn’t think of that, though. He doesn’t think of the press, of his reputation, of the words hanging in the back of his mind.

What he thinks about is the win. The pure, simple joy of crossing that finish line first. He wants to feel the weight of the moment, of the accomplishment, and more than anything, he wants to look up and see you there—see that your words reflect the magnitude of this victory.

He holds the lead through the race, but it’s a quiet victory, one he can feel in his bones but doesn’t fully experience. The lap times are consistent, but nothing spectacular happens. No drama, no surprise overtake, no breathtaking maneuver.

It’s a clean, controlled victory—exactly what everyone expects from the driver in pole position.

By the time the checkered flag waves, Jeonghan crosses the line in first. The crowd erupts in cheers, but Jeonghan doesn’t feel the same rush of emotion. The thrill is absent, replaced instead by a deep, gnawing sense of doubt.

The win is his, but it feels like it’s already slipping away from his grasp.

In the post-race briefing, he sits with his team, nodding as they discuss tire strategies, pit stops, and the things that went right. But his eyes keep drifting to the back of the room, to where you stand, clipboard in hand, scribbling notes with focused intent. Every time he tries to catch your gaze, to make eye contact, you look away, as if determined to keep your distance.

It stings more than it should.

Jeonghan leans back in his seat, the weight of his helmet resting against his neck, the pressure of your indifference pressing down on him. He wants to reach out, wants to tell you that this win—this clean, controlled, expected win—deserves something more. But he stays silent, twisting the words in his mind, unable to voice the insecurity that’s suddenly consuming him.

The press conference follows the briefing, a whirlwind of questions, cameras, and flashing lights. The room is full of journalists, all clamoring for soundbites, all eager to discuss the expected result—Jeonghan, pole position, and now, victory. But Jeonghan doesn’t care about the usual congratulatory remarks. He’s waiting for something more. Something real.

When the article finally drops, hours later, he barely waits before pulling it up on his phone. He knows what it’s going to say, but still, the disappointment claws at his chest as he reads the headline.

Jeonghan Dominates Monaco: Pole Position Translates to Victory

His stomach twists, and he exhales sharply, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that spreads through him. It’s everything he expected—a result that leaves no room for admiration, no room for praise. Just the simple, obvious statement that he did what everyone expected him to do. The race was clean, flawless even, but there’s no depth to the words, no recognition of what it takes to win here, at Monaco, the most challenging track in the world.

The thought gnaws at him.

It’s not enough.

The press conference continues, the cameras flashing, but Jeonghan’s mind is far from the words he’s being asked to repeat. He’s not thinking about the team’s success, about the strategies that worked, or even about the crowd's cheers. His eyes find you across the room once again, but this time, you don't look away. Your gaze is fixed on something—anything—but not on him.

He can’t help but wonder if it’s because you don’t see him as more than just another driver. Just another one of the usual suspects who gets a win when it’s expected. He’s fighting for something more—something beyond the surface. But for now, it seems like that’s something he’ll never get from you.

He’s won Monaco. But in that moment, the victory feels like the hollowest thing in the world.

FORMULA 1 AWS GRAND PRIX DU CANADA 2024Track: Circuit Gilles Villeneuve

The Canadian Grand Prix feels like a blur. The rain starts as a light drizzle, but by the time the race begins, it’s pouring, transforming the circuit into a slippery mess. The slick track glistens under the flood of water, making the circuit treacherous, a spinning wheel of danger. The air is thick with the scent of wet asphalt, and there’s an ominous tension in the paddock, a murmur that hangs in the atmosphere as if everyone knows something bad is about to happen.

You catch sight of Jeonghan on the grid. He’s staring straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back, his posture perfect, like the picture of composure. But you can see it in his eyes—something flickers there, a mix of tension and determination. His car, finely tuned for dry conditions, isn’t built for this. The engineers have done what they can, adjusting the setup, but there’s only so much they can do when the weather turns so violently. You know this track—the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve—is not forgiving, and for someone like Jeonghan, a precision driver who thrives when everything falls into place, this is the worst-case scenario. He’s trying to keep his focus, but you can see the strain on his face, the pressure mounting with every passing moment.

The starting lights go out, and the cars roar off the grid, their engines screaming in defiance of the rain. Jeonghan’s car is sluggish in the first few laps. You see him fighting with the wheel, struggling to keep the car in line, each turn a reminder that the odds are stacked against him. The rain is only getting heavier, and the car, built for speed in perfect conditions, is no longer responsive, no longer the finely-tuned machine he’s so accustomed to. It’s like he’s driving a different car altogether.

As the laps tick by, the race feels like a slow-motion disaster, unfolding before your eyes. Jeonghan’s always been skilled in the wet, but this is different—this is more than just rain. This is a mechanical mismatch, an impossible task to overcome. You watch him push, trying to find any way to make up time, but it’s clear he’s just not able to. The car slides wide through the corners, the back end kicking out as he struggles to maintain control. His frustration is palpable, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity.

And then, it happens.

The rear end of Jeonghan’s car breaks loose as he enters Turn 6, and for a moment, it’s a dance of power and precision, a flick of the wheel, an attempt to save it. But it’s futile. The car loses traction, and before you can even process it, he’s in the barriers. The sound of impact is like a gut punch, a sickening crunch that sends a wave of dread through you. The crowd's collective gasp is drowned out by the static crackle of his radio.

“Jeonghan, do you copy?” The voice of his engineer is urgent, panicked, but there’s no mistaking the defeat in it when the response comes through. Jeonghan’s voice is clipped, emotion stripped away in favor of the cold reality.

“I’m out. Car’s done.”

The message is simple, the weight of it crashing down on you. The race is over. Lap 30. The dream, the chance to prove himself in a season that’s been anything but easy, has slipped away, drowned by the rain.

You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. It’s a loss for Jeonghan, but it feels like a loss for you too. Not because of the race itself, but because of the frustration you saw in his face. The disappointment. The feeling of helplessness. It’s all there, and it hits you harder than you expect.

He doesn’t speak to anyone after. He doesn’t go to the media pen, doesn’t stand in front of the cameras for the obligatory interview. There’s no deflection, no distractions. He’s just... gone. You barely see him in the paddock. He doesn’t even go to the Ferrari garage to debrief with his team. He disappears into the background, like he’s trying to erase himself from the scene altogether, retreating into the shadows, avoiding the world that’s waiting to cast its judgment.

And you? You stay away too. The press room feels suffocating, the questions ringing in your ears as you try to focus. You write your piece, a cold, sharp report about the race and Jeonghan’s crash, a clinical dissection of what went wrong. But something feels hollow as you type. The words don’t flow the way they used to. They’re just words, strung together to meet the deadline, to give the readers what they want. It’s not about the story anymore. It’s not about the race. It’s about the loss.

You can’t shake the image of Jeonghan crashing out, of his frustration written in every line of his face, every motion of his hands. You can’t forget the way he looked when he climbed out of the car, shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen onto him. His eyes are distant, like he’s already checked out, retreating into himself. It’s a look you’ve seen before, but it’s sharper now, more pronounced. He’s carrying something, a burden that you don’t understand, a burden you’re not sure you can even help him carry.

But all you can do is write. And even that doesn’t feel like enough.

FORMULA 1 ARAMCO GRAN PREMIO DE ESPAÑA 2024 Track: Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya

The Spanish Grand Prix feels different from the moment you step out of the car, the heat oppressive, the air thick with anticipation and the inevitable tension of the weekend. The usual rhythm of the paddock is off-kilter, heightened by the suffocating summer heat, the burning sun beating down on every exposed surface. The heat is more than just physical; it's palpable in the way the drivers move, in the clipped tones of the engineers, in the quiet buzz of conversation that flickers out like static.

