#question two: which rib is the longest

[hhaechansmoless]

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

[moralisist]

choso’s personal nurse!

summary: choso is very badly hurt after a big fight with a grade 1. he’s known to be the bad guy everyone at jujutusu high hates and you know you shouldn’t help him out. however, the medic in you just can’t help it! plus he’s kinda cute..

warnings: bad guy! choso, gn! reader

a/n: thank u @shibera for requesting! requests r open

it was around 5:20 , which for most people is when everyone clocks out in jujutsu high. however that privilege didnt belong to you. and honestly you didn’t really mind because you’d rather be studying parts of the body and figuring out the most efficient way you could help the sorcerers and the kids. 5 o’clock was always when you were supposed to leave but you and your lab got acquainted just fine.

you’re cleaning your needles when you hear this loud thump towards the back door. you don’t pay much attention to it because there’s nothing at jujutusu high that could surprise you. you then hear some sliding that’s getting closer to the door and finally it perks your attention. you were so glad to have seen the training the kids were being put through and were able to mirror some of it.

you open the door cautiously and see a man with pigtails, incredibly dark eye bags and eye liner that complimented his droopy eyes. you’d know this guy from anywhere- the choso kamo. while stitching yuuji up, he’d tell you all about choso who was incredibly frowned upon by gojo and nanami.

he was in horribly bad shape with blood covered in his hands while he was holding his rib, his eyes bloodshot, his legs giving up on him by the second and cuts all over his neck leading to his chest.

choso was panting, not saying a word. well… it’d go against your morals to leave someone like this, no matter who it is. you roll your eyes and help him walk back into the lab from the back door, praying no one saw you two. you didn’t need the higher ups on your case.

you sit him on the bed and start looking at him, wondering where to even start. he stares at you intently and with a bit of curiosity. his face was beyond un- readable.

you begin to start with his ribs which would definitely take the longest but it was causing him the most pain. you figured he could take care of the other wounds.

“lay down.” he raises an eyebrow at your assertive tone but lays down nonetheless. i mean what choice does he have? you start stitching up his slightly open rib cage due to some sword fight he seemed to be up against. “so you gonna lay there and stay silent or you gonna tell me how you got this?” you looked up at him from your seat that was by his rib , making eye contact. “a fight.” he says nonchalantly. you roll your eyes. “i can see that.” he continued to stay silent. “well did you at least win?” he gives you a bit of a smirk. “of course i won.”

you both began to sit in a comfortable silence for majority of the time you were stitching his wounds. you know you shouldn’t interact with him, it’s against everything jujutusu high stood for. but you couldn’t let this handsome man bleed to death, could you?

“i appreciate you doing this but i must get back to my brothers.” choso starts to get up. “oh no mr. kamo, you’re staying right here.” you push him lightly to the bed with your fingertips, making his ears show a pink tint. “i can hurry it up a little if you’d like but your stitches are gonna be messy.” he nods.

“what’s the deal with your brothers anyway?” he turns his head quickly to you at your question. “i-i’m just asking because the grade-levels mention that you always talk about your brothers in a fight.” you say with a bit less confidence than you’ve been showing. noticing this, choso confides.

he tells you about his brothers and how they mean the world to him. he tells you about the stories and the dangerous things they’ve gotten into. you could tell they were his pride and joy. choso begins to ask you about yourself as well.

you were caught off guard because the man who was so quiet and an enemy to the general public was laying here, per your demand, asking about you who are.

you guys were talking for hours while you surpassed stitching up his ribs and helping the rest of his body as well, leaving you to have an excuse to keep talking to him. choso didn’t seem to mind either.

“i’m all done choso. i know you were in a rush and i extended your time but i wanted to make sure you walked out with at least good looking stitches. i’m a medic, can’t have people thinking you got em done amateurly.” you chuckle a little bit. he stares at you, not reciprocating your laugh.

“i could’ve sat here talking to you for days and it wouldn’t bother me at all.” he gets up slowly, reaching for your hand so you could get up out of your seat.

“thank you y/n. i appreciate this more than you know. i don’t want to get you in trouble so ill leave quickly.”

“you know my name?”

“you think you’re the only person who’s heard things? i’ve done my research too.” he chuckles and you give him a sly smile.

“my doors open to you. but only past 5 okay?” you say standing closer to him.

“yes y/n. only past 5.” he still was holding your hand since he pulled you from your chair. “i’ll be seeing you again.”

“promise?” you say.

he smiles at you and leaves through the back door without a word.

you see him that following week, knowing you’d see him for more. he didn’t have to promise, not when he’d injure himself 10 times more just to be able to see your face.

a/n; omg this was so much longer than expected but i was rlly getting into it as the story went on 😋 choso is so cutesy i love him. inbox is open!

[eternallyordinary]

"He Belongs To You" - Part 22

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series masterlist<3

Summary: As Homelander’s search turns violent, you're forced to survive in silence—wondering if love will be enough to bring you home.

Warnings: Kidnapping, Torture, Psychological manipulation, Gore / graphic violence, Mental illness, Death, PTSD themes, Suicide, Disturbing imagery, Obsession

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You

It’s been two weeks.

The longest two weeks of your fucking life.

You forced yourself to stop counting the days.

Forced your voice into silence.

Forced your mind to stop hoping that someone—he—would come bursting through that door and save you.

Where is he?

The question looped endlessly in your head, a whisper that turned into a scream behind your eyes.

You used to believe he was unstoppable. Untouchable. A force no one could stand against.

So why hasn’t he come?

The longer it stretched on, the more your thoughts twisted.

Maybe he thinks this is for the best.

Maybe he let this happen.

Those thoughts cut deeper than the chains digging into your wrists.

They're torn to shreds—skin peeled back, raw and weeping, until sinew and bone glint beneath the metal. The restraints never leave your body.

You eat in chains.

Sleep in chains.

Piss in chains.

But none of it compares to the pain of Homelander's absence.

That ache is deeper. Quieter. It settles beneath your ribs and eats at you slowly.

Maybe someone got to him. Maybe someone convinced him that what you had—however electric, however intense—was always meant to be fleeting.

"Move on," you imagine Sage whispering in his ear, cool and calculated. And you picture him listening. That old, desperate need to be accepted sparking to life again—obeying.

And just like that, the pain becomes unbearable.

You fucking miss him.

And the worst part? He’s the reason you’re here in the first place.

If he hadn’t killed Eli—if he had just shown a sliver of self-control—you wouldn’t be in this nightmare.

So why aren’t you angry?

You should be. You should hate him for putting you in this position.

For being the reason you’re trapped.

For not already tearing the world apart to find you.

But you don’t.

And that’s what terrifies you most.

Because the longer you’re without him, the clearer it becomes—

You don’t love him less for this.

You need him more. You love him more.

And you can’t help but wonder—if you make it out of here alive, which is a major fucking IF at this point—what comes next?

Because being loved by Homelander isn’t just dangerous.

It’s a target. It’s a curse wrapped in devotion, sealed with blood.

Will someone come for you again? Will they come for your dad?

You're so worried about him.

Is he okay?

Is he worried sick?

Does he even know you’re missing?

You tell yourself it’s better if he doesn’t. Maybe he just thinks you’ve gone off-grid for work or training or something ridiculous like that.

But then—what if he does think you’re ignoring him?

What if he’s sitting at home, phone in hand, wondering what he did wrong?

And if he doesn’t know… does that mean no one is looking?

That tug-of-war plays out endlessly in your mind, looping, unraveling you little by little.

You work yourself sick with it—spinning through guilt, fear, what-ifs—until your brain short-circuits and finally, finally drags you into sleep.

Or until Andrew comes down the stairs with a yogurt container and a bottle of water, smiling like he’s your best fucking friend in the world.

Like this is normal.

Like he hasn’t been keeping you in the dark for fourteen days.

You’ve learned how to smile through it. Learned how to wear your fear like a second skin.

You nod when Andrew talks about Eli, eyes wide, pretending to be engaged. You hum softly when he asks you to—just the way he likes it. Calm. Sweet. Contained.

You even pretend to care about his endless, rambling stories—the ones he says he hears from the dead.

He offered once, casually, to pull in your grandparents. Said he could “channel them” for a chat, like it was a parlor trick.

You smiled, shook your head. Declined graciously. Because they can’t see you like this. Not like this. And more importantly—you don’t trust him. He’s a fucking psychopath. But every so often… he tugs at your heartstrings.

You’ve started to learn things about his life—details you didn’t ask for, but ones he gives freely, like he’s aching for someone to hold the weight with him.

The woman who helped him kidnap you? The one who screamed in that alley before the needle was jabbed into your neck? She was his girlfriend. Long-term.

They met in the psych ward. A “facility for gifted minds,” as he puts it. She was part of the plan. They were supposed to finish this together. Finish you, maybe. And then disappear—off the grid, off the map, run away into some twisted version of the sunset.

But instead, she panicked. Took the subway back to the psych ward. Never looked back.

He hasn’t heard from her since. Doesn’t know if she made it. Doesn’t know what the hospital staff thinks happened. And that realization? That he’s truly, deeply alone? It crushes him.

His parents died in a murder-suicide while Eli was at college. His father pulled the trigger. Andrew blames himself for it. Thinks the pressure of raising someone like him—someone broken, someone unnatural—drove his father over the edge.

You catch yourself saying it one day, voice soft:

“They chose to inject you, Andrew. You didn’t ask for this. Your powers aren’t your fault.”

And you mean it. In that moment, you mean it.

Because if you squint hard enough, if you blur the horror around you... you can almost see a version of him that isn’t a monster. In another life, maybe you could’ve been his friend.

And that thought hits you in a way you don’t expect.

Because when the time comes to kill him so you can get out of here?

A small part of you might actually be sad.

—

Homelander

Homelander stares at himself in the mirror—something he’s done since he was a child.

Not just to admire himself—though, let’s be honest, he’s always been confident in his appearance, maybe too confident. He enjoys looking at his reflection. Always has.

But it’s more than that.

Because for as long as he can remember, his reflection has been his only friend.

The only one who never left.

The only one who always looked back. Never looked away.

The only one who could talk to him without flinching.

He thinks back to when he was a child—when he was still just John.

Back before the cape, before the fame, before the world called him Homelander.

Back when they burned him, stabbed him, drowned him—

All for test results.

He remembers the first time he really saw himself in the mirror. He was seven years old.

His face was blotchy from crying. His lip was split. There were bruises on his ribs, purple and green and yellow.

But the boy in the mirror looked back at him with something different. Something calm. Something stronger.

And then—he spoke.

"It's okay, John. Don't cry."

The reflection’s voice was soft. Familiar. Almost kind.

"Maybe one day, you and I will have a family. Maybe all these things they make us do—maybe they’ll just be cool tricks. Tricks we can show a little brother, if we get one. Like how long we can hold our breath underwater. Wouldn’t that be cool?" So don’t cry, John. It’ll be okay."

He can still remember the taste of his tears.

The salt drying on his cheeks.

The way he nodded to the mirror—believed it.

Because, back then? It was the only voice that ever told him he’d be okay. The only voice that gave him any hope.

So he waited.

God, he waited.

For years, he held onto that fantasy like it was gospel.

That one day, the door would open and a smiling family would walk in.

A dad to teach him how to ride a bike.

A mom who packed lunchboxes and kissed scraped knees.

A little brother who’d look up at him with wide eyes and say, “Show me again! Show me how long you can stay underwater!”

But no one ever came. No one ever saved him. It was just him and his reflection. Always.

But now?

Now, even that’s fractured.

Because right now—he and his reflection are enemies.

Enemies locked in a silent war.

Because what kind of god, what kind of man, can’t even find the one person he swore to protect?

What kind of protector lets you stay missing for two weeks?

He’s searched everywhere.

He’s ripped through Vought blacksites, underground bunkers, and abandoned research labs. He obliterated a remote airstrip in Alaska after hearing a whisper about a transport going off-radar—killed the entire crew before they could blink.

Tore apart a Vought exec’s penthouse in Dubai because her assistant once dated a supe with teleportation abilities. Left her pinned to the ceiling like art.

He collapsed a mile of sewer tunnels beneath Chicago chasing a heat signature that turned out to be a runaway feral hybrid test subject. It screamed like a child. He killed it anyway.

Burned a former supe rehab center to the ground in rural Arizona when a former patient claimed he “saw a girl with your voice.”

Every lead ends in ash.

Every whisper of your name turns into screams.

And still—he hasn’t found you.

Not yet.

He slams his fist into the sink, granite cracking beneath his hand.

“Where the fuck are you?” he growls under his breath, eyes burning into the mirror.

No answer.

Not even from the one who used to speak back.

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡

tags: @raginginkedslut @lilyalone @emily048 @helreyy @forest-green-1994 @harlowedoktravelsthemultiverse

[webfilledhead]

muscle memory

tasm!peter parker x reader

Angst then kinda fluff? My first time writing for him be kind to me

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Your night is quiet, you were getting used to quiet evenings. It was weird at first, it felt almost empty. You had so much time now, you spent most of your nights in your room studying for exams that were weeks away. You would sit at your desk and reread paragraphs that slipped your mind the first couple times as you played the news on your tv as background noise.

This night was similar to most, you were actually getting work done this time. You had three assignments done and one to go. The downside to this was that they were due next week and when you finished you would have no work to do and would probably end up reading your assigned readings early.

As you’re about to start your last assignment you hear tapping. You brush it off the first time. The second time it is impossible to ignore since you weren’t just imagining it like all the other nights before. Your breath catches in your throat as you realize the second you turn around it’s over.

You turn in the chair of your desk.

Sure enough there he is. He’s wearing his Spider-Man suit, he’s resting against the windowsill like he can’t bear to hold his own weight. The second your eyes landed upon the torn chest of his suit and the bloodied exposed flesh your movements were muscle memory.

It has been two months since you have done this but your movements are quick and sure. You opened the window and half carried him half dragged him to your bed no questions asked. You remove his mask and the upper half of his suit with deft fingers. You paid no mind to how he smelled like he spent his afternoon swimming in the sewers, maybe you noted it a little. You quickly analyze his injuries as you pull the now dusty first aid kit under your bed out. You didn’t have one before you met him, now you keep it under your bed for easy access.

“Sorry I’m getting your bed all bloody,”he groans out softly which makes your movements come to a halt.

You look at him, really look at him. It’s been two months since you’ve seen him up close and not just on the news. You haven’t seen him since he broke up with you, claiming it was too dangerous for you to be around him. You were so angry at first but now after sixty days you’ve grown numb. Your feelings are starting to bubble at the surface again as you gaze into his chocolate brown eyes. His stupid doe eyes.

You take a deep breath and tell yourself you can be angry later. You need to focus on the task at hand, another assignment really,“It’s fine everything can be washed away.”

Your words carry weight that you want nothing to do with. Everything can’t be washed away, some stains are stubborn and never leave. You know you can’t wash him away no matter how much you try that much is evident with how your ears always perk up when his name is mentioned in the news.

Before he can get another word out you exit your room, head to the bathroom, and get two clean towels and dampen them. You also get him pain medicine from the medicine cabinet. You give him the pills wordlessly with your water bottle that was at your desk.

With the damp towel you begin to clean off all the dried blood and grime so you can get a good look at how bad his injuries really are. You’re gentle as you wipe at his warm skin. The only sounds in the room are the quiet news channel now forgotten on your tv and his soft winces every now and then.

Once his chest is clean you can see he has three long gashes, they aren’t too deep they’re much shallower than you expected, the longest one runs from is upper right pec down to his left side on his lower ribs. As you use the clean towel to clean the wounds again he tries to speak again.

“It really isn’t okay, when did you get white floral bedding? It was dark purple a couple days a-” Peter cuts himself off realizing the implications of what he just said.

You feel slightly embarrassed at how happy you feel hearing that. He still cares for you, you hoped he did somewhere deep within you. Despite everything you still miss him and his constant need for first aid.

“You’ve been watching me,” you don’t ask it’s more of a statement since he just confirmed it. You start applying Neosporin to the gashes.

You can feel yourself folding like origami so you make sure not to look in his eyes. Not to look at his stupid sheepish smile. You can’t do this.

“Why would you ever suggest that? I just mean you used to have purple bedding,”He mumbles trying to cover up for himself as he attempts to sit up to look at you better.

You gently push him back down as you get butterfly bandages from your first aid kit. You use them in the deepest sections first since you don’t know if you’ll have enough for the entire length of the wounds.

“Why are you here Peter?”

You blurt your question out with no thinking prior to it. You know why he’s here, you’re the only person who can take care of him. You’re the only one who knows his secret, the only person he can let his guard down to. The only one who will open your window to him in the middle of the night no questions asked.

“I found myself coming here like I always did after getting beat up. I missed you,”he says so sincerely it hurts.

Your hands stop again for the second time. They begin to shake slightly when you hear his words. You hadn’t seen him in so long and the first time you do he comes back to you all beat up and bloody. You take in your proximity to him for the first time since you dragged him to your bed. You’re leaning over him awfully close to him so you can get a better look at his wounds. He’s warm, his skin is soft when your fingers brush against it, he’s so Peter.

You don’t say anything, not knowing how to reply. Knowing him this doesn’t mean he will want to be in a relationship with you again. He’s so stubborn.

You don’t move away when his hand reaches up to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek,“Do you miss me too?”

The answer to that question is obvious enough he just wants to hear you say it. You can’t, your pride won’t let you. You can’t be left to lick at your wounds alone again.

“You’re so unfair, Parker,” you mumble as you keep your eyes away from his. You focus on the tiny cuts on his chest now, keeping yourself distracted. It’s hard to distract yourself when his hand leaves your face to your waist to keep you close.

It’s not fair that he comes to you in the middle of the night all beat up and bruised after not seeing him for two months and asks you this. It’s not fair that he can just show up whenever he wants and leave whenever he pleases.

Then he gives you that stupid smile of his. That very same smile that never fails to make you melt and give into whatever he has to say. You move your hands from his chest to his face and start cleaning up his face with soft touches.

“I know I’m being unfair, I just can’t stand being away from you anymore,” he says making your brows furrow in confusion.

Then the ugly feelings you pushed down start bubbling at the surface once more,“You can’t just leave me then come back after two months expecting me to welcome you back with open arms.”

“I know I messed up, I know that but I want to make it up to you. Just answer this please: do you miss me?” Peter asks as he tugs you closer to him, you lose your balance and end up with one hand braced on the bed beside him and the other on his shoulder. You’re so close to his face and those pretty brown eyes are looking at you in away that makes your breath catch in your throat.

You try to pull yourself away but his arm that has snaked its way around your waist keeps you planted,“Yes, but Peter you can’t jus-“

Your words are effectively cut off by Peter pressing his lips against yours. It’s sweet, a sweet familiar warmth you missed so much. You wish you could blame muscle memory on how quick you are to melt against him and kiss him back.

