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kabuki-writes · 7 months ago

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A Reflection Of Venus

chapter: 1 chapter 2 | 3 | 4

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: For years Acacius was able to keep his precious and only daughter away from the Emperor's eyes. But after his latest victory, he couldn't evade the already inevitable.

Note: Reader is the daughter of General Acacius and his wife, which is not Lucilla in this fanfiction.

word count: 3.1k

General Acacius was a hero for the Roman Empire, a sun that was burning brighter with every new victory he won in a new war campaign ordered by Emperor Geta and his twin brother Emperor Caracalla. The reign of the twins was nothing compared to one of their deceased father Emperor Septimius Severus, who was once one of the closest friends and brother-in-arms of Acatius. While Severus fought wars mainly to protect the borders of the already massive Empire, his sons' hunger for expansion became clear from the very first day they inherited the title "Emperor". And general Acacius became their tool in this project. Nothing was too expensive, they backed him with legions, war-ships, the best equipment and supply, and the capable general became an unstoppable force, a soldier of the God Mars himself. But at what cost?

As the years went on, he'd rarely been home, always travelling with his marching soldiers and being on the front line of every battle he fought. And when he came back, he felt sick from all the pomp and gold the Emperor's threw at him, the victory processions through Rome, while the smell of blood still lingered in his nose and the cries of the women and children echoed in his mind. It was one of those days. The sun stood high over the wide street that lead to the Palatin, the sides filled with the cheering crowd - common people, soldiers, slaves, senators, merchants, they all celebrated his victory in a triumphant procession. His marching soldiers were led by Acacius chariot, clothed in the white armor of a victor. His face could've been one to be carved in marble, stoic and upright, facing the great Palatin, where the Emperors would await him.

Geta and Caracalla - the twin-sons of Septimius Severus, Emperors of Rome. They stoof there in golden Armor like sun gods with their golden crowns on top of their short gingerblonde hair. Their unusual pale skin was a testament to their wealth as they could afford to stay out of the sun, which burns especially hot on summer days like this one, and of course on the battlefields in Africa, where Acatius' men had to fight against the rebellious Nubians. They awaited their victor with proud smiles on their lips, while Acacius' procession ended at the footsteps of the Emperor's palace. He walked the marble steps towards them, his long cloak moved in tact with his walk. He didn't look forward to see the faces of Rome's tyrants again, but they hadno idea.

Instead, he greeted them as he was used to. His hand on his chest, speaking the words.

"I greet you, my Emperors. Nubia is no more. I present a new victory to you, to the realm and to the Roman people."

With a proud look on their faces and a wide smile, the twins stepped forward. Emperor Geta hold the laurel wreath of victory in his hands and places it on top of Acacius' greying hair.

"And Rome rewards it's heroes with gratitude and admiration. We bow to your victories, General Acacius."

With those words, he offered him to turn around and face the celebrating crowd. Geta and Caracalla took their places at his side, giving him a moment of spotlight, applauded by the people, while they did benefit from it as well. Acatius was their general, their armored knight. Every victory he presented was another triumph for their own reign and power. After the earned celebration in front of the common folk, the Emperors and Acacius retreated inside, where servants quickly served them wine for a toast.

"Another great victory, you never disappoint us, dear Acatius," Geta expressed and hold his glass up for a toast, his brother Caracalla following the gesture. "To the glory of the Roman Empire".

"To the glory of your reign", Acacius lied and took a sip from his glass, trying to numb himself a bit with the taste of the alcohol. How he hated conversations with both of them.

" But don't get too comfy here, my brother and i were already discussing another campaign soon. You'll get everything you need, just tell us how many soldiers and ships and it will be granted," Geta explained, which left a bitter taste in Acacius mouth. His jaw clenched for a moment, while he tried everything not to show his distaste about another war campaign.

"Please forgive me, my Emperor, but isn't the realm big enough already? Rome has already difficulties to feed the people. Further expansion would-"

"They can eat war", Emperor Caracalla threw in with an almost diabotical grin, while Acacius got a warning eye from Geta. It was clear that his words weren't the ones both wanted to hear right now.

"Don't worry about things like that, Acacius. You're a military general, your job is to win battles - nothing more. Do you understand?"

"I understand," he answered, even though he hated to hear that he was reduced to this. He'd experienced war and peace alike and therefore he knew about the dangers of continuing this madness. Moments like this really let him question if those maniacs were of the same blood as Septimius Severus.

"But you're right, you've earned yourself at least a bit of rest - one or two weeks. Don't worry, we've taken care about the wellbeing of your family. They got everything they needed and more in our attempt to show our gratitude for your service to the throne. Speaking of which.... we expect you to join us for a great feast tonight - here in the palace. A party to celebrate your victory, it is accompanied by a couple of fights in the arena tomorrow," Geta explained joyfully, while Acatius tried to keep his mask up.

"I am incredibly honored, but would prefer to spend time with family after being away for such a long time."

"The Emperors show you their gratitude and you're insulting us. We expect you to come and you will come", Caracalla hissed with a sudden shift of tone, his eyes staring at Acacius in clear anger, while his brother placed his hand on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. But his staring eyes were warning Acatius once again.

"Of course, we don't just invite you, but your whole family. Bring your wife and... you have a daughter, if i'm not mistaken? We haven't had the pleasure of getting to know her yet, since you never brought her to any festivities. I am sure she will be delighted, if you don't plan on hiding her again."

Acacius stood there in silence, a reaction that made Caracalla burst out into laughter as if he'd just heard the funniest joke from his brother. The respected general didn't even look at him, why should he. Standing here in front of them should've been an honor, yet it felt like a disgrace. They were nothing but spoiled kids with the power of an empire in their hands. And now they even forced him to reveal his dear daughter to them. Something he tried to avoid for too long, knowing fully well about the debauchery and excessiveness of Geta and Caracalla.

"We're waiting for an answer, Acacius?", Caracalla purred with a wide grin on his pale face, revealing his gold tooth.

"It will be an honor to be your guest... together with my daughter."

_____________________________________________

You watched the face of your father sunken away in his thoughts, as you made made your way to the palace in a palanquin carried by a couple of slaves and protected by soldiers. The city was painted in darkness which made the palace seem like a temple with all the lights that welcomed you. It was an exciting moment for an upper-class lady to be a guest at the palace, especially for you, a woman that usually stayed away from the most parties. Not because you wanted to, but because it was an order from your father. You obeyed, yet it bothered you, even more when you'd reached the age of a young woman - the age in which it was expected from you to find a proper husband.

"Why are you so worried, father?", you finally managed to get off your lips, pulling Acacius out of the battle he fought in his head. He couldn't just tell you that he despised all of this and especially the Emperors himself as he couldn't be sure if someone outside this palanquin could hear him. So he simply took your hand and placed a soft and caring kiss on the ring that had been a present for your last name day.

"I guess I'm rather tired than worried. The parties in the palace are always quite excessive, music, dances, feasts... i just came back from the desert and now i have to enjoy all those things", he sighed and looked at you. "And i don't want to stay too long, especially not till the orgy starts. The servants will come and bring us home before that." And even you knew he would rather go and murder Dyonisos himself than allowing his daughter to stay and witness this.

All those words and yet you knew it wasn't everything.

"I'm glad that you take me with you this time. I've only known the imperial palace from afar," you confessed, while you straightened the long, blue dress you wore. It was decorated with all sorts of silver embroidery and jewelry, encapturing the stars and moon. Your long hair was styled by your servant Yanna into a high braid and finalized with a silver diadem. For the first time you really got the chance to make yourself so presentable that you almost felt like a princess. In the end, you were about to meet the Emperors which made it important to look like the woman you were - the daughter of a general. And you also presented his household tonight, because your mother felt sick tonight. She often suffered from migraine, which kept her a prisoner for days sometimes.

"You really look beautiful", your father said to you, it was honest, but there was a hint of worry in his eyes, which you still couldn't grasp. But there was no chance to take this conversation further as the palanquin stopped. Acacius got out first to help you out. He knew the way as it wasn't the first time for him to attent an official ceremony or party here. Through a long corridor you reached a large room with with an open access to the garden terrace facing the beautiful gardens. It was packed with people from the Roman upper-class, wealthy merchants, politicians and military officers, who were accompanied by their wives, sons and daughters. While they chatted and feasted on the large selection of delicious looking food, a group of musicians played their melodies to which professional dancers moved their bodies.

All those private parties at the homes of your friends seemed to vanish straight from your mind, nothing could be compared to what you were seeing now. It nearly took your breath away, while two royals were watching you from the other side of the room.

_____________________________________________

Geta and Caracalla were sitting on a higher ground, which was highly decorated with two golden chaise longues, cushions and velvet drapes. They were accompanied by a selected group of slaves, women and men, who were assigned to bring them anything they wanted, to do anything they wanted.

While Geta was in in a conversation with one of the senators, which clearly bored him according to his facial expressions, it was Caracalla, who noticed the new guest first, while he fed his little monkey Dondus a grape.

"Such a shame that he hid his daughter for so long. She is a gorgeous looking bird, don't you think? ", he whispered to his brother with a mischievous grin, patting his arm so that he would turn his attention to Acacius and you. Geta's eyes quickly went to you, admiring the way your dress hugged the shape of your curves.

"The gods must've sent us Venus herself to honor us with her presence," Geta answered, while an unreadable smile played on his lips. „No wonder our dear General is so protective of her. Is she already promised to someone?“

„Why do you ask me!?“ Caracalla snapped back, as if his brother didn’t know that he had a lot of spies around the city, who delivered him the newest gossip from the streets of Rome. With an annoyed eye roll, he leaned forward, adjusting the golden laurel wreath on his head. „No, she is a blank parchment. Probably untouched too.“

Geta still watched you with an intense interest as if you were a rare diamond, he needed to claim. But he was not the only one in this room, because Caracalla stared at his brother, noticing the way he looked at you. There it was again, the old melody. Whenever he wanted something, Geta wanted it too. They already shared the title of Emperors, their wealth, their whores… It was already something that cooked in him for a long time. But now he had an eye on you and wasn't happy about the fact that Geta might try to get you too.

Before he could even bring this thought to an end, his twin brother Geta already stood up from his chaise lounge and made his way through the crowd, the direction was clear. Caracalla's nose twitched in a mixture of nervousness and anger, and he got up quickly as well, not as gracefully as he wanted to, but he didn’t care. He had to tame the inner urge to backstab his brother before he could even reach you.

_____________________________________________

You still stood at the side of your father sipping on your first goblet of fine wine, while your eyes went over all the different guests and the excessive decor. Your father was sunken in a conversation with another general, Marcus Galbanus, an old friend and brother-in-arms of Acacius. But their conversation quickly stopped as soon as the Emperors approached them. Both your father and Marcus Galbanus lowered their heads and greeted them according to the etiquette, while you curtsied deep. This was the very first time you got the chance to meet the Emperor's of Rome Caracalla and Geta. And given the importance of those two figures, you even felt a little nervous.

"We almost feared you wouldn't show up to your own party, Acacius. But we're happy you made your way here... we already heard that your dear wife lays sick. Please, send her our best wishes. Nonetheless we would be delighted if you could introduce us to your company tonight", Geta demanded in a playful tone, knowing how much Acacius had tried to delay this. Caracalla stood at his side, his staring blue eyes drilled themselves into your appearence. Even though he was a man that had tasted a lot of men and women, one even more sensual than the other, your whole appearence, your face, your lips, your smile, everything - you reached a sentience in his mind that could only be gifted by the gods. The mere thought of having you infected his brain like a curse.

You could sense the tension that raised in your father as if everything in him resisted the situation. Yet he placed his hand softly on your shoulder and did as they wished. "This is my daughter, y/n..."

"I'm honoured to meet the Emperors of Rome", you said in a soft voice, earning you an appreciating smile by Geta and an unreadable grin of Caracalla.

"Oh the pleasure is on our side, my dearest. How do you like this Ceremony in honor of your father's victories?", Geta asked. But before you could even answer, his brother added, while he took another sip of his wine "Your father is a Roman hero through and through, isn't it right Acacius?" His tone had something else in it, almost as if it was some kind of mistrust. But you needed to ignore the irritation you felt and simply nodded.

"It is breathtaking. I've never witnessed something like this and it makes me incredible proud to see the gratitute he earned himself through the love he has for Rome and its people," you answered, trying to remind the Emperor's of Acacius loyality, which was undoubtful.

"Then you'll enjoy the ceremony in the arena tomorrow as well, i'm sure. Please, we invite your father and you to be our guests."

"I don't think that such entertainment is suited for a young woman of her status," your father suddenly interfered in a calm yet set tone, only earning the laugh of Caracalla. "Let your daughter decide for herself, General."

The atmosphere shifted to an unspoken intensity. You could sense your father's worries and given all what you've heard from the colosseum, you didn't really think of it as something worth to witness. Seeing people die in such a terrible way only for the pleasures of the masses seemed like a farce. Acacius always called it the most needless form of brutality amongst humans, he despised this himself and therefore avoided going into the arena whenever he could. But you also read the eyes of Geta and his brother, who waited for your answer and would not accept a simple 'No'.

"It would be an honour," you answered, and Geta leaned forward a bit, which made your father's jaw clench in anger. Not because of your answer, he was aware that a choice was not existing, when facing an Emperor, but because the way the twins looked at you as if you were a price they could simply claim. But you were a smart girl and definitely not naive, so he fully relied on that.

"So this is a 'Yes'?", Geta asked again and you looked him straight in the eyes, not backing off. "Yes."

"Excellent!", Caracalla shouted and clapped into his hands. "We'll have a lot of fun tomorrow."

The corners of Geta's mouth twitched to a smile and he nodded in response to his twin. Yet he hid his displeasure of having him as a rival in this little game. It was clear that Caracalla had layed his eyes on you too, but he won't allow him to simply take and fuck you like you were a common whore. Maybe you could've potential for something more and strenghten his position as well as his popularity. Because both Emperors were still unmarried - and it was expected from them that this would change sooner or later.

#gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #emperor caracalla #emperor geta #general acacius #geta x reader #caracalla x reader #joseph quinn #pedro pascal #fred hechinger #gladiator ii imagine #kabuki writes

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aryaryxoxo · 24 days ago

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Six Times You and Bakugou Were Forced Together — and the One Time He Chose To Be. #katsuki bakugou x fem!reader ⤷ After six chaotic summers of ruining each other’s vacations, you thought you were finally free. But the joke’s on you—because now you’re classmates. Same school. Same dorms. Same explosive rivalry. Turns out, the universe didn’t get tired of the drama. It just leveled it up. (7.7k)

Warning: I KNOW THAT BAKUGOU’S KIDNAPPING IS THE REASON WHY UA IMPLEMENT DORMS FOR THEIR STUDENTS BUT FOR THE SAKE OF THIS FANFIC AND MY SANITY WE AREN’T FOLLOWING THAT TIMELINE. FHAJFHSKFJKAFJS TRUST ME OKE FJAJFJAJD THIS IS A PART 2, you can read this as a standalone but some parts need context ajksndajndasa miscommunication at its finest? pls dont hate me ;-; Bakugou being a stubborn bitc-

1st - Being seated right next to each other

Mother always said she and Father were soulmates. The red string theory—proof of destiny. They met when they were young, but one had to move away. Gran and Pops believed America was better for their family.

Mother and Father were devastated. But despite the miles and differences—culture, time zones, even oceans—they found their way back to each other.

So, if someone asked you if you believed in soulmates? You’d say yes.

But a soulmate for love? Hah. Absolutely not. Soulmate of hate? Yes. And his name is Bakugou Katsuki.

Well… last year, something changed. You actually wanted to see him again. You wanted to race him to the pool, ride the waterslide until you both threw up, fight over snacks, and maybe—just maybe—see if that tension between you meant anything more than glares and name-calling.

But then there was the emergency. Your quirk flared, something went wrong, and you landed in the hospital. Three weeks confined. The doctors ordered full rest and observation.

Mother and father are worried, they ordered no flying, no training, and definitely no UA.

You had to summon every ounce of strength—and stubbornness—to convince your parents to let you go to Japan. You fought. There was yelling. Crying. Accusations. But in the end, you won. Barely.

Still, through all of it, you kept thinking about him. Bakugou.

Did he wait for you at the pool? Did he wonder why you never showed up?

If only your pride wasn’t as tall as Mount Fuji. If only you had taken the number his mom offered you. You could’ve sent one text. Just one.

But you didn’t.

Now here you are. Standing in front of Class 1-A. “…You can sit next to Bakugou Katsuki, since you already know each other,” Mr. Aizawa said, his eyes barely flicking toward you.

And just like that, twenty pairs of eyes pinned you as you walked toward the blond boy sitting near the window, arms crossed.

He didn’t say a word. Just watched as you pulled out your chair and sat beside him.

Mr. Aizawa immediately launched into the course expectations. But you couldn’t focus—not when the person you wanted to talk to was a solid wall of silence right next to you.

When the bell rang, the quiet filled room suddenly burst into conversation, getting to know each other and such.

“OMG, how’s life in America?” a bright voice asked. You turned to see a pink-skinned girl grinning at you like you were already best friends. Two girls silently followed her from behind.

You smiled politely. “Hot. Crowded. But okay, for the most part.”

“Sorry—I didn’t catch your names earlier,” you added, stifling a yawn. “I’m sorry if I arrive late. I just landed last night. Jet lag’s killing me.”

“You should rest first before throwing yourself into hero school,” said the calmer girl with black hair. “I’m Momo. That’s Mina, and Jirou.” She pointed between them.

You gave them a grateful smile. “Nice to meet you all.” But something shifted behind you. You could feel it. From the corner of your eye, you saw him—Bakugou—heading toward the door.

Your heart leapt before your pride could stop it. “Bakugou, wait!”

You followed him out into the hall. “Bakugou, you damn well know I’ll follow you even to hell,” you snapped, panting slightly, steps quickening until you caught up and blocked his path.

He halted. Hands in his pockets, hair messy as always, eyes unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” you said, breathless. “I’m sorry I made you wait. I didn’t mean to just disappear on you. There was something that happened—”

“I don’t care,” he cut in flatly.

Your words caught in your throat. Something cracked in you.

“…What?” you asked, voice trembling.

“I said I don’t care,” he repeated. “Now get the hell out of my face.”

It shattered something else. What the hell were those moments between you, then? Him comforting you when you panicked after getting lost in the woods? His quiet, genuine smile when he finally went down that stupid tall slide and you are there, waiting at the bottom?

You thought they meant something. But this was Bakugou. Of course they didn’t.

He stepped around you like you were nothing.

“Asshole!” you shouted, eyes burning.

“I know,” he muttered without turning back.

Yeah. Soulmate of hate. And that soulmate of hate just became your seatmate.

2nd - dorms are right next to each other

"Mom, I told you, I’m fine. I can unpack by myself. You don’t need to come all the way here just to help me organize my socks," you huffed, balancing your phone between your shoulder and cheek as you pushed open your dorm room door.

Your mother’s voice crackled on the other end, dramatic as ever. "I know, dear, but your father and I were thinking maybe we could help carry a few boxes... maybe set up your shelves, help you pick curtains—"

"Mother," you interrupted firmly, dragging a suitcase in with your free hand. "I’m here to become a pro-hero. If I can’t even move into a dorm on my own, what kind of hero would that make me?"

There was a pause. Then— "Oh my baby is growing up!" she wailed.

You sighed and let your forehead fall against the doorframe. “Okay, I love you, but I’m hanging up now.”

“Take pictures!” she shouted just before you ended the call.

You flopped onto your bed, face buried in the pillow, only to groan when you realized you hadn’t even opened the other suitcase. You sat up and—

SLAM

The door next to yours opened with a signature kind of violence you’d recognize in your sleep.

You froze.

Slowly—very slowly—you turned your head.

Sure enough, there he was.

Bakugou Katsuki.

You groaned into your pillow for the second time that hour. “No. Don’t tell me this is like the resort thing where you thought my room was yours.”

Bakugou, standing in your doorway like the world personally offended him, crossed his arms. “That wasn’t my fault. The receptionist gave me the wrong key,” he snapped, tone clipped. “And second—this is my room.”

You didn’t move. “You’re funny”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

You peeled yourself off the bed, grabbed your phone, and opened the email Mr. Aizawa had sent a few days ago.

“Mr. Aizawa said I’m in Room 401,” you said with confidence, scrolling quickly. “See? Right here. ‘Room 401.’ Boom.”

Still holding your phone, you stepped outside the room, ready to prove him wrong and compare the email to the number hanging next to the door.

But you froze.

There it was—right in front of you, nailed to the wall in bold, silver lettering:

Room 402.

“…Oh.” Your voice came out a little too small.

You turned your head to look at Bakugou, your pride deflating.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t yell. He just stepped into his room and dropped his stuff unceremoniously onto the bed, like he hadn’t just watched you dig your own grave in real time.

Good thing you hadn’t unpacked yet.

You quietly backed out of the wrong room, dignity dragging behind you as you made your way next door.

You muttered under your breath, “This doesn’t count as me admitting I’m wrong.”

No answer.

You shut your door and stared at the wall that now separated your room from his.

Oh yeah. This was gonna be great. Not only was Bakugou your seatmate—he was also your dorm neighbor.

If this was the universe’s idea of a joke, it was a really cruel one.

…

Bakugou couldn’t sleep.

He tossed and turned, the blanket tangling around his legs like it was trying to suffocate him. He growled under his breath, flung the covers off, and sat up with a frustrated sigh.

This is so damn stupid, he thought, rubbing a hand down his face.

Giving up entirely on the idea of rest, he slipped out of bed and stepped onto the narrow balcony connected to his dorm. The night air was cool against his skin, a quiet contrast to the firestorm in his head.