But even through the sticky, heavy air, the tension feels electric—charged, ready to snap. The circuit is a challenge in itself, and the drivers know it. There’s no room for error here—just wide, hot tarmac and the constant pressure of chasing that perfect lap.

You’ve done your best to avoid Jeonghan, kept a comfortable distance as much as possible. But there’s something about the way he carries himself now—an edge that wasn't there before. It’s sharp, biting, and yet there’s an underlying vulnerability that makes everything harder to ignore.

When qualifying results flash up, you’re caught off-guard. Soonyoung is on pole, Mingyu in second, and Jeonghan… Jeonghan is in third.

Jeonghan strides into the paddock after qualifying, his face carefully composed, but there’s a look in his eyes—something sharp, something that makes you hesitate. You haven’t spoken in days, not since Canada, not since he shut you out. You’ve been avoiding him, and he’s been avoiding you, but you both know the silence can’t last forever.

You’re standing near the media area when he approaches, and for a moment, it feels like the world holds its breath. The slight tilt of his head, the way his gaze flicks over your shoulder, pretending not to care, but you see through it.

"Don't do this," he says, his voice tight, but it's not the playful teasing you’ve grown used to. It’s something darker. Something tired.

"Don’t do what?" you snap, your patience running thin. "Pretend everything’s fine?"

His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. "You’ve been avoiding me. Why? Because of Canada?"

You blink. The question hits harder than you expect, and you struggle to keep your composure. “You expect me to just forget what happened? You were fine after the crash, Jeonghan. You didn’t even bother with the press. I can’t just pretend that wasn’t... anything.”

The words come out sharper than you intend, and for a split second, you regret it. You see the way his shoulders stiffen, the brief flicker of pain in his eyes before he masks it with that carefully constructed indifference.

"Maybe I didn’t want to deal with your harsh words," he snaps, taking a step closer. “Maybe I’m tired of being the perfect driver for you, the one who’s supposed to be good enough to meet your standards. But I’m not—am I?"

Your chest tightens at the accusation, at the sudden rawness in his voice. "You think I’m too harsh? You think I’m just waiting for you to be perfect all the time?" You laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. "That’s what this is about? You crashing out wasn’t because of me. I write the truth, Jeonghan. And maybe the truth is you didn’t have the car for that race. It was out of your control."

His expression darkens, and you see that familiar flash of anger—one you’ve seen more times than you care to admit. "No," he hisses, taking another step toward you. "The truth is, you're so wrapped up in your narratives, you forget that I’m human. You forget that I have feelings too, and that maybe... maybe I wanted to do this for myself, not for some headline or some article. But you... you don’t see me that way, do you? You see me as another story, another fucking headline to dissect. Just another driver."

His words cut deeper than anything else could, and the final crack in your restraint breaks wide open. You can feel the heat rising in your chest, the tightness in your throat, the way your breath hitches.

“You want me to treat you differently?” you bite back, furious, stepping into his space. “You want me to hold your hand and tell you it’s okay every time you fail? Because you’re so tired of being just another driver? Well, you know what, Jeonghan? I am tired. I’m tired of trying to keep this professional, of pretending that I’m not watching the same guy who couldn’t even handle his own crash. You don’t get to demand better treatment from me when you can’t even handle the heat.”

For a moment, neither of you move, and the silence is thick, charged with the weight of your words.

He stares at you, eyes dark, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. You’re both too close now, caught in this space where words are weapons, and you’re both bleeding out.

Finally, Jeonghan turns away, his expression unreadable, but you can see the tightness in his back, the way his jaw works, like he’s holding something back. "Maybe you should stop writing about me altogether," he mutters, his voice rough, before stalking off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding and chest aching.

For a moment, you stand frozen, caught between regret and relief, between the anger that still simmers beneath your skin and the sudden emptiness that creeps in now that he's gone.

The moment Jeonghan storms off, leaving you standing there with a surge of anger and a pounding heart, you don't realize someone’s been listening. But someone has. The faint click of a camera, barely audible over the sound of your pulse, is enough to make you pause. You turn, instinctively, to see a familiar face from the gossip side of the paddock. It's Soojin, a reporter known for getting the juiciest bits of drama and twisting them into scandalous headlines. She’s got a camera in one hand, her phone in the other, furiously typing something into it with a smirk that sends an uncomfortable ripple through your gut.

Before you can say anything, she’s already gone, blending back into the throng of people milling around the paddock, her steps quick and sure. The damage has been done. You know it, and the prickling sensation in the pit of your stomach tells you that it’s about to get a lot worse.

By the time you’ve made it back to the media center, the storm has already hit. Your Twitter feed is flooded with the words “Trouble in Paradise?”, and the accompanying photos. The images are damning—Jeonghan’s angry face, red with emotion, and your own flushed, furious expression, both of you screaming at each other in the middle of the paddock. There’s no context, no explanation, just the raw emotion, raw enough to sell.

The headline isn’t even what stings. It’s the comments that follow. Speculation, assumptions, and a flood of opinions. Some call it a lover’s quarrel, some assume the worst, but most seem content to paint the picture of two people on the verge of breaking. It’s not just your name that gets dragged through the mud; it’s Jeonghan’s too. Both of you, caught in a perfect storm of emotions and bad timing. The last thing either of you needs.

You try to shut it out, but it’s impossible. The text messages from your editor come through, asking for a statement. Your phone rings with calls from the PR team, from your colleagues, and even from your friends, who all seem to know about the situation before you’ve even had a chance to process it yourself.

And then, just when you think it couldn’t get worse, the email comes. It’s from Ferrari’s PR team, and it’s almost too professional to be true:

Dear Y/N, In light of the recent events surrounding your interactions with Mr. Yoon Jeonghan, we would like to offer you full access to the Ferrari garage for the remainder of the season. This will provide you with the opportunity to write an in-depth feature on the team, showcasing the work and dedication that goes into each race weekend. We believe this move will allow for a clearer perspective on the situation and help ensure that your reporting reflects the true nature of the team and its drivers. We look forward to your continued coverage. Best regards, Ferrari PR Team

It’s a calculated move—a distraction, a chance to smooth things over. And you know it. The message is clear: everything must look fine. Everything must be fixed, packaged neatly for the media and the fans to consume. You’re a pawn in a much bigger game, and they’re making sure you play along.

At first, you think about refusing. You think about how everything feels so wrong right now. About how the image of you and Jeonghan, caught in the heat of an argument, is being used to feed the frenzy. But the PR team doesn’t leave room for argument. You know that declining would only escalate things further, make them harder to fix.

So, you agree.

The access starts almost immediately. They give you a full tour of the Ferrari garage, show you the inner workings of the team, introduce you to the engineers, the strategists, the pit crew. You’re given permission to write about the team’s strategy, their behind-the-scenes preparation, but there’s always a sense that you're being watched—every move, every word.

You can’t help but notice Jeonghan’s absence. Every time you walk through the garage, he’s not there. The driver who once greeted you with a cocky smile and a teasing remark, the one who always found a way to make you laugh, is nowhere to be found. It’s like he’s vanished, swallowed by the thick wall of Ferrari’s PR machine.

It’s as if nothing is real anymore. The false smiles, the calculated interviews, the way the drivers exchange glances with a rehearsed ease. The more you observe, the more you realize how much of this world is a performance, a show put on for the audience, with no room for anything real. It all feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, leaving you with nothing but an empty, fragile façade.

Still, you’re expected to keep writing, to deliver the polished pieces the team expects. You’re supposed to put the headline “TROUBLE IN PARADISE?” behind you and focus on the carefully constructed narrative. So, you do. For now.