[scuttlingcrab]

The Wrong Kind of Spice

Summary: Manfred helps Emmrich prepare a romantic dinner for Rook at the Lighthouse. Things are going pretty good at first, until Manfred accidentally uses one of Lucanis’ very special spices. The kind of spices that are hidden away at the bottom of chests, meant for no one else but a skilled assassin to find and use.

Notes: Hide your knives, hide your spices, no one is safe when Manfred is around.

You can find it on AO3 too.

“Ah! No, no, Manfred. That’s not how you hold a knife. Must we go over this again?”  

Knives were pretty tricky for Manfred. He didn’t like how they slipped out of his hands whenever he picked them up from the non-pointy part, which apparently was very, very dangerous for anyone with skin on their bones.

Once he cut four of his fingers clean off while trying to chop an apple with a butcher's knife. Manfred chose that knife because it was big and blocky and he could see his reflection in it. Emmrich had searched for his longest finger all afternoon, which had somehow rolled underneath the stove in the Lighthouse.

Manfred was upset at first because he thought he’d need to get a new one. He really, really liked that middle finger. It had been a painter's finger, and Manfred knew almost everything about painting. It’s pretty colours, and how Emmrich’s face brightened like one of his fancy spells whenever Manfred showed him a new picture. But the day he cut off his fingers, Emmrich huffed and puffed the entire time until he found it, his nose doing the funny thing that made him look like a dragon.

Emmrich asked Lucanis to hide all the big knives after that. Sometimes, the assassin still lets Manfred see them if he asks politely, and especially if he’s absolutely sure Emmrich has gone to bed. It's their own little secret. 

Emmrich carefully took the knife away from Manfred, positioning it the correct way around. He stared at the pile of Manfred’s squashed tomatoes for a long time, rubbing the middle of his nose. 

“Again?” Manfred asked, reaching for another tomato. He could almost see the bottom of the basket now. When they had started, the different vegetables were stacked higher than Manfred and he had to stand on his tippy toes just to reach one.

“Perhaps, Manfred, it's best if I cut the rest of these? They may still be salvageable but I will have to rethink the salad. I’d hate for them to go to waste… especially after Neve’s valiant efforts to acquire them.”

Manfred rested his elbows on the table, leaning in as Emmrich sliced the tomatoes. Emmrich cut them so fast and so perfectly they soon turned into tiny squares. Manfred needed to get a good look, needed to get every detail so he could copy his master the next time he picked up a knife.

He got so close to the chopping board he could barely see the knife move at all anymore. That’s when Emmrich froze, looking down at him. His mouth was in a straight line, and he tilted his head back. This told Manfred two things: that he might be in trouble, or maybe he was about to get another lesson, so he better pay attention. 

”Manfred?” 

“Yes!”

”What's the most important rule when dealing with sharp objects?”

Manfred brought a hand to his chin, placing the other on his hip, pretending like he was Emmrich thinking long and hard when someone asked him a question about the Fade, or necromancy, or even about Rook.

“Sharp? Knife.” 

”That’s correct.”

”No running… No throwing. No… putting in mouth.”

Emmrich let out a long sigh, like he was releasing all the air from his chest. And Manfred suddenly found himself thinking about breathing, wondering why people needed to breathe in the first place. If they were surrounded by air all the time, then why did they have to keep putting it ‘in and out?’

Manfred tried to make the same sound he heard from Emmrich, of what he thought everyone at the Lighthouse sounded like when they breathed. His ribs started rubbing together in a weird way that made him tingle all over. 

“Manfred. Whatever are you doing?” 

Manfred’s sounds got crunchier, louder, his jaw rattling. 

“Practicing. Breathing.” 

“That’s quite enough. If I ever had the misfortune of hearing someone breathe like that, well, I’d send them straight to the infirmary. And administer their last rites while I was at it. Now, back to our aforementioned topic…”

“Knives!”

”Yes . It‘s imperative we keep our distance, Manfred.”

“Oh! Distance… Stay. Away.” 

“Precisely. It’s hazardous.” 

“Hazard. Danger. Emmrich hates.” 

“Indeed, to a certain degree, but it’s entirely for your own good. I shudder at the thought of any more damage happening to your form, Manfred, seeing as I’ve only just gotten you back.”

Emmrich moved his nicer chopped tomatoes to a separate bowl, then scooped up Manfred’s dripping ones. He carried them over to a small pot on top of the stove, dumping them inside. 

“And it’s ‘ I hate danger’, never ‘danger I hate.’ We are not speaking in riddles, Manfred. I will have to increase the number of our elocution lessons, it seems we’re not making as much progress as I hoped.”

“Class now?” 

Emmrich shook his head, instead giving Manfred a big wooden spoon. 

“We must make haste and finish cooking before Rook arrives. Now, could you kindly do me a favour and start mixing the soup?”

This was an easy task, it was just moving the spoon in circles, like the paint brushes he used before. Manfred tilted his head one way, and then the other, trying to decide where he would put the spoon first. 

“Let it simmer, just like I showed you. Vigorous stirring will only ruin the consistency. We don’t want to make another mess either...” Emmrich said this a bit quieter, but Manfred could still hear him, “And I can’t afford to change my garments a second time.”

“Slowly. Stir. Stir!” 

Manfred stared at the liquid, at the chunks of food that floated in the pot, until he saw bubbles forming, and then more and more appeared. 

“Simmer!” Manfred shouted, pointing the spoon towards it. 

Emmrich grinned from ear to ear as he looked at Manfred, nodding. He liked when his master smiled at him, at his books, and at Rook too. That’s how Manfred knew he was doing a great job, and that Emmrich was happy. And when Emmrich was happy, so was Manfred, even though he didn’t really understand what that meant either; just like breathing, people's emotions were confusing, but he knew it meant nice. It meant safe.

Manfred finally found the perfect spot to place the spoon, right in the middle of the soup and started stiring. 

“Brilliant work, Manfred. Now can I trust you with this as I finish assembling the other dishes?”

Manfred stopped and pointed his arm towards Emmrich, turning his hand into a big fist. He then stuck his thumb up really tall, like a gravestone. Rook had taught him that one, and some other fun hand gestures, but she told him those were ‘inappropriate’ to do around Emmrich. 

“What kind of…? Agh, I’m almost afraid to ask.” Emmrich shook his head and left him alone at the stove. 

Manfred focused long and hard, counting to 10 and then stirring. And then counting again, and stirring some more. He wanted to stick his finger in the liquid and put it in his mouth, like he’d seen Emmrich do once or twice before. But that would only get his fingers dirty, and it wouldn’t taste like anything. Plus, the food would fall right out of his chest and onto the floor. And Manfred did not want to spill even one more drop of this soup today. 

While Emmrich was busy preparing the other food dishes he made a new, buzzing noise, like he was singing, but without words. His master did this a lot lately, especially when he started spending all his free time with Rook; almost as much time as they spent together with their lessons and tasks. The buzzing reminded Manfred of those small toys he’d find around Emmrich’s study. Those box-shaped things that played all sorts of songs, but only if you twisted the handles round and round. Sometimes Emmrich would even play a song for Manfred before the day was over. 

“How is the stirring coming along, Manfred?” 

Emmrich came back to the stove, looking into the pot. 

“Yes, it looks nearly done. May I?” Manfred handed the spoon to Emmrich. He scooped up some of the soup, blowing on the liquid before he gave it a taste. 

“I wonder… maybe it could use a little… oh! Yes, Manfred! I’d like to try some of that new spice from Lucanis. Would you be able to fetch it for me?”

Manfred approached where the spices were normally kept in the dining hall, right by the fireplace, but he stopped. He needed Lucanis’ spices, not the normal spices. And Manfred had seen where Lucanis kept his very special spices, because it was also the same place he kept the knives. 

Manfred peeked over his shoulder, triple double checking Emmrich did not see him walking away. His master was too busy looking into the oven now, poking at some more food, to bother noticing him. 

He opened the door to Lucanis’ room like he was sneaking around the Lighthouse at night, or walking around the Memorial Gardens while Emmrich was talking to wisps or messing around with roses. Quietly and slowly. Very slowly.  

Lucanis was snoring, talking to himself in his sleep again. He slept way more than usual since becoming closer with Spite. Manfred didn’t have time to stop and listen though, so he walked right up to the wooden shelves. He went straight for the big chest that was hidden underneath all the other boxes and sacks. It was so big Manfred could fit inside it. He tried it once, and Lucanis said it could hold at least two more bodies if he ever needed it to. 

Manfred found the spices at the bottom of the chest, after moving through the knives he loved so much, and the other interesting shaped objects and papers that were hidden in there. Lucanis had a lot of spices, and Manfred was unsure which one Emmrich wanted, so he picked the jar that looked the most interesting. 

He returned to Emmrich as fast as he could and gave him the spice. 

“Ah, thank you, Manfred.”

Emmrich looked at the jar and turned it around in his hands, lifting one of his eyebrows in confusion.

“Turmeric? Is this what Lucanis was raving on about?”

“Orange! Like soup.” 

“Yes, nice observation, Manfred.” 

Emmrich opened the jar and measured a large amount of the spice he called turmeric, putting it into the pot. He stirred it a couple times, then gave it another taste. 

“Hmm, perhaps they do turmeric differently in Treviso? A slight variation… but I suppose this’ll do.”

Emmrich placed a lid on top of the pot and moved it off to the side. He then bent down, removing a pile of dishes from a crate. 

“Manfred, the dinner plates, please.”

Emmrich gave Manfred two big plates and he placed them towards the end of the dining table, where Rook and Emmrich usually ate together. When he was done, Emmrich gave him another set of plates, these ones were smaller and a different colour.

“And where do the salad plates go, Manfred?”

Manfred glanced at Emmrich for a moment, instantly remembering all the old lessons they had about properly setting the table. 

“On top! On top of big plates.”

Emmrich nodded and Manfred stacked the plates on top of each other. His master gave him more plates and bowls and glasses that he set down around the others in a circle. When Manfred was finished, Emmrich handed him all the forks and spoons and boring looking knives. He laid those out as he had been taught, bigger to smaller. The last step was laying down the napkins, which Emmrich had folded into something that looked like a bird.

“Hey Manfred!” A familiar voice called out to him, “I see you’ve been hard at work. Don’t tell me Emmrich is giving you a hard time again?” 

He turned around and found Rook standing at the entrance to the dining hall, waving at him. She was almost as tall as Emmrich, with pointy ears that sprouted from her cropped purple hair. For some reason, Manfred didn’t hear the doors open. Maybe it was because he was too focused on making sure everything was perfect, and that no fork or spoon or glass was crooked. Or else he would’ve greeted Rook with a big bow, maybe even another ‘high five.’

“Oh come now, Rook. You make it sound as if I’ve forced some sort of arduous labour upon Manfred. He is simply assisting. He does love being involved, even if he can’t partake in any of the fare.” 

“Rook! Table is ready!”

“Oh wow, super impressive, Manfred. Thank you!”

Emmrich stood beside Rook, with his hand on her lower back. He slanted towards her and they pressed their faces together in what Manfred had recently learned was a ‘kiss.’ His master then led Rook to the table, pulling out a chair for her. 

“Emmrich, I told you this didn’t need to be another fancy meal.”

“It’s no bother, really, dearest. Besides, it gave me an excellent excuse to dig out this old crockery from my residence in the Necropolis. It would’ve continued collecting dust otherwise.”

“The skull designs are a nice touch though, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m delighted you think so.”

Emmrich poured some wine into their glasses and took his seat at the table. His master never stopped looking at Rook, his eyes twinkling like stars and his lips growing bigger every minute Manfred stood there watching him. They held hands as they talked, playing with each other's fingers and laughing at jokes Manfred didn’t really think were funny at all.

Manfred wasn’t sure how much time passed before Emmrich turned to him and nodded. He knew what that meant, what he had to do next: it was go time, he would serve them food and refill their glasses whenever they got too close to being empty. Never keeping them waiting . Manfred brought over the bread first, the appetisers, and then the salad. After that he brought over the soup and the main dish. He was about to serve them the dessert, a fluffy cake Emmrich had spent all morning baking, when he heard Lucanis scream from his room.

“Who’s been – no! Where is it?” 

Lucanis burst into the kitchen, nearly tripping over his own feet. When his eyes found Manfred he rushed towards him, putting both hands on his shoulders. 

“Manfred! Did you take the po–”

Emmrich opened his mouth as if he was about to ask Lucanis a question, just as Rook unexpectedly fell out of her chair and onto the floor with a loud THONK.  

“Rook! Are you alright?”

Emmrich jumped from his chair, but before he could even reach her he stumbled backwards, holding onto the table to balance himself. His face was scrunched up, like he had just dropped a book on his big toe. 

“Spice!” Manfred pointed to the jar near the stove. “Borrowed!”

Lucanis’ head slowly moved to where Manfred pointed, his eyes getting wider as they stared at the jar. He practically flew towards the stove, picking it up.

“My word… my head. What’s… what’s the meaning…?” 

“Please don’t tell me you used this ?”

Emmrich looked up at Lucanis, his face covered in sweat. 

“The turmeric? Of-of course, I only put a s-smidge into the soup.”

There was a long pause. So long, Manfred was about to ask Emmrich and Lucanis if they wanted some of the cake he was still holding or if he should maybe put it away.

“Mierda.”

“Why do you look…”

Emmrich’s face turned white, whiter than Manfred’s own body or any skeleton he had ever seen walking around in the Necropolis. His mouth fell open and his eyebrows crawled to the top of his forehead. 

“Ah. Th-That’s not turmeric, is it?”

Lucanis shook his head.

“No! Special spice!” Manfred shouted, just in case they were still confused. 

“Curiosity. Killed!” 

“Spite. No.” Lucanis immediately cut in.  

Emmrich fell to his knees, reaching for Rook. “Darling… C-can you hear me?” He put his hand on her neck, searching for something and sighed with relief when he found it. “She’s still breathing.”

Manfred wasn’t sure why Emmrich was getting so upset. He had seen Rook fall a few times when she drank too much of the wine, and they had gone through almost two bottles of it already tonight. Manfred knew why the assassin was mad though, because he took something from him without asking permission. 

“Lucanis, may I-I suggest you mark your spices accordingly?”

“How could I call myself an assassin if I left my poisons so obviously labeled?”

“You didn’t think for a second one of us might've accidentally used it?”

“Of course not! None of you know how to cook.”

“What impudence! I’d like you to kn-know I am a perfectly f-fine cook.”

“Spices. Too hot?” Manfred cut in, putting down the cake. He poured some water into a glass, handing it to Emmrich. 

“Manfred… oh my dear, Manfred. T-thank you. Pl-please put it on the table there. This is not… you could never have known...I mu-!”

Emmrich squeezed his eyes shut, still on his knees as he swayed back and forth. He placed one trembling hand on his head, his chest moving faster and faster. His breathing was starting to sound a lot like Manfred’s. 

“I’ve doomed us all.” Emmrich whispered. 

“Curiosity has hands. Hands that kill. Kill!”

Lucanis sprinted back to his room and returned in a matter of seconds, holding a small vial. 

“Here, I have an antidote, but I must warn you… it’s quite potent.”

“Rook… first, I insist.” Emmrich gasped. 

Lucanis knelt by Rook, tilting her head slightly and pouring a few drops of the antidote into her mouth. She still didn’t move, but both Emmrich and Lucanis seemed to relax when she swallowed it; the assassin loosening his shoulders and his master falling onto his backside.

“Now you, drink.”

Lucanis quickly handed the vial to Emmrich. He grabbed it with both hands and finished it in one big gulp. He instantly started coughing, shivering even, throwing the vial away from him. 

“Positively ghastly.”  

“I’ve never actually tried it myself. I don’t usually hand out antidotes to poisoned victims. I’ll make sure the next one is more to your liking, when you inevitably get yourself poisoned again.”

“Very amusing, Lucanis.”

Emmrich held onto the table as he tried to pull himself up. He staggered dramatically as Lucanis caught him. His master leaned on the assassin for support as he walked him towards the doors.

“How about we take you back to your room, yes?”

Emmrich’s movements were a little stiff now, almost like that one time when Manfred skipped a ‘joint rotation day’ on purpose. He wanted to see what would happen and could barely bend his knees or move his arms. It was like he turned into a statue, which was fun, but he wasn’t going to do that again any time soon. Especially since Emmrich lectured him for hours on the importance of ‘routine and structure.’

“Yes, a-an excellent idea… but wait! What about Rook? She-I cannot leave h-her…I must… if anything were to happen, I wo…”

Emmrich pushed against Lucanis, trying to turn around but Lucanis held him in place.

“Manfred will watch over Rook until I’m back. Isn’t that right, Manfred?”

“Yes! Watch. Rook safe.” 

“Thank you, Manfred.” Lucanis and Emmrich seemed to say together as they promptly walked through the doors, leaving Manfred alone with Rook.

Manfred sat on the floor next to Rook and rested his head against her body. He could hear her heartbeat thumping slowly and his head rose and fell along with each of her small breaths. He’d watch over Rook just like Emmrich did, that way his master didn’t have to worry. And he’d make sure no one woke her. As Emmrich said, it was ‘imperative to get a good night’s rest if one was to face the next day with success.’

As Manfred listened to Rook’s heartbeat, he wondered about the spices. When Lucanis got back he’d ask him about the others in his chest, and if that’s what usually happened when people put them in their soup.

[thesorcerersapprenticeu]

Chapter 10: Indebted To

Summary:

The end of an era, and at the same time the conclusion of an act. With Singed at your side, your new mentor and teacher, you try to build a new life for yourself. It was to be expected that this would not be without challenges for your psyche and well-being. But as you continue to develop, you are hit by another stroke of fate that sets everything on a different course once again.

Notes:

Oh my god, this chapter is just...phew. Welcome back! Yeah, took me a bit, but what more could you ask for than a chapter of this fanfiction on a Sunday. I've (maybe) proctastinated a little, but I have to say that this chapter is the best yet, and longest, in my opinion. Almost 7K words of pure development, science, magic, relationships, old memories and a breach of trust that destroys everyone again. But I don't want to say too much, welcome to your new home of Singed, and have fun reading this chapter!

---

"Hydrogen?"

"63%"

So this is how it looks now:

You, two years later than then, next to Singed in a laboratory. The green lights illuminate all the equipment, all the test tubes, individual substances that even react to the light, and of course your and Singed's face.

You've grown a little, according to Singed still too little for your age, but you didn't mind. You had slightly longer hair, which was quite soft and lay on your shoulders. You weren't anorexic, but you were so incredibly thin that you hated looking in the mirror and seeing your ribs.