Above him, the stars spilled across the sky like someone had cracked open the universe.

He stood there, arms resting against the railing, jaw clenched tight. He tried to think of anything else. School. Training. Tomorrow’s lesson. But his mind betrayed him—because it kept circling back to you.

To your face when you saw him again. To the way your voice cracked when you said sorry. To the silence he gave you in return.

He knew he was a dick for ignoring you. He knew it.

But seeing you again, after you didn’t show up when you said you would… it made his heart twist in a way he didn’t know how to deal with.

I need sleep, he muttered to himself.

He was about to turn and go back inside when movement caught the corner of his eye.

He froze.

Just a few feet away—on the balcony next to his—you were there too. Barefoot, arms leaning on your own railing, eyes lifted to the stars like they had secrets you were trying to unravel.

You looked so peaceful. So lost in thought. So… you.

And you hadn’t noticed him yet.

Bakugou stood there quietly, gaze locked on you, and for a moment—just a brief, silent second—he let his guard down.

Damn it, he thought.

Because no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise, there was still something about you that pulled him in like gravity.

Bakugou reentered his dorm room, jaw tight, ready to sleep off the mess of thoughts spinning in his head. But then—he stopped. Something was sitting in the corner of his bed.

That stupid plushie.

Mr. Strawberry.

He stared at it for a moment, lips twitching in annoyance. Of course. Of course it ended up here. He could think of a million ways to get rid of it—toss it out the window, set it on fire, blast it into space. And yet… the first thing that came to mind was you.

How your eyes lit up when you held it. The way you hugged it like it held the entire world.

Bakugou groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Dumbass bear…”

Grumbling under his breath, he picked it up and marched out of his room. The hallway was quiet, moonlight slipping through the windows. He stopped in front of your door, hesitating just a second, before gently setting Mr. Strawberry down.

Not knocking. Not saying a word.

Just leaving it there for you to find.

3rd - somehow paired up for kitchen duty

“So, what’s up with you and Bakugou?” Mina asked casually, plopping down beside you at the dinner table, carrying a glass of water.

You froze, spoon midair. Of course she’d ask. Someone had to.

It’s been a month since you transferred to U.A.

A month since you finally stepped into your dream school you’ve fought so hard for. And a month since you saw Bakugou again. A month of him not saying a single word to you.

Despite sitting beside each other in class. Despite living one wall apart in the dorms. Despite brushing shoulders in the hallway, cafeteria, and training grounds.

It was strange. Uncanny, even.

Because every year during vacation, you’d see him. Like clockwork. You’d fight, race, dare each other to do stupid things by the pool. There was always something. Even last year—even when you didn’t show up—your thoughts still clung to him like chlorine on your skin. And when you saw each other again, in school of all places, you thought maybe… maybe something would’ve stayed. Would’ve meant something.

But now, you two were stuck in the same school for the next three years, and it was quiet. Too quiet.

You didn’t want to admit how bitter it felt. Didn’t want to acknowledge the tight knot in your chest every time he ignored you. Because he didn’t deserve your hurt. He was an asshole. Plain and simple.

You tried to explain yourself back then. You tried to say sorry and he just shut you down.

And the worst part? You still cared.

“Uh…” you finally responded, blinking out of your thoughts. “Nothing. There’s nothing between me and Bakugou.”

Mina raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of tension for nothing, girl.”

You forced a smile and took a bite of your porkchop. “Must be the air.”

“Okay, everyone!”

Tenya Iida, ever the earnest and booming class president, stood up from his seat, effectively cutting off your conversation with Mina.

Thank god.

You were grateful for the interruption. You needed any kind of distraction. Preferably one that didn’t involve Mina asking more questions about a certain blonde explosion boy.

“I have consulted Mr. Aizawa,” Iida announced, adjusting his glasses with dramatic flair, “and in the spirit of cooperation, balance, and fairness—we have concluded that there must be a sense of shared responsibility in this dorm!”

There were a few groans from the class.

“Therefore!” he declared. “Every day, there will be two pairs of students responsible for breakfast and dinner. Since we all have lunch provided at school, this will ensure a consistent meal schedule and reinforce teamwork!”

He held up a neatly folded list like it was the Holy Grail.

“I have already assigned these pairs, and I will now read them aloud in the order of rotation.”

Mina leaned toward you and whispered, “Watch me get paired with Sero and burn the kitchen down.”

You smiled a little, just as Iida started rattling off names.

“Kirishima and Kaminari! You two are first.”

“Aw yeah!” Kaminari fist-pumped. “Let’s make curry for breakfast!”

“Tokoyami and Shoji. Second.”

“…Understood,” Tokoyami said, mysteriously.

You zoned out a bit as the list went on, your attention drifting, until—

“Bakugou Katsuki and [Your Name]. You two will be the fourth pair. Thursday.”

You snapped back to reality so fast you almost dropped your spoon.

You turned your head slowly—and of course, he was already looking at you from across the room, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

Great. Cooking. Together. In a kitchen. For everyone. With knives.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

“Excuse me?” you raised your hand slowly. “How long are we paired up for breakfast and dinner?”

Iida didn’t miss a beat. “Until next term.”

You stared.

“Until… next term?” you repeated, voice rising half a pitch.

Iida smiled, utterly unaware of the quiet panic blooming behind your eyes. “Correct! I believe consistency will help build better cooperation and minimize confusion. That is the goal, after all!”

You sat down in slow motion, hands flat on the table.

From across the room, you could feel the weight of Bakugou’s stare, hot and heavy and already annoyed.

What could possibly go wrong?

(Everything. The answer was everything.)

…

Thursday came. Oh, how the days had flown by—fast, merciless, and leading you straight into doom.

You were enjoying the last shred of peace you’d know before the battle came storming in.

It was 6 a.m. The sky was still yawning. Your soul is already crying. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, hyping yourself up like you were about to face a villain instead of eggs and toast.

You took a deep breath, left your dorm, and stepped into the elevator. When the doors slid open to the communal kitchen floor—you saw him.

Already there. Already prepping. Already ignoring your entire existence.

He had the sleeves of his hoodie rolled up (which you totally didn’t find it hot, totally), a pan already sizzling, and that signature why-are-you-breathing-in-my-space scowl planted firmly on his face.

Of course he didn’t consult you about what to make. Why would he?

It’s not like this was a pair assignment or anything. Or not like communication was key to teamwork. Nope.

You walked in and cleared your throat.

He didn’t even look at you.

“Good morning to you too, Gordon Ramsay,” you muttered.

“What?” he barked, barely glancing your way.

“Nothing. Just admiring how we apparently live in your kitchen now.”

“Tch. Just don’t get in my way.”

You rolled your eyes and walked over to the fridge. If he wanted to act like he was running a five-star restaurant, fine. You’d start prepping the side dishes. At least someone had to make sure the toast didn’t turn into charcoal.

He didn't thank you. You didn't expect him to.

But as the smell of breakfast filled the dorm and the sun peeked over the horizon—you both moved around each other, wordlessly in sync.

It was annoying. How natural it felt. You hated it. (You didn’t.)

You were setting the table, carefully arranging plates, utensils, and the food you helped finish (even if he barely acknowledged your existence during it). The scent of grilled fish and rice was comforting, and for a moment, you almost forgot you were cooking with Bakugou.

Almost.

You turned around to grab the napkins—

—and walked straight into him.

“Ah—!” you yelped, recoiling as the side of the miso soup pot brushed your arm.

It didn’t spill—thank god—but the heat still licked your skin.

Bakugou barely flinched. His reflexes were too sharp, too quick. He gripped the pot tighter, steadying it before it could tip.

“Dumbass,” he muttered sharply. “Watch where you’re going.”

You hissed through your teeth, shaking your arm. “I did—I didn’t know you were right behind me! You didn’t announce you were carrying—who the hell carries boiling soup around like that?!”

He glared. “People who actually do something instead of pretending to be useful.”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

He moved past you, setting the soup down roughly on the table.

“You’re such an ass,” you muttered under your breath—but loud enough.

“I heard that.”

“Good.”

Your arm was still stinging a little, but you didn’t let him see it. He didn’t apologize. Of course he didn’t.

But when everyone started filtering in for breakfast—complimenting the food and surprised it wasn’t a complete disaster—you noticed something odd.

Bakugou didn’t sit down right away. He hovered in the kitchen a bit longer.

Then, when he finally took his seat, he slid something across the table toward you without a word.

A small pack of burn ointment.

You blinked.

He didn’t look at you. He just shoved rice in his mouth like nothing happened.

You stared at the ointment. Then at him. Then back down.

Maybe, just maybe, this day was successful.

4th - you and Bakugou both end up in detention

You’re not a violent person. Really, you aren’t.

You bow to elders. You pour their tea with both hands like your mother taught you. You accept when you’re wrong. You apologize when you make a mistake. You don’t raise your voice. You don’t raise your hand.

...Well. That’s a lie. A small one. With two very specific exceptions.

First, there was the time a certain blonde menace with a god complex and an anger issue decided it was perfectly acceptable to grip your beloved stuffed toy—Mr. Strawberry—by the neck like he was squeezing the life out of it.

You had warned him. You had politely asked, "Give him back". Bakugou didn’t listen. So you launched yourself at him, tackling him like a linebacker.

Second, and more importantly, was the reason you were now in detention.

To be fair—you warned that guy too. The random jerk from Class 1-C or whatever, who thought it was funny to call Mina names. Said she looked like a clown with skin problems. Said she was a “failed science experiment.” Then he turned on you. Called you “transfer trash” and said Bakugou must be so unlucky to be stuck with you all the time.

You gave him three warnings. Then you gave him a fist to the eye and a knee to the groin.

"Again, Mr. Aizawa," you said with your hands folded like a model student, "I only hurt him twice. One in the eye. One in the manhood. That’s all."

Mr. Aizawa didn’t blink. "Then explain to me," he deadpanned, "why he's in Recovery Girl with a broken nose and fractured wrists?"

Your eyes widened, scandalized. "I said I didn’t do that!" you yelled at your teacher.

Okay. Maybe a third exception.

But before you could argue back—really argue back—the door burst open.

And in walked your first exception.

Bakugou Katsuki, looking just as pissed off as you were. Maybe more. Jaw tight, shoulders tense.

He didn’t say a word. Just marched over to the unoccupied chair beside you and dropped into it.

Mr. Aizawa barely lifted an eyebrow. "What did you do this time, Bakugou?"

Before Bakugou could answer, Snipe entered, striding in like he just finished dealing with a forest fire. "Not only did he arrive late for my class, he also kept provoking everyone. Ignored direct orders. Nearly set off an explosion indoors," Snipe rattled off with the tone of someone who's been through this many times before. "That's a third strike. I'm formally requesting detention."

Bakugou scoffed, arms crossed. "They were talking shit first."

"And you decided to answer with grenades," Snipe shot back, dry.

Mr. Aizawa sighed the sigh of a man who regretted all his life choices. "Great," he muttered. "Just what I needed." Then he looked at both of you. "You two. Same time. Same place. One week of detention."

You blinked. "Together?!"

Bakugou snapped his head toward you. "What the hell are you doing here?"

You glared. "Serving justice with a side of righteous fury."

"Sounds like assault," he muttered.

"Sounds like shut up," you snapped back.

Mr. Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose. "If either of you speaks again, I’m extending it to two weeks."

Silence.

You leaned back in your chair, arms folded. Bakugou mirrored you—same posture, same scowl.

Yeah. This was gonna be fun.

…

“Mr. Aizawa, what are we even doing here?” you groaned, dragging your feet behind him like a ghost with sore legs. “I literally can’t feel my arms from training. Pretty sure my spleen filed a complaint.”

Aizawa didn’t look back. “Because,” he said flatly, “you two are going to clean up the mess you made earlier.”

You blinked. “What mess—” Oh. Right. You and Bakugou managed to destroy four punching dummies and one reinforced wall panel during your totally accidental sparring match-turned-world-war.

(Okay. Maybe you threw the first kick. Maybe Bakugou exploded it.)

You glanced at Bakugou, who had the audacity to look proud.

“I need this entire training room spotless by tonight,” Aizawa said, stopping at the entrance of Gym Gamma. He turned to you both, his voice level but threatening. “Floors scrubbed, gear cleaned, the storage shelves reorganized. And no fighting. If I hear so much as a grunt, it’s another week.”

Then he walked off like the drama king he was.

You turned to Bakugou. He turned to you.

And at the same time, you both muttered, “This is your fault.”

Some time later, you were off in your own little corner of hell, surrounded by dust and mess. Boxes were scattered all over the training room, and for some reason, it had become your job to stack and organize them—because Bakugou was somewhere else, doing god knows what, probably blowing something up.

You huffed and wiped your forehead. Your arms were jelly, your legs were shaking, but your pride? Still intact. So you grabbed another box. Heavy as hell. Probably filled with gym weights or metal, because of course, your luck sucks.

You staggered forward, muscles screaming, vision blurring slightly from exhaustion.

Almost there.

Almost—And then your arms gave out.

Crash.

The box came down hard—slamming against your shoulder, the edge smacking into your cheekbone on the way down. You hit the floor with a thud, breath knocked from your lungs.

“Shit,” you hissed, clutching your face as your eyes watered. You weren’t sure what hurt more—your pride or the throbbing burn spreading across your cheek.

Footsteps thundered behind you. “Oi—what the hell was that?” Bakugou’s voice rang out, sharp and angry. But when he turned the corner and saw you crumpled on the ground, his expression shifted for a split second—just long enough for concern to flash in his eyes before the scowl came back twice as strong.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered, crouching beside you. “You could’ve brained yourself, dumbass.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, trying to sit up.

“Yeah, sure. Tell that to your face.” He reached out before you could argue and tilted your chin slightly, inspecting the red, already-swelling mark on your cheek. His hand was rough but careful, thumb grazing your skin like it might crack if he pressed too hard.

You blinked at him, stunned. Was he... worried?

He stood, brushing the dust off his pants, and stomped away.

You expected him not to come back.

It made sense, didn’t it? After all, you were the one who never showed up that day. You were the one who made him wait. If he left you here now, it would’ve been fair. Predictable, even.

So when the familiar sound of his boots returned just seconds later, your head snapped up in surprise.

He dropped to one knee beside you again, avoiding eye contact as he shoved a cold pack into your hands.

“Next time, don’t be stupid,” he muttered.

You stared at him. The cold pack in your hand. The way he wouldn’t look at you.

“…You came back.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes flicked toward you for a second—just a second—then looked away like he’d been burned.

“Shut up,” he said.

But he didn’t leave. He just sat there, beside you, legs stretched out on the floor, arms crossed.

The air between you was fragile. Like something about to break. All the bitterness, all the tension — it hung between you like a string pulled taut.

You wanted to speak up. To explain. To finally say why you didn’t show up at the resort that day.

“I didn’t—” you started, your voice soft. “That day, I—”

But before the words could fully leave your lips—

“I thought I was going to see you two for another week,” came Mr. Aizawa’s dry voice as he appeared behind you, arms crossed. You and Bakugou jolted slightly at his sudden arrival.

“Looks like I was wrong,” Aizawa continued, raising a brow. “One busted cheek, zero broken furniture. That’s progress. Go see Recovery Girl.”

He turned, already walking away. “Detention’s over. Try not to destroy anything or someone else.”

You looked down at the cold pack still pressed to your face, then over at Bakugou.

He was already looking at you. And this time, he didn’t look away.

5th - you and Bakugou were to compete against each other during the sports festival

"Now that’s an explosion if I’ve ever seen one!" Present Mic’s voice echoed through the roaring stadium. The crowd was electric—but none of it mattered to you. Not right now.

You needed an entrance. And fast.

It was the U.A. Sports Festival. The entire school had been preparing for this moment, training endlessly. But if you were being honest with yourself, you were more prepared than most.

Because for you, this wasn’t just about school spirit. This was a declaration.

A chance to prove—to the world, but especially to your parents—that you deserved to be a pro-hero.

That you were enough.

You could still hear their words, sharp and unyielding, echoing in the back of your mind. “You’re not cut out for this.” “You’ll just get hurt.” “You’re not like the others.”

You clenched your fists, forcing those memories down, locking them away. Not today.

Another explosion cracked across the field. The stadium shook. Your heart did too.

Of course, it had to be him.

Out of everyone you could face in the finals… it had to be Bakugou Katsuki.

You’d scraped past Todoroki in the semis—a narrow victory, but a victory nonetheless. You earned your place here.

But now you stood across from Bakugou, the embodiment of raw power and intensity. And he looked like he was ready to burn down the sky. He was charging toward you like a storm, feet pounding against the arena floor, eyes locked on you with that explosive determination only Bakugou could wear.

You were near the edge of the line, counting silently—one, two—calculating every breath, every beat. If you timed this just right… And you did. Just before he could strike, you twisted your body out of reach with perfect precision, grabbed his arm mid-motion, and used his own momentum against him.

You shoved him toward the edge, and for the first time, he hesitated. You saw it in his eyes—the sharp realization that he was cornered. You raised your arm, ready for the final blow that would win you the match.

But then it hit—that memory so vivid it stole the air from your lungs. You were at the dinner table, the scent of your mother’s cooking curling in the air, laughter echoing, your dad teasing you over a too-full bowl of rice.

It was warm, familiar—too familiar. Then, suddenly, the laughter faded. The food soured in your mouth. Your skin began to burn, your body overwhelmed from the inside out. Your quirk spiraled out of control. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.

And in the present, right there in the arena, you felt that same terrifying flare building in your chest. Panic clawed at your throat—this was bad. One blow and you could hurt him—really hurt him. And the thought of that—of hurting him—made something inside you shatter.

So you did the only thing you could. You turned and ran. You ran from the edge, from the crowd, from your victory. You ran from Bakugou—because you couldn’t lose control. Not with him standing that close.

…

Bakugou was pissed—no, furious. What the hell was that? One second you had him cornered, about to land the finishing blow, and the next… you ran. Straight out of the arena. It didn’t even feel like a win—more like a slap in the face.

The moment the match ended and they declared him the victor by default, his blood started to boil. He didn’t want a win like that. He wanted a real fight, a real answer. So he stormed down the hallway, heading straight for the changing area where he knew you’d be.

His footsteps echoed sharply off the walls, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat, erratic with frustration. But just as he rounded the corner, he heard it—someone from another class, laughing too loud, too smug.

“She ran because she was a pussy,” the idiot sneered. That was the final straw.

“You!” Bakugou barked, voice slicing through the air like a grenade going off. The kid froze. “She made it to the finals, and you couldn’t even get past the first challenge. So shut the fuck up.” He didn’t even wait for a response.

The student stood frozen, confused and stunned, as Bakugou shoved past, storming toward the changing room with every intention of getting answers—from you.

He kicked open the door with a force that made the whole room shake, and there you were—sitting silently, staring straight ahead like you were trying to disappear. When you finally turned to look at him, the weight of everything hit him all at once. His voice cracked with frustration and pain as he blurted out, “What the fuck was that?!”

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling but steady as you said, “I’m sorry.”

But that only ignited something fiercer inside him. His eyes burned with anger and confusion, and before he could think twice, he snapped, “Do you think you’re better than me? That you can just run away like that? Or are you that desperate, huh?!”

The moment the words left his mouth, his chest tightened with regret. He hadn’t meant to say it like that—he didn’t want to hurt you. But the damage was done.

A suffocating silence filled the room, thick and heavy like a storm about to break.

You looked up at him, your eyes glistening with tears you were trying so hard to hold back. Your voice, once soft, now held a sharp edge as you fired back, “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Bakugou. So maybe you should shut the fuck up before you embarrass yourself.”

Then, almost breaking, you whispered, “What did I do to you?”

Your question hung in the air, raw and aching—an echo of all the pain neither of you wanted to face. But you didn’t wait for an answer. You turned away, each step heavy with heartbreak, leaving him standing alone in the room, the silence swallowing him whole.

And in that moment, Bakugou knew—he had fucked up, and this time, it felt like he might have lost you for good.

6th - getting kidnapped together

This was hell. Scratch that—this was worse than hell. If Bakugou had known the “training camp” involved team-building games, getting partnered up with other extras, and fake survival scenarios in the middle of nowhere, he would’ve exploded his way out before they even packed.

Bakugou gritted his teeth, arms crossed as he stood in the clearing surrounded by trees and idiots. Mina was bouncing around with a box of paper slips like it was a party game. “Partner draw time!” she called out, way too excited for his liking. “Everyone pick a name!”

“Tch.” He didn’t even try to hide his irritation. “This is so damn stupid.”

“Aw, c’mon man, just go with it,” Kirishima said, slapping his back like they were best friends or something.

Bakugou sighed through his nose and grabbed a slip of paper. His eyes scanned the name—and his whole body immediately tensed.

It was yours. After the whole debacle at the sports fest, you two weren’t talking anymore—scratch that, you weren’t talking to him. Which, honestly, he didn’t blame you. It was kind of funny how the tables had turned.

Across the clearing, Bakugou caught sight of you staring down at your own slip of paper. You looked so pissed off. Then your eyes lifted—and locked onto his. Neither of you looked thrilled.

“Wait— you two?!” Mina’s voice cut through the quiet, full of shock. She was well aware of the strange shift between you and Bakugou.

“It’s okay, Bakugou, I can take—”

“It’s fine, Mina. It’s for the sake of this camp,” You interrupted, voice low but firm.

The two of you started walking down the dark, barely lit pathway. The air between you was thick with awkward silence—neither of you said a word.

The mission was simple: work with your randomly assigned partner, use a crappy map to reach your destination, and avoid any “ambushes” set up by the teachers. Easy. Tedious. Pointless.

But then it all went sideways.

The ground shook. There was a loud bang in the distance—too real, too raw. Someone screamed. Smoke poured through the trees.