But even as you walk the pits, breathing in the scent of burnt rubber and sweat, there’s a quiet ache in the back of your mind. The truth is, you don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending that everything is fine.

Not when you still feel Jeonghan’s words hanging in the air between you, like the remnants of a storm that’s yet to pass. Not when you still want, with everything in you, to be able to fix it.

And maybe that’s the problem.

The crash happens so quickly, so violently, that it almost feels unreal. One moment, the tell-tale red of Jeonghan’s car is cutting through the circuit with his signature precision. The next, it’s a twisted mess of metal and rubber, skidding off the track, his car spinning wildly as Lee Seokmin’s Aston Martin clips him just before the tight corner at Turn 14. You watch it all unfold from the pit wall, your heart stopping for a brief second as the sound of the crash echoes through the air.

There’s a collective gasp from the crew around you, followed by the frantic chatter of engineers and strategists, trying to process what just happened. You can see the smoke rising from the wreckage, and your breath catches when the marshals begin to swarm the car, signaling that Jeonghan is still inside.

The radio crackles to life, but Jeonghan’s voice doesn’t come through. For a second, it feels like time slows down. The pit wall is a blur of motion, but you’re frozen, eyes locked on the track, praying for him to be okay.

Then, finally, the confirmation comes: “Jeonghan is out of the car. He's fine. We'll move him to the medical center.”

A wave of relief washes over you, but it’s short-lived. The weight of the crash—his crash—still hangs in the air, and it’s clear from the looks of the Ferrari crew that no one knows exactly what went wrong. The tension in the paddock is palpable, and as you’re given full access to the debriefing room afterward, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken frustration.

Jeonghan walks in with that same seething expression he had after the crash, and the room goes silent. His eyes are red-rimmed, his jaw clenched, the kind of anger that’s so deep it can’t be shaken by anything or anyone. His usual confident swagger is replaced by a taut, barely contained rage that makes it hard for anyone to even breathe in his presence. His voice, when he speaks, is sharp, cutting through the room like a knife.

“You think this is a joke?” he snaps, looking at his team with a glare so intense it’s almost suffocating. His fists are balled at his sides, his shoulders tense with barely controlled fury.

The debriefing begins, but it’s clear that no one knows how to handle him. His coach tries to keep things calm, but Jeonghan's sharp words only make the tension worse. The rest of the team sits in silence, unsure of what to say, how to fix the situation. His eyes never leave the table, his posture rigid, as though every part of him is fighting the urge to storm out.

The meeting goes in circles—strategies discussed, what went wrong, how to move forward—but nothing seems to land. Jeonghan doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to listen to anyone right now. His frustration is palpable, and it’s clear this crash, this failure, has broken something inside of him.

When he finally stands, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, there’s an air of finality to it. Without another word, he storms out, leaving a tense silence in his wake. No one dares to speak, knowing that anything they say would be pointless. The door slams shut, and the meeting disbands soon after.

But you don’t leave. You don’t really have anywhere to go. Not yet.

You make your way to the Ferrari canteen, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. It’s one of those rare moments when you’re not chasing a headline, not following the usual routine, and the monotony of it all feels like a relief. You order two beers without thinking. You don’t need two, but for some reason, it feels right. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the crash, or maybe it’s just the weight of everything—the pressure, the disappointment, the simmering frustration with Jeonghan that you haven’t had the chance to process yet. The beers are cold, the glass bottles slick with condensation, and when you walk outside to the grandstands, you find him.

Jeonghan is sitting alone, his back against the metal railing, the crowd long gone. The air is warm, the kind of summer heat that clings to your skin and makes everything feel a little heavier. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back as he stares at the sky, and for a moment, you wonder if he even notices you approaching.

Without saying a word, you sit beside him, the soft crunch of your shoes against the gravel the only sound in the stillness. You don’t offer him a drink immediately. Instead, you hold the bottles in your hands, feeling the chill seep into your palms, letting the silence stretch between you.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hand him one of the beers. He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the faintest shift in his posture, a soft hum of acknowledgement as he accepts it, cracking the cap with a quick twist.

“Jeonghan,” you say, breaking the silence, your voice quieter than you expect it to be. He doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. You take a sip of your own beer, the bitter taste grounding you in the moment. You can feel the tension that’s been building between you both, the weight of the unspoken words, but for now, you can’t bring yourself to make him speak.

Then he does. “Full access, huh?” His voice is rough, the teasing edge to his words gone, replaced by something heavier. The bitterness is unmistakable. “You must be thrilled, getting to see me crash out in front of the entire team.”

You almost choke on your beer. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or genuinely hurt, but it stings regardless.

“I’m not,” you say quickly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You wish he would look at you, but he’s staring straight ahead, his jaw still tight, muscles still coiled like a spring. "I don’t want that, Jeonghan. What don’t you get?"

“No?” He tilts his head slightly, but his gaze stays fixed. “I would think Miss Scathing Articles would relish the chance to tear me down again.”

A sharp retort sat on your tongue, but you swallowed it. There was no point. Instead, you looked away, focusing on the distant horizon where the racetrack lay, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. "I don’t," you said quietly. "I’m not interested in tearing you down. I never have been."

Jeonghan’s laugh was hollow, almost like a scoff. "Color me surprised."

A beat passed between you both, the air thick with unspoken words. You took a sip of your beer, now lukewarm and slightly flat, but it didn’t matter. Neither of you had the luxury of pretending everything was fine anymore.

He finally turns to you, his eyes meeting yours; there’s something in the way he looks at you—raw, vulnerable, almost like he’s waiting for the punchline of some cruel joke.

“I’m sorry,” you say after a long silence, your voice softer this time, barely above a whisper. You’re not sure if he hears you, but he looks at you with an expression that makes you feel like you’ve just stepped into a minefield.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he exhales a long breath, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as though the weight of it all is finally catching up to him. The tension between you hangs heavy in the warm summer air, the quiet hum of distant cicadas filling the space where words should be. Jeonghan takes another sip of his beer, the bottle pressed lightly against his lips as though it might cool the heat simmering under his skin. He looks tired—no, more than tired. Worn down. The type of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says finally, the words coming out uneven, almost like they’re foreign on his tongue. His voice is softer now, missing the sharp edges that had cut into you moments before. “You were just doing your job.”

“Jeonghan,” you start, but he holds up a hand, silencing you.

“No, really.” He forces a thin smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the kind of expression you’ve seen him use in press conferences—a shield, practiced and perfect. “You’re here because Ferrari told you to be. Because someone thought it’d be a great PR move. You don’t owe me anything beyond that.”

The words sting, even though you know they shouldn’t. He’s not wrong. This isn’t your world, not really. But you can’t help the knot tightening in your chest as you watch him retreat into himself, the walls going up before your eyes.

“I’m not here because they told me to be,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “I’m here because I wanted to be. Because I saw the crash, Jeonghan, and I—” You stop, swallowing hard as the memory flashes behind your eyes again. The twisted metal, the plume of smoke, the moment you thought—

“I was scared,” you admit, your voice cracking slightly. “Not as a journalist. Not as someone with a job to do. As someone who—” Jeonghan’s gaze snaps to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, but there’s something vulnerable there, too, something unguarded.

You don't finish the sentence.

Jeonghan watches you closely now, his beer suspended mid-air, forgotten. The sharpness in his gaze softens, replaced by something else—curiosity, maybe, or an unease he doesn’t quite know how to address.