"Oxygen?"

"26%"

Your mental maturity and intellect inevitably increased. With Singed as your teacher, the foundations were laid. You, continuing to research magic and Singed as a mentor in the fields of science, such as chemistry and biology. While he teaches you things about humans, you continue to research areas that a normal person would never get to.

It was funny when you thought back:

How you were weeping at Vander's corpse, with newfound magic flowing through your arm and slowly but surely healing your body.  How your mind was in as much shambles as the Cannery. How you clung desperately to your 'Steel Ball' and your Two Books because they were the last things you had left from your old life.

Your memories of Vi, Powder, Claggor and Mylo were already a little hazy. Not in the sense that you couldn't remember how they looked or what they did, it was more an ethical question of whether any of you could ever live a normal life.

Your life was already anything but that in this corrupt world.

A little later after the incident in the Cannery, you realized that you could use the magic that flowed through your body through the Corpse's arm. At first, it was difficult to control the aura that flowed through your life energy and the arm. In your room at Singed's home, you were awake almost every night for the first few weeks, trying to find a moment when you might be able to use one of your spells.

But it simply didn't work, at least not yet. Magic was and is a complicated thing, it wasn't written in your two books, but this reality made you aware of it.

It was impossible to create something out of nothing.

"If one wishes to obtain something, something of equal value must be given"

These were the laws of magic, which you diligently noted down in the books. In general, you began not only to read, but to write notes and discoveries in the books yourself. The book with the map of Jayce Talis was almost completely empty before, but you filled it with drawings of the Corspeparts and descriptions that you were best able to give.

But even if no spell of your own was created from your magic, there was something that was just as powerful: Rotation. You noticed it before, the letters on your arm pointed it out to you, but you hadn't understood it yet.

Rotation was a natural force in this world. You don't normally see it, but if you look very closely, you can find it everywhere. The energy with infinite potential, and more importantly, it reacts incredibly strongly to magic.

One night when you wanted to try something, you came up with the following theory:

You, sitting on your bed, books to your left and right. Sweaty hair due to nervousness, a serious look and an idea that you now wanted to test. In front of you, on your blanket, lay a blue crystal that Powder had given you back then.

The idea was that the Enforcer Gadget might be able to stabilize it and create an incredible source of energy.  So you stretched out your two arms, went to both sides of the crystal and focused your magical aura on it.

When a bright blue light, a dangerous feeling and a threatening explosion followed, you stopped immediately. But less than a minute later, Singed was already at your door. You, who thought you were in trouble, were wrong, because Singed wanted to know all about the energy that these small crystals emit.

And after three months of hard work, you both made it: Spheres, about the size of a baseball, blue and more dangerous than any weapon a single person could use. The rotation gave you the ability to spin them incredibly fast in your hands, allowing you to throw them at things and, in the case of a human, even ripple their muscles.

So, you called them Steel Balls. Since you, the too small and weak boy, had a big disadvantage in a direct fight, you could now compensate for this. A good rotation on your steel ball with your right arm, a good throw and determination brought you one step closer to victory.

And after a year, you even learned to adjust the rotation so that it worked like an algorithm. You put it on, through the magic of the corsepart, threw your steel ball, fulfilled the purpose, and your steel ball flew back into your hand, truly magical.

But no matter what, somewhere deep inside you couldn't shake the thought that this life didn't suit you.

Of course Singed was a good teacher, in his field he was definitely second to none, even if he often told you that there were other people who came close to him, you just knew that they were far from his level, at least in practice.

You could disappear every day, just run away and somehow ask someone in town for help, I mean, who wouldn't want to take in a little boy like you? Besides, Singed wouldn't care if you disappeared, he's just thinking about his experiments anyway...

And that's exactly why you were here.

To save Vander.

The tall and physically strong man who was about to die was a task in itself. Even Singed wasn't sure at first whether Shimmer would bring him back or heal his injuries. According to blood and oxygen data, Vander was already brain dead, and without brain, no life.

But you created the Shimmer version that would ultimately save Vander. It took time, and you learned incredibly quickly, which Singed noticed. The process was logical to you, but you seemed to have more understanding of the chemistry behind the drug than Singed himself, the creator of it.

"No, less of the serum and more of the growth hormones." Singed's voice rises through the large lab, the size and equipment making it echo at the same time. He is sitting behind you at a small table, giving you instructions. "To push the nerves to their limit, you have to... give them a push."

Meanwhile, you're standing at your little work table, with your standard coat on your silhouette, mixing various chemicals in a test tube. You've only been here a few weeks, with Singed, and you're already researching his drug, the 'Shimmer', with him.

Although you knew what the drug could do, it was really interesting for you. Since your parents only ever conducted legal experiments in the kingdom and other things back then, it was important to see the other side, and here you could even work on that.

This is your very first attempt at chemical drugs. Before that you may have read about them in one of the books at home, but of course they were not a guide.

You get more and more nervous when you think about how Singed is just a few steps behind you and you are trying to mix his special drug - it was a strange situation that you could never have imagined before. All your chemical knowledge that you had stored away somewhere, now tested by a genius.

Shimmer was incredibly complicated, but you quickly got the hang of it. You had no other choice, Singed doesn't give you instructions, nor does he explain how the drug is structured. You have to do everything yourself while he watches you and evaluates you like a teacher evaluates a student.

You mix a kind of dopamine booster into the purple liquid and the color immediately changes - it becomes more intense, almost glowing. A fine, iridescent smoke rises, like mist curling in the air. The mixture begins to pulsate slightly, as if it is coming alive, and a sharp, metallic smell fills the room. It feels as if you have created something uncontrollable - and that was exactly your goal.

You know the ingredients of Shimmer, at least you think you do. But to heal Vander's wounds and internal bleeding, you need a much stronger version of it. More stem cell activators, more viruses that introduce genetic information into cells and all sorts of other things to help Vander regain his former strength.

You hold the container in your hand and see how the liquid inside pulsates gently, as if it had its own heartbeat. The glow is mesmerizing, an intense, dangerously beautiful purple that makes the shadows dance in the room. There's something eerie about the smoke that rises from the mixture - it wafts around your fingers in fine clouds and leaves a cool, tingling sensation on your skin.

A feeling of pride flows through you, mixed with a nervous excitement. You've done it, for the first time in your pathetic life. You have created something that resembles pure power - but at the same time you are aware of the danger that lies in this small, liquid catastrophe. Part of you hesitates, wondering if you're doing the right thing.

But the other part of you, the part that showed Pure Determination and did not hesitate to kill for its goals, showed you what you were doing it for:

Your eyes wander from your workstation to the large glass cylinder placed in front of you, in which Vander's body is preserved. His swollen skin, and the veins visible through the shimmer currently flowing through his body, evoke in you a reference to the object you are holding in your hand.

Your heart beats faster as you put the container down. At that moment, you feel like a creator and a destroyer at the same time - and the power you hold in your hands sends a cold shiver down your spine.

In a way, the Shimmer even reacted with you, and Singed noticed that right away, and something else as well.

Impossible?!

There stood Singed, looking directly over your shoulder at the test tube in your hand. His mind raced with thoughts as he kept his gaze on the substance in your hands.

This boy...He made Shimmer for the first time, and it's already better than my recipe. And all this without experience? If Heimerdinger only knew what a genius I've found... But he's dangerous.

His gaze fell on you again as you stood at the workstation and looked down at the test tube.

He was sure he wasn't imagining it, the substance was trying to warn him.

Exactly at the point where your fingers were attached to the glass, the substance began to boil and a putrid smell to be released, a warning that literally stung him in the eye. As if magma was emerging, wanting to be seen, reading signs of incomprehensible potential.

His potential will catch up with us all at some point, whether it's Heimerdinger or me. He has already surpassed even this boy called Viktor... I have to teach him before it becomes my undoing. And he's only been here for seven weeks...

His Talent is Magnificent...And Terrifying. With the magic that flows through his body...

I have awakened a monster.

"Carbon?"

"9%"

But no matter how many new skills you've discovered, steel balls or magic, no matter how much new knowledge you've acquired and how much of a genius you've become, the memories, feelings and consequences of that one day continue to haunt you.

Depression of the worst kind, sudden hallucinations of Mylo, Claggor or Vander standing in the distance. But no matter how hard you try to get to them, they disappear at the last moment and realization sends you back to reality. You thought it was schizophrenia combined with trauma.

However, Singed seems to have found another disease that affects you. He doesn't have a name for it, but your size and strength should develop slowly due to puberty, but it does so much slower than the average human.

He made an assumption that you may have had contact with chemicals from an early age.

At that moment you stopped dictating the chemicals in the human body, and were briefly, very briefly shocked. Hundreds, thousands of memories of your real family flooded your mind, especially the days when you watched them in the lab.

The memories of your mother, father, sister and brother appeared like a tumor in your brain that you should have cut off a long time ago. Insults, snide behavior and so much more that you had to endure in that household.

And no one had ever believed in you.

And now look at you: Your body is flooded with magic, you have a part of the Wizard's body. You have become proof of the impossible, so to speak, which everyone used to see as nothing more than a fairy tale.

Now you could explain spells from the book, even perform some of them and much more. You would never have expected to be able to do something like that, and now look.

Furthermore, in the two years you spent at Singed, your magical abilities grew far beyond anything you could have ever hoped for.

You could feel life energy in a kind of sixth sense. You could already feel the aura that was converted from energy and now surrounds the body from afar, as well as the intention and feelings behind it. With Singed, it was always calm, constant and absolutely in harmony with his work.

You called it an aura because everyone had one, which actually supports your theory. Aura was basically life energy that helps the human senses to perceive things. But no human could feel it or control it... Except you, at least. Through the right corpse arm you could let the magic flow through your body, and also anchor it outwards to protect yourself or 'scan' the environment.

So you have literally evolved, unlike before, so let's get back together:

Back then: small and petite, engrossed in books, without any physical strength. Reserved, insecure - more anxious than anyone else in the group. Marked by a painful realization of your weaknesses, with a goal in mind that seemed unattainable, and surrounded by people who were far too good for you in your eyes.

And now: Still small for your age, but full of danger. A body imbued with magic and steel balls that can manipulate the muscles of others with a single throw. A mind that is constantly sharpening and developing. Yet deep within you still lingers the guilt and shadows of the consequences left by your past.

Your connection to magic, through the corpse arm that is in you, certainly made you a different person.

All beginnings are difficult, but this is not a new beginning, but a rebirth.

You have been reborn as The Sorcerer's Apprentice.

But even as a reborn, the past still pulls at your shadow. Especially because what happened back at the Cannery is your fault. You had to try to prove yourselves with Powder, and what happened? Sacrifices and consequences that couldn't be worse.

It's funny to have seen the white side of science from your parents back then, and now to find the talent from you on the dark side. It's like you were never going to be part of the scientist family anyway, and now you're more sure of it than ever.

"Protect her"

Every time you remembered Vi's words, you had to throw up. There was no other way you could bear the guilt, it was tearing you apart and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

And so the memories of Powder resonated with you for the next while, and you finally understood: You liked her.

You're sure that you're probably the last person to have understood it properly. It must have been really obvious and the others must have always talked about it among themselves, how embarrassing.

Your yearn for Powder only got stronger without her presence, so strong that even Singed noticed it during the experiments and often asked if "something was wrong?". Of course you didn't tell him, it would not only be embarrassing but also complicated. He actually understood and left you alone, apparently realizing that you didn't want to be reminded of it.

Powder's eyes, her soft skin, her smile... Having everything taken away from you hurts so incredibly. And not knowing what had happened to her since that day gave you so much pain in your stomach that you often had to cry yourself to sleep.

But the shock hits you harder than the explosion in the Cannery.

You destroyed their lives. Not just hers, but Vi's, Vander's, Claggor's, Mylo's and every other poor soul who witnessed your determination. Not only you had to live with the consequences, they all did, at least the ones that survived.

As you lay buried under the thousands of pieces of rubble, you could hear Powder and Vi outside for a moment. You were sure you heard Vi angry, and Powder crying or screaming, all because of you.

And then one day came...

It was at night, you're pretty sure.

Singed's home, as he called it, was incredibly quiet. The only thing that could be heard was the wind blowing through the whole construct, leaving a light melody as it bumped against it.

You sat on your bed almost every night, unable to close one eye. Because when it happened, you had bad nightmares, nightmares where everyone blamed you for everything you deserved. Mylo, Claggor and even Vander, who seemed to have lost their lives because of you.

You've been counting the days since you've been here. 906 days since the explosion at the Cannery and the attempt to save Vander.  906 days since you stopped sitting on her bed with Powder, laughing or talking about something. 906 days since you've been battling sleep deprivation and depression every day, brought closer to the edge every day.

You focus your magic on your whole body, you see it with your open eyes. Your aura radiates a permanent, calm white that floats evenly around you like a gentle mist. It feels peaceful and stable, almost calming, yet there is an unshakeable strength in its quiet presence.

It was something like meditation, and at the same time it helps you to deal better with your magic. You didn't have this sixth sense for years, and you've only had to live with it for two years.

You imagine what it would be like if you had one of your Steel Balls in your hand right now. The shimmering blue color and how it would fly if you put enough magic into the rotation. And after it hits its target, it spins and magically flies back into the palm of your right hand.

Your legs feel strangely heavy, your head strangely light and the whole situation strangely alarming.

What is that feeling?

It doesn't take a second, and you're already standing at the door to your room. It was right next to the lab, so you had a good view of the huge glass container where Vander is kept. The various lights shining throughout the lab, some of which hit your eyes, make you dizzy.

And then you realize it.

This is not Singed's aura.

Your mind sharpens within seconds, even if you are insanely tired, it feels wrong not to pay attention now. So you try a little harder with your magic and your logical and rational thinking.

And so your gaze falls on him.

Silco.

You didn't even need to analyze the features. His height-tall and imposing, though his thin frame gives him a wiry, almost spectral presence. His skin is pallid, with a greyish hue that seems to absorb the dim light around him, and his jet-black hair is neatly styled into an undercut, stark against his weathered features.

His aura had a minimal difference to Singed's, it was spiking. Singed was always calm, but you're not sure about him, it looks like he could explode at any moment, like he's hiding an incredible amount of anger with a calm demeanor.

But you're not worried about his aura or his appearance, rather:

What is he doing here? And what does Singed have to do with him?

"I hope he survived without injury?" Silco's calm voice carries throughout the lab as you continue to peer through the door slit.

"Yes, but not without internal bleeding." Answers Singed, also with a calm tone and an undertone.

They both stand in front of the glass container, so you can see them both at the same time. However, if one of them were to turn backwards now, it would definitely not be good for you or Singed.

"He was like a brother to me..." Silco finally speaks, taking a step closer to the container. He puts his right hand on it and looks up, where Vander's face was covered by the dark-colored liquid. "It's a shame he went that way."

"Well... You can't always count on everything..." Singed mentions after a few seconds, still in the same voice, but now in a different position. He moves two steps away from Silco and leans against a table while fiddling with the bandage on his face with one hand. "Especially not with humans."

Your eyes fall on Silco. After all he's done, he's here now, standing within ten feet of Vander, who you gave everything you had to save. The many cables, combined with the dark light reflection, already make Vander look dead, but you wouldn't let that happen.

You concentrate on Silco's silhouette and think about your tactics and your chances.

He wouldn't even notice me if I was fast. Singed would react too slowly, I'm sure of it. I could simply strengthen both my arms with magic and break his neck...

He deserves it.

It was a dark thought, but you had changed since then. The little boy who wouldn't even hurt a fly was already gone, now everything was filled with cold logic and feelings that were too much for you.

He deserved it, you echo in your head. Your look at Vander brought back the memories you were trying so desperately to forget. The reaction was anger, after all, he is also responsible for Vander's death, and much more.

What is he doing here anyway? And what is he discussing with Singed?

"You said he would survive..." Silco puts his hand down, turns to Singed and fills the silence with a scowl. He puts the hand that was on the container in front of his chest and squeezes it into a fist. "How strong do you think he is compared to the other monsters?"

Your heart stops for a moment, the unexpected clarity of his words pulls you out of your composure. Your hands tremble and unconsciously form into fists, your knuckles snow-white with tension.

Your magic flows through your body and with all your might you force yourself to control it, to hide it - but it becomes more difficult the more your desire for revenge flares up inside you. You know that if you give in, everything here will go up in flames and they will feel you through your magic.

Singed finally breaks the silence, his voice calm, almost casual, but with a hint of caution. "He is unstable. More dangerous than the others because he has more control over himself. But that's what makes him unpredictable. He understands what he is - and what he can do."

Silco nods slowly, a sharp spark of curiosity in his gaze that briefly displaces the icy determination. "Interesting..." he murmurs, his voice low and thoughtful.

But then his gaze briefly falls on you.

You've never moved so quickly before, after all, your body reacted completely automatically. For a moment, you forgot your anger and hid as quickly as you could. Your body is hidden behind a corner, your breathing as shallow as possible, but something about his posture makes you think he's noticed you.

A slight tremor runs through your muscles. You're sure your magic is making itself felt - like a touch of electricity lifting the air around you. You can barely hold back the words that rise up inside you, a silent cry of retribution, but you know that one false step could ruin everything.

Dammit! Did he see me?

"And if he escapes our control?" Silco suddenly asks, his tone sharper as he steps closer to Singed.

"Then," Singed replies with a small, imperturbable smile, "we have to kill him before he can kill us."

These words pierce you like a cold dagger. Your grip tightens around the corner, your nails scrape against the wall. Your magic screams inside you, begging to be unleashed. But you force yourself to calm down. Not yet. Not yet.

Letters form on your right arm, literally carving themselves into your skin again, but you don't notice. The situation in the room in front of you gets all your attention.

Your gaze falls for a brief moment, incredibly brief, on your steel ball. It's just lying there next to your bedside cabinet, so close that you could just grab it. Take it, fill it with a little magic, which is converted into rotation anyway, and simply throw it.

"We'll be fighting together again soon Vander..." For a moment he turns away from Singed again, glances at Vander and then looks around. All the experiments seem to catch his eye, while his mind seems to be somewhere else entirely.

You calm your breathing, concentrate on the conversation and make a decision:

That's it now. Singed just used me to pass Vander on to Silco in the end. I'll never forgive you for that, you bastard.

But what are you doing? You were dependent on Singed. You can't just go out into the wide world without any solid facts. Where would you go? You can't go back to your real family, after so many years you wouldn't be able to go back mentally.

So, what now? You want to disappear, but completely alone? You, absolutely alone in this dark and disturbing world?

Normally you would turn to Vander now, ask him for answers... And he would be able to provide you with some. But he wasn't far away from you, about ten meters in front of you, in a large glass container that was barely keeping him alive.