“Shit,” Bakugou muttered, yanking you behind him as his palms flared with heat. “That’s not a fuckin’ drill.”

It wasn’t. A real villain showed up—one who’d warped in through some kind of black mist. The two of you fought hard, but there was something in the air. A gas. His movements slowed, your limbs heavy, his vision doubled. And then, everything went dark.

...

When Bakugou woke up, everything ached. His head was pounding. His wrists were bound behind his back. The air was damp, heavy with mold and dust.

He was on the cold floor of what looked like a storage basement. Concrete walls, broken light above. Dim. Quiet. Except for the sound of breathing next to him.

You.

You stirred, groaning softly as you sat up, only to realize you were tied too. Your eyes widened when you saw him, and he hated the way your face tensed in fear for just a second before you masked it.

“You okay?” he rasped. You nodded slowly. “Yeah… I think so. Where are we?”

“No idea.” He shifted, testing the ropes. Tight. Bastards knew what they were doing.

You looked around, gaze sharp despite everything. “Did they say anything? Do anything?”

He hesitated. “No.” Then, muffled voices came from outside the door. “You said we only needed the boy,” one of them said. “Why did you bring the girl too?”

Bakugou froze. Every muscle in his body locked. They didn’t even mean to take you. You were an accident. A casualty. And it was his fucking fault. “I’ll handle it,” another voice replied coldly.

Then silence.

Minutes ticked by. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. But he counted. 1,829 seconds. He knew because he needed something—anything—to keep control.

He broke the quiet first.

“I’m sorry for saying those words,” Bakugou said quietly, his voice rougher than usual. “There was too much going on and I took it out on you”

“It’s okay,” you reassured gently. “You didn’t know what was going on.”

Another silence settled between you, heavy and tense.

Then, gathering his courage, he broke it again—this time asking the one question he’d been dying to ask but had been too cowardly to voice, too scared of the answer.

“Why didn’t you show up?” His voice was low, almost cautious.

Bakugou saw you inhale shakily, struggling to hold yourself together. “I was eating with my parents. One last meal in our house before we headed to the airport and went to the resort. Then—out of nowhere—my quirk just spun out of control.”

A tear slid down your cheek. Bakugou wants to reach out and wipe it away.

“It hurt. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t do anything but watch it control me. I—” Your voice cracked. “I hurt my parents. And then I passed out.”

You sniffed, your voice breaking as you continued. “The doctor told me there’s little research about quirks turning on their own users. My parents were scared. They told me I wasn’t going to attend UA anymore. That I wasn’t going to be a pro-hero.”

Another tear slipped free.

“I was so mad. I’ve spent my whole life working my ass off, trying to get strong enough, trying to be good enough for UA. And then just like that… one night. One freak accident. And it was all gone.”

You let out a bitter laugh—short, sharp.

“I had to beg them to let me come. Had to scream, argue, cry. I pulled everything I had left just to get on that damn plane.”

Bakugou said nothing, but he didn’t look away either.

“But I’m also scared… because what if they were right? What if I’m not fit to be a pro-hero? What if my quirk turns on me again? What if I hurt—” You choked on your words, tears spilling freely now, full-blown crying.

He shifted closer, just enough that your shoulders nearly touched. “Is that why you didn’t use your quirk?” he asked quietly. You nodded.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but firm, “ You’re way stronger than before. Hell, you’re stronger than all those extras combined.”

He paused, watching your face carefully, making sure you were listening. “You fought to be here. You survived everything. And that’s why you’ll be a pro-hero.”

Bakugou wanted to wrap his arms around you, to hold you tight—anything to make you feel whole again, to remind you how much you mattered.

“I’m sorry—,” he muttered, but you cut him off. “Bakugou, I said it’s okay,” you smiled gently, trying to ease the tension.

“For making you do detention,” he continued, finally meeting your eyes. You could see the hesitation in his gaze, and your confusion only deepened.

“What are you talking about—?”

“I’m the one who broke that asshole’s— the one who insulted you and that pink-haired girl—his nose and wrist.” He said it quickly, as if ripping off a band-aid. “The reason why you got detention.”

Your mouth dropped open as the realization hit you like a slap. “Oh my god— is that why you were late?!?” You didn’t even realize you’d leaned into him until your shoulder bumped against his, playful but full of disbelief.

“You idiot,” you breathed, stunned, but a laugh bubbled up anyway—uncontrollable and light.

“Why did you do it?” you asked, your voice cracking between a whisper and a giggle. You bit your lip, trying not to laugh too loud.

Bakugou looked away again, needing to— you were too adorable trying to hold back your laughter. His jaw tightened, and his cheek twitched.

“Well,” he muttered, “he was a dick.”

You let out a soft huff of laughter, shaking your head.

“He kept running his mouth even after you kneed his—uh, you know. Then he said something about you. Something really shitty. And I saw red. I punched his face again.” He paused, remembering how furious he’d been when he heard what that bastard said about you, how he couldn’t control himself when he threw that first punch. Then, quieter, he added, “When he tried to swing back, I broke his wrist.”

He could feel you staring at him, your laughter now mixed with something warmer—admiration, maybe. He finally looked back at you, wanting to see your face again.

His chest tightened at the sight of your smile.

“You’re unbelievable,” you whispered, still smiling as you leaned your head back against the cold wall.

He didn’t say anything, just stared a second longer.

“Thanks,” you added softly, almost afraid to say it out loud. “For sticking up for me. And for Mina.”

This time, he didn’t shrug it off. He just muttered, “Tch. No one talks shit about you.” And he damn well made sure of it.

But this moment—this happiness—was brutally short-lived. The door slammed open with a harsh, unforgiving bang that echoed through the cramped room. Two men stood silhouetted in the doorway—one wearing a cold, expressionless mask, the other with no face at all, just a swirling black mist where his head should have been.

Without hesitation, the masked man strode forward and yanked you roughly by the arm, dragging you away from Bakugou. You stumbled, struggling to resist, but his grip only tightened, unforgiving and strong.

Meanwhile, the black-mist figure knelt beside Bakugou and, with an effortless motion, loosened his restraints as if they were nothing.

They didn’t say a word as they led both of you out of the cramped room and into what looked like a rundown bar—dimly lit, thick with dust, and lined with flickering neon signs that barely clung to life. You twisted your wrists desperately, trying to break free, but the masked man’s hold squeezed even tighter. A sharp yelp escaped you.

Bakugou saw red—his blood boiling hotter than ever.

“Hurt her, and I’ll kill you!” Bakugou’s voice exploded through the room, fierce and unwavering, cutting through the tension like a lightning strike.

I need a plan. Fast. I need to get her out of here, Bakugou thought, heart pounding. He had to get you out of danger. He could blast them all—no problem—but that prick was way too fast.

Ding!

“Pizza delivery!”

One Time He Chose To Be

Bakugou stood outside your hospital room, gripping Mr. Strawberry in one hand as he stared at the door like it might bite him. After the heroes rescued both of you from the League of Villains, you had suddenly collapsed in his arms. The doctors said you inhaled the majority of the gas—it wasn’t lethal, but it was enough to knock you out.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and finally pushed the door open.

This was the second time he’d seen you since then. The first was… chaotic. Nurses, his teacher, and a few classmates had practically dragged him out of the room, needing a crater’s worth of force just to pry him away from your side.

Now, the second time.

He had gone all the way back to the dorms just to grab that stupid plushie you wouldn’t sleep without. Had to practically do parkour through campus and dodge paparazzi like a ninja to avoid answering their invasive questions.

And now—there you were. Sitting up in bed, wrapped in blankets, watching cartoons on the hospital TV. You smiled at a joke on screen, soft and unguarded. His heart thudded a little too fast.

Sensing him, you turned, lowering the volume.

“Bakugou! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be resting?” you asked, carefully shifting your body to face him.

He stepped closer and extended the plushie toward you. “I’m here because I know you can’t sleep without him.”

You blinked, touched. “You went all the way back for Mr. Strawberry?”

He shrugged, eyes darting away. “Tch. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

But it was a big deal. And the way your fingers curled around the plushie, the way your eyes softened, told him you knew that too.

“Thank you… for bringing him,” you said softly, hugging Mr. Strawberry close as you looked at him. “You should be the one getting comforted, you know. The League of Villains is after you, and yet here you are… comforting me instead.”

You tried to tease, but both of you knew there was truth in your words.

You shifted to the side, making room. “After all the crap you’ve been through, you’re the one who deserves to be comforted.”

Bakugou got the message, wordlessly sitting beside you. “I know you’re probably sick of me apologizing, but I want to say sorry again—”

He didn’t finish. Because your lips pressed against his, gentle but certain.

When you pulled back, a smile tugged at your lips. “I think that’s the best way to get you to stop apologizing.”

Bakugou stared at you, stunned for a second. You watched the flicker of emotion cross his face, his jaw clenching slightly—not in anger, but in something raw and overwhelmed.

“I think,” you continued softly, “us getting stuck with each other, ending up together every vacation… I think the universe is trying to tell us something.”

Bakugou dipped his head down, resting his forehead gently against yours. His voice was low, almost a grumble, but the softness in it made your heart skip.

“That, don’t be stupid… and just get together already.”

You let out a breathy laugh, teasing, “Together already? Maybe ask me on a date first?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, the corners of his lips twitching upward.

“Then…” he said, clearing his throat. “Would you go out with me?”

“Bakugou—” you started, but he cut you off, voice lower than usual, almost gentle.

“Call me Katsuki.”

Your lips curled into a slow, genuine grin, the kind that reached your eyes. You didn’t miss a beat.

“Of course, I would go out with you,” you said softly, letting the name roll off your tongue like it belonged there. “Katsuki.”

...

A/N: so umm, the fanfic writer curse (idk what the name) is true, bcs why tf am i writing this in the ER, almost die—TWICE (this is separate from the er. My mother is finally getting the help she needs :>) and i’m having imposter syndrome BECAUSE IM ACTUALLY BEING APOINTED AS THE EDITOR IN CHIEF ?!?!?!?!?!? FUCK

Taglist: @theysaidhush @magicalrainbowfish @watu2ka @rixiieee @shewki @bugg777 @d4wnyjlk @biodegradablevagina @suksatoru @lillyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @bruleecream @badslittlemuffin @mewwccury @blueemochii @iris-nights @well-yeahs-blog @rikidaze @ayoulookingfine @gina239 @lvc-lv @getosh0e @intimidaid @jealousmartini (just comment if you want to be added on my taglist >⩊< )

#bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #mha #bakugou headcanons #bakugou x y/n #bakugou fluff #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki fluff #bakugou katsuki angst #katsuki bakugou #katsuki bakugou x yn #katsuki fluff #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #mha bakugou #bnha x reader #mha x reader

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hhaechansmoless · 2 months ago

Text

OFF THE GRID PT.1

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series. Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn, honestly quite f1 heavy

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

glossary taglist

a/n: a big big thank you to ashi (@junplusone) and rae (@nerdycheol) for beta-ing this and to tiya ( @gyubakeries) who sat through not just me yapping and losing my mind over this fic but also over real f1 happenings too 🥹 quite literally got me through the last 10k of this fic, no joke. this was incredibly fun to write and is the longest piece I've ever written fjdhfjd I hope you guys love it too!! also i swear to god i did not mean to jinx ferrari w this like don't come for me i am a ferrari fan too guys pls. do comment/reblog/send an ask w your thoughts!!

MONACO, CIRCUIT DE MONACO

Saturday, Post qualifying May 24th

The room is cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your skin, into your bones – the kind that makes everything feel a little too sharp, a little too clear. Seungcheol wonders if it would be the right time to ask someone to turn the AC down. He stares at the screen at the front of the room, but the numbers blur together—lap times, tire degradation, sector splits—none of it matters. He already knows what they’re going to say.

His arms are crossed over his chest, jaw locked as his race engineer drones on about qualifying performance. Tyre warm-up wasn’t ideal. You lost a tenth in sector two. The front row was possible. Possible. Not achieved.

He should’ve been faster. He should’ve been better.

Seungcheol shifts in his seat, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t take notes. He doesn’t ask questions. No one is looking at him to lead this discussion anymore.

He’s had the feeling for a while now. Maybe it was when he won the championship last November. Maybe it was the pre-season meetings before testing in February. Maybe it was the first race, the one where he lost. Maybe it was the second when he—again—didn’t live up to everyone’s exceptions. Maybe it’s been the entire journey along the way. The thought has sat in the back of his mind for a long time and now it resurfaces, pressing hard against his temple. Seungcheol tries to push it back, tries to look at his race engineer and see the belief, the trust. He hasn’t seen that in a while too.

This isn’t your team anymore.

It doesn’t matter that he won the championship last year. It doesn’t matter that he was Ferrari’s chosen one, that he fought for them, bled for them, brought them back to the top. The shift was slow, subtle, happening in the way conversations changed, in the way people spoke to him, in the way expectations started to feel lighter. Not because he was carrying less, but because they were starting to place the weight elsewhere.

They don’t say it outright. They don’t have to.

He isn’t the future anymore.

Maybe, just maybe, they don’t believe he’s the present either.

And then there’s Jaehyun.

Seungcheol doesn’t turn his head, but he doesn’t have to. He can feel him sitting just a few chairs away, posture relaxed, flipping through his notes like he isn’t feeling the weight of this season pressing against his ribs. Like he’s not the one who’s supposed to be chasing, not the one who’s supposed to be trying to keep up.

But that’s not how it is anymore, is it?

Jaehyun is confident. Comfortable. Maybe even a little smug, though Seungcheol knows he wouldn’t show it. Not here, not yet. But Seungcheol feels it in the way the room leans toward him now. In the way the engineers talk, the way the strategists hesitate when they discuss race plans, the way every discussion that used to be centered around him now has another name in the mix.

It wasn’t always like this.

And it shouldn’t be like this now.

Jaehyun is good. He’s always been good. But Seungcheol knows better than anyone that being good isn’t the same as being great. And yet, the way things are going, the way Ferrari is talking, the way everything feels like it’s slipping out of his grasp before he can hold on to it—

No.

His grip tightens around the pen in his hand. He forces himself to exhale.

No. The team is just shifting priority to be safe, he tries to convince himself. Seungcheol hasn’t been performing the same this season, and Ferrari cannot just sit there and wait for him to get his game back on. It’s only natural that they shift their focus to Jaehyun.

Who has been outdoing you in almost all the races till now, he thinks bitterly, but now is not the time. His focus must be on getting back to that top step tomorrow. He’s not on the front row, but he’s on P3. And he’s done this before. Multiple times. You’re a four time world champion for a reason, he reminds himself.

The meeting ends without ceremony. Someone thanks them for their time. The engineers start shutting their laptops, the strategists murmuring amongst themselves, but Seungcheol stays seated, pen still in his grip, gaze still fixed on the screen even as the numbers disappear.

He should leave. Get up, grab his water bottle, head back to his room, reset. He’s done this a million times before. Shake it off, focus on the race.

But for some reason, he doesn’t move.

Around him, the room is shifting. The dull hum of post-meeting chatter fills the air, team personnel filtering out in quiet clusters. It feels casual. Like this was just another debrief, another normal day at Ferrari.

But it isn’t. Not to Seungcheol.

He knows he hasn’t been performing at his best. He doesn’t need the numbers on the screen to remind him. But the part that unsettles him isn’t just his own frustration. It’s that no one else seems particularly concerned.

A season ago, a bad qualifying would have meant hours of discussions, strategists picking apart every sector, his race engineer sitting with him long after the meeting ended. But now, the debrief ends too quickly. The team moves on too easily, like they aren’t waiting for him to fix it anymore.

Seungcheol finally stands, rolling his shoulders back, exhaling sharply. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That he just needs to focus on the race.

It’s Monaco. The crown jewel of the F1 calendar. He must do this.

—

Sunday, Race Day May 25th

“We need to push now, Seungcheol.”

He grits his teeth, jaw locked so tight it feels like it might snap. Push? Like he hasn’t been wringing every last bit of performance out of this car, like he hasn’t been on the limit for the last forty laps?

Like this race hasn’t already been slipping through his fingers since the second he left the grid.

The tires are gone. The strategy didn’t work. The plan was to overcut, stay out, build a gap—but the numbers lied. The degradation is worse than they thought, and now he’s stranded, barely keeping the car pointed in the right direction as he tries to squeeze out just one more lap before pitting.

It’s Monaco. Track position is king. And yet, here he is, fighting against cars that should be behind him.

“Box, box.”

The words come through, sharp and final, and Seungcheol exhales hard through his nose. He throws the car into the pit entry, hits the brakes slowly and pulls into his box.

It’s slow.

Too fucking slow.

The rear-left refuses to come off, the mechanic scrambling, precious seconds bleeding away. Three seconds. Four. Five. By the time they send him back out, he knows. It’s done.

His hands grip the wheel so tight his knuckles burn.

“Car ahead is Jaehyun and ahead of him is Haechan. The others ahead are yet to pit so you are back in P3 for now.”

Jaehyun and Haechan.

Of course.

His engineer is saying something else, some meaningless reassurance about the stint ahead, but Seungcheol isn’t listening.

He can’t listen.

Because he realizes, for the first time, that this isn’t just a bad day, or a bad weekend or a bad first half of the season.

This is the championship slipping away from him. This is driver number 1 slipping away from him.

The gap isn’t closing.

Seungcheol has been pushing—hard, too hard—but it’s not making a difference. The pace isn’t there, the tires are overheating, and every lap that passes feels like another door slamming shut in front of him.

The harbor glints under the afternoon sun, the yachts filled with celebrities and billionaires sipping champagne, watching from their floating palaces as the cars thread through the streets below. The air is thick with engine heat and the sea breeze, the grandstands packed.

Monaco isn’t just another weekend. It’s where legends win, where the greats cement their names.

And right now, he isn’t driving like one.

He flies through the tunnel, foot flat on the throttle. He knows every inch of this track, knows exactly where he should be gaining, but it doesn’t matter when the car isn’t responding the way he needs it to.

Seungcheol is stuck.

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Two seconds."

Two seconds might as well be twenty.

He shifts down aggressively into the chicane, braking later than he should, hoping for something—anything—to change.

The noise of the crowd swells as he rounds the Swimming Pool section.

His grip tightens on the wheel. It’s not supposed to be like this. He’s supposed to be attacking, not looking in his mirrors, not having to think about defending, not feeling the weight of the entire race pressing down on his chest.

"Seungcheol, we need to manage the tires."

The words snap through his earpiece, grating against his nerves. He forces himself to breathe, to settle the frustration threatening to spill over.

They want him to manage.

They want him to hold the position.

They want him to accept that this is all he’s getting today.

He sets his jaw and throws the car into the next turn, taking a little too much of the curb on the exit.

By lap 75, the gap between Seungcheol and Jaehyun is huge again.

It’s worse than before.

The second stop was clean, no delays, no mistakes. And yet, somehow, he’s still lost time.

Fucking Monaco.

It doesn’t matter how well he drives. It doesn’t matter that he’s hitting his marks, that he’s extracting everything left in these tires. The mandatory two-stop has killed any chance of clawing his way back.

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Four seconds."

Four seconds. Before the stop, it was two.

He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. At this rate, he won’t even see Jaehyun’s rear wing by the time the checkered flag falls.

And now, he has another problem.

The Red Bull in his mirrors.

Jeno.

The younger driver had been quiet all race, sitting behind, waiting. But now with just four laps to go, he’s close. Too close.

Seungcheol shifts his grip on the wheel, fingers flexing, gloves damp with sweat inside the cockpit. The wheel feels smaller, the car tighter around him.

P3 is all he has left.

And he’ll be damned if he’s about to lose that too.

—

The champagne is cold when it hits his suit.

Seungcheol flinches, but only slightly, just enough to feel it soak through the fabric, just enough to remind him that he’s standing here, that this is happening.

Haechan and Jaehyun get down from their P1 and P2 steps, champagne bottles tilted high, foam spilling over their hands as they spray each other first before turning toward him. He lifts his own bottle, angles it in their direction, but it’s only for the sake of formality.

Haechan stands in the center.

There’s something about him. The way he carries himself, the way he looks at the trophy, the way his hands stay steady even in the chaos. Seungcheol watches the way he smiles, watches the way he doesn’t fumble under the weight of it all. He’s young, still early in his career, but he handles himself like someone who’s been here before. Like someone who expects to be here again.

It reminds Seungcheol of himself. Or at least, of the driver he used to be.

And that’s when it sinks in.

That he’s not getting it back. That there’s no way for him to fight for this championship, not this year. That whatever edge he used to have—the thing that made him great, the thing that made him unstoppable—it’s not there anymore.

He tightens his grip on the bottle, jaw locking as he exhales slowly.

A podium at Monaco is supposed to mean everything.

But right now, it just feels like confirmation of what he already knew.

Seungcheol barely registers the walk back down to the garage. His ears still ring, whether from the crowd or the exhaustion settling deep in his bones, he doesn’t know.

His PR manager is beside him, speaking, but he only catches fragments. Media pen. Keep it neutral. Good points for the team. The same routine, the same lines, but it feels heavier today. Because he’s never had to talk about losing here before.

Seungcheol mentally scoffs at the way he thinks it’s become a routine. Since when was he this alright with settling for mediocrity?

The media pen is packed, cameras already rolling, reporters waiting. Seungcheol takes his spot, forces his expression into something composed, something neutral.

The first few questions are easy. Tyres, strategy, the mandatory two-stop. He answers on autopilot.

Then, the question he’s dreaded is asked.

“Seungcheol, this track has always been one of your strongest, but today you missed out on the win for the first time in five years. How are you processing that? And with Haechan taking the victory, do you think he’s proving himself as a serious contender?"