The air between you feels heavy, suffocating in its quiet. You can still hear the faint echoes of the crash in your mind, the awful screech of metal against asphalt, the split-second horror of thinking you’d just seen him—

He sets the bottle down with a soft clink against the railing, breaking the spell.

“Scared, huh?” His voice is quieter now, and there’s a touch of disbelief, as though he’s trying to decide whether to accept your words or dismiss them.

You nod, throat tightening as you try to push through the lump that’s settled there. “Terrified,” you admit, the word feeling foreign and vulnerable on your tongue. “Not because of what I’d have to write, but because I thought—” You bite down on the rest of the sentence, unwilling to say it aloud.

Jeonghan exhales, long and slow, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he leans back against the railing. “I’m fine,” he says eventually, the words flat and unconvincing. He glances at you, his lips pressing into a faintly wry smile. “A little bruised. A little pissed. But I’m fine.”

It’s not enough to untangle the knot in your chest, but it’s a start. You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything else.

He finishes his beer in a few swallows, the motion oddly decisive, before standing and brushing off his pants. For a moment, you think he’s about to leave without another word, the tension between you both left unresolved.

But then he turns, holding out a hand toward you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a faint curve to his lips that feels almost... playful.

“Friends?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his hair falling into his eyes. “If you’re going to be hanging around the garage all season, might as well, y’know?”

You blink at him, taken aback. The man who’d stormed out of the debriefing room in a fit of rage, who’d spat barbs at you moments ago, now stood here offering a truce like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Friends,” you echo, narrowing your eyes as you take his hand. It’s warm, his grip firm but not overbearing, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is another performance—an act to keep you at arm’s length.

But when he pulls you to your feet, there’s something genuine in his expression, something almost relieved.

“You better not make me regret this,” he says, letting go of your hand as he shoves his now-empty beer bottle into your other one. “And don’t think this means you’re off the hook for the shit you wrote.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as he smirks.

For the first time all day, the knot in your chest loosens just slightly. You follow him back toward the paddock, your steps lighter than they’ve been in weeks.

And for now, that’s enough.

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AUSTRIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Red Bull Ring

The Red Bull Ring stretches out before you like a postcard of precision. Nestled in the Austrian hills, the track gleams under the soft morning sun, its curves and straights inviting the first roar of engines. The garage is alive with motion—engineers bent over laptops, mechanics tightening bolts, and the hum of anticipation that comes with any race weekend.

You step into the Ferrari garage, an interloper in a sea of red. Jeonghan’s car gleams in its designated spot, pristine and ready, as though it hadn’t been a crumpled wreck just a week ago. The team works around it like a well-oiled machine, barely sparing you a glance. You’re supposed to be here, technically, but that doesn’t stop the slight twinge of unease as you find a quiet corner near the monitors.

“Back again?”

The voice is unmistakable, light and teasing. You turn, and there he is: Yoon Jeonghan in his fireproofs, the sleeves tied around his waist, his white undershirt faintly clinging to his frame. He looks every bit the picture of calm, like he hasn’t spent the past few days fielding press questions about his crash.

“Didn’t think you’d miss the chance to watch me run into someone,” he adds, smirking as he adjusts his gloves.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this your way of saying you’re aiming for Aston Martin?”

He laughs, a real laugh this time, and it’s startling how much it changes the air around you. “Not today. But I’ll keep you updated if Seokmin starts driving like a rookie again.”

“Careful, Jeonghan,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I might put that in my next article.”

He leans casually against the wall, his dark eyes scanning your face with an intensity that’s become familiar in the past few weeks. But there’s no edge to it today, no armor. Just him, relaxed and—for once—almost easygoing.

“You’re not as scary as you think you are,” he says after a beat, his voice low enough that the hum of the garage nearly drowns it out.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the grin that creeps onto your face. “And you’re not as charming as you think you are.”

He tilts his head, considering this like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day. “Fair. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

“Purely professional,” you quip, ignoring the way his smirk grows.

Before he can reply, the engineer by the monitors calls him over, gesturing to the screen. Jeonghan holds up a finger, signaling for a moment, then turns back to you.

“Stay out of trouble, yeah?” His voice is lighter now, teasing but not in the way that cuts. It feels natural, like banter between...well, maybe not quite friends. Not yet. But something close.

You shrug, watching as he walks toward his team, the confidence in his stride unmistakable. The tension that had lingered after the crash feels like it’s finally begun to dissolve, replaced by something steadier. Not quite trust, but something adjacent.

As you settle into the corner, notebook in hand, you can’t help but glance at him every so often. On the surface, it’s just another practice session, another day at the track. But for the first time in weeks, it feels like something close to normal.

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS BRITISH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Silverstone Circuit

Silverstone roars to life under a blazing sun, the grandstands filled to capacity with fans waving flags and wearing team colors. The overcast sky has burned off, leaving the track shimmering under the summer sun. It’s one of the biggest stages of the season, and Jeonghan delivers a masterclass in qualifying, the finely tuned Ferrari underneath him responding to every input like an extension of himself. The sharp smell of rubber and fuel lingers in the air, mingling with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He’s back.

The final lap times on the leaderboard tell the story: pole position. Ferrari’s garage is electric with celebration, engineers clapping each other on the back, a cheer rising when Jeonghan steps into the swarm of red. His team surrounds him, hands gripping his shoulders, voices shouting praise over the din.

He grins, wide and unguarded, the weight of the last few weeks lifting ever so slightly. Spain and Canada had shaken him, but this—this feels like a reckoning. Proof that the mistakes and setbacks weren’t the whole story.

“Perfect lap, Jeonghan,” his engineer says, beaming as he hands him a water bottle.

He nods in acknowledgment, taking a swig, his heart still racing as he glances around the paddock. The sun is high now, glinting off the sleek curves of the cars lined up in parc fermé. Jeonghan’s gaze sweeps over the crowd, soaking in the energy—until he sees you.

You’re standing just outside the McLaren garage, the vibrant orange of their branding a stark contrast to the reds and blacks of his world. You’re leaning against a barrier, the breeze tugging at your hair as you laugh at something Mingyu says. Your face is so open, so full of light, that it’s almost magnetic.

Mingyu gestures animatedly, clearly in the middle of some ridiculous story, his grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s. You throw your head back with a laugh, and Jeonghan feels a tightness in his chest he can’t quite place.

The joy that had filled him moments ago flickers.

Why does it bother him?

The thought lingers as he watches you, his water bottle dangling forgotten in his hand. Jeonghan isn’t used to this kind of gnawing discomfort. He’s competitive, sure, but this is something else entirely.

Jealousy.

The sun is lower in the sky when he finds you, his long strides purposeful as he weaves through the paddock. The golden hour light makes everything seem softer, but Jeonghan’s mood is anything but. His thoughts from earlier have been simmering, the warmth of victory eclipsed by a frustration he can’t shake.

You’re leaning against a railing, scrolling on your phone when he approaches.

“Shouldn’t you be in the Ferrari garage?” he says, his tone sharper than he intends.

You blink up at him, startled. “I was just catching up with Mingyu.”

Jeonghan crosses his arms, his brow furrowing. “Funny. I thought you were doing a full-access piece on Ferrari, not McLaren.”

There’s something in his voice—an edge that sets your teeth on edge. “I am,” you reply slowly, standing up straighter. “What’s this about?”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “Is that why your articles about Mingyu are always glowing? What, are you sleeping with him?”

The accusation is like a slap, cutting through the air with a harshness that leaves you stunned.

Your expression shifts, disbelief giving way to anger. “Are you serious right now?”

Jeonghan doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw tight. The regret in his eyes is fleeting, buried under the weight of his own misplaced frustration.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” you snap, your voice trembling with fury. “It’s always one step forward, two steps back with you, Jeonghan.”