I did this. I Killed Vander.

Your magical aura disappears completely. You don't tremble, not a single movement follows from your body as a result of your thoughts, which are tearing you apart from the inside.

He wouldn't have died if I hadn't been there.

Your chest tightens as the memory resurfaces, raw and vivid, like an open wound that refuses to heal.

Vander is gone...?

The realization twists in your gut, sharp and relentless. The anchor of your world, the man who kept you steady - ripped away in a moment of chaos.

NO!!!

The scream reverberates in your head, a desperate attempt to push the truth away. But it clings to you, heavy and suffocating.

Silco killed him. Not me!

Your fists clench, your nails digging into your palms as you try to find someone, anyone, to hold responsible. Silco's face flashes before you, his cold, calculating smirk, the embodiment of everything you want to destroy.

I had to follow him.

You try to rationalize, to make sense of the senseless.

I should've known better.

Your stomach churns. The guilt, a familiar poison, takes hold.

I didn't do it!

Your inner voice cracks, a futile defense against the crushing weight of your conscience.

It was me. I knew it.

The admission is a whisper, barely audible over the roaring in your ears.

NO!!!

The floor beneath you seems to shake as you fall to your knees. The world around you blurs, the walls of the room seem to stretch and warp as the exhaustion and emotional strain wash over you. A fine film of tears breaks free and runs down your cheeks, but you no longer feel the pain - only the emptiness.

The magic that burned so vividly inside you just moments ago has vanished, as if someone had turned off the power. Your body suddenly feels heavy, like an empty shell, and your hands, which were just ready to turn into a weapon, are now shaking uncontrollably. Your eyes, once sparkling with anger and defiance, lose their light, becoming dull and empty.

The room seems to stand still for a moment, as if the world itself is pausing to watch you collapse. There are no words, no thoughts, just the paralyzing silence that settles around you. Your aura, which was once the only layer of protection, is now gone - the strength you defended for so long is nothing more than a fading shadow. The coldness growing inside you is stronger than any other sensation you have ever known.

Somebody help me.

The cry comes unbidden. Tears streak your face, hot and uncontrollable, as you clutch at the emptiness in front of you.

Someone help Vander.

The words are a plea, a wish that time could reverse, that some miracle could undo the unthinkable.

Someone...please help Vander.

But the silence answers you, merciless and final.

No...he's beyond help.

The truth crushes you, leaving you hollow. The weight of your failure presses down until you can barely breathe. All that remains is the sound of your broken sobs, lost in a void that feels endless.

You hear a voice from outside "But fire without control..." He pauses, his eyes narrow dangerously and his voice becomes dangerously calm. "...always ends in ashes."

You have to disappear. The decision doesn't hit you like a bolt of lightning, but slowly seeps into your consciousness, a painful but irrevocable conclusion. A true scientist follows logic - and logic screams in your face that you can't stay here any longer.

Your eyes fall on the bedside table where your most important belongings are. Your hands are shaking, but you are already moving in your thoughts, collecting, sorting, planning. Inside, you are on your knees, crushed by the weight of what has happened, but your body is functioning mechanically.

My Steel Balls, you think, a touch of pragmatism in the midst of chaos. The two spellbooks, clothes... and preferably something to eat.

You don't wait another second. You stand up on shaky legs, your hands wiping the tears from your face. There is no time for weakness, no time for doubt. The plan doesn't form in your head, it simply exists, clear and unavoidable: you have to leave.

You reach for the bag lying in the corner and start throwing your things into it. Your steel balls land clattering on the bottom of the bag, followed by the spellbooks you absentmindedly grab from your bedside table. Your mind is still blank, like a machine that is only tuned to function. There is no hesitation, no pondering - just movement.

You hurry through your small room, lifting clothes from the chair and stuffing them carelessly into your bag. Your hands are still shaking, but you force them to calm down, your breathing short and intermittent. The thought of food crosses your mind and you throw in a few rationed supplies, bread and some dried meat, without a second thought.

Waiting. Waiting until Silco has disappeared. Waiting until Singed is back in his room.

Your heart pounds like a drumbeat in your chest, every breath heavy and tense. You walk to the door, peering through the small gap to keep an eye on the lab outside. It's a wait that feels like an eternity, but you know it's necessary.

Then I'll disappear, you think, and the thought gives you a strange sense of calm. No plan B, no doubts. Just the first step - out of here. You take a deep breath and prepare yourself inwardly for the moment.

Your eyes linger on the bag and the comparison with the Haul from back then hits you like a blow. It was the moment when it all began - the chaos, the losses, the suffering. But you force yourself to push this thought aside, to ignore it as best you can.

Am I really doing this now?

A quiet doubt settles in and for a moment you stop moving mechanically. Your mind switches on, your feelings are left out. You force yourself to think soberly, even if reality almost overwhelms you.

If I disappear now, I have absolutely nothing.

The thought weighs heavy, pulls you down. You no longer have a family. Your friends? The few you had are long gone or... worse. And Singed? A teacher, yes, but one who overstepped boundaries and shamelessly exploited you to weaponize Vander.

I have to survive alone in the world.

The image of you alone in the streets of Piltover and Zaun spreads through your mind. The cold, the hunger, the constant danger.

What should I do anyway?

The question remains unanswered while your mind feverishly searches for possibilities.

How am I supposed to get out of Piltover? And where to?

The city seems like a huge fortress, and the world outside is no less threatening. Your steps falter and your grip on the bag tightens. The panic tries to find its way back into your head, but you force yourself to stay still, to think.

A plan. You need a plan. But the clock is ticking, and the walls of this small room feel like they're going to constrict you at any moment.

I have to find the other corpse parts.

The thought hits you like a thunderclap, and for a moment everything around you stops. Your breath catches and your heart races as you stare at the bag containing Jayce Talis' notebook. The pages you had only half-heartedly flicked through before now start to make sense.

He's looking for them too...

A spark of hope, no, a plan begins to form in your head. If you follow this path, if you find the Corpse Parts, if you develop your magic - then everything will be different. No problem would be too big, no threat insurmountable.

I don't care what I have to do for it. I'll get those corpse parts. Whatever it takes... I will do it.

Your eyes lose their light again, an expression of complete devotion and determination takes over your face. You stop in the middle of the room, your breathing heavy, your mind filled with a dark determination that also frightens you.

But deep inside you feel that the burden is tearing you apart. The memories of everything you've lost, the feeling of betrayal by Singed - it's too much. You are still a child, at least a part of you. And yet life forces you to act like an adult, to make decisions that could break even a veteran.

Your head lowers, your hands clench into fists. The world may bring you to your knees, but a promise is growing inside you. An oath to yourself:

I will find them. And no one, not even myself, will stop me.

As soon as the apartment sinks into silence, you seize the moment. With your bag over your shoulder, you sneak through the lab, your steps as quiet as possible. Your gaze sweeps over the countless experiments set up here, each apparatus a testament to Singed's sick genius. You grab a few chemicals that seem useful and carefully put them in your bag. To be on the safe side, you tell yourself, even if you don't know exactly what for.

But just before you reach the door, you stand rooted to the spot. The huge glass container rises up in front of you, its cold glow illuminating the dark laboratory. Your gaze wanders upwards to where Vander is floating in the liquid. His body is still, motionless, and yet you can see the traces of life that are still inside him.

"I'm sorry, Vander," you whisper, your voice barely audible but heavy with guilt. You feel the lump in your throat, the tears threatening to burst out again.

"If I were stronger... I could take you with me."

Your gaze lowers, your hands tremble slightly, but then you force yourself to look at him again. It's a promise that germinates inside you, a spark that gives you stability in all the chaos.

"But I will come back."

The words echo in your head, an oath to the man who once saved your life, to the rock that protected you. Then you turn around, your heart heavy, but your steps determined.

There is no turning back.

Like a bitter joke from the heavens, the rain starts as soon as you pull the door shut behind you. The drops patter softly but steadily, like a gentle tapping on the surface of the world, as you leave home behind you - or what's left of it.

The cold rain washes the warmth of the past from you, layer by layer. It soaks your hair, cools your skin, but inside the emptiness burns. Every step feels like a farewell, not just to the place, but to the part of you that once existed here.

You throw on your black coat, the fabric of which lies heavily on your shoulders - like a second skin that protects you and yet bears everything you are. You fill the pockets with calm, almost mechanical movements. The notebook slides in, its edges rough, full of secrets. Next to it, the two Steel balls find their place, cold and familiar in your hands, before disappearing.

Then you pause. A moment of silence in which you take a deep breath. Your determination feels like a fire that burns quietly inside you, unstoppable. You adjust your coat, pull on the hood and get ready.

There is no more hesitation. Only the path before you.

The streets of Piltover are quiet at night, almost eerie. The rain has made the cobblestones shiny and dark, the shimmering light of the lanterns dances in the puddles. Your footsteps echo softly, but it's loud in your head - deafening.

How could this happen? The thought nails itself into your mind, repeating itself over and over again. You had a plan. A place where you belonged. But all of it was wiped out in an instant. Singed's betrayal, Silco's plans, Vander's condition - it was too much.

I should have been stronger. The words are like a mantra that tears at your heart. Your will, which you thought was indestructible, has been broken with an ease that terrifies you. Everything you thought you were now feels like a lie.

The memories come in waves. Vander's smile. Singed's experiment. Silco's voice. Everything mixes together, a chaos that almost makes you stagger. Your steps become heavier, your breathing shallower.

Maybe I'm not strong enough. Maybe I never will be...

But then - another thought. An image forms in your mind's eye. The corpse parts. The possibility they hold. You remember the notebook in your pocket, the drawings, the descriptions. When you find them, when you unite them... then everything could be different.

You stand still, the rain pelting down on you, but you barely feel it. Your hands clench into fists, the cold night air bites into your skin, but a fire flares up inside you.

No matter what it costs. No matter what I have to sacrifice. I will find her. And I will never have to think like this again.

With this thought, you continue on your way. The night may swallow you up, but your gaze is now only directed forward.

Wait for me, Piltover. I'll be back soon.

But not as Y/N.

But as the Sorcerer's Apprentice.

When will you see everyone again?

Oh, sooner than you think.

A thin, bitter smirk flits across your lips as you form the words in your head. They reverberate through your mind like an echo, unstoppable, insistent. You imagine their faces - Silco, Singed, Vi, maybe even... Powder? But this time you will not return as someone weak, not as someone they can break.

Your grip on the bag tightens and your footsteps echo through the empty streets, accompanied by the gentle rhythm of the rain. The night will swallow you up, but you know - you will return, smarter, stronger, more dangerous, ready.

Soon enough.

Notes:

And that was it again with the new home. But what should you have done, Singed was just using you and you fell for it. But now with the beginning of the search for the Corpse Partsm the development of your magic and everything else will be even more exciting. The next of my stories to get an update is I think the Hold on story, or Rat, honestly, no plan. Thanks for reading, please comment how you liked it and leave kudos!

[allmyocsarebritish]

Outreach day

Pairing: Xavier X Reader

Warnings: SUPER LONG (sorry), British references (specifically England), Tyler Galpin hate projection

A/N: this took over a month omd, also I don't like Tyler can you tell??

Outreach day. Two simple words which struck fear into the hearts of all the townspeople in Jericho. Every outcast knew this much, the whole day was a pointless publicity stunt, detested by all involved. But as long as it meant the town was considered 'welcoming and inclusive' to fellow normies, and the students of the school were supposed seen as 'friendly and well-rounded', the ridiculous mandatory 'volunteer' work continued.

Not a single Nevermore pupil enjoyed the day - spending hours being singled out and targeted, gossiped about and facing constant glares from the oh-so-accepting normies was in no way a cheerful experience. Your feet were lead as you collected the dreaded envelope; the contents of which dictated the placement you were forced into for the morning. Whilst a very small handful of your classmates appeared pleasantly surprised by their assignments, disgust was etched onto the faces of most of those around you.

Despite your entirely uninterested outward appearance, a spark of curiosity began to form. You carefully peeled open the chiffon coloured envelope, revealing a slip of card.

Written in bold, deep black lettering:

Y/N L/N

Uriah's Heap

Ultimately, that wasn't the worst option available. You would be essentially isolated, substantially less exposed to pure, unfiltered hatred from the entire population of Jericho. Relief washed over you, freed from the anxieties of potential work at pilgrim world. However, the consolation was short lived.

"Hey, Y/N!" Came the voice of Ajax from behind you.

"Hi, Ajax. What did you get?" You greeted the gorgon. The two of you were reasonably close friends, sharing several lessons and frequently meeting outside of school.

"Erm, Y/N? Would you maybe be willing to trade with me?" He queried, sidestepping your question. "I saw you got Uriah's Heap. And, well Enid's working there today so I thought-"

"You haven't got pilgrim world, have you?" You groaned, already preparing yourself to decline your friends offer.

"No! No I don't." He answered you, far too quickly. "I got the Weathervane." The last three syllables were barely audible.

"The Weathervane? Really? I don't even like coffee. Do you think I'm dense, Jax? I am not spending the day with the Sheriff's son." You scoffed, scrunching your nose in distaste and already briskly walking towards the shuttle set to take all Nevermore students into Jericho.

"No, Y/N wait! Please I will do anything!" You were quick, but so was Ajax. Before you knew it, he was sat on the seat beside you, whining incessantly in your ear.

"Fine!" You grumbled, barely a minute into the journey, already bored to death of being nagged.

"Because I would- wait really?!"

"Yes, whatever. Just shut up, would you?" You playfully elbowed him in the ribs.

If Ajax thought that you hadn't noticed the thumbs up he flashed to someone behind you, he was entirely wrong. He was not subtle, at all. You shook your head, a small smile taking place on your lips. But before you had a chance to wonder what that was about, the shuttle began to speed up, reaching the road leading in to town. The rest of the trip consisted of bantering with your friend, and soon enough you had reached your dreaded destination.

Your smile completely vanished when you remembered what you had gotten yourself into. Predictably, Ajax was nowhere to be seen the minute you exited the shuttle. You rolled your eyes, silently cursing both yourself and the gorgon. If only you had more patience.

You shamelessly stretched out the walk to your unfortunate placement as much as possible, taking the longest route you could. Yet despite your best attempts, you still managed to get to your destination on time. Early, even.

Being the sensible person you were, you promptly spun around and began walking in the opposite direction, delaying your inevitable fate further. Of course, you would have to make your way into the Weathervane eventually; a Nevermore uniform stuck out like a sore thumb against the sea of normies. Constantly checking over your shoulder for any sign of Weems (or any other teacher ready to pounce on an out-of-line student), you turned a corner. This allowed you to make your way down the empty back street, void of any staring eyes. But the solitude was short lived.

Not too far into the distance stood a brick wall, sloppily coated in patchy white paint. However, your attention was immediately drawn to the extremely tall figure wearing the tell-tale blue and black stripes of Nevermore. You faintly recognised him as Xavier Thorpe, the school's resident 'tortured artist'. A pang of sympathy struck you as you recalled the reason behind the solemn way he stared at the whitewashed bricks.

"I'm sorry about your painting." Xavier immediately whipped around to face you at the faint sound of your hushed voice. He blinked at you, as you began to silently curse yourself for the second time that day. The destroyed mural was bound to be a touchy subject.

"It's fine - there's nothing I can do about it now." He responded after a prolonged moment.

The silence was drawn out and awkward, yet something about Xavier seemed strangely familiar and comfortable, despite you barely knowing him. "You're a really good artist, are they going to let you do another one?"

The look on his face was enough to immediately realise you said the wrong thing. "I'm sorry-" you began, however he cut you off.

"You don't need to apologise. They don't care remotely enough for that, and I wouldn't want to anyway."

"You'd be wasted on this shitty town." This response drew a quiet snicker from him, making you smile in turn.

"Thanks." He smiled back before quickly breaking eye contact and looking down, the corners of his mouth still lifted in a pretty smirk. The sight of which was enough to direct your own gaze to the floor.

..What?

The pretentious sound of heels clacking against concrete infiltrated your momentary confusion. You and Xavier both turned around, movements synchronized. At that moment, you were greeted with a sarcastic smirk from Weems as she stared down (more so at you), hands on her hips. Offering Xavier a mischievous grin, you braced yourself for the scolding that would surely follow.

"I believe the two of you are supposed to be at your assignments right now." She spoke rather elegantly, her posture suggested a source of authority, despite the fact she clearly lacked it, with two students set to arrive late to their placement. "I'm willing to turn a blind eye to this exchange, given the circumstance," A pointed look was directed at the mess of Xavier's mural, "but you are aware that one of the conditions of outreach day is to not make any waves. At all. Now, make your way to your placements, as my kindness will only extend so far." Her tone was clear, and out of respect you decided to surrender; she was a decent headteacher, all things considered.

Quickly glancing to your left, it was clear that Xavier was substantially less willing. You gave him a small nudge with your elbow as Weems turned and began briskly walking ahead - presumably to the Weathervane to make sure you arrived. He glanced at you, before once again looking away, an obvious scowl present on his face, not attempting to mask it in the slightest. A frown pushed its way onto your brow, concern beginning to grow.

"Wouldn't you have thought she would offer us an escort?" You joked dryly, to which he responded with a small huff and a nod. "Are you okay?" The worry festering within you began to grow at his dismissive response.

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine."

Biting back the urge to respond with a snarky comment about him not looking fine, you continued walking, realising you had no idea where Xavier's assignment was located.

Or more importantly, when he would leave.

You felt a dinky yet significant attachment towards the artist, despite never really speaking with him before now. Of course you knew of him, though you didn't really know him personally. And for some reason, you decided that should change; you wanted to spend time together, begin a friendship, maybe even more-

"I just realised." You spoke very slightly too loudly, surprising yourself, but dispersing your rampaging thoughts. Most likely at the unexpected twinge of high volume, Xavier tilted his head toward you, finally making eye contact. His chartreuse irises were flecked with hazel around the pupils, an overwhelming sea of glorious gemstone green you could certainly drown in. Barely noticeably, you shook your head to once again clear the miniscule details that sprung into much more, your mind swarming with thoughts like a hive of restless bees.

"You never told me where you're outreaching." You continued, as though you hadn't just been lost in Xavier's eyes barely a second ago.

He scoffed in response, rolling his eyes. "I got the Weathervane. So now I get to watch that normie idiot ride his own dick all day acting all innocent."

You shouldn't have been happy. You really shouldn't have. And you weren't. No, you weren't happy - instead you were ecstatic, thrilled, overjoyed, delighted. Your joy was kept in check, however, when remembering that this was probably the worst assignment Xavier could have gotten. Truthfully, you had no idea the extent of which Tyler's ambush had reached last year, but you were well aware of the state of Xavier when he returned that day. Bruised, battered and bloodied, and the thought of his suffering made your heart break.