He expects it, but the words still land heavy.

For a second, he says nothing, fingers flexing against the edge of his race suit. Five years. He hasn’t lost here in five years. Until now.

"Yeah, of course, it’s disappointing. Monaco is always an important race, and I would’ve liked to fight for the win," he says, voice measured, controlled. "But we did what we could today. A podium is still a good result for the team."

It’s the right answer. The expected one.

"And Haechan?"

Seungcheol nods one, shoulders tight and strung up.

"He did well. Controlled the race, didn’t make mistakes. Winning here takes a lot, and he handled it."

It’s short and simple and exactly what he needed to say but as he moves on to the next reporter, the weight of it lingers. Because to him, more than what he said, it’s what he doesn’t say that matters.

He doesn’t say he could’ve won if he tried harder, if the situation were a bit different. He doesn’t say he hopes to win next time.

And for the first time in his career, he’s not sure if he will.

HOME

In your defence, you never really expected Seungcheol to attend the wedding, especially with it being held smack bang in the middle of the season.

In his defence, you suppose this is the reception and not the wedding itself. It isn’t to say that you are unsurprised when you walk over to your table with Seungkwan to see Seungcheol’s name on the seating list. The name sits there in Madina Script, all elegant swirls and carefully placed flourishes, as if good typography could soften the impact of his presence, slotted between yours and Jihoon’s, as if it belongs. You blink at it, half-expecting your eyes to be playing tricks on you, but Seungkwan sees it too, a soft sound of surprise escaping his mouth.

You can tell he’s excited as he sits down on your right, a small smile on his face that he tries to hide for your sake. You can’t help but shake your head and scoff at him in adoration. The boys haven’t seen Seungcheol in a while. He didn’t come back home last winter and you have a suspicion that it was partially because of you.

The reception hall hums with the easy lull of conversation, the clinking of glasses and silverware filling the space between soft music and warm laughter. The candlelight flickers against the delicate floral arrangements at the center of each table, casting shadows that sway with the breeze from the open terrace doors. Outside, the night stretches over the coastline, waves rolling lazily against the cliffs below. It’s the kind of evening that feels untouched by time, the kind where memories slip into the present so seamlessly that it’s easy to forget just how much has changed.

And it applies to you as well, as you turn toward the entrance, hoping to catch Jihoon before he finds his seat. You're ready to convince him to sit next to you when you spot the figure just behind him. For a moment, your stomach flutters, instinct overriding reason. You feel the simple pleasure of seeing someone familiar before you remember. Before it really registers who you’re looking at.

Seungcheol stops in his tracks too. Just for a split second, which you notice only because you were already looking at him. You turn back to Seungkwan, wondering why Seungcheol looks surprised that you’re here. You live in this town. It’s your neighbour’s wedding. Of course, you’d be here.

Seungcheol exhales slowly through his nose, steadying himself as he weaves through the tables. It’s fine. He’s fine. This night is just another social obligation—one he’ll get through with practiced ease.

Or so he thinks.

Because when he finally reaches his assigned table, when his gaze flickers over the place cards arranged neatly around the table, he sees it.

His name.

Right next to yours.

For a moment, all he can do is stare.

Then, with the kind of composure he barely feels, he pulls out his chair and sits down. Like the sight of your name beside his doesn’t feel like a cruel fucking joke.

The chair legs scrape softly against the floor, but you don’t look at him. Not yet. You’re still angled toward Seungkwan, fingers tracing lazy circles against the stem of your glass, as if you haven’t noticed him at all.

But he knows better.

Seungcheol reaches for the placard with his name on it, turning it between his fingers like the cursive script might offer an explanation. As if some part of him still doesn’t quite believe it.

And then you shift—just slightly, just enough for your gaze to flicker toward him, catching him in the act.

He sets the card down and straightens his spine, forces an easy expression onto his face, even as his pulse betrays him.

“Hey,” he says, hoping he sounds simple, nonchalant. He wonders if it is of any use though. Twenty nine years of knowing him doesn’t usually get erased by almost a year of no contact.

“You look well.”

Your voice is smooth, free of hesitation, and for some reason, that unsettles Seungcheol more than silence would have. He glances at you, finding your expression unreadable, your posture relaxed like this is just any other conversation. Like there’s nothing strange about exchanging pleasantries after everything.

He wets his lips, nodding slightly. “So do you.”

There’s a pause, not quite awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. You nod in acknowledgement, taking a slow sip of your drink, and he watches as the condensation on your glass leaves faint moisture on your fingertips when you set it down.

“How long have you been here?” he asks. You can tell he’s uncomfortable by the way he glances around the hall, not meeting your gaze.

“A while,” you say, your lips tilting slightly like you know he’s asking just to fill the air between you. “Long enough to know the best way to sneak out if it gets unbearable.”

Something in him eases, just slightly. “And here I was thinking you stayed for the speeches.”

“I do. But that doesn’t mean I like them.”

Seungcheol is about to say something when Seungkwan leans forward, elbows on the table, “Alright, before the drunk bridesmaids start their speeches, how’s the season going?”

Seungcheol exhales, tilting his head slightly before reaching for his drink. “It’s going.”

Jihoon doesn’t let that slide. “That’s a non-answer.”

Seungcheol huffs out something close to a laugh, but there’s an edge to it. “It’s been competitive,” he says.

Seungkwan hums. “Red Bull’s that fast, huh?”

Seungcheol sips before nodding. “Yeah. They came into the season strong. The car’s quick, and they’ve barely put a foot wrong.”

Jihoon leans back, considering that. “And Ferrari?”

Seungcheol shrugs, tapping his fingers lightly against his glass. “We’re not slow. Just not as consistent as we need to be.” He pauses, then adds, “It’s not last year.”

That part lingers. Last year was different. Ferrari had been the team to beat, and Seungcheol had been the one everyone was chasing. He doesn’t say it outright, but you hear it anyway.

Seungkwan senses that the conversation might be heading downhill and rushes to say, “Well, at least your team is second fastest. I remember reading that McLaren were dropping down into the midfield again.”

Jihoon lets out a dramatic sigh. “Man, remember when they were actually fighting for wins?”

Seungcheol chuckles, shaking his head. “Feels like forever ago.”

You stare at him, watching as he sips his drink again. There’s a lot you want to say but you settle for asking something else. “Next is Canada, right?”

Seungcheol pauses, fingers tightening just slightly around his glass before he looks at you. He blinks, like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Canada’s next.”

“Oh, Montreal’s always fun. Wet races, safety cars, chaos. Right up your alley, huh?” Seungkwan shakes his head as he leans back into his chair.

Seungcheol huffs a small laugh, shifting his attention to him. “Something like that. Hopefully.”

Seungkwan hums in response, but before he can say anything else, a commotion from the other side of the hall catches his attention. His gaze flickers toward the dance floor, where a group of slightly tipsy guests have started an impromptu dance-off. Jihoon follows his line of sight, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

“Unbelievable,” Jihoon mutters, but there’s amusement in his tone.

Seungkwan leans in slightly, watching with clear interest. “I’ll give them five minutes before someone trips over their own feet and spills a drink on someone else.”

“Three,” Jihoon counters, reaching for his drink.

Their conversation drifts as they start making bets on which unfortunate guest will go down first, their focus shifting entirely to the spectacle unfolding before them.

And just like that, it’s just you and Seungcheol again.

You glance at him, catching the way his shoulders have stiffened slightly now that the buffer of conversation has faded. He’s staring at his drink, thumb tracing absently over the condensation on the glass.

“So,” he says, voice low, hesitant. “You still watch the races?”

You blink, turning fully toward him. “Of course, I do.” There’s a hint of offense in your voice, even if you don’t mean for it to be there. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Seungcheol exhales softly through his nose, like he’s considering something. Then, he offers a small, almost apologetic shrug. “I don’t know. Just figured—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

You don’t press him on it. Instead you sigh, staring into your empty glass, “I never got to congratulate you, by the way.”

His brows furrow slightly. “For what?”

“Your championship.” You give him a look like it should’ve been obvious. “2024. You did it again.”

Seungcheol laughs dryly, going back to his drink for a sip before he replies. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Bit late for that, don’t you think? Not doing that great anymore, am I?”

It’s tossed out casually, but the bitterness is unmistakable. His voice is light, almost like he’s making a joke, but you know him too well. It’s in the way his fingers tighten around his glass, the way his gaze flickers away from yours just a second too long.

Your stomach twists. You hadn’t thought much of it at first. He’s always been hard on himself, always pushed himself further than anyone else ever could. But this might be different, you realize.

“I don’t believe that.” You challenge, frowning slightly.

Seungcheol scoffs quietly but doesn’t argue. He just leans back into his chair, letting out a long exhale while pretending to look around the venue.

“I’m going to get another drink. Do you want anything?” He asks finally.

You shake your head slowly, still watching him. “No, I’m good.”

Seungcheol nods, pushing himself up from his chair, but the weight of his words linger.

He’s deflecting, ignoring what you said before and that means something is definitely wrong. You think back on how this season’s been going, searching for any sign. He hasn’t been winning like he usually does. But it isn’t like he’s dropped off either. He’s been on the podium for almost every race till now. So really, what could be bothering him?

Just as he returns, a warm voice cuts through the chatter. “Well, well, if it isn’t the four of you together again.”

You turn to see the bride standing beside your table, her lips curved into a knowing smile. She glances at you first, then at Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Seungkwan before shaking her head fondly. “I was just telling my husband that it’s been ages since I’ve seen you four in the same place.”

Her husband raises an eyebrow. “They were that close?”

The bride lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, more than close. They were inseparable. If you saw one of them, you knew the others were nearby, usually getting into some kind of trouble. I remember trying to study in my room while these four ran up and down the street, screaming about some game they’d made up.” She shakes her head, eyes twinkling. “It was basically a ‘buy one, get three free’ situation.”

Seungkwan laughs, nudging you. “Hear that? We were iconic.”

Jihoon scoffs. “More like infamous.”

Her husband chuckles, looking between the four of you. “Alright, so who was the ringleader?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” the bride answers before anyone else can. She tilts her head toward Seungcheol. “It was always him.”

Seungkwan snorts. “Yeah, because people actually listened to him. Meanwhile, the rest of us? Chaos.”

Jihoon hums in agreement. “He had that whole intimidating older brother thing going on. Worked wonders when we needed to get out of trouble.”

Seungcheol finally looks up, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Or when you needed someone to take the blame,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You sigh. “And yet, you still went along with everything.”

Seungcheol exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “Someone had to make sure you three didn’t burn the neighborhood down.”

“Excuse me,” Seungkwan says, hand on his chest. “I was a delight.”

Jihoon snorts. “You literally almost set the park on fire that one time.”

Seungkwan waves him off. “Details.”

The bride grins as her husband shakes his head, clearly entertained. He looks at Seungcheol before offering a handshake. “I just wanted to say—I’m a big fan. Wishing you luck for the rest of the season.”

Seungcheol blinks, slightly caught off guard, but he takes the handshake with a small smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

The second they’re out of earshot, Seungkwan leans in with a grin. “Wow, a big fan, huh?”

Jihoon hums. “Did you see that? He even looked a little starstruck.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he picks up his drink. “You guys are unbearable.”

Seungkwan gasps dramatically. “The four-time world champion has no love for his supporters. Could be the next big scandal on the grid.”

Seungcheol groans, pinching the bridge of his nose as Jihoon and Seungkwan dissolve into laughter.

You watch them, unable to stop the smile stretching across your lips. It’s been so long since you’ve seen them like this, teasing and bickering as if nothing has changed. As if life hasn’t pulled you all in different directions, as if time hasn’t worn away at the bond the four of you thought was unbreakable. For some of you, it still is unbreakable, you suppose. You’ve got to give Seungkwan that, since you see his insufferable face every day.

But it still aches, just a little. Because you know things aren’t the same anymore. Because you’re not sure if they ever will be.

ITALY, AUTODROMO NAZIONALE MONZA

Thursday, Media Day September 4th

The garage is comparatively quiet today, Seungcheol notes as he follows his race engineer inside. Must be because most of the mechanics have gone for lunch.

The usual hum of conversation and metallic clang of tools is subdued, leaving only the low whir of cooling fans and the occasional murmur of engineers discussing setup changes. There are a few mechanics working on Jaehyun’s car on his side of the garage, but his side is mostly empty. The silence should be a relief, a rare moment of calm before the chaos of the race weekend begins. But instead, it feels suffocating, pressing against his ribs like a weight he can’t shake off.

There’s a weight in the air here that doesn’t exist anywhere else. Monza. Ferrari’s home race. The Tifosi already gathering outside the paddock, red flags draped over the fences, the pressure thick enough to choke on. He’s raced here for years, he knows what this weekend means—to the team, to the fans, to himself.

Which is why the growing pit in his stomach feels so out of place.

His car sits on the floor stands, untouched. No mechanics checking the rear suspension, no engineers reviewing his setup. But just across the garage, Jaehyun’s car is surrounded by people, a quiet buzz of activity following his teammate’s every movement.

Seungcheol glances at one of his engineers, who is flipping through setup notes on his tablet, barely paying him any attention.

“So, ahead of FP1 tomorrow, we’re keeping things mostly the same-”

“We need to fix the rear,” Seungcheol interrupts, voice firm. “I told you last week. It’s too light on the corner entry. If we don’t stiffen it, I’ll be fighting the car all weekend.”

The engineer exhales, rubbing his temple like this is an inconvenience. “We’ll keep an eye on it after FP1.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens.

Not a yes. Not even a no. Just a ‘later’.

The frustration simmers low in his chest, but he forces himself to breathe slowly, keeping his voice measured. “I’ve been saying this since Silverstone. We don’t need to wait for practice to confirm what we already know.”

“We’re still analyzing the data.”

A humorless chuckle threatens to rise in his throat, but he swallows it down. “I gave you the data last race.”

His engineer doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t bother coming up with a real answer, just nods vaguely, already shifting his attention back to the screen. Like this conversation is over. Like his concerns aren’t worth addressing now.

The irritation claws its way up his spine, but before he can say anything else, a voice from across the garage catches his ear.

“…he said he wasn’t comfortable with the rear,” one of the engineers mutters, crouching near Jaehyun’s car.

Another voice, sharper. “Yeah, we’re softening it a little, adjusting the setup so it’s more stable through the corners.”

Seungcheol stills.

His grip tightens around the water bottle in his hand, plastic crinkling under the pressure.

The same issue. The same complaint. Except this time, there’s no hesitation, no we’ll see after FP1, no vague nods and brushed-off concerns. They’re already fixing it. Already adjusting, already making sure his car is exactly how he needs it before he’s even turned a lap. And his car? Still untouched.

“Good,” one of the engineers says. “Can’t have him struggling this weekend.”

Seungcheol exhales slowly, running his tongue over his teeth.

The shift isn’t always obvious at first. It starts in small ways. Whose concerns get addressed first, whose feedback carries more weight in meetings, whose name gets spoken with more urgency. It’s subtle, so subtle that if he wasn’t paying attention, he might’ve convinced himself he was imagining it.

But he isn’t.

Not when he’s standing in the garage in Monza, in his team’s home, and watching everyone move just a little faster for someone else.

And it’s not that Ferrari doesn’t want him anymore. It’s not that they’re pushing him out. But they’re not prioritizing him either. They still expect him to perform, still need him, but they aren’t listening to him the way they used to.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

This is why the paddock has been whispering. This is why people have started wondering about his future. He hadn’t wanted to believe it before, had pushed it aside as nothing more than speculation. But maybe they saw what he was just now realizing.

That Ferrari isn’t betting on him anymore.

They’re keeping him. But they’re investing in Jaehyun.

It’s been happening all season.

From the very start, Seungcheol remembers the discrepancies—strategy calls that made no sense, pit stops that were just a second too slow, orders that left him boxed in at the worst possible times.

And all this time, he’s chalked it up to bad luck. A miscalculation here, a mistake there. But how many miscalculations does it take before you realize they’re not just mistakes?

And the worst part? What have I done to deserve it? Nothing.

His results haven’t been bad because of him. He’s still the same driver who won them four championships. Every time he’s lost a win, lost a position, it’s been because of something they did. Something they got wrong.

He watches as Jaehyun steps inside, relaxed as he greets the engineers. They respond instantly, turning their full attention toward him, nodding as he speaks, making sure everything is exactly as he wants it.

Jaehyun doesn’t have to ask twice.

Jaehyun doesn’t have to fight to be heard anymore.

And Seungcheol is tired of feeling like he does.

The thought hits him harder than he expects. His fingers loosen around the water bottle he's holding, the tension in his shoulders shifting into something else. Something bitter.

Because suddenly, he remembers a different season. A different teammate.

Mingyu.

Seungcheol hasn’t thought about him in a while—not like this, not with the clarity he has now. But looking at Jaehyun’s car, watching the way the team moves around him, listens to him, works for him—he realizes it must have been the same back then, too.

Mingyu probably saw this.

Felt this, back when Seungcheol was the one Ferrari was pouring everything into, when every strategy revolved around him, when every upgrade, every minor tweak, was designed to suit his driving style first.

Mingyu had been a damn good driver. More than good enough to fight, to challenge, to win. But how many times had he been left with the we’ll see after FP1? How many times had he looked at Seungcheol’s car and known that he wasn’t getting the same level of attention?

Seungcheol had never thought much of it before. He’d always told himself that it was just how things worked, that the team backs the driver who can win. He hadn’t considered how it must have felt to be on the other side of it. To watch your team slowly stop listening. To realize that the people you trusted to have your back were already shifting their focus elsewhere.

And now, here he is.

The same team. The same treatment.

Only this time, he’s the one left waiting.

A mechanic brushes past him, calling out instructions, but Seungcheol doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes on Jaehyun’s car, watches as the team works quickly—effortlessly—to make sure his teammate is comfortable, that his car is exactly how he wants it.

Seungcheol unclenches his fingers and rolls his shoulders back, forcing his expression into something more relaxed, more neutral.

Then he turns on his heel and walks out, not saying another word.

Seungcheol’s spent six years at Ferrari. He’s won them four driver’s championships and five constructors. He was the one who dragged them back to the top, who delivered their first driver’s championship in fifteen years, who gave them the momentum they needed to take the constructors’ title the year after. He was the one who gave his blood, sweat and tears to this.

Heck, you even sacrificed your relationship fighting for this team, He mentally scoffs.

Seungcheol’s never been the second driver. And he sure as hell isn’t about to start becoming one now.

—

Saturday, Qualifying

September 6th

The roar of the Tifosi is deafening, even from inside the garage.

Seungcheol sits in his cockpit, helmet still on, hands resting lightly on the wheel as the mechanics swarm around his car, making final adjustments. The session clock is still running, but for now, he’s stationary—P3 on the leaderboard, a tenth ahead of Jaehyun.

Outside, Monza is alive.

The Tifosi are everywhere, packed into every inch of the grandstands, a sea of red that stretches as far as the eye can see. Flags whip through the air, massive banners draped across the stands, their messages bold and impossible to miss. Monza is one of the circuits where the grandstands are sold out even during qualifying. There’s something different about Monza. Something that doesn’t exist at any other circuit, something even the best drivers struggle to explain. It’s not just the speed, the history, the track itself. It’s this. The weight of expectation. The way Ferrari doesn’t just belong to the team—it belongs to the people. To the thousands in the stands who live for this weekend. To all the other Italians watching on their TVs.

Usually, Monza is Seungcheol’s favourite track. He’s set impressive records here before and the energy of the crowd is always motivating.

Even through the layers of his helmet, his balaclava, and the deafening sounds of the other cars on the track, he hears them chant his name.

At least they haven’t given up on me.

His fingers tighten slightly around the wheel.

He sits in P3 for now. Ahead of Jaehyun, but still behind a Red Bull. A Red Bull on pole.

At Ferrari’s home race.

It’s an insult to their team, a disgrace on their part.

His gaze flickers across the garage, past the blur of engineers watching the monitors, past the mechanics murmuring updates to one another. No one looks at him. Not directly. Not long enough for it to mean anything.

But they’re waiting.

They won’t say it, won’t dare to speak it aloud but he knows what they need from him.

They need him to take back Monza.

They need him to put Ferrari back where it belongs.

Like always. Funny that they need me, now that their new star driver can’t manage to fucking qualify above P5 when it actually matters.

His race engineer's voice cuts through his earpiece, slightly more alert now.

“Track is clear. Sending you out now.”

Seungcheol scoffs, a humorless laugh against the inside of his helmet.

Right. Of course they are.

He presses the clutch paddle, lets the engine roar back to life, and rolls out onto the pit lane.

The television flickers, the glow of the screen casting soft light across the dimly lit living room. You keep the volume as low as possible. Your parents are sleeping, and you wouldn’t want to wake them up because of the commentary at this ungodly hour.

You hadn’t planned on watching qualifying. It had been a long day and the last thing you needed was to be up at one in the morning, wet hair dripping onto your t-shirt after a bath, on the edge of your seat as you watched your ex-boyfriend qualify for his team’s home race.

You should be asleep, but instead, you sit curled into the corner of your couch, staring at the leaderboard on the screen.

P3 – Choi Seungcheol.

The commentators have been talking about him all session. About how this weekend is crucial, about how Ferrari needs a strong result at their home race. About how Jaehyun is only P5 and how Seungcheol is the only Ferrari in a position to fight for pole.

The pressure is unbearable even from here, thousands of miles away. You can only imagine what it must feel like there, in the cockpit, in that worrying little head of Seungcheol’s.

The camera cuts to the Ferrari garage, to Seungcheol sitting in his car, helmet on, hands loose on the steering wheel as he waits.

Your stomach twists as his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio.

"Track is clear. Sending you out now."