His lips part as if to reply, but you don’t wait for him to dig himself deeper. You storm off, your footsteps echoing against the paddock floor. The sting of his words lingers, but so does the look on his face as you walk away.

Jeonghan stands there, watching you go, the tension in his shoulders giving way to a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knows he’s crossed a line, and the weight of his own stupidity settles heavily over him.

The knock on your hotel room door comes before sunrise, soft but insistent. You groan, burying your face in your pillow before dragging yourself to the door.

When you open it, the hallway is empty. But at your feet sits a bouquet wrapped in crisp white paper, tied with a simple satin ribbon.

Roses. Soft blush pink, their petals perfectly unfurled, paired with delicate sprigs of baby’s breath.

The arrangement is beautiful, almost heartbreakingly so, the kind of bouquet that feels like a story in itself. You crouch to pick it up, your fingers brushing over the velvety petals. The faint, sweet scent of roses fills the air, mixing with the crisp morning chill that seeps into the hallway.

Nestled among the flowers is a small envelope.

You pull it out, your thumb brushing over the edge of the paper as you open it. Inside, scrawled in a slightly messy hand that’s unmistakably Jeonghan’s, are two simple words:

I’m sorry.

You glance down the hallway instinctively, half-expecting to see him lingering in the shadows. But it’s empty, as silent as it was before you opened the door.

You stand there for a moment longer, the bouquet in your arms and the note trembling slightly in your fingers. The apology feels heavier than the flowers, weighted by the memory of his words from yesterday.

He didn’t need to apologize like this, you think. He could have texted, could have mumbled something in passing when you inevitably crossed paths today. But instead, he’d gone to the trouble of figuring out your favorite flowers—roses and baby’s breath, a detail you don’t even remember telling him.

The realization stirs something in you, softening the edges of your anger.

The roses sit on the desk as you get ready for the day, the baby’s breath adding a delicate touch to the arrangement. The card leans against the vase, its two-word apology a quiet presence in the room.

Somewhere in the city, Silverstone is waking up, the air already buzzing with anticipation for the race. But here, in the stillness of your hotel room, you take a moment to breathe, to let the gesture sink in.

Jeonghan’s voice echoes faintly in your mind, the memory of yesterday’s confrontation still fresh. And yet, as you glance at the roses again, the sting of his words begins to dull, replaced by something softer, something not yet ready to be named.

The pre-race buzz was electric. The roar of engines echoed faintly in the distance, a constant backdrop to the paddock’s chaotic rhythm. Mechanics zipped between garages, reporters hustled to get last-minute quotes, and fans outside the barricades chanted their favorite drivers’ names. Amid all this, your footsteps fell heavy against the asphalt, your target in sight: Yoon Jeonghan.

There he was, leaning against the nose of his red Ferrari, his race suit a striking flash of scarlet that caught the sunlight and made him look annoyingly pristine for someone who had caused you so much grief. He was chatting with an engineer, that easy, charming smile plastered on his face like he hadn’t thrown baseless accusations your way less than 24 hours ago.

You marched toward him, purpose sharpening your steps. The bouquet from this morning was still vivid in your mind—blush pink roses, soft and elegant, their delicate petals almost glowing against the green of the baby’s breath, a stark contrast to the seething frustration you still carried. And the note��just two infuriatingly simple words—burned in your pocket, a reminder of the apology you hadn’t quite accepted yet.

“Jeonghan,” you called, your voice cutting through the low hum of conversation around you.

He glanced up, his casual demeanor faltering for a split second when he saw you. Then, like a switch had flipped, his smile returned. “Oh, hey.”

You stopped a foot away, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “How did you know my favorite flowers?”

His lips quirked into a faint smirk, and he leaned ever so slightly against the car, as if the conversation were a game he’d already won. “Oh good, they got delivered to the right room.”

“Jeonghan,” you said, your tone sharper now, “don’t deflect.”

“Deflect what?” He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling with that infuriating glint of mischief that made you want to throttle him and laugh in equal measure.

“JEONGHAN.” The snap in your voice turned a few heads nearby, but you didn’t care.

He sighed dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. A certain papaya-colored birdie told me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Papaya-colored birdie... Mingyu?”

Jeonghan hesitated, his grin faltering for just a moment. You saw the gears turning in his head, calculating whether to deflect again or come clean.

“Spit it out, Yoon Jeonghan,” you said, stepping closer, “or I’ll never write a single kind thing about you for the rest of your life.”

His mouth twitched, caught between amusement and resignation. Finally, he shrugged, his voice almost too casual. “Childhood friends, eh? You and Mingyu? That explains yesterday.”

You blinked, thrown by the abrupt shift in topic. “Don’t change the subject,” you snapped, though his words tugged at something in the back of your mind. “You really went to Kim Mingyu for help? After accusing me of—”

“I might have... aggressively encouraged Mingyu to spill everything he knew about you,” Jeonghan admitted, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You raised a brow. “Aggressively encouraged?”

“Fine,” he said with a huff. “I threatened to steal his steering wheel from the McLaren garage if he didn’t talk.”

Despite your irritation, a snort escaped you. “And he just handed over my life story, huh?”

Jeonghan crossed his arms, mirroring your stance. “What can I say? He’s surprisingly chatty when he thinks you’re in trouble. Very protective, that one.”

You clenched your jaw, the pieces clicking into place. “So, that’s why you jumped to conclusions yesterday. You thought—”

He cut you off, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know. I was out of line. That’s what the flowers were for.”

For a moment, the noise of the paddock seemed to fade. The wind carried the faint scent of burning rubber, and the distant cheers of fans reached your ears like a muted hum. Jeonghan’s expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something quieter, almost vulnerable.

“For what it’s worth,” he added, his tone lower now, “I really am sorry.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of the last day lifting slightly from your chest. “You’re lucky I like roses.”

“I know,” he replied, his grin returning, lighter this time, almost boyish. “Good taste, huh?”

“Good recovery, at least,” you muttered, your lips twitching despite yourself.

Jeonghan’s laughter followed you as you turned and walked away, the sound less grating than it had been the day before. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it felt like a start.

FORMULA 1 HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Hungaroring

The Hungarian Grand Prix paddock was buzzing, but you could tell something was off. The sound of chatter and engines felt like distant echoes as you stood by the garage, watching Jeonghan’s Ferrari pull back into its stall after a less-than-stellar FP1. The car’s engine quieted as the mechanics immediately went to work, inspecting it. But it wasn’t the car that caught your attention—it was Jeonghan himself.

He was unusually quiet, his usual cocky confidence buried beneath the furrow of his brow as he stripped off his helmet and gloves. His gaze was focused on the car, but it was clear his mind wasn’t in the garage. He seemed... distant, almost frustrated. The others in the team were busy talking strategy, discussing the data, but Jeonghan barely spoke up during the debriefing. It was strange.

The team finished up, but you noticed Jeonghan lingered near the back, hands on his hips, staring at his car like it had personally betrayed him. It wasn’t like him to be this quiet, especially not after a session where he was so used to being in control. You could practically feel the weight of his thoughts from where you stood.

You didn’t want to be intrusive, but you couldn’t ignore it—something was wrong.

You walked over, careful not to disturb the mechanics who were still busy at work. "Jeonghan," you called softly, stepping beside him. He turned to you, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours. They were focused on something distant, like he was seeing the track or the car but not really seeing them.

“Everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep the concern out of your voice, but it slipped through anyway. “You’ve been quiet since the debriefing.”

He gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

You weren’t buying it. You had known Jeonghan long enough to recognize the way he carried his frustration. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be hidden behind a casual smile, no matter how practiced.