"Do you want to know something?" Your voice wavered, and you hoped the remaining excitement did not translate. Xavier gave a little nod, prompting you to continue.

"I've got the Weathervane too."

The ghost of a smile graces his lips, and you responded with your own grin.

A comfortable silence extended as you continued walking together. The sense of sheer dread in approaching the cafè was no longer so extreme, rather being overpowered by something else; electrifying thrill about spending the day with the boy you only really just met. A twinge of disappointment remained, of all places of course it had to be the Weathervane. But, nevertheless, you were still insanely grateful to Ajax for allowing you this opportunity.

Unbeknownst to you, Xavier was also feeling substantially perkier about the assignment. Ajax had managed to convince you, and his day would in fact be tolerable. Who knows, maybe it could even be fun - after all, a full morning with the girl he liked would undoubtedly be at least marginally enjoyable.

The two of you had subconsciously drifted closer as you walked, until eventually your hands ended up softly brushing together. A surge of electricity flowed through your body, skin burning in the place you had made contact. You almost felt as though your fingers were flaming, hand nothing but raging fire. A small glance out of the corner if your eye had you even more flushed, and a smile tugged at your lips.

What? No-one else had this kind of effect on you.

You wouldn't deny that you kind of liked it.

Regardless of your detour, and in spite of you and Xavier dragging out the walk as long as physically possible, eventually the two of you managed to reach the Weathervane. You shared a brief glance and a deep breath, before simultaneously pushing open the door.

"Nice of you to finally show up." Tyler's attempt at a joke did not translate. You both looked at him blankly, already sick of his shit, yet playing nice.

For now.

"Well, uh, I'll get you each a shirt and apron." Tyler awkwardly smiled. It was quickly dropped, however, when he was greeted with two intense glares. The both of you were entirely unimpressed, and evidently the innocent façade was never going to get you swooning for the normie.

He sighed lightly, wandering into the backroom behind the counter. You turned to Xavier, rolling your eyes and shaking your head softly, to which he responded with a smirk.

Soon enough, Tyler returned, holding two Weathervane uniforms. Enhanced by what you knew of his reputation, you really didn't like Galpin. He was incredibly tense and awkward, but in a really off-putting way that made it seem as though he had something to hide. His unsettling nature made for a largely uncomfortable, disconcerting atmosphere in the small café. The silence was prolonged in a way that starkly contrasted the relaxed ambience when meeting Xavier by the ruined mural. There may have been the odd awkward moment, yet it never felt like this.

On the topic of Xavier's mural, the memory of the sheer hurt on the already tortured artist's face was enough to make you cross your arms, resuming your disapproving glare towards the barista.

Your thoughts were disturbed by a disgusting vision that made your blood run cold.

Two normies held him down, forcing him to watch as dull, eggshell white paint was splashed over hours of work, like tippex covering a mistake. Mocking laughter rang through his ears as sharp pains radiated from each landed punch. Tears welled in his eyes as Galpins fist came pummeling onto his nose, causing excruciating agony.

Returning to your current reality, you discovered you had missed Tyler advising the two of you on where to change. A gentle hand resting on your right shoulder caused a surge of electricity to shock you out of your tempestuous mind, clearing any remaining flecks of the vision from your current consciousness.

"Sorry." Xavier smiled slightly, and your heart shattered like glass at how he was treated. "You seemed a little zoned out."

"Yeah, thanks." Was all you managed in response. Frowning, you trailed behind Tyler as he showed you the staff room at the back of the shop. When you returned, now kitted out in your very own apron and polo shirt, Xavier was already waiting for you. His tawny hair cascaded freely, very slightly covering the sides of his face. The crimson apron was tied behind his back, enhancing his slender figure. It was incredibly flattering, despite being the enemy uniform. Your cheeks flushed when you realised you had been staring. It may have been your imagination, but you could have sworn a pink tinge appeared on Xavier's face to match your own. The two of you maintained eye contact for a bit too long, before breaking it and quickly dropping your gazes to the floor.

As always, the moment was interrupted by fucking Tyler. So what if you were a little bit grateful this time? It was still Tyler.

"Have either of you ever used an espresso machine?" He asked, radiating an air of superiority that made turned your veins molten.

"You just press buttons. Probably." You answered snarkily, avoiding the question of whether you had actually used one and uttering the last word beneath your breath.

"Uh, I think there's a bit more to it than that." Tyler half-smiled.

You rolled your eyes again, and Xavier had to suppress a laugh at your extreme irritance caused by the barista. He just had that effect on you. The way he strode in on his high horse just because he happened to be the normie son of the sheriff made you sick, enhanced by his targeting of outcasts (mainly Xavier). The final straw was the innocent façade he upheld. So, no. You didn't like Galpin.

The sound of someone clearing their throat once again brought you to reality. Were you even trying to listen to Tyler teaching you to work the machine? No, that's why there were two of you. Besides, surely it wouldn't be that hard to wing for a few hours.

Your first task of the day was taking orders. It was simple, really. Head to the table, ask the customer for their order, then report back to Tyler. An easy task to ease you into the art of the establishment. Collecting a small notepad and pen, you and Xavier wandered to the only occupied table.in the whole café. A glimmer of mischief flickered in your eye as you looked up at Xavier, something that made his heart beat a little quicker and his hands tremble ever so slightly.

Back to the task at hand, you approached the booth, smiling sweetly.

"Hello, and welcome to the Weathervane!" You clasped your hands together. "Could I take your order?"

"Oh, just a latte."

Smiling once more, you scribbled onto the lined paper, offering a thank you to the man in the booth before wandering back to the counter, Xavier following close behind. Hoisting yourself up onto the countertop, you tossed the pad to Tyler. If it hit his face that wasn't your problem. You were quick to revert to false innocence, staring up at him with huge, blameless doe eyes.

"He wants a black coffee."

"He asked for an espresso."

You both responded at the same time, dissolving into giggles. Tyler frowned at you both, patience already wearing thin. Sighing, he picked up the paper and began making what he hoped was in fact the actual order.

Xavier shook his head at you, a pretty smirk resting on his face. He leant back on the counter you were sat on, using his arms to prop himself up.

"You know, I bet I could get more tips tha you if I tried." He teased, licking his lips and surpressing yet another smile.

"No way." You narrowed your eyes playfully.

"We'll see." He shrugged, sending you a wink that made your knees weak. It was certainly a good job that you were already seated.

After your antics on the easiest task possible, you and Xavier were demoted to table-cleaning. The two of you took a rag each, wiping the wooden surface at a snails pace.

"I've never even drank coffee." You muttered. "Apparently at pilgrim world they get free fudge. Imagine that." Huffing, you continued wiping slowly.

"Yeah, I mean, its alright but not something I'd dedicate my life to." You snickered at Xavier's subtle dig at Tyler, bringing a smile to his face.

"So, I suppose you prefer tea, then?" He responded, forcing a posh accent and butchering it. You crinkled your nose in distaste.

"Was that supposed to be me? And no, I don't like tea either." You responded, holding back a laugh.

"What? What kind of British person are you?"

"I'm really sorry to tell you this, Xavier. I actually am, but honestly, no-one I know from England drinks tea." You responded, laughing at his reaction.

"So what do you like to drink?" He asked.

"I don't know, Coke? Dr Pepper?"

"Okay, okay. Pepsi or Coke?" He asked urgently, as though it were a matter of life and death.

"Uhh. Will my answer change the way you think of me?" You questioned, a slight frown accompanying your amused smile.

"Oh, absolutely." He joked back.

"Okay, don't kill me, but I honestly can't tell the difference."

His eyes widened in shock as his jaw dropped sarcastically.

The two of you laughed again, smiling at eachother when the giggles died down. The gaze you gave held so much emotion to be directed at someone you barely knew. But with Xavier it didn't feel sudden. He licked his lips, and you accidentally let your eyes trail down. Even though it only lasted a split-second, you felt your cheeks light up as his lips pulled into a smirk.

"Are you guys almost done over there?" GALPIN.

A string of profanities exited your lips as you placed dirtied mugs onto the tray that rested on the table whilst Xavier's heart began to flutter at the thought of you looking at him like that.

~

Not paying attention to Tyler's demonstration proved to actually be a huge blessing. He was entirely sick of you, meaning you were immediately loaded off onto Xavier. Little did Galpin know, he wasn't listening either.

"Google it!" He whispered to you, warm breath fanning against your ear. The proximity was flustering, and you hoped beyond hope that Xavier couldn't see your hands shaking as you typed into the search bar.

"Uh, Xav?" You turned back to him, stopping suddenly when remembering how close he was to you. "I can't be bothered to do all this." You huffed.

If you noticed his cheeks reddening at the use of the nickname, you didn't mention it.

"I mean, we could always just.. not."

"I mean yeah I guess you could, but why would you waste time like that?"

"Passive aggressive much?" Xavier whispered, making you snicker softly in response.

"I heard that." The barista hissed through gritted teeth. "Just go and clean more tables then." Tyler sighed, shaking his head. You made eye contact with Xavier, squealing internally before racing back to the table. The two of you resumed scrubbing, both lost on thought.

The gentle knocking of his hand against yours dragged you from your thoughts, dispersing them as you flinched instinctively.

"Sorry." Xavier mumbled, though he did not make an effort to move his hand.

"No, it's fine." You responded quickly, refraining from retracting your own.

The tension was electrifying, and chills crawled over your skin when you finally made eye contact with the blonde artist. Wordlessly, the two of you seemed to inch closer, subconsciously drifting further into eachother's presence. Rags discarded on the equally abandoned table, Xavier leaned his head down slightly, licking his lips subtly.

"I guess you can go now, your shift is over" Tyler declared, rolling his eyes at the outcasts before him.

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too" Xavier flipped him off, already on his way to return to the comforting sapphire and raven stripes of Nevermore. You smiled sweetly, tossing up your own first and middle finger. (A backwards peace sign is like a British middle finger)

The return to the shuttle was solemn- the two of you had barely spoken prior to this, and you were unsure if you ever would again. But, you weren't going to take that chance.

"Hey, Xav?" You boldly decided it was absolutely now or never. Heart pounding as he hummed in response, you cleared your throat.

"I'm sorry if this is a bit too forward, but, do you think I could take your number? You're really cool and I don't want this to be the last time we ever speak."

With an adorable lopsided grin, he offered his hand, to which you gave your phone, already open to the contacts page.

~

Reaching the shuttle all too soon, you waved goodbye to Xavier sweetly, bouncing back to your seat next to Ajax. He let you take your window seat, because, after all, you had suffered through a day of Tyler Galpin.

"So, how did it go?" He asked, and you summoned all of your will strength as to not combust on the spot.

~

Let's just say Ajax's phone barely survived the night of pounding messages from both you and your tortured artist.

[scary-grace]

Hello, dear author! I come bearing quite a lot of questions about the early chapters of your incredible fic, Kairos! As I have told you before, if you think answering these questions will create spoilers which you do not want to divulgate yet, feel free to leave them be or answer them vaguely.

Let's begin!

1. When Bard told Thranduil to take Legolas and Tauriel with them to Bard’s house back when the first blizzard hit and Bain had the 2 dislocated ribs, he(Bard) was thinking about Sauron eating them, wasn't he? (though this might have been answered in the later chapters with Bard explaining the house situation to Thran) (ch. 6-7)

2. Will Thran place that call about a pulmonologist for Bain that was mentioned while he was preparing hot cocoa for the kids that first night? If yes, how would he proceed? (ch.7) 

3. Why make them read the book ‘A Wrinkle in Time’ specifically? Is it of any importance to the plot or did you choose it because you liked it and thought to include it simply because of that? Or is the plot of that book sonewhat connected to Sauron and ehat is going on in there, since we now know that Thranduil's powers have to do with some kind of time-travel? (ch. 7)

4. When/If Sauron gets killed, will Thranduil burn the drawings related to it or will he keep them? Regardless of the answer, why would he choose to do that specific thing with the drawings? Or will they burn the house down and everything inside it as well?

I understand this might look more like an assignment about your fic and not so much like an ask from a reader that wants certain things clarified. I think A LOT about this fic and the endless possibilities that the plot could have, and I want to know a lot of things which might not seem that important to the main story, but which would put my mind at ease for a while. Most likely, as I continue my re-read of Kairos, I'll come with more questions, with the same 'rules' set in place.

Once again, sorry if this seems too out-there and I genuinely hope you have an amazing day/night!

☆♡☆♡☆

Hi, and thank you for the ask! I love getting detailed asks about the fics, especially about the longer ones, and Kairos is the longest of all! I'm excited to answer these, and I don't think they constitute spoilers at this point, but I'll put them under the cut just to be safe.

1) When Bard told Thranduil to take Legolas and Tauriel with them to Bard’s house back when the first blizzard hit and Bain had the 2 dislocated ribs, he(Bard) was thinking about Sauron eating them, wasn't he?

That's exactly what he was thinking about! Up until that point, Bard had been semi-successfully ignoring the truth (that in order for (most of) his children to be safe, one or both of Thranduil's children would have to die). When he actually sees the two of them as he's in the act of taking Thranduil away from the house, he realizes very suddenly what he's actually doing. Bard's questions about his own morality are answered very suddenly: He can't save his children at the expense of someone else's. He has to save them all.

2) Will Thran place that call about a pulmonologist for Bain that was mentioned while he was preparing hot cocoa for the kids that first night? If yes, how would he proceed?

Yes, he will! In general, he'll review Bain's medical records, collect the relevant information, and do what's essentially a case presentation over the phone to the pulmonologist in question. Based on that, the pulmonologist will order further testing if indicated and schedule a visit. This would mean a trip to New York (most likely) or Boston (Thranduil would prefer New York), or a house call, if Thranduil can convince the doctor in question to make one. He's very persuasive.

3) Why make them read the book ‘A Wrinkle in Time’ specifically?

Part of my research for the fic involved looking up books and such that would have been available to read in 1977, and I was very pleased to see A Wrinkle in Time on that list! I have fond memories of my mom reading it aloud to me as a kid, and when I reread it for the purposes of the fic, I noticed a lot of themes in the book that seemed to correspond to themes in Kairos. Readers who are familiar with both A Wrinkle in Time and Kairos might recognize some similarities between the scene where Meg, her father, and Calvin travel through the Black Thing from Camazotz to Ixchel and the scene where Thranduil flees from Sauron through time. So the answer to your question is yes.

4) When/If Sauron gets killed, will Thranduil burn the drawings related to it or will he keep them? Regardless of the answer, why would he choose to do that specific thing with the drawings? Or will they burn the house down and everything inside it as well?

Thranduil is attracted to the idea of burning the house down because he doesn't believe in leaving things to chance, and he's never been as attached to the house as he is to the estate and to the people who live there. Everyone else is more concerned about what will happen with the resulting fire, which is why the rest of them are against it. As for the drawings, Thranduil finds them deeply unsettling and doesn't want to look at them, particularly since they're a reminder of what dwells within the house. His feelings on them might change depending on the outcome of the fight with Sauron.

Thank you again for the ask! I hope you're having a happy Sunday <3

[megthemariner]

HI MEG HI WELCOME TO DADWC :D How about 'I know you're hurt. And I'm tired of waiting for you to bring it up' for Mina and Davrin??

ahsjdshsk Jacs you know meeee so well, this is such a good one for them!!!!!! Also it figures this would be my longest filled prompt so far…..I just can’t get enough of my girl Mina, I love her so much….

For @dadrunkwriting

Veilguard Mention!

———

Audience: Teen | Pairing: Davrin & Rook Ingellvar, minor Lucanis/Rook Ingellvar | WC: ~900 | CW: injury, discussion of major injury and death, discussion of anatomy (not sexual)

———

They’re only about halfway back to Lavendel when Davrin steps in front of her, suddenly cutting off her path forward.

“I know you’re hurt. And I’m tired of waiting for you to bring it up.” His voice is matter of fact, his arms crossed in front of him.

“What? No, I’m fi-” Mina cuts off mid-word as Davrin elbows her in the ribs, hard. She sucks in her lip, biting down on it. She will not groan out loud. She refuses to give him the satisfaction. But she still ends up bent over, her own arms wrapping around her instinctively.

“Yeah, that looks like the reaction of a totally ‘fine’ person, Ingellvar.”

“You elbowed me in the ribs!” She manages to cough out. Spirits, this hurts. How did he know the exact spot to hit? Mina looks around for Lucanis, surprised at his lack of reaction. She finds him behind her, with his arms also crossed, looking at her with concern. Great. They’re actually working together on something, and it’s bullying me, she thinks ruefully.

Davrin looks over her, towards Lucanis. “It’s like you said, broken rib. Maybe even more than one. I guess all that Crow training has some uses.”

“It does.” Lucanis’ voice is low, controlled, and Mina wonders if it’s because she’s in pain or if Spite is acting up again. “I am also skilled at caring for wounds, although Rook should not be in need of those services.”

Ah. This again. She doesn’t miss the way he says Rook, or the fact that he used her nickname at all. Mina almost wishes Spite would act up just to take the focus off her.

“You know, I think I liked it better when you two weren’t getting along,” she says, straightening. Her side twinges painfully, muscles complaining, her nerves on fire. She grits her teeth, breathing quickly, and holds her side. Lucanis, at the very least, would notice any reaction she had, so she might as well react to the pain. “It’s not that bad. I can keep going. Emmrich can heal it when we’re back at the Lighthouse.” Before she’s even finished speaking, she can tell they’re both going to have an issue with this. Blasted darkspawn-filled swamp, she thinks, bitterly. Fighting spirits and undead never leaves me with broken ribs.

“Even if it wasn’t that bad-”

“-which it clearly is-” Lucanis interjects, sounding angry. Or irritated. Mina can’t tell, exactly.

“Even if it wasn’t that bad,” Davrin repeats, “there’s still a high chance that we’re going to run into more darkspawn before reaching Lavendel. And I’m not getting killed by some hurlock because he’s-” he gestures sharply towards Lucanis, “-too distracted making sure none get close to you.” Lucanis starts to make some noise of disagreement from behind her, but Davrin cuts him off. “Don’t even try to deny it, Crow. You two are more obvious than you think.”

What? Mina blinks, trying to process everything, but her ribs are still pulsing agonisingly - distractingly - with each heartbeat.

“Why haven’t you just healed it yourself, anyways?” Davrin turns to look at her again. She’s proven time and time again to be a very proficient healer, so the question is warranted. But she was hoping they’d just…forget to ask.

“Well,” how to say this in a way they Lucanis won’t argue with…“it’s a very complex injury to heal, and if I don’t do it exactly right, it won’t set properly. It’s a lot easier with two skilled healers, like Emmrich and myself.”