Seungcheol doesn’t respond. Just shifts into gear, rolling out of the garage onto the pit lane.

The commentators barely take a breath before launching into his out-lap analysis.

"This is it, folks. One final shot for Ferrari’s Choi Seungcheol. He’s currently sitting in P3, but can he challenge for pole?"

"He’s had a tough session so far, struggling with the car’s balance, but he’s pulled off magic laps before. Let’s see what he can do."

You exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips as the camera follows him through the out-lap. He’s weaving aggressively, warming up his tires, testing every movement.

And then, finally—

"Choi Seungcheol begins his final lap."

The screen shows his car flying into a long, sweeping curve, and something tugs at your memory.

"It’s trickier than it looks," Seungcheol had once told you. It was late, the two of you sitting in the dim glow of his kitchen after Monza in 2023. "It’s easy to take it flat-out, but if you misjudge the line by even half a meter, you’re screwed on the exit."

Your breath catches slightly as you watch him now, the Ferrari holding steady, perfectly placed, just like he described.

The timing screen flashes, indicating a purple sector.

The commentators react instantly.

"He’s improving! Seungcheol is on a great lap. Can he challenge for pole?"

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket draped over your legs.

The car flies through the next sector, fast and on the edge. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. It’s pure instinct, the kind that only comes after years of knowing exactly where the limit is.

Purple again.

"He's still gaining! This could be huge for Ferrari!"

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath.

The final corner looms. The moment of truth.

"It’s deceptive," he'd said, "the Parabolica. The biggest mistake is to brake early. If you do, you lose all your momentum. You have to trust the car. Trust yourself."

His Ferrari dives in so late you think for a second that he’s overdone it. But who are you kidding? It's Seungcheol. Seungcheol who would never settle for anything less than a front row at Monza. He knows what he's doing.

As he crosses the finish line, the leaderboard updates.

P2.

The commentators erupt—a front row start for Ferrari. The camera cuts to the grandstands, where thousands of fans in red are screaming his name.

You exhale.

Not pole.

But at least he’s ahead of Jaehyun.

The screen flickers back to the garage. Seungcheol removes his helmet slowly, setting it down beside him. He doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t react to the pats on his back. His expression is unreadable.

Seungcheol is disappointed. Yes, he's out-qualified Jaehyun. But a Red Bull still sits on pole. Another at P3. His teammate's stuck at P5.

He mentally scoffs, A championship contender, that boy.

It's been a hard weekend for Ferrari this year. The Red Bulls have been fast all weekend. All season, but this weekend matters the most and Seungcheol has a chance. To prove to the team, to prove to himself and to win for the fans.

He watches as Jaehyun gets out of his cockpit, looking thoroughly frustrated for once.

Good, Seungcheol thinks. He's not going to be able to fight for the championship always, but if Ferrari has any chance of challenging for the constructors then Jaehyun needs to start doing better. Needs to start being harder on himself.

As his PR manager approaches him, Seungcheol thinks about what this year's driver’s championship winner would mean. If it’s going to be Haechan, which seems to be the most probable case, then that would mean the downfall of Ferrari again. If Jaehyun won against the odds, it would mean that Seungcheol lost to a teammate for the first time in his career.

Ferrari is going to start asking him to play the team game soon. He's not going to have the choice to deny that. He just hopes it doesn't start tomorrow.

He needs that win.

—

Sunday, Race Day

September 7th

Seungcheol doesn’t know why he’s bothering with coffee. It’s not like he needs it. His body is already running on adrenaline, his mind sharp, wired, bracing itself for the race ahead. But still, he stirs sugar into his cup, watching it dissolve in slow, deliberate circles.

It gives him something to do. Something to focus on that isn’t the feeling creeping under his skin, the quiet conversations happening around him.

He hears Jaehyun before he sees him.

“You always drink coffee before a race?”

Seungcheol looks up, finding Jaehyun standing across from him, arms folded loosely over his chest, gaze unreadable but not unkind.

“Sometimes,” Seungcheol replies, setting his spoon down with a quiet clink. “You?”

Jaehyun shakes his head. “Doesn’t sit right. Too bitter.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, a faint scoff of amusement. “That’s because you drink it wrong.”

Jaehyun tilts his head slightly, considering that. “Or maybe you just have bad taste.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “Right. That’s why I’m the one drinking an actual espresso and not whatever sugar-filled disaster you get at the airport before flights.”

Jaehyun lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, first of all, an iced latte is not a sugar-filled disaster.”

Seungcheol gives him a look.

Jaehyun exhales. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

For a moment, it almost feels easy. It reminds Seungcheol of when they weren’t sharing the same garage, when they weren’t dealing with the undercurrent of tension that came with being teammates. Back then, things had been simpler, Jaehyun in his own team, Seungcheol in his, their conversations laced with nothing more than lighthearted competition. The paddock had been big enough for both of them, their rivalry something manageable, something that only existed on track.

Jaehyun shifts slightly, straightening his posture, finally getting to the point.

“So,” he says, exhaling lightly. “Big day ahead.”

Seungcheol hums. “Guess so.”

Jaehyun taps his fingers against his arm, watching him carefully. “You’re planning to be difficult?”

Seungcheol finally looks at him. “Aren’t you?”

Jaehyun holds his gaze for a second longer before huffing out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I’m just saying, it’d be nice if we both made it to the finish line today.”

Seungcheol nods, slowly but surely. “Then don’t give me a reason to stop you.”

Jaehyun’s lips twitch like he wants to say something else, but he just nods once before stepping back.

Seungcheol watches as he walks off, settling at another table, already engaged in quiet conversation with one of their engineers.

He picks up his coffee again, rolling the cup between his palms.

A clean race.

Sure.

That depends on who refuses to back down first.

—

Seungcheol’s brother tosses you your drink as you settle down on the corner of their couch, next to your father. You wipe off the condensation on the can with the sleeves of your sweatshirt, tucking your legs under yourself as your father pats your knee, still talking strategy with Seungcheol’s dad. Your mothers are in the kitchen, loading the last plates from dinner into the dishwasher before they come over for the race.

Seungho sighs, fiddling with the remote as he settles on the right channel before plopping down onto the bean bag at your feet. Your mothers sit on the two seater, smaller sofa to your left, you sitting with the fathers on the bigger one, just like you have for years. Race day traditions don’t just disappear, even when everything else has changed.

Seungcheol’s father peels an orange, handing over the pieces to you and Seungho. Your mother complains about the AC’s temperature, but your father tells her that it’ll be hotter by the time the race starts anyway. Your finger already finds its place on the corner of the sofa’s armrest, the splinters of old wood that you pick on when the race gets heated. You don’t need to just yet, but you guiltily realize that you’re ruining their sofa every time. No one says anything to you about it. No one has to. It’s been your spot, your thing for years.

Seungho nudges you lightly, nodding toward the TV. "They’re saying the softs might not last long in the first stint," he muses, popping a piece of orange into his mouth. "You think Ferrari will actually pit at the right time today?"

You snort. "That’s optimistic."

He hums, shifting in his seat. "If they want a chance at winning, they need to be aggressive. Hards won’t get them track position, and the mediums are a gamble if the degradation is worse than expected."

You watch as the broadcast shows the tire allocations on screen, your eyes flickering over the strategies analysts have predicted. "Yeah, but you know they’ll be too focused on playing it safe. They always are when it actually matters."

Seungho sighs, not disagreeing. His gaze lingers on the Ferrari pit wall, the strategists adjusting their headsets. "Cheol won’t want to wait for them to figure it out," he says.

"They’re going to have to take risks eventually," he muses as the national anthem ends, watching as the cameras linger on Haechan as he walks back to his car. "Red Bull is too far ahead otherwise. Haechan’s been cruising all season, and Jeno’s not exactly slow either."

You shake your head, sinking further into the couch. "It’s ridiculous. Their car is practically untouchable. Even when they mess up, they still somehow come out ahead. It’s like they’re playing a different game."

Seungho leans back, arms crossed. "Ferrari had the chance to challenge them early on, but they didn’t capitalize when it mattered. Now it’s just damage control."

You chew on your bottom lip, eyes fixed on the screen as the camera cuts to Seungcheol on the grid. His helmet is still off, jaw set tight, gaze flickering across the sea of people moving around him. He looks calm, but you know better.

“You don’t think Jaehyun has a chance?” You ask distractedly.

Your father lets out a small laugh, “Wishful thinking, honey. Seungcheol and Jaehyun need to watch out and start playing for the team. The second Red Bull lad isn’t too far away from snatching up third or even second in the standings if these two mess up.”

—

The race settles into a rhythm, not a comfortable one, not for him, but a rhythm nonetheless.

Seungcheol grips the wheel tighter, eyes flickering between his mirrors and the track ahead. He’s in second, exactly where he started, but there’s no comfort in that. There’s a Red Bull ahead of him, and another behind.

And Jaehyun.

Jaehyun, who started P5. Jaehyun, who has been carving his way through the field. Jaehyun, who right now, is fighting for P3

He sees it happen in his mirrors, sees the moment Jaehyun lunges into turn one, late on the brakes but just precise enough to make the exit ahead of Jeno. A bold move. A necessary one. Seungcheol doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react beyond the slight press of his foot on the throttle, keeping his own pace steady.

It doesn’t matter.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

The radio crackles to life. His engineer’s voice, calm and composed. But something’s still off.

“Jaehyun is the car behind.”

Not quite an order. Not yet.

Seungcheol doesn’t reply. Just tightens his grip, shifts slightly in his seat. He knows what’s coming next.

Another chime in his ear. “Let’s be smart about this.”

There it is.

He exhales slowly, foot pressing just a little harder against the throttle. Smart, meaning don’t fight too hard. Smart, meaning don’t ruin the team’s chances. Smart, meaning move.

He’s done playing smart.

Jaehyun is closing in, the red of his Ferrari filling Seungcheol’s mirrors as they barrel down the straight, DRS open, momentum in his favor. Seungcheol adjusts, keeping his line just tight enough to force him to work for it.

The first chicane is clean. The second is anything but.

Jaehyun dives. Seungcheol defends.

They come out the other side still wheel-to-wheel, neither willing to yield.

The straight ahead is the fastest part of the track, the only chance to breathe before the next braking zone. Seungcheol is already calculating his defense, watching for the moment Jaehyun makes his move, ready to cover him off—

Too late.

Jaehyun clips the curb, the rear unsettled just enough to break traction. The car bounces, weight shifting unnaturally, and before Seungcheol can even react, he sees it. The flash of the underbelly, the violent twist of suspension giving out, the horrifying realization that Jaehyun’s car is airborne.

For a heartbeat, there is only silence.

And then, impact.

The force slams through him, the weight of the other car crashing down against his, shaking his entire body. The harness digs into his shoulders and ribs, holding him in place, but his head snaps forward, then back, helmet knocking against the headrest. The sound is deafening—metal crunching, carbon fiber shattering, the high-pitched screech of tires skidding helplessly across asphalt. His vision blurs at the jolt, breath knocked out of him as they careen off track, the gravel rushing up to meet them. The car shudders violently, bouncing as the suspension struggles to absorb the force. He barely registers the dust cloud kicking up around him, the shards of debris scattering across the runoff.

You feel your heart stop as the scene unfolds on the screen. It stutters hard, gripping your chest and throat as you stare at the two Ferraris get pushed into the gravel. From the corner of your eye, you see Seungho get up, hands on his head. No one in the room speaks. No one moves. The only sound is the distant murmur of the commentators, voices rising with urgency, barely registering in your ears.

“Oh my word! Massive crash between the Ferraris! Are both the Scuderia cars OUT of their home race?”

Even with the volume low, even through the ringing in your ears, you hear the grandstands erupt. A mixture of shock, horror, disappointment.

The slow-motion replay flashes across the screen—Jaehyun’s car hanging in the air for a fraction of a second before crashing down on top of Seungcheol’s, the halo absorbing the impact.

“Look at that! The halo is doing its job there, saving Seungcheol. But what a terrifying impact!”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of your sweater, your chest aching with the force of holding your breath. The camera shifts to the wreckage, two Ferraris, lifeless in the gravel trap, neither driver moving yet.

The ringing in his ears is the first thing Seungcheol notices. Then the tightness in his chest, the dull ache in his shoulders, the way his hands are still gripping the wheel like the race isn’t already over. His body feels heavy, like he’s just been thrown into a brick wall and left there.

He blinks.

His visor is coated in a thin layer of dust, the track ahead distorted through the haze of gravel and smoke. Something is still pressing down on him. Jaehyun’s car, still partially tangled with his own.

His radio crackles, his engineer’s voice cutting through the ringing.

“Seungcheol. Seungcheol, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

He inhales slowly, tests the movement in his fingers, flexes them once, twice. His chest rises and falls, shallow but steady.

“I’m here,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You hear the shuddering breath of relief that his parents let out as soon as they hear his radio on the television. You exhale too, feeling your hands tremble. You’ve seen Seungcheol crash before. But it’s never felt like this. Never this violent or sudden. Never with another car landing on top of him.

Your fingers dig into your sweater as you stare at the screen, waiting for movement, waiting for confirmation that he’s okay beyond just two words through the radio. The marshals are already there, swarming the wreckage, clearing debris, working to separate the cars, but you can’t tear your eyes away from Seungcheol’s cockpit.

You barely register as Jaehyun jumps out of his cockpit, turning around to look at the wreckage before shaking his head and walking away. It infuriates you. Seungcheol was doing what he had to do to defend. Why did this guy have to come in and ruin it all? There was a turn there, maybe he didn’t fucking notice that he had to move his steering wheel, you seethe.

The camera cuts to the Ferrari garage. His mechanics are frozen, watching the same screen, the same image of his wrecked car, faces unreadable but tight with something that looks a lot like guilt.

Seungho mutters. “Come on, man, Get out.”

And then, finally, movement.

The top of his helmet shifts, his hands coming up to unbuckle his harness. You feel like puking as he pushes himself up, slow and obviously shaken up, until he’s climbing out of the car.

“And it’s confirmed,” The commentator begins, “Both Ferraris are out of the race at Monza! Can you believe it? In front of the thousands of Tifosi here, it has been a nightmare of a weekend for Ferrari.”

But as you watch Seungcheol stand there for a moment, staring down at the car that was supposed to take him to victory today, you can’t help but stop the unease from settling down in your gut.

He turns and walks away without looking back.

—

When he’s let back to his driver’s room after the medical check-up, Seungcheol slams the door shut behind him, the sound echoing through the empty halls. The windows shudder from the impact, but he pays no mind to them.

His helmet is still in his hands, his grip so tight it almost hurts. His fingers flex around the edges, his breathing shallow, the weight of everything pressing down on him all at once. Then, without thinking, he hurls it across the room.

It crashes against the lockers with a violent clang, bouncing off metal before rolling to a stop near the couch. The sound rings in his ears, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.

He braces his hands on the edge of the table, exhaling sharply. His pulse is still hammering against his skull, a blunt ache settling at the base of his neck. His body feels stiff, sore from the crash, but it’s the frustration crawling under his skin that he can’t shake. He walks over to the bathroom.

This shouldn’t have happened.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenches as he stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His hair is damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, his suit— the prized, blazing red overalls he once admired, the bright yellow emblem he respected— still covered in dust and streaks of dirt from the gravel trap. He looks exactly how he feels, like he’s been through a war and came out of it with nothing.

His head falls forward, hands dragging down his face, pressing hard against his temples.

He knows what’s happening outside. He knows that while he’s in here trying to catch his breath, Ferrari’s PR team is already working overtime to control the damage. He knows that somewhere in the paddock, Jaehyun is in his own driver’s room, being comforted, reassured, told that this wasn’t his fault.

Seungcheol exhales, a bitter scoff slipping past his lips.

He doesn’t need to hear it to know how this will play out.

Jaehyun is young, new, still learning. Seungcheol is experienced. Seungcheol should have been the one to manage the situation better.

That’s how they’ll spin it. That’s how they always do.

His knuckles whiten around the edge of the sink. He doesn’t trust himself to move just yet, not when his entire body feels like it’s still vibrating from the adrenaline. The crash replays behind his eyes every time he blinks—the lunge, the curb, the impact, the moment he realized he was completely powerless to stop it.

Be grateful you’re alive and well, Seungcheol reminds himself. It could’ve been so much worse. You’re okay. Physically.

Seungcheol struggles to get this breathing under control as he walks back out, picking his helmet up from the floor. A small part of the covering has chipped off, but it’s nothing he can’t get fixed. He stares at it for a moment— the black, prancing horse that adorns the back of his helmet. His race engineer had convinced him to get it after he’d won Monza for them in his debut year at the team.

“You deserve to proudly show off that emblem,” He’d chuckled as he affectionately patted Seungcheol’s back.

Seungcheol wonders if he still thinks that. If he’s still deserving of this team’s respect. If they still have some for him, even if he is.

His thoughts are interrupted by rapid knocks on his door.

“Cheol, are you alright in there? Let me in.” It’s Seokmin, his trainer.

Seungcheol sighs. “I’m alright. Just leave me alone for sometime, please.”

Seokmin hesitates on the other side of the door, but eventually, his footsteps fade down the hall. Seungcheol exhales, pressing his fingers into his temples, trying to shake the exhaustion that clings to his body.

Then his phone vibrates.

The sound cuts through the quiet, sharp and unexpected. He doesn’t look right away, just lets it buzz against the table, debating whether he has the energy to deal with whatever crisis their PR team is about to throw at him.

But when he finally glances at the screen, his breath catches.

It’s you.

His throat dries up. For a second, he doesn’t move, just stares at your name, his mind sluggish in processing why, after everything, you’d be calling him now.

His finger hovers over the screen.

For a moment, he considers letting it ring out.

While you wait for him to pick up, standing in a corner of his parent’s backyard, you wonder if he’s changed his number already. Even if it is the same, would he still pick up?

The call connects.

You hear rough breathing on the other side. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and you almost think he’s answered by mistake. Then, his voice comes through, low and strained.

“Yeah?”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

Seungcheol doesn’t respond right away. There’s movement on his end, fabric rustling, the distant clatter of something being set down. When he finally speaks, his voice is flat, unreadable.

“What’s up?”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, glancing toward the house. His mother is still in the kitchen, her movements slow, like she’s distracted, like her mind is still on the crash. Your own parents are murmuring inside, their voices barely audible through the open back door.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” You sigh softly, “Are you okay?”

There’s a pause. Not too long, but long enough to know that he’s probably about to lie.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

You don’t believe him and he knows that, because he doesn’t try to fill the silence or rush to convince you. There’s only the sound of his breathing, steadier now but still uneven at the edges, like he hasn’t fully caught it since stepping out of that car.

“No seriously, Cheol, everyone’s worried.”

There’s a soft scoff on the other end, the kind that isn’t amused at all.

“Yeah?” Seungcheol mutters. “They’re worried enough to call?”

You press your lips together, glancing back inside where Seungho stands at the door, a quizzical expression on his face as he tries to ask you what’s going on. “You know they are.”

Another pause. “Well, tell them they don’t have to be. I’m as good as I can be.”

You turn your back to his brother, throwing your head back in slight frustration, “Cheol, come on. They probably don’t want to bother you by calling right now.”

He doesn’t respond to that. The silence stretches again, and reality settles back in.

You kick at some of the pebbles on the ground, fingers tightening around your phone, “I wasn’t going to call either.”

“I figured. Wasn’t going to pick up either.”

You debate whether to say more, whether to ask the things you actually want to. Is Ferrari blaming you? Did Jaehyun say anything? Are you okay in ways that matter?

But you don’t. Instead, you sigh, voice quieter now. “I don’t know why I called.”

Seungcheol hums, a little absentminded, but not dismissive. “Guess you were hoping I wouldn’t pick up.”

You breathe out. “Maybe.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

You almost smile. Almost.

There’s something about the way he says it, like he knows neither of you really mean it, like he doesn’t mind that you called, even if he won’t say it outright.

You take a slow breath. “You should rest. I’ll let you go.” You hope someone reminds him to eat properly tonight. Hope someone eases his mind and tells him not to worry too much. That one loss here doesn’t mean the end of the world.

He hesitates for just a second. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

You hesitate too, Can’t you just say it to him yourself?

But it’s not your place anymore. So you don’t.

“Goodnight, Cheol.”

BRAZIL, AUTÓDROMO DE INTERLAGOS

Friday, Post FP2 November 7th

Seungcheol sits at the end of the long table, hands clasped loosely in front of him. Across from him, Ferrari’s team principal flips through his tablet, running over last-minute adjustments. His race engineer and senior management sit alongside him, unaware of why Seungcheol has called this meeting.

They don’t know yet.

Seungcheol exhales slowly, gaze drifting across the room, over the familiar red embroidered logos, the crest of the prancing horse he’s carried on his chest for the last six years.

The team he helped bring back to the top.

The team he’s about to leave.

The team principal finally looks up. “Alright, let’s go over—”

“I’m leaving.”

Silence.

At first, the reaction is mild, just confusion, like they’ve misheard.

The team principal’s fingers pause over his screen. His race engineer shifts slightly, exchanging a glance with the others.

Then, finally—

“What?”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, voice even. “I won’t be re-signing with Ferrari.”

The words settle, the weight of them pressing into the room. His engineers stare at him, a mixture of shock and confusion on their faces

One of the executives clears his throat. “We haven’t even begun contract negotiations yet.”

“I know.”

A pause.

The team principal exhales, setting his tablet down, eyes narrowing slightly. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it now. “Seungcheol, this doesn’t have to be a rushed decision. We can—”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

That’s when it truly sinks in. The initial surprise fades, shifting into something heavier, something closer to disbelief.