“You sure? You know you don’t have to be okay all the time, right?” you pressed, stepping a little closer. The air around you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words.

Jeonghan exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into his gloves before he slowly pulled them off. He seemed to be gathering himself before speaking. “I hate it,” he muttered, and his voice had a rawness to it that caught you off guard. “Not being perfect. I... I can’t stand it.”

“Not being perfect?” you echoed, surprised. Jeonghan, the ever-cocky, confident driver, admitting that?

He looked up at you then, his eyes intense, as though he was searching for something in your gaze. “Yeah. I know it sounds stupid,” he said with a wry laugh that lacked its usual humor. “But it’s who I am. I’m a perfectionist, always have been. Every little mistake... it sticks with me. I can’t just move on. I think about it. Constantly.”

You watched him, absorbing his words, the vulnerability in his tone feeling like a crack in his otherwise polished exterior. Jeonghan, always so composed on the surface, always teasing and joking, was admitting something deeper now—something more personal.

“Is that why you were so quiet during the debriefing?” you asked, keeping your voice soft.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the car again. “I know I didn’t have the best session, but it feels like... like I failed. Like I’m not doing my job right. I could’ve done better.” His jaw clenched as if he were angry at himself.

The silence that fell between you was thick, almost suffocating, and you could feel the tension radiating off him. You hadn’t seen him like this before—not with this level of self-doubt.

“You’re not failing,” you said, your voice firm. “You’re allowed to have bad sessions. Hell, everyone has bad days. But that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It’s just a part of it.”

Jeonghan glanced over at you, his lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “You really believe that?”

“Yeah, I do,” you said, nodding. “I mean... it’s not all about being perfect. Sometimes it’s the mistakes that push you to be better.”

Jeonghan looked down at his hands, still clutching the gloves, and you could see the gears turning in his mind. “I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I get it,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the side of the garage. “But you’ve got a whole team behind you. And we all know what you’re capable of. You’ll get there. It’s just one session.”

He finally met your gaze, his eyes softening. “Thanks.”

There was a long pause, the sound of distant chatter and the hum of the paddock filling the silence. You were so used to Jeonghan’s teasing and cocky attitude that this quieter, more introspective side of him felt like a different person altogether. And maybe it was—it was the side that wasn’t the driver who fought for every fraction of a second on the track, the side that just wanted to be good enough.

“It’s not stupid, you know,” you added quietly. “Caring about being good at what you do isn’t stupid. It’s just... exhausting sometimes.”

Jeonghan laughed lightly, the sound a bit more genuine this time. “You have no idea. But I’m getting better at... handling it. I think.”

You smiled at him, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you. There was still that hint of unease in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders, but for the first time all day, he seemed a little more at ease with himself.

As you turned to leave, you shot him one last look. “Just don’t be so hard on yourself next time, okay?”

“I’ll try,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. And for a moment, you almost believed him.

The stands were eerily quiet now, a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd just hours earlier. You wandered through the empty paddock, your steps unhurried as the hum of the night settled around you. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint clatter of the Ferrari team packing up, but Jeonghan wasn’t with them.

You’d seen him after the race, his jaw tight as he climbed out of the car. Finishing P5 wasn’t bad by any measure, but it wasn’t what he wanted. And with Mingyu overtaking him in the Driver’s Championship by just twenty points, it was clear Jeonghan had taken it as a personal blow. His disappointment hung around him like a shadow.

It wasn’t hard to guess where he’d gone.

Sure enough, when you climbed up into the grandstands, there he was. Sitting alone in the middle row, still in his Ferrari race suit, unzipped to the waist to reveal his black base layer. His hair was tousled from the helmet, his posture slouched, shoulders hunched as though the weight of the day hadn’t yet left him. Beside him were two bottles of beer, one already open and resting loosely in his hand.

You approached quietly, but Jeonghan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn around when you reached him, your feet crunching softly against the debris of the crowd—discarded programs, empty wrappers, and forgotten flags. He must’ve known it was you, though. He always seemed to know.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, your voice breaking the stillness.

He finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. “It’s a free grandstand,” he muttered, gesturing to the empty seats around him.

You slid into the seat next to him, the cool metal chilling through your clothes. Jeonghan’s gaze returned to the track ahead, where the floodlights illuminated the ghost of the race. He took a sip of his beer, silent.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable—just heavy. You could feel the frustration radiating off him, the bitterness that came with being so close but not close enough.

“You should drink this before it gets warm,” he said suddenly, pushing the unopened beer toward you.

You picked it up, twisting off the cap with a small smile. “Thanks. Not exactly the post-race celebration you were hoping for, huh?”

He huffed a humorless laugh. “Not exactly.”

The silence fell again, but this time you weren’t willing to let it linger. You turned to him, watching the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the neck of the bottle. “You’re still in the fight, you know,” you said gently.

Jeonghan’s lips quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Well, you are,” you insisted. “Three points. That’s nothing. You’ve come back from worse.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head back, looking up at the dark sky above the track. “You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “It’s not just about the points. It’s about everything. The mistakes, the pressure... the expectations. It’s like... like I have to prove that I deserve to be here. Every single time.”

“You do deserve to be here,” you said firmly, the conviction in your voice enough to make him turn to you. “You wouldn’t be in that seat if you didn’t. You’re one of the best drivers on the grid, Jeonghan. Everyone knows it. Even Mingyu. Especially Mingyu.”

Jeonghan scoffed, a flicker of a smile breaking through his stormy expression. “Bet he’s loving this right now.”

“Maybe,” you said, leaning back against the seat. “But knowing Mingyu, he’s probably already plotting ways to rub it in at the next race.”

That earned a laugh, small but real, and the sound was enough to make you smile too.

“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment, his tone softer now. “Talking me off the ledge.”

“Someone has to,” you replied with a shrug. “And honestly? I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. One race doesn’t define you, Jeonghan. You’re not just a number on the leaderboard.”

He looked at you then, his gaze lingering. There was something in his expression—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name. “Thanks,” he said simply, the word weighted with more than just appreciation.

You clinked your bottle against his. “Anytime.”

The two of you sat there for a while longer, the weight of the day slowly lifting as the quiet of the night wrapped around you. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—for now. And as Jeonghan leaned back in his seat, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles, you knew he’d be okay. Eventually.

You took another sip of your beer, the chill of the bottle grounding you as Jeonghan’s earlier tension began to melt away. The ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips, and for the first time since you’d climbed up to find him, his shoulders seemed lighter.

“So,” he said, breaking the quiet, his voice tinged with a familiar mischievousness, “what’s your headline going to be this week?”

You raised an eyebrow, scoffing softly as you bumped his shoulder with your own. “You’ll see it when you see it, Yoon Jeonghan. No spoilers.”

His chuckle was low and warm, a sound that felt like the first crack of sunlight after a storm. “Should I be worried?”

“Always,” you replied, the corners of your lips quirking upward. “But maybe not too much this time.”

He gave you a curious look, his expression halfway between wary and amused, but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back, his gaze drifting back to the track. The night was calm now, the weight of the day’s disappointment tucked into the folds of shared silence.

The headline hit Monday morning, and Jeonghan had to admit, you’d delivered once again.

Ferrari Falters in Hungary: Yoon Jeonghan's Fight for the Title Tightens

The article was incisive, as sharp as he’d expected. You broke down his struggles in FP1, critiqued his race strategy, and even called out the overtaking move that cost him crucial points. It was the kind of detailed, no-nonsense analysis you were known for, and Jeonghan read every word with a mix of frustration and admiration.