Lucanis just stares at her. “I have set many broken ribs, Rook.” She grits her teeth. Mina knows the pain is making her short-tempered, but he’s really starting to get on her nerves. How many times do we need to have this same argument?!

“Yes, well, it’s still my body and I still know how to take care of myself, Lucanis. Do you know how many layers of fascia, muscles and ligaments are around the ribs? How carefully they connect to each other, how if severed and reattached in the wrong place, it can cause lasting pain? Or that if twisted just slightly too much, a broken rib can puncture the lungs,” - she gestures on her own body, turning pain into anger - “or nick important blood vessels, both of which would kill me before either of you could do anything about it?”

Both men stand silently staring at her from either side of the path. Neither move. Davrin, at least, seems to be considering her words.

“Alright, Ingellvar. I’ll take your word on the healing thing, but that doesn’t change the fact that you can’t exactly fight right now. And I don’t believe for a second that he’s just going to let this go and fight like normal.” He flicks his eyes towards Lucanis as he finishes speaking.

She turns to look over at Lucanis, and feels her heart crawl deeper into her chest. Lucanis seems to be even more at war with himself than normal. Fuck. She opens her mouth, reaching a hand out towards him, but he pushes past her. He doesn’t say anything, even as he steps toward Davrin, who moves to let him pass. Davrin shoots her a questioning look, but she is such a mess of emotions that she can’t think of a thing to say in response, so she just starts following Lucanis instead. Davrin throws his hands up in exasperation, muttering something about ‘why he even tries’ and ‘both stubborn as bronto’ and something in elvhen that she doesn’t catch at all.

Mina just stares at Lucanis’ back, wondering how she’ll fix this on top of everything else, and sighs - gritting her teeth against the pain that follows.

———

(If you liked this, keep an eye out for whenever I finally finish & post Lost & Found, my longfic exploring Mina and Lucanis’ relationship during DAV)

[overdevelopedglasses]

Tojoctober Day 22 - Stamina

(So step on up to the plate)

Alt title is from “Time to Make History”, P4G's Battle Theme

A question is posed to the group: Who has the best stamina??? 

(No spoilers!)

—-------------------------------

“Alright then!” Majima stands up from his seat, slamming his drink onto the bar, drawing the attention of all of the occupants in the room. New Serena was a lot more packed than normal, and a cheery atmosphere was in the air.

“We’re really doing this, Majima-san?” Majima looks down at Kiryu, who was seated next to him at the bar. If anyone else was looking at the dragon, they’d think he’d be worried, but Majima knows the man better than most.

“We’re doing this, Kiryu-chan. Oi, you four!” Majima shouts, drawing the eyes of Saejima, Akiyama, and two others who Majima thinks he remembers the names of… Tanimura’s the one in the blue jacket, and Shinada is the scruffy guy… right?

“Who in here has the most stamina?”

“Well, it’s obviously me, brother.” Saejima laughs and takes a swig of his drink. “Have you seen me?” Saejima takes a moment to subtly flex, drawing a chuckle from his sworn brother.

“What about me?” Shinada pipes in, “I was a baseball player, you know. And I’ve kept up with my training all this time.”

“Well, it’s definitely not me!” Akiyama jokes, and everyone laughs.

“Why don’t we have a friendly competition?” Tanimura suggests. Everyone else nods in agreement. “But how do we test stamina?” Kiryu asks? “There are multiple uses for the skill, so how do we figure out rules for a competition?”

“I’d suggest a brothel, but I don’t think everyone here would be alright with that,” Akiyama says, with a bit of mischief coating his expression. “Besides, that’s a backwards use for stamina with this group.”

“Awww, c’mon!” Majima fake-whines, earning a jab in the ribs from Kiryu.

“Why don’t we do a footrace?” Saejima suggests. “We can use South Senryo Avenue, it’s pretty clear at this time of day.”

“But isn’t that a test of speed?” Kiryu inquires.

“Well, it could be, but what if we did the most amount of back and forth laps?” Tanimura answers, brow creased in though. “Whoever lasts the longest wins!”

“But that’s only one test of stamina. We've implied there are multiple uses for the shit.” Majima interjects. This was a harder question to answer than he initially thought. 

“What about the batting cages?” Shinada says, “Whoever lasts the longest in those wins?”

“Not a terrible idea, Shinada-san.” Akiyama replies, “Although I do feel like you have an advantage there…” “We’ll do the batting cages second then.” Kiryu says. 

“Alright. To Senryo Avenue?” Tanimura asks.

5 different pitches of agreement sound off, and all of the men rush out of the bar.

“Well, there’s already a problem.” Kiryu says, as they arrive at the entrance to the street, the Kamurocho sun providing some light, but not doing a lot to puncture the winter chill that had settled upon the group.

“Haw? What problem, Kiryu-chan?” Majima asks, giving the space a once over. The street’s pretty clear, as his brother had said. The ground is pretty smooth, too.

“The street isn’t wide enough, Majima-san” Akiyama saunters to Majima’s other side. “We can’t all go at once. We’ll have to race in 2 groups of 3. So… everyone partner up?”

The group splits apart, and pairs are quickly made. Majima decides to change it up from who he instinctually thinks of as a partner, and picks Tanimura. Saejima pairs up with Kiryu, which leaves Akiyama and Shinada together. The detective does make Majima a bit antsy, however he trusts in what Kiryu had told him earlier, that the detective wouldn’t sell out him or his brother.

“Alright, so… Kiryu, Shinada, and Tanimura, get ready. The rest of us, count how many single laps that your partner completes. When everyone’s done, we’ll swap and do the same thing.” Akiyama instructs.

Majima pulls his phone out, remembering it had a simple counter feature. He brings it up, and resets it to zero.

“Alright, gentlemen.” Majima walks out in front of all 3 of them. “Remember, yer racin for stamina, not speed. Get to the edge of Taihei Boulevard,” Majima points to the end of the road, “and then get yer asses back here, and on and on until ya can’t anymore. When ya think yer done…” Majima pauses, thinking for a second, “wave your arms in the air frantically until yer partner signals at you, and then get outta the way of the others.” Somehow, everyone agrees with what Majima is saying.

“Allllright then! On yer marks…”

The three men who are ready to race assume starting positions.

“Get set……”

Majima wishes he had some sort of starting gun with him. He’d shoot it at Kiryu to make him jump. As a prank… as you do.

“GOOOOOOOOOOO!”

With Majima’s shout, the three men were off. Majima has to jump out of the way quickly, as Kiryu almost barrels into him.

Majima takes his place between Akiyama and Saejima, phone with the counter in hand, as he watches Tanimura sprint to the end of the road, Kiryu and Shinada not far behind.

“Tanimura-san does realize he’s running for stamina, right?” Akiyama asks, as Tanimura is already running back towards them.

“I’m not sure. He’s really hoofin’ it though.” Saejima replies, as Majima inputs another tick on the counter.

Akiyama’s prediction was right, as Tanimura comes up to Majima shortly after, waving his arms in the air frantically. 

“Alright, alright, I get it, detective boy. Go take a breather.”

Tanimura pats him on the shoulder, then slumps against the building. “I… feel like… I did that wrong.” he puffs out, taking off his jacket to assist with oxygen intake. Majima almost opens his mouth to say that it won’t help, but shuts it when Tanimura immediately shivers and puts it back on.

“How are the others doing?” he asks, hands now crossed in front of his chest.

“Kiryu-san is on lap 5. Still going strong from the looks of things,” Saejima says. 

“That’s Kiryu-chan for you,” Majima says, smirking.

“Shinada-san is at lap 7,” Akiyama pipes in. “Can’t tell his condition from here though.” Majima sees the baseball player at the end of the street, who quickly turns to run back to the group. 

“How many laps did I get, Majima-san?” Tanimura asks, finally having regained his breath.

Majima looks down at his phone, “8. Not bad, but…”

“Fuck.” Tanimura breaths out, back slumping against the wall. The others laugh in response.

“Could do good at the batting cages though, Tanimura.” Saejima says, in an attempt at comfort.

“Yeah, if I’m this winded? I'll be surprised if I even hit a ball.”

"Don't have such a pessimistic attitude, Tanimura-san!" Akiyama replies. 

"I'm being realistic, Akiyama-san." Tanimura shoots back, standing upright.

"That borders on pessimism." Majima counters, and the two men bicker for a bit until Majima sees Kiryu begin to wave his arms in the air.

"Kiryu's done." Saejima said, showing the others his counter, which reads 16.

"16???" Tanimura exclaims. "Well, shit."

"That's our Kiryu-chan." Majima says with pride, as he rejoins the others.

"Phew… that takes a lot out of you." Kiryu says, hands on his knees, breathing heavily. 

"Ya need some water?" Majima asks with a touch of concern. He pulls a water bottle out of his coat, which Kiryu accepts happily.

"You didn't ask me if I needed water!?" Tanimura shouts.

"Yer a detective, I figured ya had some!" Majima counters.

Saejima laughs, "He also relentlessly dotes on Kiryu-san, so don't be surprised."

"HEY!" Majima shouts, smacking his brother in the shoulder, causing him to laugh even harder. Kiryu joins in the laughter.

"I always appreciate it, Majima-san," Kiryu says, "Tanimura, do you want some of my water?"

"Fuck you." Tanimura replies, sitting back down on the ground.

"Don't take it out on him!" Majima shouts, trying desperately to mask his anger.

"See what I mean?" Saejima says, laughing.

Shinada finally arrives, tapping out. Akiyama inputs his final lap.

"20! Nice work, Shinada."

Shinada crouches next to Tanimura, who gapes at the baseball star. “I guess you’re just built differently.”

“I mean, is anyone else here a former athlete?”

“I don’t think so. Nice job, Shinada-san.” Saejima says. “But, I guess it’s our turn.”

The pairs swap roles, with Akiyama, Saejima, and Majima all lined up at the start. Kiryu stands in front of them.

“Alright. Same deal as with us. You know how to get yourself tagged out of the laps. Just do the best you can.”

All 3 men nod.

“Ready…”

Saejima and Akiyama take their stances. Majima tosses his sheathed tanto to the side, causing Tanimura to jump slightly.

“Set…”

Majima takes his starting stance.

“GO!!!!!!”

The three men blast off from the starting line, and begin running up and down the street. Majima becomes keenly aware of the burning in his legs, but continues to push on. He does notice Akiyama tag out after 6 laps. Lightweight. Majima thinks.

“How ya doin', brother?” Majima shouts as he passes by Saejima on his 9th lap.

“Doin' alright. What about you?” Saejima responds as they pass each other again in the next lap.

“I can easily keep goin'!” Majima shouts on Lap 11.

“Don’t push yerself!” Saejima pushes Majima in the shoulder lightly, and then watches Saejima tag himself out. It’s just him.

Majima takes stock of his physical condition. His lungs now burn as well, and while Saejima just said he shouldn’t push himself, he’s on lap 14 now, and if he can get over 20 laps, he wins this section.

Well, at least him running all over Kamurocho a bunch since 2005 was now paying its dividends. 

He counts the laps in his head, and while he thinks he's at 20, he doesn’t want to run more laps to make it certain. He jogs back on what he thinks is Lap 22. 

“What’s my count, Tanimura? I’m pooped.” Majima slumps against a building, accepting the offered water bottle from Kiryu.

“24! Majima wins this round.”

“Fuck yeah.” Majima says, weakly putting a fist into the air.

The batting cage round essentially goes the same. Tanimura did predict his performance, as he taps out very quickly. Almost everyone also predicted Shinada winning the baseball round, but Majima came in a close second.

“Well, now we have an issue. Who has more stamina, Majima or Shinada?”

“Well, we needa third round, then.” Majima says. “We can’t pick it, though.” he gestures to Shinada and himself.

“I have an idea…” Kiryu says, and Majima sees a rare sight: Kiryu’s face is the one creased with mischief.

That’s because of course, he drags everyone to Karaokekan, pays for a room, and they all now sit around the screen, with Shinada and Majima holding two mics.

“So, who's up first?” Kiryu asks, Majima noticing the excitement beginning to glimmer in his eyes.

“I’ll go.” Majima stands up, and picks Get to The Top, singing in his own crazy way. While he visualizes a multitude of dance moves, he just focuses on the vocalization. The room cheers once he’s finished.

“Alright, Shinada-san. What do you have?” Akiyama pipes in as Majima takes a seat.

Shinada stands up, and belts out a pretty great rendition of Machine Gun Kiss, sitting down to another round of cheering.

“Alright, from here on, it’s a judge of quality as well. If we think you can’t do it, you’re out. We’ll be as impartial and fair as we can.” Kiryu instructs, and the other 4 men agree. “So, Majima, you’re up next.”

The quality judge is a harsh one. He can’t just pick random songs and scream anymore.

That means…

Majima scrolls over to the 80s hits, and picks the one he knows.

“Wait, Majima-san, you know that song!?” Tanimura asks with wonder in his voice.

“What’s that suppose ta mean?” Majima snaps, but not as harshly as he has before. Tanimura doesn't snap back, the song starts, and Majima almost slips into his 80s mindset with the song, but he resists. He finishes with a flourish, to uproarious applause.

“I think that passes, right everyone?” Tanimura shouts.

3 voices of agreement, and Majima sits with a smile.

“Shinada, you’re up.” Kiryu gives Shinada the mic that works. Shinada, not to be outdone, pulls up a song the gentlemen are pretty familiar with. Shinada also does a couple idol poses, giving the boys a good laugh. He passes the quality check, and Majima is up again.

“Ya have another one in ya, brother?”

“Course I do!” Majima says with a bit of an exasperated huff, and scrolls over to Pride From Despair.

“You sure you know this one, Majima-san?” Kiryu asks with a bit of concern.

“Ya don’t know all of my tricks, Kiryu-chan.”

Turns out, Majima had also learned the actual lyrics to the song, in the time since he and Kiryu had done this together. Kiryu watches in awe, as the other men, minus Shinada, shouted along. Majima ended, passed, and sat back down.

“Well, Shinada-san? You have one in you?” Akiyama asks.

Shinada sits for a second, and ponders for a bit, finally letting out a huge breath of defeat.

“Nah… Majima wins.”

[andromeda-ophiuchus]

Veiled Vengeance

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

WORD COUNT: 8,779

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x F!OC

I know I've been gone for a while, but not only am I in University now, but I also have a job which I'm leaving soon. I also cut my dad off and fell out of love with Cod or Call of Duty, the main fandom I write for. But I'm back now and with a long chapter too, one of the longest I've ever written

The first cancellation came three months after their wedding, when Bruce missed their anniversary dinner at the small Italian restaurant where they'd had their first real date. Latoya sat alone at the corner table, watching the candle wax pool while her osso buco grew cold. His text had been brief: Emergency at Wayne Enterprises. So sorry. Will make it up to you.

The second cancellation was their planned weekend in Coast City. Bruce had looked genuinely pained when he'd called from "the office" at midnight, his voice strained with exhaustion she could hear even through the phone. "There's been a situation with the board. I can't leave Gotham right now."

By the fourth missed date—a charity gala she'd specifically asked him to attend because she was being honored for her work with at-risk youth—Latoya stopped keeping count.

"You're becoming a ghost," she told him one morning, watching him wince as he reached for his coffee. There was a fresh bruise along his jaw that he'd blamed on a late-night collision with his office door. "Even when you're here, you're not really here."

Bruce's fingers found hers across the breakfast table, his thumb tracing circles on her palm—a gesture that once would have made her heart skip. Now it felt like an apology he couldn't voice. "The company's going through some transitions. Once things settle—"

"When?" The question came out sharper than she'd intended. "When will things settle, Bruce? Because it's been two years, and if anything, you're more absent now than ever."

He opened his mouth to respond, but Alfred's entrance cut him off. The butler's expression was carefully neutral as he refilled their coffee cups, but Latoya caught the meaningful look he exchanged with Bruce. Another wordless conversation she wasn't part of.

"I have to go," Bruce said, rising from the table. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, but she could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his attention was already elsewhere. "We'll talk tonight."

They didn't talk that night. Or the next. Bruce came home after midnight, slipping into bed with movements so careful they wouldn't have woken a much deeper sleeper than Latoya. She lay still in the darkness, cataloging the new injuries her fingers found when he finally settled beside her. Scraped knuckles. A tender spot along his ribs. The faint smell of smoke and something metallic clinging to his skin.

She tried telling herself it was stress. The pressures of running a multinational corporation, the weight of Gotham's expectations on the Wayne name. But the rational explanations felt increasingly hollow as the months wore on.

Latoya had grown up in Crime Alley. She knew what violence looked like, what it left behind. The marks on Bruce's body weren't from boardroom stress or gym accidents. They were deliberate, purposeful—the kind that came from dangerous people doing dangerous things.

And Bruce Wayne had the resources to make any problem disappear.

She'd seen how Gotham's elite operated, how they used their wealth and influence to navigate around the law. Money could buy silence, could bury scandals, could make inconvenient people vanish. The thought made her stomach turn, but she couldn't shake it. What if Bruce wasn't the man she'd fallen in love with? What if he was exactly like every other corrupt billionaire in this city, just better at hiding it?

Late at night, when Bruce's breathing finally evened out beside her and she traced the map of new scars across his back, Latoya wondered which version of him was real—and which one she'd been fool enough to marry.

The call came on a Tuesday evening in October. Latoya was in the manor's library, grading papers from her volunteer work at the community center, when Alfred appeared in the doorway with an expression she'd never seen before—something between grief and determination.

"Mrs. " he said quietly, "Master Wayne asked me to inform you that he'll be bringing someone home with him tonight."

Something in his tone made her set down her pen. "Someone?"

Alfred's hands clasped behind his back, his posture formal in the way it became when he was delivering news he knew would change everything. "A young boy. Twelve years old. He... he's recently lost his parents."

The words hit her like a physical blow. She thought of the little girl at their wedding, of the dreams that still came sometimes in the quiet hours before dawn. "Alfred—"

"His name is Dick Grayson," Alfred continued gently. "Master Wayne has decided to take him in. The boy has nowhere else to go."

Latoya stared at him, her mind racing. Bruce hadn't discussed this with her. Hadn't even mentioned there was a child who needed help. After two years of marriage, after everything they'd been through, he was making decisions about their family without her.

"Where is Bruce now?" she asked, her voice carefully controlled.

"On his way home with the boy."

She nodded, closing her gradebook with deliberate calm. "I see."

But she didn't see. She didn't understand how Bruce could make a choice this monumental without consulting her. She didn't understand how Alfred could stand there, delivering the news like he was announcing dinner plans. Most of all, she didn't understand why her heart was racing with something that felt like hope and terror in equal measure.