His race engineer straightens in his seat. “Look, if this is about the way this season has gone, if you’re frustrated, if you’re unhappy with how things have been handled, we can fix it. We can go into next year with a fresh start-”

“This isn’t just about this season.”

Seungcheol exhales, running a hand over his face. He knew they’d try to talk him out of it. Knew they wouldn’t just let him go without a fight.

So for a moment, just a moment, he lets himself be honest.

“You know…” he starts, voice quieter now, almost reflective. “Seven years ago, you called me to this very meeting room in Brazil.”

If everyone in the room wasn’t already still, they are now.

His team principal doesn’t react immediately, but Seungcheol knows he remembers.

“I was still at Alfa Romeo,” he continues. “I was still quite young and new, still figuring out the sport, still proving I belonged here. And you sat me down, and you told me that you saw talent in me and if I came to Ferrari, we’d bring this team back to the top. That you’d help me become a world champion.”

He lets the words linger, lets them sink in. His throat feels tight.

“And you did.”

The words aren’t empty. He means them.

Seungcheol looks around the room, at the men who have dictated his future for the past seven years. The ones who once fought for him. The ones who celebrated with him. The ones who, somewhere along the way, stopped prioritizing him the way they used to.

He takes a slow breath. “I’ll always be grateful for that.” He says, and for the first time, it hits him that he’s done with this team. That with what he’s said, they’re not his anymore. Seungcheol can’t help the feeling of mourning that overcomes him in this moment. “No matter how things have turned out, I won’t forget what we’ve achieved together.”

He isn’t sure if they expect him to say more. Maybe they expect him to be bitter, to bring up the choices they made this season, to throw blame in every direction.

But Seungcheol has nothing left to prove.

“Ferrari gave me everything,” he admits, voice steadier now. “You gave me my first real shot. You gave me my first win, my first championship. You gave me a team that I could fight for.”

He leans back, exhaling. “I’ve given you everything I had in return.”

The weight of that truth settles between them.

His voice drops slightly. “That’s what makes this so hard.”

There’s a flicker of doubt in the team principal’s gaze.

“Is this about another team?” he finally asks. “We haven’t heard anything yet, but if you’ve been approached, we should discuss it. We can match whatever offer they’re giving you.”

Seungcheol shakes his head slowly, the corner of his lips lifting in irony. They think this is about negotiation. About money, about leverage. They don’t realize it yet.

“There is no other offer.”

A flicker of uncertainty passes through the room.

The team principal frowns. “What do you mean?”

Seungcheol presses his fingertips against the table, grounding himself. This is it. If you say it, it’s real now.

“I mean, I’m not going anywhere else.” He’s surprised with how steady his voice is. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

The silence that follows is different now. They don’t know what to say, don’t want to realize what he means

His engineer’s brows furrow. “Cheol…” He hesitates, voice dipping lower, more personal. “You’re not just leaving Ferrari, are you?”

The team principal exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Seungcheol, you’re thirty. This is not the time to retire. You’re at the peak of your career. You don’t just—”

“I’m not retiring. But I know what I want.”

It’s the first time his voice hardens.

His pulse thrums against his ears. He doesn’t need them to understand. He doesn’t need permission.

But for the first time, he lets himself admit it.

He’s tired.

“You don’t have to decide this now,” the team principal tries again, but there’s something more fragile in his voice this time. “Take the off-season. Step back. Think about it properly.”

“I already have.”

And the finality with which he says it shuts them up. There’s no convincing him because he’s already gone. He’s been gone for a while now, but it’s real and true today.

Seungcheol pushes his chair back, rising to his feet. The Ferrari crest catches his eye on the team principal’s polo, the same one he’s worn for the last six years. Once, it felt like armor. Now, it just feels like something he’s outgrown.

No one stops him as he moves toward the door.

But just before he reaches it, his race engineer speaks again, voice quiet.

“You’re really sure about this?”

Seungcheol’s hand grips the doorknob tight. It’s a last-ditch effort, a peace offering, another chance to take it all back and go back to the team he’s called his home for almost his entire career.

He nods, slow at first but his expression is sure when he turns around for the last time. “Yes, I am.”

When he closes the door behind himself, Seungcheol hopes that no one walks out to talk to him now. The finality of his decision settles down on him, light on his shoulders but still heavy on his mind.

These hallways that he’s walked for so long, this team that he’s been leaning on for so long. He wonders how just a few words can change how he feels. His footsteps echo against the floor, the polished tiles reflecting the dim overhead lights. He knows every corner of this building by heart. The walls lined with photographs, framed moments of glory, the history of Ferrari captured in still images.

Your history too.

His fingers brush absently against the edge of one as he passes, a photo from their first constructors’ championship together. The entire team, arms raised, champagne spraying in the air. His younger self is at the center, a Ferrari flag draped over his shoulders, eyes bright with something fierce.

Hope.

Determination.

Belief.

He stops walking.

The picture right next to it is worse.

His first drivers’ championship.

He remembers that night, the way his race engineer had pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, the way his mechanics had lifted him onto their shoulders, the way he had looked at his car and thought—this is home now.

Now, he stands here, staring at that same version of himself, and wonders if he would even recognize him anymore.

Would that Seungcheol understand why he’s leaving? Would he be disappointed?

He breaths in deeply, tilting his head back.

This is what he wanted. This is what he chose.

It doesn’t make it any easier.

He forces himself to keep moving, the weight in his chest growing heavier with every step. The hallway stretches ahead of him, but for the first time in years, he’s not sure where he’s going.

Tomorrow’s race, for now. That’s where he’ll go. Let the season end before we figure it all out.

But tomorrow comes and Seungcheol knows this feeling of losing will stick to him for the rest of his life.

He hears the Red Bull team celebrating their Constructors’ win outside their garage. The cheers, the fireworks, the champagne. He’s been there before. Knows what if feels like to win this, to fight for something bigger than himself and come out victorious.

But not this year. Not anymore.

He glances around the garage. No one is talking. The mechanics keep their heads down, clearing equipment, avoiding each other’s eyes. The pit wall stares at the monitors like they can will the result into changing. His race engineer exhales sharply beside him, but doesn’t say a word.

They all knew this was coming.

Maybe that’s what stings the most. Not the loss itself but the inevitability of it.

He should be angry. He used to get angry.

But now, as he watches Red Bull celebrate on the screen, as he sees Haechan and Jeno lifted up on their mechanics’ shoulders, champagne bottles held high in the air, as he sees Jaehyun sitting in his chair, staring at the ground, shoulders stiff with disappointment, he just feels…exhausted.

The ‘what-if’s’ cloud his mind, momentarily. What if they’d backed him up like they used to. What if they’d all worked harder on the car, what if Seungcheol hadn’t been feeling like he was past his prime.

But a part of him knows, and he’s sick of shutting it down, so he lets the thought flow through him. This was bound to happen. This was always how it would’ve ended.

Seokmin hands his phone back to him, wordlessly, as they walk up to their hospitality. Seungcheol thinks Seokmin has known, maybe even before he’d made the decision. It’s easy to break the news to someone who is the least surprised by it. All Seokmin had done was clap him on the back once and wish him all the best. Seungcheol knows he’ll be there if he ever comes back and that is enough.

UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, YAS MARINA CIRCUIT

Sunday, Race Day December 7th

Ferrari’s lion walks away — Choi Seungcheol announces exit from the Italian team.

“Ferrari and Choi Seungcheol will part ways at the end of the 2025 Formula 1 season, bringing an end to a six-year partnership that delivered four driver’s championships, five constructors’ titles, and a legacy that has cemented him as one of the most successful drivers in the team’s history.

The announcement, made ahead of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, has sent shockwaves through the paddock. While speculation around Seungcheol’s future had been growing in recent weeks, many expected Ferrari to push for a contract renewal. Instead, the 30-year-old has confirmed that he will not be re-signing with the team.

What remains unclear is what comes next. Unlike most high-profile exits, Seungcheol’s departure has not been linked to a move elsewhere. Ferrari has not commented on whether they attempted to retain him, nor has Seungcheol confirmed if he plans to continue in Formula 1 beyond this season.”

You stop reading after that sentence.

Your eyes hover over the words, rereading the title once, twice, three times before you yell after your mom, asking her to come down immediately. Just as she walks down the stairs, your front door opens, Seungcheol’s mother walking in with an exasperated look on her face, hands gripping her phone tightly.

“From the look on your face, I’m assuming you didn’t know about this either.” She laughs out in disbelief.

You shake your head, still processing the words you just read as your mother asks her what’s wrong before snatching your phone from you.

Seungcheol’s mother exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “That boy,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Not a single word. Not to me, not to his father or his brother. We find out through the damn news?”

The frustration in her voice is clear, but you can also hear the hurt seep through.

You understand.

You sit down at the table, glancing at the article again. Seungcheol has not commented on whether he plans to continue in Formula 1 beyond this season.

The thought makes your stomach twist.

Your mother sighs, rubbing her temples. “He has a race today, no? How come they announced it today? Did you try calling him?”

“Do you think he’d pick up?” Seungcheol’s mother clicks her tongue. “He’s probably acting like it’s just another race weekend. I don’t need to try to know that his phone is switched off.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

You can already picture it. Seungcheol walking through the paddock, head down, sunglasses on, pretending the world isn’t speculating about his future, pretending like he hasn’t just changed the course of his career with one decision.

Pretending like he hasn’t kept the people who have known him the longest in the dark.

But the one thing you can’t wrap your head around is—

“Why would he do this?” His mother sighs, heading to your kitchen to grab a glass of water, “He loves his team. Dreamt of driving for them since he was a kid. What went wrong?”

—

When the fireworks are over and the celebrations cease, Seungcheol comes down to the Ferrari garage, one last time.

The mechanics are mostly quiet as they pack up, with the season over and no more races to prepare for, there’s not much to talk about either. For a moment, Seungcheol is unsure of what he’d say to them. If there’s anything to be said, in the first place. He knows the news was broken to them before the articles came out, so that there would be no surprise and no disbelief during the race itself.

Seungcheol’s finished P2 here today. It isn’t a win, but he’s a little glad that he’s on the podium for his last race with the team.

When Seungcheol steps inside, a few heads turn. Some of the younger mechanics glance at him hesitantly, like they don’t know if they should say something. But the ones who have been here long enough, the ones who have known him since the beginning, they know this is goodbye.

One of them straightens from where he’s kneeling by the tire blankets, wiping his hands on his overalls before walking over.

“You’re really doing this, huh?” The mechanic’s voice is rough with fatigue, but affectionate still.

Seungcheol exhales, lips tilting into something almost like a smile. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence before the mechanic lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn. Going to feel weird without you around here, kid.”

Seungcheol nods.

One by one, the others start to gather. A few hesitant at first, but then more of them, his mechanics, his engineers, people who have been here since his first win in red. They’ve been through everything with him.

He mumbles simple words. Thank you, I couldn’t have done this without you, I’ll miss you all. They clap him on the back, exchange knowing looks, make a few dry jokes to lighten the mood. But there is an undeniable sadness in the air, the loss of a prized one, the loss of a team.

Eventually, his race engineer finds him.

Seungcheol knows that this moment would come, but when he meets the man’s eyes, he feels bare and stripped down in front of him.

For years, he’s been the voice in his ear, guiding him through every lap, every race. The man who’s saved his life a hundred times, talked him out of bad decisions, made him the best ones. The man he’s trusted almost his entire career.

And now, there’s nothing left to say.

Still, his engineer sighs, shaking his head. “Feels wrong, doesn’t it?”

Seungcheol lets out an awkward laugh. “A little.”

There’s a pause before his engineer speaks again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry.”

Seungcheol blinks, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For how this year went. For how they treated you.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “You deserved better.”

Seungcheol swallows. Hearing it out loud makes it even more real. “It is what it is. I don’t blame you.”

His engineer scoffs. “Bullshit.”

He stares at Seungcheol before speaking again, “Do you remember Austria?”

“You’ve got to be more specific than that. Which year?”

“In 2018.”

As soon as he hears that, Seungcheol can’t help but laugh out loud, nodding his head.

“On the last few laps, you ignored my call to box for fresh tyres because, and I quote: ‘I can make it till the end.’”

Seungcheol smiles, “And then the rain hit.”

“And then the rain hit,” His engineer repeats, shaking his head, “And I spent the next five laps yelling at you to come in before you crashed into the barriers.”

He tilts his head, “But I didn’t.”

His engineer sighs, crossing his arms. “No. You didn’t. Somehow, through sheer luck or divine intervention, you kept it on track and won the damn race.”

Seungcheol remembers that day. The panic in his voice, the way his tires felt like they’d give out any second. The sheer adrenaline coursing through him as he dragged his car to the finish line.

He shakes his head, looking down at his shoes, “You were so pissed at me afterwards. I remember.”

“I was,” his engineer agrees. “But I was also secretly proud as hell.”

His engineer exhales. “That’s what made you special, you know.”

Seungcheol looks at him.

“You always knew where the limit was,” his engineer continues. “You always trusted yourself to find a way.”

Seungcheol swallows.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He’s spent his whole career pushing the limits. Trusting himself when no one else would. Fighting for what he believed in.

And now, he’s stepping away.

“I hope we meet again, on track.” His voice is soft now, “Doesn’t have to be here. Doesn’t have to be with them.”

Seungcheol looks up, surprised.

“But if you come back, and if you still want me droning in your ear. I’ll come.”

He doesn’t respond right away. This is a promise. It’s the most heartwarming thing anyone here has ever said to him.

But finally, his lips twitch in the closest thing he’s had to a real grin all season.

“Good to know.”

“So what now, Seungcheol? Where will you go?”

Seungcheol knows the answer now. It’s quite simple.

“Home.”

tags: @znzlii @yawnozone @archivistworld @minjiech @the-vena-cava @kookiedesi @starshuas @exomew @reiofsuns2001 @fancypeacepersona @angelarin @blckorchidd

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cheftsunoda · 1 month ago

Text

heal your heart—cl16

part four (a hefty amount of words)

smau + real life

carlos sainz x !sister singer reader

charles leclerc x sainz reader

catalina sainz has it all— she is a successful grammy award winning artist, her brother is a well known formula 1 driver, she has an amazing family and wonderful friends. she was also blessed with a fiance and a beautiful baby boy.. she had everything.. until she didn't. her fiance disappears and takes her son with him. catalina watches as her world crumbles...who will be there to help pick up the pieces?

fc : kali uchis

⚠️ATTENTION : TRIGGER WARNING! mentions of abuse, kidnapping, depression. ⚠️

part one here

part two here

part three here

f1gossipgirls

834,741 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Catalina Sainz had her custody hearing today and gave a raw and emotional testimony opening about years of mental, verbal and physical abuse by the hands of her fiance. Catalina was awarded full custody with absolutely no visitation rights for the father. Charles Leclerc - her suspected partner- and Carlos Sainz were by her side the entire hearing. Along with Lando Norris, Pierre Gasly, George Russell, Lewis Hamilton and more. Baby Mateo will return to the paddock soon!

username00 : i am SOBBING. she did it. she FOUGHT and she WON. queen mother catalina sainz we salute you

username10 : the fact that she stood in that courtroom and relived all that trauma… and STILL protected her baby boy. hero status.

username5 : charles, carlos, pierre, LANDO, LEWIS??? she really said “assemble the avengers” huh

username15 : OUR BABY MATEO IS COMING BACK TO THE PADDOCK

username0 : carlos sainz as big brother of the year. no further questions. the man was READY to go feral.

username1 : lando didn’t speak ONCE during that press conference after the hearing. just stared down the reporter that asked if the ex will appeal

username0 : literal death glare

username20 : I hope whoever said “she was being dramatic” when she left the spotlight chokes on this news. SHE WAS FIGHTING FOR HER LIFE

username17 : “suspected partner” lmao pls. charles was holding her hand, wiping her tears, AND glaring down the ex like a villain origin story. it’s not a suspicion. it’s fate.

now back to where we really left off...

charles pov

The laughter inside the house had faded, replaced by an unbearable silence. Carlos and I exchanged a look — the kind that says, something’s wrong. Horribly wrong.

“She went outside a few minutes ago,” Carlos said, his voice tight, nearly breaking.

My chest tightened. “Where is she?”

We ran out into the night, the cool air suddenly feeling sharp against my skin, like a warning. The streetlights flickered overhead as we scanned every shadow.

Then Carlos’s voice cracked, pointing ahead. “There.”

I followed his gaze and saw it — Catalina’s phone, smashed against the cracked sidewalk, its shattered screen reflecting the harsh light like broken promises. My heart lurched. I dropped to my knees, fingers trembling as I reached out, terrified of what this meant.

Carlos’s voice was rough, raw with fear and anger. “Who would do this? Where is she?”

I pulled out my phone, frantically dialing the number to her business phone, over and over. Each ring echoed like a countdown to despair. No answer. No signal.

"I think we both know who would do this." I managed to choke out.

Carlos’s jaw clenched so hard I thought it might shatter. “This... this isn’t just some stupid fight. He is gonna hurt her. Or worse.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked at Carlos. The pain in his eyes mirrored my own — helplessness, guilt, and a burning need to fix this.

“We have to find her. Now,” I said, voice low but fierce.

We called her name into the darkness, our voices raw, desperate. Every second felt like an eternity, every shadow a cruel reminder of how much was at stake. Carlos’s hand found my shoulder— a steady anchor amid the chaos. We wouldn’t stop until she was safe. We had to.

I was running before I even knew it—phone clutched in one hand, the broken pieces of Catalina’s still burned into my mind. Carlos was close behind, yelling her name into the darkness like it could somehow bring her back.

“Catalina!” I shouted, heart thundering, lungs burning. “CATALINA!”

No answer. Only the eerie quiet of the night, like the world was holding its breath.

We split up, scouring the streets, knocking on neighbors’ doors. Pierre and Lando had followed us out, confusion quickly turning to fear as we told them what we found.

Pierre’s jaw was tight. “Do you think it was him?”

“It has to be,” Carlos said. “He’s the only one who’d do something this reckless. He knows he’s lost.”

Lando pulled out his phone. “I’m calling the police.”

“I’m calling the lawyers,” Carlos added, already dialing. “And her security team—where the hell were they?”

I didn’t wait. I kept running. Past the corner. Past the line of hedges where we used to walk Mateo in the stroller. Past every version of safety we’d tried to build around her. My heart was in my throat. I couldn’t stop picturing her terrified, alone, in danger. I had promised her she was safe now. I had promised. The second I got signal, I pinged her phone’s last location. The dot blinked. Then vanished.

“She was taken,” I whispered. “This was planned.”

Carlos’s face hardened like stone. “Then he’s going to regret it.”

Sirens began to wail in the distance — too far, too late. The rest of the drivers had gathered by the time we returned to the house, George, Alex, even Lewis. No one had to ask what was happening. They saw it in our eyes.

“She’s family,” Lewis said quietly. “We’ll find her.”

“I won’t stop until we do,” I replied, and I meant it.

catalina's pov :

At first, I thought I was dreaming. Everything was muffled. My head throbbed. The last thing I remembered clearly was the buzz of my phone, a number I didn’t recognize, the instinct to step outside for air. Then — nothing. Now it's-- dark. cold. Something scratchy pressed against my skin — the seat of a car, maybe? My wrists were sore. Duct tape. My heart started to pound. No. No no no. I opened my eyes slowly. Blurry shapes. The interior of a van. The smell of cheap air freshener barely masking gasoline and something else — sweat and fear. Then I heard it. His voice.

“I told them this wasn’t over.”

The chill that ran through me was worse than anything I’d felt in that courtroom. Worse than childbirth. Worse than the endless nights I’d spent replaying years of him trying to erase me.

“You think some judge can take my son from me?” he growled. “You think Carlos and your boyfriend can protect you?”

"You think you can just get up there and make me look horrible in front of everyone? You are a lot more stupid than I thought, Bitch."

I didn’t respond. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing my fear. But I couldn’t stop the tremble in my limbs. My baby. Mateo. Was he okay? Was he safe? Where was Charles? Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them away. I needed to stay clear. I needed to survive.

“You should’ve stayed quiet,” he hissed.

"But you didn't and now I have to ruin your life...or end it."

I turned my face away. I wouldn’t cry for him. Not this time. Not anymore. I breathed, slowly, counting in my head like Charles taught me. Like I had done on the nights when Mateo wouldn’t stop crying and I was sure I was unraveling.

1… 2… 3…

He could hurt me. He could scream. He could drag me into the dark. But he wouldn’t win. Not this time. And somewhere, I knew — Charles was looking for me. Carlos was raging. Lando was running. Pierre was calling every contact in Europe. My family was coming. I just had to hold on. Just a little longer.

charles pov :

The sun was rising, but the world still felt dark. I hadn’t slept. None of us had. Carlos looked like he’d aged ten years in one night. His jaw was set so tightly it looked like it hurt to speak. He hadn’t said much, anyway. Just made calls. Punched a wall. Made more calls. I sat at the kitchen table, her phone laid out in pieces in front of me like a puzzle we couldn’t put back together.

“What was she doing out there alone?” I muttered, more to myself than anyone. “Why didn’t someone see something?”

Lando walked in with two coffees and handed me one. “She probably thought it was safe. Home. It was just a step outside. Who would’ve expected—?”

“She should’ve expected,” Carlos snapped. Then immediately winced. “Not her. I meant him. He waited for a crack. That’s how he always was.”

I nodded. My fingers were still trembling.

Pierre came in next, phone to his ear. “Interpol is involved now. That’s something.”

“Interpol,” Carlos repeated, rubbing his eyes. “Jesus.”