But at the bottom, tucked beneath the last paragraph, there was a footnote—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

“Despite Hungary’s setback, Yoon Jeonghan remains one of the most popular and formidable contenders for the championship. With only twenty points separating him from the lead, Belgium offers a more than fair chance for the Ferrari star to close the gap and reclaim his momentum.”

Jeonghan blinked, then read it again, a slow smile tugging at his lips. He leaned back in his chair, the paper still in hand, and shook his head.

“Subtle,” he muttered, though his tone was anything but annoyed. It was gratitude, warmth, and a flicker of hope all wrapped together in a single word.

He might have faltered in Hungary, but you’d reminded him—the season wasn’t even half over. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t fighting alone.

FORMULA 1 ROLEX BELGIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps

The weekend at Spa began like a dream.

The legendary Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps was a driver’s haven and a monster in equal measure. The longest track on the calendar, its 7 kilometers of asphalt wound through the lush forests of the Ardennes, combining high-speed straights, sweeping corners, and the unpredictable challenges of its microclimate. The iconic Eau Rouge and Raidillon dared drivers to go flat out, while the downhill plunge into Pouhon tested their courage and precision. It was a place where skill separated the good from the great.

Jeonghan thrived on its challenge.

FP1 and FP2 were his playgrounds, his Ferrari gliding through corners like it was made for this circuit alone. The car was responsive and balanced, every adjustment in setup shaving precious milliseconds off his laps. Jeonghan pushed it to its limits, feeling every bump and curve beneath him as if Spa’s asphalt were an extension of himself.

By the time he returned to the garage, his name was at the top of the timesheets, and his team wore expressions of pride and relief. Engineers crowded around him during the debrief, their excitement palpable. Even Mingyu wandered over to toss a mockingly impressed, “Don’t get used to it, Yoon,” in his direction.

Jeonghan, basking in the buzz of dominance, had only winked.

But then came the penalty.

A breach in power unit regulations—an unavoidable technicality that slapped him with a grid penalty. It was frustratingly bureaucratic, a punishment that felt out of his control and yet deeply personal. His pole position was stripped away, and he was relegated to P10.

In the Ferrari garage, Jeonghan leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, the weight of his helmet heavy in his hand. The rhythmic hum of power tools and bursts of chatter around him did little to soothe his simmering frustration.

It wasn’t just the penalty—it was the sting of perfection slipping through his fingers, a weekend that had started flawlessly now teetering on the edge of disappointment.

He glanced up, ready to bury himself in the chaos of the paddock, and froze.

You were there, leaning casually against the pit wall, chatting with one of the mechanics. The glow of the overhead lights caught in your hair, and despite the whirlwind of activity, you were a picture of calm. Your hands moved as you spoke, animated yet confident, the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on your lips.

His gaze lingered.

It hit him—a memory of your words from Hungary, your unwavering belief cloaked in sharp wit: “A more than fair chance to close the gap.”

For the first time since the penalty, the gap didn’t feel insurmountable.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring until you caught his eye. Your brows rose, and you tilted your head in mock curiosity before excusing yourself from the mechanic and walking toward him.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice laced with a note of amusement and something softer underneath.

Jeonghan shrugged, plastering on his signature cocky grin. “Since when are you worried about me?”

Your lips twitched in a barely concealed smile. “Oh, I’m not worried. Just curious. I wanted to see how Ferrari’s golden boy handles a little adversity.”

His grin faltered for the briefest moment before sharpening again. “Keep watching,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I might surprise you.”

You tilted your chin, your expression a blend of challenge and intrigue. “Don’t disappoint me then.”

The way you said it—like you meant it—sparked something fierce in him.

As you turned to leave, the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air, anchoring him to the moment. Jeonghan watched you disappear into the paddock, your confident stride a sharp contrast to his brooding, and for the first time that day, a smirk tugged at his lips.

It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

P10 to P1.

It was the kind of race drivers dreamed of—the kind that earned its place in highlight reels for years to come.

The chaos began even before the lights went out. Rain had threatened all morning, dark clouds heavy over the Ardennes, but it held off just long enough to keep everyone guessing. Jeonghan sat in his Ferrari on the grid, surrounded by cars that had no business being ahead of him. He’d spent every second since the penalty recalibrating his mindset, shifting his frustration into fuel.

As the lights went out, his singular focus kicked in.

Turn 1, La Source: Jeonghan dived inside, threading through a gap that barely existed. The radio crackled with his engineer’s voice, commending his clean move, but he barely registered it. Eau Rouge and Raidillon loomed ahead, their uphill sweep demanding precision, bravery, and trust in his car.

He took the corners flat out.

By Lap 5, Jeonghan was in P7. His mind churned as he studied the cars ahead, each one a problem to solve. Every braking point, every shift in weight through the curves—it all required perfect execution.

But then came the rain.

It began as a drizzle at Pouhon, the light sheen on the track turning treacherous by the next sector. Jeonghan’s grip on the wheel tightened as he adjusted his lines, feeling for every ounce of traction.

“Box this lap for inters,” his engineer instructed.

“No,” Jeonghan replied, his voice steady. He could feel it—the balance of risk and reward. He stayed out one lap longer, the gamble paying off as he overtook two cars struggling on the wrong tires. When he finally pitted, the stop was flawless.

By Lap 20, the red flag came out, the rain too heavy for safety. Jeonghan sat in the pit lane during the suspension, helmet off, sweat beading his brow. His thoughts wandered for the first time since the race began.

Your words came back to him.

"Jeonghan’s perfectionism is both his weapon and his curse. When he is at his best, he’s untouchable. But the question remains: can he handle the pressure when the odds aren’t in his favor?"

His jaw tightened. You were right—about the pressure, about the way he held himself to standards so high they sometimes crushed him. But you’d also written something else.

"A more than fair chance to close the gap."

He wasn’t sure why, but that sentence anchored him.

When the race restarted, Jeonghan was a man possessed.

Sector by sector, he clawed his way through the field, each overtake cleaner and bolder than the last. At Blanchimont, he overtook Soonyoung in a move that was half instinct, half calculated risk. His engineer’s voice came over the radio in a disbelieving laugh: “Mate, you’re insane!”

By the final lap, he was leading. The roar of the crowd blended with the steady beat of his heart as he crossed the finish line, victory his once more.

The pit lane was a blur of celebration. His team engulfed him in a sea of red, their cheers drowning out even the din of Spa’s loyal fans. Soonyoung appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders.

“Winning in Spa from P10? You better believe I’m buying the first round,” Soonyoung declared, grinning despite his P2 finish.

Jeonghan laughed, the sound ragged and raw from effort, but his mind wasn’t entirely in the moment.

Later, in the quiet of the motorhome, when the adrenaline had settled and exhaustion was creeping in, Jeonghan pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the search bar before typing your name.

The article was already live.

His breath caught as he read your headline:

From P10 to Perfection: Yoon Jeonghan’s Masterclass at Spa

It was glowing, but in your unmistakable style—balanced, sharp, and honest. You praised his overtakes, his strategy, and his ability to rise under pressure. Your writing was like poetry, an ode to his resilience, his precision in the rain, his ability to claw victory from the jaws of defeat. But what caught him off guard was the final line.

"With the championship fight closer than ever, it’s not a question of if Jeonghan will close the gap. It’s a question of when."

Jeonghan read it three times, his chest tight with something that felt almost like pride.

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to believe them.

The bass thrummed low and heavy, a pulse that seemed to reverberate straight through the packed room.

Jeonghan leaned against the bar, his drink in hand, his racing suit long since replaced by a fitted black shirt with the top buttons undone. The sleeves were rolled just enough to expose his forearms, the dark fabric clinging to his frame in a way that effortlessly commanded attention. Around him, the club buzzed with post-race energy—drivers, engineers, and team members alike reveling in the victory and chaos of the day.