A child. After all this time, after all their struggles and losses, Bruce was bringing home a child.

Not their child. But maybe... maybe that didn't matter.

Dick Grayson was small for twelve, all sharp angles and dark hair that caught the light in a way that made Latoya's breath hitch. He stood in the manor's front hall beside Bruce, clutching a battered duffel bag, and the resemblance was unmistakable. The same bone structure, the same piercing blue eyes, the same stubborn set to his jaw.

Her stomach dropped.

"Dick," Bruce said, his voice gentler than she'd heard it in months, "this is my wife, Latoya."

The boy's gaze flicked to her briefly before settling somewhere over her left shoulder. His politeness was careful, practiced—the kind that came from adults who expected children to be seen and not heard.

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," he said quietly.

Latoya stared at him, her mind racing. The timing made sense now—Bruce's increased absences over the past few years, the mysterious injuries, the late-night disappearances. And now this child who looked so much like him that denying paternity would be impossible.

How long had Bruce been lying to her? She crouched down to his eye level, noting how he tensed but didn't step back. "You can call me Latoya," she said. "And I'm glad you're here."

Dick's eyes met hers for the first time, searching for something she hoped she was projecting. Warmth. Safety. The promise that this place could be a home if he let it.

"Alfred's prepared the blue room for you," Bruce said, his hand resting lightly on Dick's shoulder. "It has a good view of the grounds."

Alfred stepped forward with a kindness that made Latoya's throat tight. "Perhaps Master Dick would like some dinner? I believe there are chocolate chip cookies cooling in the kitchen."

For the first time, something flickered across the boy's face—not quite a smile, but close. "Yes, sir. Thank you."

As Alfred led Dick away, chattering about the cookie recipe his mother had taught him, Latoya found herself alone with Bruce in the echoing hall. The silence stretched between them for exactly three seconds before the dam burst.

"We need to talk," she said, but her voice was already rising.

Bruce's jaw tightened. "I know how this looks—"

"Do you?" She stepped closer, her finger jabbing toward his chest. "Because it looks like you've been keeping secrets from me. Big ones."

"Latoya, keep your voice down—"

"Don't you dare tell me to keep my voice down!" The words exploded from her, two years of suspicion and hurt finally finding their target. "How long, Bruce? How long have you been lying to me about where you go, what you do? About him?"

Bruce's face went carefully blank, the same expression he wore during board meetings and press conferences. "I don't know what you're implying."

"He looks exactly like you!" She was shouting now, her voice echoing off the marble walls. "Don't insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise!"

"His parents died in an accident—"

"Oh, how convenient!" Latoya's laugh was sharp, bitter. "His mother dies and suddenly you're playing the concerned benefactor? What was she, Bruce? Some woman you kept on the side while I was at home playing the perfect wife?"

Bruce's composure cracked, his own voice rising to match hers. "That's not what happened!"

"Then what did happen?" She was advancing on him now, years of training making her movements predatory. "Because I'm done with the lies, done with the mysterious injuries, done with you treating me like I'm too stupid to see what's right in front of me!"

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly!" Her voice hit a pitch that made the windows seem to vibrate. "I understand that I married a man who thinks he can keep a whole other life hidden from his wife! I understand that while I've been mourning the children we can't have, you've been—"

"Enough." Bruce's voice was thunderous now, matching her fury with his own. "You want to know the truth? You want to know where I go every night? Fine! But not here, not like this!"

"Why not here?" Latoya's eyes blazed as she stepped into his space, close enough that she could see the fury warring with something else in his expression. "Because you're afraid your son might hear what kind of man his father really is?"

"He's not my son!"

"Then whose is he?" The question came out raw, desperate. "Because if he's not yours, then what the hell is he doing here? What aren't you telling me?"

They were inches apart now, both breathing hard, the air between them crackling with a dangerous energy that was part rage, part something else entirely. Bruce's hands found her arms, whether to push her away or pull her closer, she couldn't tell.

"You think you know me," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you know what I'm capable of—"

"I don't know anything anymore!" The words ripped from her throat. "The man I married wouldn't lie to me! The man I married wouldn't bring home a child without explanation! The man I married—"

"Ahem."

They both froze. Alfred stood in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral but his posture rigid with disapproval.

"Perhaps," the butler said quietly, "this conversation would be better suited to a more private location. Master Dick is asking if everything is alright."

The mention of the boy hit them both like cold water. Latoya stepped back, suddenly aware of how her voice had been carrying, how their fury had filled the vast space. Bruce ran a hand through his hair, his breathing still uneven.

"We'll continue this later," he said, his voice carefully controlled again.

"Yes," Latoya replied, smoothing down her clothes with shaking hands. "We will."

The conversation never came.

For the next three weeks, Bruce and Latoya moved around each other like polite strangers sharing the same impossibly large house. Bruce left early for "work" and returned after midnight. Latoya threw herself into her volunteer activities and avoided the east wing entirely. They spoke only when necessary—passing requests through Alfred, brief exchanges about household matters, careful politeness that felt more cutting than their screaming match had.

It was Dick who suffered most from their cold war.

The boy had been quiet since his arrival, which Latoya had initially attributed to grief. But as the days passed, she began to recognize the signs of a child trying to make himself invisible, afraid that any disturbance might shatter the fragile stability he'd found. She knew that feeling intimately.

She found him one evening in the library, hunched over a book he was clearly too young for—some dense tome about Gotham's architectural history. He looked up when she entered, that careful wariness flickering across his features.

"Finding anything interesting?" she asked, settling into the chair across from him.

Dick shrugged, closing the book carefully. "Alfred said I could read anything I wanted."

"You can. But that doesn't mean you have to torture yourself with boring books." She tilted her head. "What do you actually like to read?"

For the first time since he'd arrived, something genuine crossed his face—a flash of enthusiasm quickly suppressed. "Adventure stories, I guess. Books about people who... who can do things. Special things."

"Like what?"

"Flying," he said quietly, then looked embarrassed. "I know it's stupid—"

"It's not stupid." Latoya's chest tightened. She thought of her own childhood dreams, of sitting on rooftops and imagining she could soar above the city's problems. "I used to love stories about flying too."

Dick looked up at her, curious for the first time. "Really?"

"Really. Come on." She stood, extending her hand. "Let me show you the good books."

She led him to a different section of the library, one she'd discovered during her own exploration of the manor. Here, tucked behind leather-bound classics, were adventure novels, fantasy stories, books that transported readers to worlds where anything was possible. Dick's eyes widened as she pulled volume after volume from the shelves.

"Bruce won't mind?" he asked, his voice small.

The question hit her like a physical blow. The way he said Bruce's name—formal, distant, like he was afraid to presume too much familiarity.

"He won't mind," she said firmly. "This is your home now, Dick. You don't have to ask permission to live in it."

Something in her tone must have gotten through to him, because his shoulders relaxed slightly. "Thank you," he said, clutching a book about a boy who could talk to dragons.

It became their routine. Every evening after dinner, while Bruce was mysteriously absent, Latoya and Dick would retreat to the library. She'd help him with homework, listen to him read aloud, share stories about the books they both loved. Slowly, carefully, he began to open up.

"I miss them," he told her one night, apropos of nothing. They'd been reading together, Dick curled in the large armchair while she sat on the floor beside him.

"I know," Latoya said softly. "That's normal. It's okay to miss them."

"Bruce says I shouldn't be sad all the time. That they wouldn't want me to be sad."

Latoya's hands clenched in her lap. "Bruce says a lot of things. But grief doesn't work on anyone else's timeline, sweetheart. You feel what you feel for as long as you need to feel it."

Dick looked at her with those too-old eyes. "Were you sad when your parents died?"

The question caught her off guard. She'd never told Dick about her own losses, but he was perceptive in the way children who'd seen too much often were.

"Yes," she said honestly. "I was sad for a very long time. Sometimes I still am."

"But you're okay now?"

"Most days." She reached over and squeezed his hand. "And you will be too. Not because the sadness goes away completely, but because you learn to carry it alongside other things. Happy things. Good things."

Dick nodded solemnly, processing this with the gravity of a child who'd been forced to grow up too fast.

Their bonding wasn't just about books and grief, though. Latoya discovered that Dick was funny—wickedly so, with a dry sense of humor that reminded her uncomfortably of Bruce. He was also observant, picking up on details about the manor and its inhabitants that most adults would miss.

"Alfred hums when he's worried," Dick told her one morning over breakfast. Bruce had left early again, and Alfred was indeed humming as he arranged fresh flowers, something he only did when anxious.

"How did you notice that?" Latoya asked.

"I notice lots of things." Dick stirred his cereal thoughtfully. "Like how you and Bruce don't look at each other anymore. And how he comes home smelling like metal and smoke."

Latoya's spoon froze halfway to her mouth. "Dick—"

"I'm not stupid," he said matter-of-factly. "My parents used to fight too, before... They thought I couldn't hear them, but sound carries really far in our trailer."

The casual mention of his previous life hit her hard. Dick so rarely talked about his life before the manor, and when he did, it was usually in these matter-of-fact statements that revealed far more than they should.

"Fighting doesn't always mean people don't love each other," she said carefully.

"I know." Dick looked at her with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. "But it usually means someone's keeping secrets."

Out of the mouths of babes, Latoya thought grimly.

As the weeks passed, she found herself growing fiercely protective of Dick in a way that surprised her. When he had nightmares—which he tried to hide but couldn't, not in a house where sound carried the way it did in Wayne Manor—she was the one who sat with him until he fell back asleep. Every instinct screamed at her to gather him close, to promise him that she'd never let anything hurt him again, to fill the gaping mother-shaped hole in his life. But she forced herself to hold back, to offer comfort without claiming ownership. He wasn't her child, no matter how much her heart ached to make him so.

When he struggled with math homework, she was the one who helped him work through problems—sitting beside him instead of hovering, letting him work through the answers himself instead of jumping in to solve everything for him. When he mentioned missing his old life, she was the one who listened without trying to fix anything, biting back the urge to promise him a new family, a new life, a new mother who would love him unconditionally.

It was during one of these conversations that Dick asked the question she'd been dreading.

"Are you and Bruce getting divorced?"

They were in the conservatory, Dick sketching in a notebook while she read nearby. The question came so casually that it took her a moment to register what he'd said. When she looked up, she was struck by how different he seemed from the hollow-eyed boy who'd arrived months ago. His face had filled out slightly, and there was color in his cheeks. More importantly, there was a lightness to him that hadn't been there before—not happiness exactly, but something approaching it. He'd started smiling more, laughing at Alfred's dry jokes, even humming sometimes while he drew. It reminded her of herself in the early days with Bruce, the way hope could slowly seep back into a person when they felt safe.

"Why would you ask that?" she said, trying to keep her voice light while her heart swelled with pride at the progress he'd made. He was healing, and she'd been part of that healing. The knowledge both thrilled and terrified her—what if she was overstepping? What if Bruce decided she was getting too attached?

"Why would you ask that?" she said, trying to keep her voice light.

"Because married people usually spend time together. And you guys... don't." Dick didn't look up from his drawing. "Plus, you sleep in different rooms now."

Latoya's cheeks burned. She'd thought they'd been discreet about that particular development, but apparently twelve-year-olds were more observant than she'd given them credit for.

"Things are complicated right now," she said finally.

"Because of me?"

The quiet vulnerability in his voice made her heart crack. She set down her book and moved to sit beside him on the bench.

"No, sweetheart. Never because of you." She tilted his chin up so he had to meet her eyes. "What's happening between Bruce and me has nothing to do with you being here. I want you to understand that."

"But if I wasn't here—"

"If you weren't here, I'd be very sad," she said firmly. "Because you've become one of the best parts of my day."

Dick stared at her for a long moment, searching her face for lies. Whatever he found there must have satisfied him, because he nodded and went back to his drawing.

"What are you sketching?" she asked, eager to change the subject.

Dick turned the notebook toward her, revealing a detailed drawing of the manor's gardens with two figures sitting on a bench. Her breath caught when she realized it was them—her and Dick, reading together under the old oak tree.

"It's really good," she said, meaning it. The boy had talent, real talent.

"I used to draw all the time," Dick said. "Before. My mom said I got it from my dad."

It was the first time he'd mentioned his parents directly in weeks. Latoya held very still, afraid that speaking would break the moment.

"He was an artist too?" she asked gently.

"Sort of. He designed our act—the costumes, the rigging, all of it. Mom said he saw the world differently than other people. Like everything was a picture waiting to be drawn."

Dick's voice was wistful, distant. Latoya could see him retreating into memory, and for once, she didn't try to pull him back. Some conversations needed to happen in their own time.

"I think you see the world that way too," she said softly.

Dick looked at her, something shifting in his expression. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Maybe I do."

That night, when Bruce finally came home—well after midnight, as had become his habit—Latoya was waiting in the kitchen with two cups of tea. She'd been doing this for the past week, not to confront him, but because she'd noticed that Dick often woke when Bruce's car pulled into the drive. The boy needed to know that Bruce was home safe, even if he'd never admit it.

"How was your day?" Bruce asked, accepting the tea with a nod of thanks. His knuckles were scraped again, she noticed, and there was a new tension in his shoulders.

"Dick drew something today," she said instead of answering. "He's really talented."

Something flickered across Bruce's face—pride, maybe, or regret. "He gets that from his father. John Grayson was an artist."

It was the first time Bruce had mentioned Dick's parents by name, the first real information he'd shared about the boy's background. Latoya filed it away, another piece of a puzzle she was slowly assembling.

"He misses them," she said.

"I know."

"He has nightmares."

Bruce's jaw tightened. "I know that too."

"Then why aren't you the one comforting him?" The question came out sharper than she'd intended, but she was tired of tiptoeing around Bruce's emotional distance.

"Because I don't know how," Bruce said simply, and for the first time in weeks, his carefully constructed walls cracked enough to let her see the man underneath. "I don't know how to be what he needs."

"You learn," Latoya said. "You show up, and you figure it out as you go."

Bruce stared into his tea, steam rising between them like a barrier. "Like you did?"

"Like I'm trying to do." She paused, then added more softly, "He asked me today if we were getting divorced."

Bruce's head snapped up, his eyes meeting hers for the first time in weeks. "What did you tell him?"

"That it was complicated." She held his gaze steadily. "But he's not stupid, Bruce. He knows something's wrong between us."

They sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of unspoken truths settling between them. Finally, Bruce spoke.

"I never meant for any of this to happen."

"Which part?" Latoya asked. "Dick being here, or us falling apart?"

"Either. Both." Bruce rubbed his temples. "I'm trying to do the right thing—"

"For who?" The question hung in the air like a challenge. "For Dick? For me? For yourself?"

Bruce didn't answer, but then again, Latoya wasn't sure she wanted him to. Not yet. Not until she was ready to hear whatever truth he was hiding.

They finished their tea in silence, two people who loved each other sitting on opposite sides of a gulf neither seemed able to cross. When they finally went upstairs, they parted at the landing—Bruce to the master bedroom, Latoya to the guest room she'd claimed as her own.

But that night, for the first time in weeks, neither of them lay awake wondering where the other was.

The change in Dick's behavior happened gradually, but by spring, it was undeniable. The quiet, careful boy who'd arrived in October had been replaced by someone who laughed freely, who bounded down the manor's stairs two at a time, who filled the vast spaces with an energy that reminded Latoya of herself at her happiest. He'd started incorporating her expressions into his vocabulary, saying "absolutely not" with the same emphatic hand gesture she used, or muttering "well, that's not suspicious at all" when Alfred claimed he had "no idea" who had eaten the last piece of chocolate cake.

It was Dick who suggested they have a movie night, sprawling across the living room couch with bowls of popcorn and animated films that made them both laugh until their sides ached. It was Dick who convinced Alfred to teach them both how to make his famous Sunday roast, leading to a flour fight that left all three of them covered in white powder and giggling like children.

Latoya treasured these moments while trying not to claim them. Every time Dick called her "Latoya" instead of "ma'am," every time he sought her out for homework help or just company, she felt the dangerous warmth of maternal love spreading through her chest. But she was careful never to push, never to assume more than what was freely given. When he hugged her goodnight—a development that had taken three months to achieve—she didn't hold on too long. When he brought her drawings to show her, she praised them without claiming any credit for his talent. When he started staying close to her at social events, she didn't read more into it than a kid seeking familiar comfort.

But inside, her heart was breaking and healing in equal measure. This was what it felt like to mother someone, she realized. This careful balance of love and restraint, of wanting to protect while allowing growth, of feeling like your heart lived outside your body while pretending everything was perfectly normal.

The irony wasn't lost on her that just as she was learning to love this boy who wasn't hers, Bruce was becoming more distant than ever. His absences grew longer, his injuries more frequent, and his explanations more vague. But now she had Dick to worry about too, and she found herself torn between confronting Bruce about his secrets and protecting Dick from whatever ugly truth might emerge.

It was Alfred who noticed first.

"Master Dick seems remarkably energetic these days," the butler observed one evening as they watched the boy practice skateboard tricks in the manor's main hall—something that would have been unthinkable during his first weeks here.

"He's settling in," Latoya said, trying not to sound too proud.

Alfred's knowing look suggested he saw right through her casual tone. "Indeed. And I believe we have you to thank for that, Mrs. Wayne."

"I didn't do anything special—"

"You gave him exactly what he needed," Alfred interrupted gently. "Love without pressure. Security without smothering. The chance to be a child again."

Latoya watched Dick attempt a particularly ambitious trick, his laughter echoing off the high ceilings when he inevitably wiped out. "I just want him to be happy."

"And he is. More so each day." Alfred paused, then added quietly, "Master Wayne sees it too, you know. He's grateful, even if he doesn't know how to express it."

But Bruce's gratitude, if it existed, was hard to discern. He remained a ghost in his own home, appearing briefly for meals before vanishing again into whatever mysterious business consumed his nights. Dick had stopped asking where Bruce went, which somehow worried Latoya more than his questions had. The boy was adapting to having only one reliable parent figure, and that broke her heart in ways she couldn't articulate.

What she didn't know was that Bruce's increased absences had everything to do with Dick—just not in the way she imagined. The boy had taken to their training sessions with an enthusiasm that both thrilled and terrified Bruce. Dick's natural athleticism, combined with his circus background, made him a quick study in everything from basic combat to advanced acrobatics.

"I want to help," Dick had told Bruce one night after a particularly intense training session. "I want to make sure what happened to my parents doesn't happen to anyone else."

Bruce had seen something in the boy's eyes that night—a combination of grief, determination, and barely controlled fury that reminded him uncomfortably of himself at that age. Against every rational thought, against Alfred's vocal objections, against what he knew Latoya would think if she found out, Bruce had begun training Dick not just for self-defense, but for something more.