We had nothing. No new footage. No new leads. Just her broken phone and an eerie silence. No ransom note. No contact. Just... gone. And Mateo — God, little Mateo — he was upstairs in his crib with Rebecca and Kika taking turns holding him, like keeping him close would somehow keep Catalina safe, too. My heart physically ached. I kept thinking of the way she looked at me that morning, just before she went outside. Her eyes were soft. A little tired, but brighter than they’d been in weeks. She had finally seemed steady. Like she was climbing out of the wreckage of the last year. And now… she was out there somewhere. In pain. Scared. Maybe worse.

“We’re missing something,” I said suddenly. “Something small. Something stupid.”

Carlos looked up. “Like what?”

I gestured to the remains of her phone. “She wouldn’t have picked up a random number. She blocks everything that isn’t saved.”

He nodded. “Unless—”

“Unless she knew it. Maybe it was disguised.”

We both lunged for the laptop at the same time. Minutes later, we found it. A call routed through a system. Masked, but underneath… an old number. One she’d deleted. One she had asked me to delete from her contacts months ago. But one that, maybe, in a split-second of familiarity, she answered out of instinct. His number. We had a trace. Not much. But it was more than we’d had an hour ago.

Carlos stood. “We take this to the team. And to the police. Now.”

I followed him to the door, turning one last time to glance at the stairs where Mateo was sleeping.

“Hold on, Catalina,” I whispered. “We’re coming.”

catalina's pov - two days later

I think it’s been two days. I can’t be sure. The light doesn’t change much in here. A sliver of sun cuts through the boarded-up window in the corner, but it doesn’t reach me. Nothing does. My mouth is dry. My head is pounding. Everything hurts — my cheekbone, my ribs, my wrists, my pride. Hunger gnaws at me in dull, endless waves, but worse is the thirst. And worse than that is the silence. Except when he talks. He doesn’t yell. Not yet. That would require energy. He speaks slow, calculated. Like a man who’s convinced he’s won.

“I told you they’d never protect you,” he said this morning, crouching in the doorway like a shadow. “Where are your drivers now, Lina? Where’s your precious brother? Where’s Charles?”

Charles. The name hit me like a breath I couldn’t take. He doesn’t know what Charles is capable of when he loves someone. He doesn’t know that Carlos would burn the world down for me. That Lando would fly across oceans in a heartbeat. That Pierre has too many ghosts of his own to let me become one. That I am not alone. But… in this room, in this silence, it’s so easy to believe him. So easy to believe I was stupid to think I could ever win. I close my eyes and press my forehead to my knees, curled up on the floor like a child. My body is screaming, but I’m too numb to listen. My lip is split. My shoulder might be dislocated. Or maybe just badly bruised. It doesn’t matter. None of it feels real anymore. Maybe I should’ve just kept quiet. Maybe I shouldn’t have testified. Maybe this was always going to be the end. A quiet room. A locked door. And him winning. I hear his voice again — lazy, mocking.

“They’ll forget you. They’ll move on. I told you. You were never strong enough for this.”

I grit my teeth and hold back the sob clawing up my throat. My hand presses to my stomach, not for comfort — just to feel something. And then…A whisper of a memory. Mateo’s laugh. Tiny and warm and real. Charles’ arms around me, steady and strong. Carlos’ voice in the courtroom, cracked and furious. “She is not alone.” Maybe I was stupid to think I could have peace. But I’m not stupid enough to give up now. He hasn't won. Not yet.

charles pov :

We were running on fumes and adrenaline. Carlos hadn’t slept more than twenty minutes at a time. He was in full-blown survival mode — locked in, eyes cold, voice clipped. I don’t think I’d seen him this terrifyingly focused since our first years racing together. But this wasn’t a track. This was his sister. It had been 56 hours since Catalina vanished. And every minute she was gone, something in me frayed further. We’d been in Spain, back and forth between the coast and the countryside. Carlos had a private investigator running traces off her ex’s last known associates. The police were treating it like a domestic abduction, which gave us some pull — but not enough. Not fast enough. The break came from a toll booth camera. A grainy shot of a rental van heading into a remote wooded area northeast of Zaragoza — the driver matched the rough description of him. Catalina wasn’t visible, but Carlos knew. We both knew.

“He’s taken her off-grid,” he muttered, studying the map spread across the kitchen table of his parents’ house. “This road here — barely anyone uses it. There are old farms, vacant cottages.”

“Hideouts,” I said.

“Exactly.”

The investigator confirmed an abandoned property registered under a fake name. The kind of thing he would’ve set up before the trial — a plan B, just in case. He was always a few steps ahead. But not anymore.

Carlos stood up, clenching his fists. “We go now.”

I didn’t ask if we were waiting for the police. I didn’t ask if it was legal. I just grabbed my jacket and followed him out the door, lando following behind.

catalina's pov :

It’s getting harder to stay upright. I’m bleeding. Dizzy. My arms are shaking so badly I can barely keep them up, and he’s still coming. He has beaten me to the point where I can slowly feel the life draining out of me. I keep fighting. He’s enjoying it now. Enjoying watching me fight for what life I have left.

His voice is a cruel hum in my ear, saying things I’ve stopped registering. I just keep thinking about Mateo — the weight of him on my chest when he sleeps, his tiny laugh when I make the dinosaur voice, the way he says “mama” like it means everything. I feel the anger and strength in my core. If I die here, he won’t remember me. I scream and thrash as hard as I can, even though I know I won’t win. He throws me against the table. My shoulder hits first. The pain’s white-hot, and the world blurs. He steps over me. Knife in his hand. A jagged edge. My blood already on it.

“No one’s coming,” he spits. "You thought you won, huh bitch?"

"Well time is up." He said and pressed the knife against my jugular. The cool blade snaps me into reality. This is really it - this is my own chance.

BOOM.

The front door slams open like it’s been ripped off the hinges. I barely register the sound before I hear him.

“CATALINA!” Carlos. My brother. His voice is hoarse, shaking, wild with panic.

“Where is she?!” Charles.

“Oh my god—there!” Lando.

The three storm toward me and rip him off of me. I pull myself up, adrenaline being the only thing keeping me up straight. Charles rushes over to me, taking in my appearance.

“Cat, Cat—baby—it’s okay. I’m here.” He’s fussing, his hands moving over my arms, my face, checking me, grounding me—but my mind is only on one thing.

Revenge.

Revenge for the years of abuse and trauma. Revenge for stealing my son. Revenge for bringing me to the edge of death. Revenge for tearing me away from myself.

I can barely hear Charles. My vision has narrowed, tunneled in. I see the blade on the floor, slick with my blood. I reach for it.

“Catalina—wait—” I hear behind me, but it’s faint.

I wipe the blood on my pants. Cold. Mechanical. My heartbeat isn’t even racing anymore—it’s steady. Deadly steady. I push past Carlos, who startles as I move. My eyes lock on him, crumpled on the floor. Whimpering. Pleading. Just like I had, minutes ago.

His voice breaks. “Please—Cat—please—don’t—”

“I begged you too,” I whisper.

“Catalina—” Charles says again. This time closer. His voice is shaking now.

Carlos grabs at my arm, and pulls me towards him. His lips against my ear.

"It isn't worth it, Lina. I will have him dealt with, trust me." He said in a whisper.

The blade clattered against the floor. It echoed louder than I expected. Louder than his cries. Louder than my heart, which had finally begun to beat again, now in chaotic thuds against my ribs. I didn’t even feel Carlos pulling me against his chest until I was there — until the heat of his palm curled behind my head and my forehead met his collarbone. I was shaking. Violently. My knees buckled under me, and he held me upright.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, low and fierce. “He’s done. He’ll never touch you again.”

Behind us, I heard the sickening crack of Lando’s fist connecting with his face. Then the shuffle of movement—Lando swearing as he pulled his belt off to bind the bastard’s wrists behind his back. But my body wouldn’t move. My eyes were wide open but I couldn’t see anything. I heard his voice again. Choked. Spitting blood through split lips.

“A fit mother wouldn’t think about ending someone’s life, Catalina.”

The words sliced deeper than the blade ever could. My spine tensed. I started to turn back—but Carlos held me fast.

“Don’t give him what he wants,” he said. “Don’t let him take this moment from you, too.”

I was trembling, mouth parted in disbelief. In rage. In grief. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt the wetness slide over my chin. Charles was suddenly in front of me again, his hands on my face, gently guiding my eyes to his.

“Look at me,” he said softly. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

I searched his face—his beautiful, worried, furious face—and nodded. Barely. Carlos stepped in closer and wrapped his arms around both of us. His hand rested between my shoulder blades like a tether. Behind them, Lando was still working, his jaw tight as he finished tying the man’s ankles and muttering to himself in disgust. The air was thick with blood and the heavy fog of aftermath. No one said anything for a long moment. Then— I whispered, barely able to form the words.

“He tried to break me.”

Charles leaned his forehead to mine. “But he didn’t.”

Carlos nodded, voice sharp. “He never will again.”

Lando pulled the car up to the front, tires crunching over gravel, and I barely registered the sound. Everything was dimming now — the adrenaline had drained from my system, leaving behind only pain, exhaustion, and a hollow ache in my chest. Charles lifted me into his arms again, holding me bridal style as if I weighed nothing, though I could feel how careful he was being with every step. My body ached in ways I couldn’t describe, and it was getting harder to keep my eyes open. I clung to his shirt, my head pressed into the crook of his neck. As we approached the car, I spotted two unfamiliar men standing near Carlos — tall, serious, armed. Definitely not security. Not bodyguards. Something… darker. Carlos handed one of them a large, worn leather bag without a word, just a nod. The man accepted it like they’d done this before.

Carlos turned to us. “Get her to the medic. She’s fading fast.”

Lando didn’t hesitate—he slipped back into the driver’s seat, engine already rumbling. Charles eased me into the back, laying me down as gently as if I were made of glass. He didn’t let go of my hand. Not for a second. Carlos leaned into the open window, his eyes sharp but softening when they landed on me.

“Go get well. Go hold that beautiful baby of yours. I’m keeping my promise, hermana.”

He pressed a kiss to my bruised forehead, lingered there for a breath.

“See you soon. Love you.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, voice cracking. “I… I don’t even know what to say—”

He cut me off gently. “You don’t have to. My job is to protect you. Let me do it.”

I nodded, swallowing the knot in my throat. He tapped the roof of the car, and Lando pulled away. I kept my eyes on Carlos in the side mirror, watching him grow smaller, more distant. The two men flanked him as they entered the building. The door swung shut behind them. Five seconds later, a sound split the silence. Gunfire. Rapid. Merciless. Then screaming — awful, blood-curdling. I flinched. Charles squeezed my hand tighter.

“Don’t look back,” he said softly.

And I didn’t. I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me. Because for the first time in a long, long while…I wasn’t afraid anymore.

The car jolted to a stop, gravel crunching beneath the tires. I was barely aware of where we were, my head lolling to the side as the pain surged again, sharp and punishing. My body had become one deep bruise. My breath came in short, shallow gasps.

“We’re here,” Charles whispered, his voice close, grounding.

Warm arms gathered me again, lifting me from the back seat. I tried to speak—tried to ask if Mateo was inside—but the words wouldn’t come. Everything was static. Charles and Lando carried me through the gates of my childhood home, now transformed into a place of refuge. Safe. Familiar. It smelled like lemons and wood polish and my mother’s old perfume. We entered through the back, where the lights were dim and someone had already cleared a guest room. A woman stood waiting—middle-aged, with kind eyes and medical gloves already on. The medic.

“She’s lost a lot of blood. I need to check for internal injuries,” the woman said to Charles in a low voice. “You can stay, if she wants you to.”

“She wants me to,” he replied instantly, like it wasn’t even a question.

They laid me on the bed. The pain exploded when I moved and I couldn’t hold in the sound that tore from my throat. Charles was instantly beside me, holding my hand, brushing my hair back from my face.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, again and again. “I’ve got you, mon ange.”

The medic worked quickly—stitching a gash near my ribs, wrapping the bruises around my midsection, checking for concussion signs, forcing water down my throat in small sips. I tried to focus on Charles. On the way his eyes never left mine. On how he murmured soft things in French like a prayer under his breath.

When it was over, and I was clean, bandaged, and trembling in fresh clothes, the medic nodded at him. “Let her rest. Stay with her. She needs to know she’s not alone.”

I wanted to say thank you. I wanted to say everything. But exhaustion crashed over me. Charles climbed into the bed beside me without hesitation, pulling me carefully into his arms. I tucked my head beneath his chin. My whole body ached—but in his arms, I finally felt warm.

“You did so good,” he whispered against my hair. “You survived, mon cœur. You’re home.”

“I don’t feel like myself anymore,” I mumbled, my voice small and wrecked.

“You will. Piece by piece,” he said, kissing my forehead. “We’ll find her again.”

I clutched at his shirt, letting the sobs rise now that it was safe to let them. He held me through every single one. And in that room, in the house I’d run from and come back to, I started to believe maybe healing was possible—because Charles was holding my broken pieces like they were sacred.

The room was bathed in golden dusk, the last traces of sunlight curling around the edges of the curtains. I was curled beneath the blankets, every muscle in my body sore and frayed, but the pain was quieter now—held at bay by bandages, medicine, and the steady presence of the man who had barely left my side since I’d been carried out of hell. Charles had stepped out to take a call. It was quiet now. Too quiet. The door creaked open. I didn’t look up—I didn’t need to.

Carlos.

He stepped in with the same careful energy he always used when I was hurting, like he was afraid one wrong move might crack me open again. He didn’t say anything at first. Just dragged the chair beside my bed a little closer and sat.

"Hey," I said softly, turning my head toward him.

He looked tired—bone deep. There was dried blood on the sleeve of his sweater. I didn’t ask whose it was.

“You okay?” he asked. The words were simple, but his eyes were swimming with something far heavier.

I nodded slowly. “Getting there.”

He gave a slight nod back, jaw tight, like he was holding something inside he couldn’t quite let out.

“You got me back,” I whispered.

He exhaled hard. “Yeah.”

A pause stretched between us.

"Thank you, Carlos. For… everything."

He didn't answer at first. Just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. Then, without looking at me, he said, "There are some things a brother shouldn’t have to forgive himself for. And there are some things… a man shouldn’t be allowed to walk away from."

My breath caught. My stomach twisted—not from fear, but from understanding.

“You don’t have to say it,” I whispered.

He finally looked at me, and for a moment I saw something behind his eyes—something dark, final, and brutally calm.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I need you to know you’re safe now. Really safe. No one’s ever going to touch you again.”

"I knew that if I let you do it, you'd live with it the rest of your life and that haunted me. I need you to be able to grow from this, to move on, to get married to someone who actually loves you, to raise my nephew."

A slow silence fell between us. My throat felt raw, my chest too full to breathe.

“Carlos…”

He shook his head and stood, coming to the edge of the bed and brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You rest. Be with Mateo. Be with Charles. Let yourself come back.”

I reached for his hand and squeezed it. He didn’t pull away.

“You always knew how to clean up my messes,” I said softly, trying to smile.

He gave the faintest smirk, but his eyes were glassy. “You were never the mess, Lina. He was.”

He leaned down and kissed my forehead gently—just like he had when we were kids and I’d fallen off my bike or woken from a nightmare.

“Te amo, hermana.”

And then he left—quiet as he’d come in. He didn’t say what he did. He didn’t have to. I knew. And for the first time in a long time, I felt safe enough to close my eyes and sleep.

The house had gone still. The kind of stillness that comes after a storm—the air heavier, quieter, like even the walls were holding their breath. I lay curled under a soft throw blanket in my childhood bedroom, every inch of my body aching, stitched together by gauze and silence. My heart, though—my heart was still trying to remember how to beat. How to believe I had made it out. That I was still here. That I was whole enough to hold him. I heard the soft pad of footsteps outside the door. Then a knock. Not Charles—his knock was always gentle, hesitant. Carlos had already come and gone. This one was quieter. Then came a second sound: a soft, hiccupping whimper. And I knew.

“Come in,” I rasped, barely above a whisper.

The door opened slowly. Rebecca stepped in first, eyes kind and brimming. In her arms, bundled in a soft blanket, was Mateo. My breath caught in my throat. He was heavier than I remembered. Bigger. His curls had grown, messier, darker. But his eyes—those wide, soulful eyes—were still the same. He looked at me like he wasn't sure if I was real.

"Hey, mi amor," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Hi, baby."

Rebecca crossed the room slowly and knelt by the bed, lowering him into my arms. The moment his small body rested against mine, it was like the world cracked open. He blinked up at me. Then touched my cheek with his chubby fingers, right where a bruise was fading. I cried. Quietly. Without restraint. The kind of cry that comes from a place buried deep—where grief and joy and relief live all tangled up together. And he—my beautiful boy—just nestled into me.

“I missed you so much,” I whispered, kissing his forehead, over and over again. “I looked for you every second. I didn’t stop. I never stopped.”

He made a small cooing sound, like he understood. I wrapped my arms around him tighter, careful not to press too hard against the bruises still healing, and rocked gently side to side. Just the two of us. The rest of the world melted away. I didn’t care that my body still throbbed or that I hadn’t eaten more than toast and soup. I didn’t care that my phone was buzzing somewhere or that tomorrow there would be lawyers, reporters, whispers. Right now, I had him. And he had me. And we were safe. Rebecca stood back quietly. I caught her eye and mouthed, thank you. She gave a soft nod and slipped from the room, closing the door gently behind her. I curled myself around Mateo and hummed the lullaby I used to sing to him when he was a newborn—broken, uneven, and trembling, but still a lullaby. His breathing slowed. His body relaxed. And as his tiny fingers curled into my shirt, I finally let myself believe -We were home.

The room was dim, lit only by the golden spill of late afternoon sun through gauzy curtains. Mateo slept against my chest, one small fist still tangled in the fabric of my shirt, his cheek warm against my collarbone. I hadn’t moved in over an hour. I didn’t dare. I’d forgotten what it felt like to just breathe with him in my arms. To feel the rise and fall of his tiny chest. To know he was safe. That we were safe. The door creaked slightly, and I looked up. Charles stood in the doorway, quiet as a shadow. He didn’t speak—just leaned his shoulder against the frame, arms folded, eyes soft. A look on his face like he was witnessing something sacred. I gave him a tired, barely-there smile.

“You’ve been standing there a while,” I whispered.

He smiled back. “Didn’t want to break it.”

I looked down at Mateo, brushing my lips against his forehead. “He didn’t cry once,” I murmured. “Just... curled into me. Like he remembered. Like he knew.”

Charles stepped in slowly, his movements careful, reverent. He crouched beside the bed and reached out, brushing a curl from my cheek. His fingers were gentle, but the way he looked at me—like I was breakable and invincible all at once—nearly undid me.

“You’re his entire world, mon cœur,” he said softly. “Of course he remembered.”

Tears welled in my eyes, and I let them fall. For once, I didn’t feel the need to apologize for them.

I leaned into Charles’ touch, closing my eyes. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this moment,” I whispered. “I thought... he’d grow up without me. I thought he’d forget my face.”

“He won’t,” Charles said. “He won’t forget. And you’ll remind him every day.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I said, my voice cracking. “For everything. For not giving up on me. For finding me. For staying.”

Charles leaned in and kissed my forehead, just next to a fading bruise.

“I would’ve searched every corner of the world,” he said. “I would’ve burned it down to bring you home.”

Mateo stirred slightly and let out a small sigh, his little hand patting against my chest before settling again. Charles smiled, his hand now resting gently over Mateo’s back.

“Is this what you want?” he asked quietly, almost like he was afraid to break the fragile peace in the room. “This... life. With him. With me.”

I blinked at him. “Charles,” I whispered, “You are the only thing that has felt safe in the middle of all this. I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

He nodded, pressing another kiss—this one softer, lingering—against my temple.

“Then we start here,” he said. “The three of us. One step at a time.”

And in that moment, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, I believed we could.

p4:)))

i decided i will add a part 5 just to show how cat has healed and her relationship with charles and her happy ending!! will be posted shortly

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neuvilette-tea-party · 3 months ago

Text

Un coeur en demi-teinte (part 1?) Yandere x F!reader

Yandere Priest character and art by @meo-eiru. I love that man despite any logic or survival instincts.

There will probably be 2 or 3 chapters total (maybe idk), this chapter is more to set the scene.

Warning : none... For now

Father Micah walks peacefully among the stalls of the market, politely smiling at the passersby greeting him with respect, sometimes even bowing their heads to him a bit.

“Hello, Father.” They say.

Micah pursues his groceries, occasionally caressing the heads of some children running to him in awe, following him around like a celebrity.

He is a celebrity here, and Micah is deeply respected in this town. People come to him for his blessing, for his forgiveness, and advice. They come lost and destroyed but after a discussion with him, they leave the monastery rebuilt, new, serene...

People look up to him each time they are in trouble and follows blindly his opinion.

People were skeptical about this new technology called Phone Marty and some protested the installation of one in the town hall, descending the streets with signs, screaming that this object would bring decadence and destruction to the town. Micah intervened in favor of it and even agreed to put on a show to call the Bishop of the region in front of a public with a smile. He had a small speech arguing that this was the future and the town should follow, that he saw no ill in this piece of technology and the townies had nothing to fear about it.

Micah was not in the least surprised of the townies reaction. He chosed this city for a very specific reason after all.

The city is isolated between steep mountains and the first train station of the town is very difficult to access and was built 80 years later compared to the rest of the country. This city is like a bubble, blocked in the past and Micah saw an opportunity here.

To rule unquestioned on a small bastion.

With careful planning and politics, the young Priest carved himself a place in the town and gained immense popularity and influence over the population ruled by old rigid traditions.

Micah calculates his move carefully, even going against the Church’s wishes sometimes to base his power over the entire town. He fought for mandatory vaccines for children, getting vaccinated himself as an example, and helped eradicate the smallpox from the town that took so many lives before.