Soonyoung was next to him, buzzing with his usual infectious energy. Jeonghan caught snippets of his teammate’s banter, but his mind was elsewhere.

“God, Jeonghan, if you stare any harder, she’s going to spontaneously combust,” Soonyoung teased, sipping his drink with a knowing smirk.

Jeonghan blinked, startled. “What?”

Soonyoung rolled his eyes, nodding toward the dance floor. “Her. You’ve been staring at her like she’s a particularly tricky apex all night.”

Jeonghan followed his gaze.

There you were, dancing with a group of Ferrari engineers, the colored lights spilling across your frame, making your skin glow. You laughed at something one of them said, your head tilting back, your hair swaying with every movement. Jeonghan’s grip on his glass tightened.

“You’re hopeless,” Soonyoung said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just go talk to her. Or better yet, dance with her. God knows you’ll make everyone else jealous.”

Jeonghan scoffed, setting his empty glass down on the bar with a sharp clink. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure, and you just happened to spend the past ten minutes glaring at the poor guy she’s dancing with.”

Jeonghan shot him a warning glance, but Soonyoung only grinned wider.

“Look, you’ve already won at Spa,” he added, leaning closer. “Might as well take another victory tonight.”

Jeonghan shook his head, but the heat in his chest betrayed him. He cast one last glance at you before downing the rest of his drink and pushing off the bar.

The crowd was a blur of movement, bodies packed tightly together under the pulsing lights, but Jeonghan moved with purpose. He found you easily, your energy magnetic even in the chaos.

The beat shifted as he approached, slowing to something deeper, sultrier. He stepped in behind you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your ear.

You turned slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder. Your lips curved into a teasing smile, your eyes dancing in the dim light. “Jeonghan. Didn’t think you were the clubbing type.”

He smirked, his hand brushing lightly against your waist. “I make exceptions for special occasions.”

You arched a brow, leaning back into him just enough to blur the line between teasing and inviting. “Special occasions, huh? Like winning at Spa?”

“Something like that,” he said, his voice a touch quieter now. His fingers rested lightly on your waist, the heat of his touch sending a shiver up your spine.

You turned to face him fully, your hands drifting up to rest on his shoulders, playful and almost casual. “So? What’s it like being untouchable?”

He chuckled softly, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again. “You’d know,” he said smoothly, “if you were paying attention during my races instead of writing snarky articles.”

You laughed, a soft, melodious sound that made his chest tighten. “I did pay attention,” you countered, leaning in slightly, your lips barely a breath away from his ear. “You were alright, I guess.”

“Alright?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You called it a masterclass. Don’t think I didn’t read your article.”

Your grin widened, the fire in your eyes matching the teasing edge in your tone. “Oh, that? Don’t let it go to your head, Yoon. I still expect a proper interview.”

His hands shifted to your hips, grounding you against him as he swayed slightly to the beat, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

“And if I did?” you teased back, your voice soft but no less challenging.

For a moment, the world around you fell away. The music, the lights, the press of the crowd—it all faded as the space between you closed. Jeonghan’s eyes lingered on your lips, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of racing.

Then, just as you tilted your head, leaning closer—

“JEONGHAN!”

The moment shattered.

Sunwoo’s voice boomed over the music as he appeared out of nowhere, the mechanic’s grin wide and oblivious. “Bro, come on! You can flirt later! Dance with me!”

Jeonghan groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as your laughter spilled over him like warm sunlight.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

You pulled back, still laughing, and met his gaze with a wink. “I’ll hold you to that.”

FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN DUTCH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Zandvoort

The paddock at Zandvoort was always one of Jeonghan’s favorites. The smell of fresh sea air mixed with the unmistakable tang of fuel and rubber, while the orange-clad crowd painted the stands in a fiery glow. Jeonghan didn’t even mind the noise—something about the Netherlands had a way of energizing him.

He was walking back from the driver’s parade when he spotted you outside the Ferrari hospitality tent, a coffee in hand, your eyes scanning the throng of people with practiced ease. The crisp breeze tugged at your hair, and Jeonghan slowed his pace, his lips curling into a familiar smirk.

You glanced up just in time to catch him staring. “Don’t you have a race to focus on?”

“Don’t you have an article to write?” he shot back, his voice smooth as ever.

“I’m multitasking,” you replied, raising your coffee in a mock toast.

Jeonghan stepped closer, close enough that the conversation felt private despite the bustling paddock around you. “Let me guess,” he said, crossing his arms, “today’s headline is, ‘Ferrari Driver Jeonghan Looks Extra Handsome Under Dutch Sunlight.’”

You snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. “Oh, please. I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Can Ferrari’s Yoon Jeonghan Deliver After Spa Masterclass?’”

“Flattering,” he mused, tilting his head. “I thought you’d save the sarcasm for the post-race write-up.”

“I aim to keep you humble,” you said with a shrug, though the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.

Jeonghan leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a thrill down your spine. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like a fan.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could get a word in—

“Jeonghan!”

A voice cut through the tension like a knife. You both turned to see Soonyoung jogging up, waving enthusiastically. “There you are! We’re late for the strategy briefing!”

Jeonghan sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching as he glanced back at you. “Guess we’ll have to finish this later.”

You grinned, your eyes dancing with amusement. “Don’t let me keep you from your briefing, Ferrari’s golden boy.”

Jeonghan’s smirk deepened. “I’ll see you after I win.”

He walked off, Soonyoung talking his ear off as you watched him go, the heat in your chest lingering far longer than it should have.

The race came and went, and though Jeonghan didn’t win—Mingyu’s dominance at Zandvoort was almost an inevitability—he still managed to bring home a solid podium finish.

Later, back at the hospitality suite, you found yourself standing near the balcony, staring out at the ocean waves in the distance.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” came a familiar voice behind you.

You turned to find Jeonghan leaning casually against the doorway, his hair still damp from the post-race shower. He’d swapped his racing suit for a simple white shirt and jeans, but somehow, he still looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.

“Not bad,” you admitted. “Though I was expecting a win. Should I change the headline to ‘Close, but Not Quite’?”

Jeonghan’s laugh was low and smooth as he closed the distance between you. “I think you’re just trying to rile me up.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Is it working?”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint freckle on his cheekbone, the way his lashes caught the light. “You tell me.”

The air between you crackled, your banter giving way to something heavier, something unspoken. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

“Jeonghan!”

The door slammed open, and Mingyu’s booming voice shattered the moment.

Both of you jumped, turning to see the taller driver grinning sheepishly. “Uh, sorry. Team dinner’s starting soon, and they’re waiting for you.”

Jeonghan’s jaw tightened, but he plastered on an easy smile. “Of course they are.”

Mingyu left as quickly as he’d come, leaving you and Jeonghan alone again.

“Do people just have radar for this?” Jeonghan muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

You laughed, the tension easing slightly. “Maybe it’s the universe telling you to focus on racing.”

He stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Or maybe it’s telling me I’ll just have to try harder.”

Your pulse quickened, but before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Jeonghan sighed dramatically, stepping back with a rueful smile. “Guess I’ll have to settle for third interruptions.”

You smirked, folding your arms. “You’re consistent, at least.”

“Don’t forget it,” he said with a wink, his voice smooth as ever as he walked away.

And just like that, you were left alone, the waves crashing in the distance as you wondered how long this game of cat and mouse could last.

another lil a/n: full throttle is probably one of my favorite things i've EVER written and i am so proud of myself for getting this out of my head and onto the page.

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