He fought for a mixed school for adolescents, choosing to trust them while their parents thought it would pervert an entire generation and the nation was distrustful of the process. He held the class in an isolated room of the Monastery, welcoming for free any young who trusted the project, allowing the young girls and boys to meet organically while the town slowly lost population due to low birth rates.

His project was fruitful.

A larger range of young earned their diploma and married soon after with their school sweetheart, bringing new babies to the town. The Mayor who did not believe in his idea and fought against him had to come personally to present his excuses and ask to work together for the betterment of the town

Micah accepted as he won what he wanted.

Power.

Power to reign supreme over the town.

Any new decision needed the young Father’s approval, any new Mayor needed his support to win. Micah decided what to do with the town, whom to accept and whom to ban from the town, which new law to install, and which one to repel.

Micah could model the town at his will, making it his personal kingdom and Eden’s garden for his personal enjoyment. People believed any word he said and he earned that power. People followed his lead like a dog obeys its Master and he used this power wisely.

Micah had everything to be happy.

Or what he thought he needed to have to be happy...

But as the years passed by, a growing hole appeared in his soul, devouring any sentiment he had in his heart. He felt dissatisfied and like something crucial was missing in his life.

Until recently, that is!

Until...

“Father Micah?” A young woman’s voice pulls him out of his reverie before a stall.

“Yes young Lady?” He politely smiles at her.

She blushes hard and searches for something in her pockets, taking out an envelope that she hands him, the face bright red. He considers it for a second before taking it gently. The envelope smells like rose and lavender.

Perfume cost a fortune in this day and age but this young woman still used it on her letter for him.

She bows to him, still red, and runs away to a circle of other young women waiting for her in the distance. Surely her group of friends.

Micah observes the envelope of a delicate pinkish color.

A love letter.

Another one.

He turns away from the girls and crumples it in his fist, throwing it away as he leaves the Market for the Monastery.

He has no use for this love or any love that came before it.

Micah crosses the town until a paper pinned on a pole catches his attention. On it, the portrait of a young woman he knows very well is drawn, offering a large sum of money for her capture.

“We still did not catch that witch?” Someone asks behind him.

He turns to an old man, taking support on a cane to stand still.

“The sheriff did not warn me that they did at least.” Micah explains, taking the paper in his delicate hand “So young... Who could have known such a monster was acting among us...”

“That angel of death! I hope she burns in hell!” The old man spit on the ground.

“This is a terrible thought, sir. Such desire could bring you down with her, be careful.” He warns.

The old man sniffs, but ultimately nods.

“Did we find new victims?” He asks.

“I cannot reveal such information, sir. The Sheriff trusts me with it.” Micah retorts gently

“You are the light of this town, Father. You should not let us in the dark like that, if even you start having secrets we are done for. Surely you know something!” The old man begs.

Micah pretends to look around them before leaning to the ear of the old man and starts whipsering.

“We think a recent death in the Monastery hospital might be due to poisoning...”

“Hell! She found her way in the Monastery hopsital?! This witch has no limits! She deconsecrates the church and the souls of the victims!” The old man rages.

Micah presses his finger on his lips.

“Of course, this info is strictly confidential for the investigation. I would not want it to spread in the town and cause a mass hysteria, can I trust you?”

The old man’s eyes start glimming mischeviously.

“I will be as mute as a tomb, Father.”

“Good. Go now, I must prepare for the Mass tonight.” Micah politely enjoins.

“Of course father. Another mass to pray for her victims’ souls?”

“I will hold as much as it is needed. Until we capture and judge her for her deed.”

The old man nod and walk away.

Micah smiles to himself.

The old man lost three grandkids to that woman and his hate for her is deep.

His hate for you...

Of course, he is going to spread the word to the town, enraging the spirits even more, starting a new witch hunt in the Mountains and the forests nearby.

Micah tears your poster off the pole and walks to the Monastery. He crosses it to gain his apartment, a small house in the garden of the Monastery, isolated and peaceful.

His castle in his kingdom.

He opens the door and locks it behind him immediately.

“Rosebud? (Y/n)? I am home.” He announces.

You open a door and come running into his arms, pressing you against his taller frame.

“Father Micah...!”

“Did anyone see you?” He investigate.

“No! I remained hidden like you ordered me to.”

“Good. You must not leave this house under any pretenses, you are not safe outside.”

You part from him, sighing.

“I know Father, I know... Did you talk to the Sheriff?”

“He is busy with a new case, unfortunately.” He explains, putting down the groceries on the table, “I will plead your case do not worry. But the spirits are boiling and vengeful, a new victim has been discovered.”

“I did not kill them! I did not kill anyone! You know that, Micah, don’t you?!” You beg with eyes wet with tears threatening to spill.

“I believe you, (Y/n). I do. But you know how the town is, you know how they think. It will be hard to clear your name of any suspicion.”

You lower your head defeated.

“I see...”

“I am with you in this trial, my child.” He takes your shoulder in his hand to squeeze it gently, a reassuring smile on his face.

“I know... Thank God at least you believe me... If you did not, I do not know what I would have done...” You sob, “I would be lost forever...”

“Dry your tears, my darling. I am working on it, do not fret.” He promises, pulling you to him to die his nose in your hair.

You smell delectable, just as he loves.

You press your feminine curves against his body in a desperate search for support, wiping a tear away.

Micah smiles to himself again.

Poor little lamb... So lost and fragile.

So adorable

So intoxicating

His darling

His rosebud.

His...

He cups your cheek to make you look at him.

“Come on now. I must prepare for the evening Mass, do you need anything?”

“Will you be gone for long?” You grab his hand desperately.

“No. 2 hours at most, as always.”

“Come back to me soon...” You beg, “I feel so alone in here.”

“I promise, my darling.” And he kisses your forehead tenderly.

Not your lips.

Not yet...

This is for later

For when you will totally be at his mercy, under his power.

Then he will break his vows and delight himself of your soul and body.

He will eat you up

Devour you until you beg for his mercy

And maybe he will stop

Or maybe not

He is a capricious man and he is demanding.

You did not know what kind of hell you entered when you got down that wagon train, when you entered that secluded town as an outsider...

But you are Micah’s hell

His obsession

His rosebud

His darling

He will have you, wether you like it or not

After all he reigns supreme.

And unquestioned.

#micah #yandere priest #yandere priest micah #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #male yandere #male yandere x reader #male yandere x you #male yandere x y/n #yandere fanfiction #yandere priest x reader #fanfic #meo eiru #neuvilette tea party

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inkdrippeddreams · 1 month ago

Text

In Your Corner Part 1

Part 2 , Part 3

Pairing: Adonis Creed x Black Journalist OC!

Warnings: none right now. Past mentions of trauma, nothing tew crazy.

Summary: Athena, a guarded and sharp-tongued journalist, is reluctantly assigned to interview Adonis Creed, a boxer whose painful past mirrors her own. What starts as a tense professional encounter soon shifts into something unexpectedly personal, as Creed’s vulnerability disarms Athena and a flirtatious challenge turns into undeniable chemistry. With unresolved family trauma, journalistic pressure, and a spark neither saw coming, both realize this interview might change far more than a headline.

Notes: takes place after the 2nd Drago fight, Bianca doesn’t exist in this AU 😭Guys, I wrote this in one day, it's not proofread and probably poorly written, forgive me for my mistakes, college courses just ended, and I'm like exhausted, but I've been inspired to write, lmk if you want to be tagged in pt 2! Also, I really need to learn how to work Tumblr, y'alls posts are super cute and I don't know how to add any colors or different fonts, someone TEACH ME I beg

******************************************************

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Athena watched as her boss, Christian, walked angrily to her office holding a stack of papers, her latest article, actually, that she had placed neatly on his desk this morning before he came in. His assistant, poor Sherri, who happened to be her only friend since moving to LA, was following behind him closely, subtly warning Athena as she tripped over her heels to follow the man’s long strides. Athena braced herself in her office chair before releasing the tension in her shoulders and placing a cool smile on her face just as he made it to the door. \

“Athena, what the hell is this?” Christian wheezed angrily, trying to gather his breath as he threw the papers back on her desk.

“An article, just how you wanted, sir,” Athena tried to sound at ease, but the way her tone trailed off at the end, she knew she was cracking slowly. Sherri gave her a nervous smile before sitting in one of the office chairs.

“Athena, I don’t pay you to write bullshit about people, you’re one of the best senior writers I have, and when I ask you to write about the most popular boxer in the United States right now, you resort to using Google. For what? Because you’re too scared to interview him?”

Her demeanor fell, Athena refused to look at him; in all honesty, her eyes darted everywhere besides his face. Adonis Creed was one of her toughest stories yet, not only because she hates writing about boxing, the violence wasn't her thing, but because she related to him in more ways than one. The abandonment, the single parent, the humble upbringing—she feared that by learning about his trauma, she’d have to relive her own, which wasn’t a step she was ready to take just yet, even after all the years of therapy. She looked at Sherri, who was smiling sadly at her. She knew of Athena’s trauma and knew why she didn’t want the story in the first place, but she would refuse to go against the likes of Christian while he was in this state.

“Honestly, Christian, while I am extremely lucky to be working at this company, and even happier to be given this story, I find it disrespectful to make this man relive his childhood trauma right after he just fought the son of the man who killed his father in the ring. I know he won and he’s still the “Heavyweight Champion,” but this was a rematch after he, too, was almost killed by a Drago. I just don’t really think it’s a great idea and might come across as distasteful, especially with the way we’ve been trying to make the company come across as more serious,” Athena leaned forward onto her desk, folding her arms over the other as her cardigan stretched in the sleeves as she spoke. Christian sighed and sat on the cushioned chair next to Sherri, rubbing his forehead before clapping his hands.

“Athena,” he spoke lowly, elbows on his knees, Athena watching as the fabric stretches around his forearms, “You do this interview that I set up, or I’ll give it to a Junior writer and see if they deserve this office more than you do.” Christian stands, as Athena whispers a small “yes, sir,” beckoning Sherri to follow him. Sherri stands, nodding at Athena, mouthing a quick “we’ll talk after work,” before quickly following her boss out of the office.

Leaning back in her Athena let out a deep breath before groaning. This is going to be the longest week of her life.

******************************************************************************

“The interview is scheduled for tomorrow at 2 PM, at the Delphi Gym. Questions have already been screened by his team. Make sure you’re there 15 minutes before to get a look at the gym.

Athena, don’t make me regret giving you this promotion.

Christian.

Athena stared at the screen as if it had bitten her. Sitting on her couch in her favorite cotton shorts and big t-shirt combo, she was exhausted. This actually couldn’t be real, she was doomed. She stood, closing her computer, and walked towards the kitchen of her high-rise apartment located in Downtown LA, one that she wouldn’t have been able to afford had she still been in Atlanta. Athena would have to admit, the job at LimeLight Wire paid handsomely. Enough for rent in a two-bedroom sky-rise with the perfect view of the Hollywood sign, floor-to-ceiling windows, and 24-hour security in her apartment building. Her apartment was decorated with plants and earthy decor, reminding her so much of her home in Georgia. Los Angeles was fun, but there was nothing like the Georgia air and southern charm.

Once in her kitchen, she grabbed herself a wine glass from her top cabinet before opening her fridge, grabbing her favorite bottle of cheap wine, it was cheap, but the buzz got the job done, and she didn’t care enough to spend so much on a bottle, especially when she didn’t feel like it was worth it. After pouring herself a glass, she walked back to her couch, plopping down with a huff and sipping her drink, she stared into space for a moment. She didn’t like this. She adored the job as a journalist, but not when she felt like she was being forced to do something. Google had enough about Creed for her to write a full article about him, but that wasn’t good enough for Christian. She had heard all about Adonis Creed, how his first fights went, how much trouble he had as a child, always knowing who his father was but never knowing him, even him almost dying in his first fight with Drago. Before she could get lost in her thoughts, her phone rang. She slid it off the glass center table she had, glancing at the screen, Dad.

She answered, slipping back into her facade, “Hi, Daddy!”

“Baby, how are you?” his southern accent glided through the phone, “you know your granny miss you.”

“I know, Daddy,” Athena sighed, “I’ll be back to visit sometime this Fall, I’ll even try to make it for Thanksgiving.”

“Baby, that’s over 6 months from now. Now I know Georgia ain’t got much to offer you, but you have a family, as small as it may be,” her dad spoke softly. She would never tell her dad, but there was a reason she avoided home, and he would never tell her, but he knew what the reason was.

“I know, Daddy, work been busy and I’ve just been trying to keep up with the quota, I’ve got a big interview coming up, actually, you’ll be excited to know who it is.” Athena tried her best to gently redirect the conversation.

“Wesley Snipes? Boy, you know I loved him in Blade!”

“No, daddy,” Athena laughs, “It’s with the Creed guy, the boxer.” Her Dad paused before laughing.

“I know him! Watched him fight that big Drago boy. I don’t know how that boy won that fight, looked like he was going through pure-dee-hell tryna take that big ass boy down,” He laughed, “But congratulations baby girl! We so proud of you!”

“Thank you, Daddy,” she smiles over the phone, “please tell Granny that I love her and will be home soon as I can, matter of fact, I’ll just call her tomorrow.” Athena took a sip of her wine, grabbed her computer, and walked to her bedroom, deciding to just call it a night.

“Yeah, baby, you should call her, and I know you guys don’t talk, but you should check in on your brother, you know, he proposed to Olivia,” he drawls, his voice now more serious.

“Daddy, that’s good for them. I’ll send flowers, I promise,” she shot back, almost immediately, not really wanting to have that conversation at the moment, “I love you, I gotta go.”

She sighed, hanging up her phone and climbing into bed.

“Fuckkkkkk.”

****************************************************************************

“Just go inside, be nice, smile, from what I’ve heard, he’s a nice guy, just don’t worry about it, Thena,” Sherri said over the phone. Athena sat in her car right outside the Delphi gym. She had opted to dress casually so as not to make herself seem too formal. She went for a brown bottom-up tucked into boot cut jeans and black boots. Her hair was pulled back into a slick puff with tiny gold earrings lighting up her look.

“I’m not worried about whether he’s nice, Sherri, I just don’t want to seem disrespectful,” Athena replied, turning off the car and opening her door. She looked down at her gold watch, 1:38 PM. “Let me call you when I’m done, I’m gonna head in.” On the other end, Sherri mumbles a response and hangs up. Athena grabbed her purse and got out of the car. Looking up at the glass windows with the Apollo Creed mural on the front, she closed her door.

Walking into the gym was truly something. She looked around at the gym equipment everywhere, the walls covered in gray paint. Grunting catches her attention, and she turns, beginning to watch the men in the ring sparring intently, something about the way they moved so calculatedly entranced her.

“Hey, you must be Athena,” a voice says behind her, startling her. She turned, staring at the dark skin man behind her.

“That’s me,” she gulps, clutching her purse closer to her shoulder.

“ Nice to meet you,” she smiles at him before nodding, “The name's Duke, I took over the gym after my Pops, he trained Apollo, now I train Donnie. But you’re not here to interview me. Donnie’s upstairs getting ready, I’ll give you a tour of the gym while we wait for the okay.”

Duke leads around the gym, showing Athena each piece of equipment and how you’re supposed to be trained on them. By the time he’s finished, Athena has laughed enough times to give herself the hiccups, she’s also sure that she could take an exam on boxing and pass with flying colors. Duke had also tried to convince her to come back sometime to take some boxing classes, to which she refused, as tickled as she was by the offer.

“Duke! He's ready!” A female-voiced call from upstairs.

“We coming,” Duke yells back, beckoning Athena to follow him up the stairs. Once inside the office upstairs, Athena immediately sees him, tall, muscular, brown skin warm and glowing under the gym lights, and looking like a walking Nike ad in a white sleeveless tee and basketball shorts. Moisturized to the gods, she notes—that man clearly owns lotion. Her eyes trail to the gauze around his knuckles, the bandage on his eyebrow, the angry swell still hugging his left eye. He looked like he lost the fight, but carried himself like he won.

She grits her teeth. This interview was not a good idea at all.

Before she could spin on her heel and bolt to her car, he speaks.

“I’m Adonis, but you can call me Donnie if you want. You’re very pretty, by the way. I like the fit.”

His voice is low and playful, but she hears the smile behind it.

Athena blushes. “I know.”

His eyebrows raise, clearly thrown. She scrambles.

“Well, obviously I don’t know that you think I’m pretty or that you like the fit, but I do know your name is Adonis because I’m here to interview you, and it’d be really stupid if I didn’t, so that’s not what I meant—I’m rambling. Let me start over.”

She drops her purse onto the chair with an uneasy laugh, slyly wiping her face, then gives him a nervous smile.

“I’m Athena. Senior journalist with LimeLight Wire. Just here to interview you.”

Adonis leans back with a full grin, flashing perfect teeth. “You sure? ’Cause right now it feels like you’re here to make me blush.”

That makes her laugh—an unexpected, genuine sound—and Adonis eats it up like a post-fight meal.

“Nice to meet you, Athena,” he says, holding his side as he lowers into the chair across from her, smile still wide. “Have a seat and we’ll start. Duke, y’all can go ahead, we’ll be fine.”

Duke and the brown-skinned woman Athena had seen downstairs exit the room with smiles that feel a little too knowing.

“We’ll just be out watching them spar, Donnie. Call if you need anything,” the woman says with a wink. Athena clocks her as probably his agent or PR specialist.

“Thank you, Janine,” Adonis says.

Athena sits down, pulling her laptop from her purse and opening the interview notes. She taps record on her voice memos.

“So, Donnie, before we get started, I know you’ve seen the questions, but just know if anything makes you uncomfortable, you’re welcome to say so. I’ll immediately redirect or come up with a different question.”

“Not a problem. Let’s go ahead and get started.”

He folds his arms, muscles flexing just enough to make her feel ridiculous for noticing, and leans back casually.

“Okay, first question,” she laughs lightly. “How does it feel to move from training with Rocky full-time to now being a part of the Delphi Gym, knowing the legacy?”

“I miss Rock most days, but we still call. He got family in Canada that he wanted to see. It’s been an adjustment, but I like it here. Closer to my moms, and I feel like I’m getting to know my pops even more… even though he ain’t here, he’s here though, every bag, the walls, and even the ring.”

Athena types out his answer quickly, tongue caught at the corner of her mouth in concentration. Adonis watches her over the rim of his water bottle as he takes a sip, amused. She’s so different from every reporter he’s had, no fake professionalism, no cold detachment. Real. Sharp. Gorgeous, and God, those curves in those Jeans.

And that smile she gives after his answer? Deadly.

“Question 2,” she announces, acrylic nail tapping her keyboard. “You haven’t talked much about the fight with Drago since the rematch, in fact, you declined to interview afterwards, is there a reason for this?”

“Yes, actually, the win wasn’t about me, it was about avenging my Father, proving that a Creed could beat a Drago, specifically me. It wasn’t my best fight, but I had something to prove, to everyone in that moment. But Drago and I, we’re cool, we’re more than who our Dads are, and it’s what we’re both trying to prove.”

Athena smiles, “Well said,” before she begins clicking on her keyboard again. Something about her smile was infectious, and Adonis knew she was reeling him in already; he didn’t mind it, though.

“A year ago, you were in a public fight after a man called you 'baby Creed.' You’ve also been publicly upset about the notion of being called ‘baby Creed' and fighting under the name of Creed. Why is this?”

“When I started boxing, I didn’t even use the Creed name, I didn’t want to. I always knew that was my Dad, but I decided to use my biological mom's maiden name. I wanted to start my legacy and build from there, shit, I don’t know if I would be fighting under the Creed name now if it wasn’t for them leaking my identity. It wasn’t me wanting to be bigger than Apollo, it was about me wanting to be different, something on my own. I’m not Apollo Creed’s son, I’m Adonis Creed, period.” Questions went along like that for the next several minutes, Athena asking questions and Adonis answering them with a smile on his face. It wasn’t until Athena got to the last question. Athena looks up at Adonis nervously as she reads the next question on her computer, “you don’t have to answer this one if it’s too uncomfortable.” Adonis nods, giving her a reassuring smile.

“You’ve said that so many times already, and I’m yet to be uncomfortable. Ask away.”

Athena clears her throat, “We all know that you are Apollo’s illegitimate son, and he had a separate family during that time. You have siblings, but we never see them with you. Do you all speak?” Adonis sits up, gripping his side as he adjusts.

“Nah, we don’t,” he strains, much to Athena’s dismay, “They never really cared for me when my Mama got me; refused to see me as family. I don’t blame them, though; I wouldn’t be okay with it either if it were me. But I got love for them, they’re my siblings either way. I don’t think they hate me, they just keep their distance. Didn’t really have much family growing up anyway, but I was okay with that.”

Athena, ever the attentive one, noticed his body tensing as he winced at the story.

“Hey,” she spoke softly, “we can stop for now, pick up at a later date if it’ll help.”

“Nah, I’m good, ribs just still hurting from the fight, and I don’t usually talk about home life, I can answer another one, only on one condition though,” Adonis speaks with a smile. Athena immediately begins to nod.

“Whatever you need, as long as you’re comfortable.”

“You go out to dinner with me.”

Athena blushes with surprise, with her brown skin, there’s only a tinge of pink, Adonis notices though. She laughs, closing her laptop. She only stops when she sees that Adonis is being completely serious and was not laughing with her at all.

“Wait for real?” Adonis laughs, nodding his head.

“Yeah, and you gotta let me ask my own questions to you.”

“Like a professional dinner, though, right?” Athena breathes, closing her computer.

“Only if you want it to be.”

@jazziejax (idk if you wanted to be tagged queen, I did just in case)

#black!fem!reader #adonis creed #adonis creed x black!reader #michael b jordan x reader #micheal b jordan #Creed #black reader

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