The red and green costume was Alfred's compromise—if Master Dick was determined to follow this path, he would at least do so with proper protection and under Bruce's direct supervision. But they both knew that Latoya could never know. It would destroy the fragile peace they'd built in the manor, would shatter whatever trust remained between Bruce and his wife.

So Bruce compartmentalized, as he'd learned to do with every other aspect of his life. During the day, Dick was a normal twelve-year-old who did homework and laughed with Latoya and slowly healed from his losses. At night, he became something else entirely—Robin, the Boy Wonder, Bruce's partner in a war against the darkness that threatened to consume Gotham.

It was a dangerous game they were playing, and Bruce knew it. But watching Dick come alive during their patrols, seeing the boy channel his grief into something purposeful and powerful, Bruce couldn't bring himself to stop. Dick needed this as much as Bruce did, maybe more.

Neither of them considered what it would cost them when the truth eventually came out.

The breaking point came on a rainy Thursday in late spring. Latoya had been waiting in the kitchen for over an hour, two plates of Alfred's famous shepherd's pie growing cold on the counter. Bruce had promised—actually promised—to be home for dinner. Dick had been looking forward to it all day, asking every few minutes if Bruce was home yet, until finally retreating to his room with a forced smile that broke Latoya's heart.

When Bruce finally walked through the door at nearly midnight, she was still sitting at the kitchen island, still waiting. The sight of her there—patient, beautiful, and clearly furious—stopped him in his tracks.

"Don't," she said when he opened his mouth. "Don't apologize. Don't make excuses. Just... don't."

Bruce's jaw tightened. He looked exhausted, she noticed, shadows under his eyes deeper than usual. There was a fresh cut on his cheekbone that he'd clearly tried to clean, and his shirt was wrinkled in a way that suggested he'd changed clothes recently.

"There was an emergency—"

"There's always an emergency." Latoya stood slowly, her movements deliberate. "Do you know what Dick asked me tonight?"

Bruce said nothing, but she saw his shoulders tense.

"He asked if you were ever coming home. Not coming home for dinner, Bruce. Coming home at all." Her voice was steady, but he could hear the fury underneath. "A twelve-year-old boy shouldn't have to wonder if his guardian is ever coming back."

"That's not—"

"Fair?" Latoya stepped closer, her eyes blazing. "You're right. It's not fair. It's not fair that I've spent six months raising your son—"

"He's not my son."

"Then what is he?" The question exploded from her. "Because he's not just some charity case you picked up, Bruce. He's a child who lost everything, and you brought him here, and then you disappeared!"

"I didn't disappear—"

"You did!" She was advancing on him now, backing him against the kitchen counter. "You became a ghost in your own house! You leave before he wakes up, you come home after he's asleep, and when you are here, you're somewhere else entirely!"

Bruce's hands gripped the counter behind him. "You don't understand—"

"Then explain it to me!" Her voice cracked with frustration. "Tell me where you go! Tell me why you come home looking like you've been in a fight! Tell me why my husband has become a stranger!"

"I can't."

The simple words hit harder than shouting would have. Latoya stared at him, seeing the conflict in his eyes, the way his jaw worked like he was physically restraining himself from speaking.

"Can't, or won't?"

"Both."

She laughed, sharp and bitter. "Well, at least you're honest about your dishonesty."

"Latoya—"

"No." She pressed her hands against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath her palms. "I'm done with this. I'm done being shut out of my own marriage. I'm done pretending I don't see what's happening to you."

"What do you think is happening to me?"

The question was dangerous, loaded with an intensity that made the air between them electric. They were close now, close enough that she could see the pulse jumping in his throat, could smell the mixture of expensive cologne and something earthier clinging to his skin.

"I think you're in trouble," she said quietly. "I think you're involved in something that's eating you alive, and you're too proud or too scared to ask for help."

Bruce's hands found her wrists, his grip gentle but firm. "And if I was? If I was involved in something dangerous?"

"Then I'd want to help you through it." Her voice broke slightly. "I'd want to be your partner, not some woman you keep in the dark and lie to."

They stared at each other in the dim kitchen light, years of unspoken truths hanging between them. Bruce's thumbs traced circles on her wrists, and she could feel the tremor in his hands.

"I never wanted to lie to you," he said finally.

"But you did. You do. Every day." She stepped closer, eliminating the last inch of space between them. "The question is why."

"Because the truth would destroy us."

The admission hung in the air like a confession. Latoya searched his face, seeing the genuine anguish there, the weight of whatever secrets he carried.

"You don't get to decide that for me," she said fiercely. "You don't get to choose what I can and can't handle."

"You have no idea what you're asking—"

"Then tell me!" Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him down until they were eye to eye. "Stop protecting me from the truth and trust me to handle it!"

"I can't lose you." The words came out raw, desperate. "I can't lose both of you."

"Both of us?"

"You and Dick. You're—" Bruce's composure finally cracked completely. "You're everything good in my life. Everything worth protecting. If you knew what I really was—"

"What are you, Bruce?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "What are you so afraid of me finding out?"

For a moment, she thought he might actually tell her. His eyes searched her face like he was memorizing it, like he was weighing the cost of honesty against the price of continued deception.

Then his hands were in her hair, pulling her mouth to his in a kiss that was desperate, hungry, full of everything he couldn't say out loud. She responded instantly, her body recognizing his even as her mind reeled from the intensity of it. It had been months since he'd touched her like this, months since she'd felt the full weight of his attention, and the force of it was overwhelming.

"I love you," he said against her mouth, the words rough with emotion. "God, Latoya, I love you so much it terrifies me."

"Then trust me," she whispered back, her hands tangling in his hair. "Whatever it is, we can face it together."

But even as she said it, even as he lifted her onto the counter and kissed her like a drowning man, she could feel him retreating. His body was there, solid and warm and desperate for her, but his mind was already building walls again, already calculating how much truth he could afford to give her.

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

But for now, in the quiet darkness of their kitchen, with the rain pattering against the windows and years of longing erupting between them, she let herself pretend that love would be sufficient to bridge the gulf of his secrets.

“You want me?” he asks teasingly.

She reaches for him, sitting up and pulling his length out. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I want you.”

He sucks in a breath. “Cold hands,” he mumbles, biting his lip as she jacks him off slowly.

 “C’mere,” he says, fingers tangling in her coily hair as they kiss wet and eager.

She wraps her arms around his neck, exclamation muffled against his lips when he lifts her and swipes his cock through her wetness.

She moans softly and sweetly and breathily when his thick length slips inside. He pauses before moving, licking his thumb and massaging it against her clit. He keeps up the pressure with impressive patience, making her feel needy and desperate. 

She starts twitching, trying to fuck back against him. “Mmh, Bruce!” she complains. “Please, fuck!”

“You wanna ask me nicely?”

“Brucie,” she pouted, hand reaching out to grab the sides of his face. “Please fuck me, Bruce. Need your cock.”

Then he grips her hip bones hard and fucks into her even harder. His cock strokes against her g-spot making her unconsciously clench around him.

“Fuck, princess you’re tight,” he groans at the feeling, trying to change the angle for better leverage.

“You’re big,” she replies, hands scratching over the veins of his forearms.

He throws his head back, clearly lost in pleasure as he grinds into her slower. Then he pressed her legs down, caressing up the backs of her thighs to her ankles and leaning his body weight on top of her. She strains her neck up to kiss him, running her hands through his gorgeous curls as his tongue licks into her mouth. She sucks on his plush lip, licking and pressing kisses to the beginning of his scar.

When they separate for air, he presses her wrists down, her legs already caged by his heavy chest and he fucks her hard enough to stress the counter. 

His dick rubs a really good spot and she moans breathy and sweet, encouraging his motions. His breath comes heavy, the room becoming warm and humid. He smirks, eyes devouring the movement of her breasts as he fucks her, gaze darting down between them.

God, she loves the feeling of his huge hands on her waist, fingers digging into her hip bones as he pulls her back to meet his thrusts. “Ohhh my god, Bruce!” she groans, this angle so perfect she feels it in her bones. It feels so good, she's losing stamina, front collapsing against the counter, and fingers grabbing the edge to try and get a grip.

“You okay, Mrs. Wayne?” Bruce asks teasingly. “Am I fuckin’ you too hard, baby?”

“Fuck you,” she groans.

He presses her down on the counter, grinding his cock inside her and sucking at her neck. “Want you to cum with me, baby.  Hmm?”

He manhandles her again, pausing a moment to flip her over so their chest to chest, his piercing eyes gazing down at her ferally. He quickly guides his cock back inside, grinding deep and leisurely. His calloused hand caresses down her stomach, dipping into her navel and brushing against her soft hair before finding the nub which he massages in earnest. Her cunt twitches at the attention, drawing moans out of her chest and making Bruce groan in tandem as she squeezes around his cock. His hips roll slow and sure against hers, stirring her pussy as he focuses on getting her off, his other hand finding her breast to roll and pinch a dark nipple. 

Then her back arches, stomach twitching uncontrollably as she cum. Pleas and sounds of pleasure rain out of her along with his name.

Bruce talks her through the whole orgasm, blue eyes watching hers and flicking downwards, drawn by the movement of each unconscious twitch. “Feel good, baby? God, Toya, look so beautiful cummin’ on my dick with my fingers on you. You like my hand on your clit, baby?”

After an eternity, Bruce's hand slips away, drawing the digits to his lips and obscenely sucking her wetness off them. And god, he looks damn good doing it. His curls are damp and wild, his lips swollen and red from kissing her. His chest heaves, red exertion flushing his body, and a wild, I-fucking-love-this expression in his eyes. “My turn,” he grins lopsidedly. 

Then he’s fucking her harder than ever before, his huge cock battering into her cunt over and over. It’s a furious rush, and she digs her nails into his muscular shoulders, fingers scraping at his scapula just to hold on. He lets out an animalistic groan, and thrusts turning to jerking movement against her as he cums.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Bruce rested his forehead against hers.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "For all of it. For being absent, for lying, for putting you in this position."

"I know you are." She cupped his face in her hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "But sorry doesn't fix this, Bruce. Only the truth can do that."

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. "I know."

"So what happens now?"

Bruce was quiet for a long moment, and when he opened his eyes, she saw resignation there alongside the love.

"Now I try to be better," he said. "I try to be the husband and father you both deserve."

Father. He'd said father, not guardian. The word sent a complicated rush of emotion through her—hope, fear, longing, and something that felt dangerously like belonging.

"Can you do that without telling me the truth?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I have to try."

It wasn't the answer she wanted, but it was more honesty than she'd gotten from him in months. She nodded slowly, accepting the compromise even as part of her rebelled against it.

"Okay," she said. "But Bruce? Next time you promise to be home for dinner, you'd better be here. That boy has lost enough people."

"I will be," he promised, and this time, she almost believed him.

The next few weeks marked a tentative ceasefire in their marriage. Bruce made visible efforts to be present—arriving home in time for dinner most nights, spending Saturday mornings teaching Dick to work on cars in the manor's garage, even joining their movie nights with an enthusiasm that seemed only slightly forced.

It was during one of these quieter moments that Latoya remembered why she'd fallen in love with him in the first place.

They were in the library on a Sunday afternoon, Dick sprawled on the floor working on a jigsaw puzzle while she and Bruce shared the couch, her feet in his lap as he absently massaged them while reading. The scene was so perfectly domestic that it made her chest ache with longing for what their life could be if he could just let her in completely.

"Bruce," Dick said suddenly, looking up from his puzzle with barely concealed amusement, "why do you fold your socks?"

Bruce glanced up from his book, confused. "What?"

"Your socks. I saw Alfred folding your laundry. You have your socks folded like little rectangles and organized by color." Dick's grin was spreading. "Who does that?"

Latoya bit back a laugh, recognizing the setup. Dick had been observing Bruce's more... particular habits for weeks now.

"It's called being organized," Bruce said defensively.

"It's called being weird," Dick countered. "Normal people just throw their socks in a drawer."

"Normal people also lose half their socks that way," Bruce replied.

"Ooh, tell him about the dinner thing," Latoya encouraged, unable to resist joining in.

Dick's eyes lit up. "Oh yeah! Bruce, why do you eat pizza with a fork?"

"I don't eat pizza with a fork."

"You absolutely do. Last Friday. We ordered from Mario's and you used a knife and fork like it was some fancy restaurant meal."

Bruce looked genuinely perplexed. "Pizza can be messy—"

"It's supposed to be messy!" Dick exclaimed, sitting up now. "That's the whole point! You pick it up with your hands like a normal person!"

"And don't get me started on how you answer the phone," Latoya added, thoroughly enjoying Bruce's bewildered expression.

"What's wrong with how I answer the phone?"

"'Wayne residence, Bruce speaking,'" Dick mimicked in an exaggerated formal tone. "Dude, just say hello like everyone else."

"Or better yet," Latoya chimed in, "try 'yo' sometime. Really shake things up."

Bruce stared at them both like they'd suggested he start wearing his underwear on the outside. "I am not saying 'yo' when I answer the phone."

"See?" Dick gestured triumphantly. "This is what I'm talking about. You're like... allergic to being casual."

"I'm not allergic to being casual—"

"You own seventeen different types of tea," Latoya pointed out. "Seventeen. I grew up thinking tea was just tea."

"And you have names for all of them," Dick added. "Earl Grey, English Breakfast, Darjeeling... who needs that many kinds of hot leaf water?"

"Hot leaf water?" Bruce looked genuinely offended now. "It's not—there are subtle differences in flavor profiles—"

"Flavor profiles," Dick repeated solemnly to Latoya. "He said flavor profiles."

"About tea," she confirmed, nodding seriously.

"You two are ganging up on me," Bruce accused, but there was amusement creeping into his voice.

"We prefer to think of it as cultural education," Latoya said primly. "We're teaching you how normal people live."

"Yeah," Dick agreed. "Like, did you know that most kids don't have their shoelaces ironed?"

"Alfred doesn't iron my shoelaces," Bruce protested.

"He steams them," Dick said. "I watched him do it. Steams. Your. Shoelaces."

Bruce opened his mouth to defend this, then seemed to realize how it sounded. "That's... Alfred's choice."

"Uh-huh." Dick exchanged a look with Latoya. "And I suppose the fact that you alphabetize your books is also Alfred's choice?"

"Alphabetizing is logical—"

"Latoya," Dick said seriously, "I think Bruce might be broken."

"Not broken," Latoya corrected thoughtfully. "Just... aggressively wealthy."

"Is that contagious?" Dick asked with mock concern.

"I don't think so. You seem immune so far."

"Good. I was worried I might start wanting my cereal served in a bowl instead of eating it straight from the box."

"You eat cereal straight from the box?" Bruce looked horrified.

"Only when Alfred's not looking," Dick grinned. "Sometimes I don't even use milk."

Bruce's expression suggested this was worse than any crime he'd ever encountered as Batman. "That's... that's not how you eat cereal."

"See?" Dick turned to Latoya. "Definitely broken."

"This is nice," Latoya said softly, watching the easy banter between them, the way Bruce's shoulders had relaxed despite their teasing. It was the first time she'd seen him laugh—really laugh—in months.

Bruce looked up from his book, catching her watching him. "Yeah," he agreed, his hand stilling on her ankle. "It is."

Dick glanced up from his puzzle, a piece of sky blue clutched in his small fingers. "Are you guys being gross again?"

"Again?" Latoya laughed. "When were we being gross before?"

"This morning, when you were making pancakes and Bruce kept hugging you from behind. Alfred said it was 'disgustingly domestic.'"

Bruce grinned, the expression transforming his face completely. "Alfred's just jealous of my pancake-making skills."

"Your pancake-making skills?" Latoya raised an eyebrow. "I made the pancakes. You just stood there and got in my way."

"I provided moral support."

"You provided distraction."

Dick made a gagging sound from the floor. "See? Gross."

But he was smiling as he said it, and Latoya caught the way his shoulders had relaxed, how naturally he'd inserted himself into their banter. This was what a family looked like, she realized. Not perfect, not without complications, but real and warm and theirs.

Later that evening, after Dick had gone to bed, she found Bruce standing at the window in the master bedroom. She paused in the doorway, uncertain. They hadn't discussed sleeping arrangements since their kitchen confrontation, and she'd been assuming she'd return to the guest room.

"Latoya." His voice was quiet, uncertain. "Would you... could you stay? Here, I mean. With me."

The vulnerability in his request made her chest tight. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." He turned to face her, and she could see the hope and fear warring in his expression. "I know I don't deserve—"

"Stop." She crossed the room to him, reaching up to cup his face. "Don't tell me what you think you deserve."

He was shirtless, and she could see the constellation of scars across his torso, each one a question she wasn't allowed to ask.

"Penny for your thoughts," she said, sliding her arms around his waist from behind.

He leaned back against her, solid and warm. "Just thinking about how lucky I am."

"Lucky how?"

"To have this. You, Dick, Alfred. A family." His hands covered hers where they rested on his chest. "I never thought I'd have this."

There was something in his voice—a vulnerability that made her tighten her hold on him. "You deserve it, you know. Happiness. Love. All of it."

Bruce turned in her arms, studying her face in the dim light. "Do I?"

The question was serious, weighted with genuine uncertainty. Latoya reached up to trace the line of his jaw, noting the way he leaned into her touch like he was starved for it.

"Yes," she said firmly. "Whatever you've done, whatever mistakes you think you've made—you deserve to be loved."

He kissed her then, soft and grateful, and she tasted something like relief on his lips. When they made love that night, it was different from their desperate encounter in the kitchen—slower, more reverent, like they were both trying to memorize each moment.

Afterward, as they lay tangled together in the darkness, Bruce's fingers traced patterns on her bare shoulder.

"I want to deserve this," he murmured against her hair. "I want to deserve you both."

"You already do," she whispered back, but she felt him tense slightly at her words.

"You don't know—"

"I know enough." She tilted her head to look at him, seeing the conflict warring in his expression. "I know you're a good man who's carrying something heavy. I know you love us enough to try to protect us from whatever that something is. And I know that whatever secrets you're keeping, they're eating you alive."

Bruce was quiet for so long she thought he might have fallen asleep. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

"What if the man you love isn't who you think he is?"

The question sent a chill through her, but she forced herself to really consider it. "Then I guess I'll love whoever he really is instead."

"And if you can't?"

Latoya propped herself up on her elbow, studying his face in the moonlight streaming through their windows. "Bruce, look at me."

He did, reluctantly.

"I've seen you with Dick. I've seen how gentle you are with him, how patient. I've seen you with Alfred, with the kids at the charity events, with people who have nothing to offer you in return. I've seen your heart, Bruce Wayne. Whatever else you think you are, you're good. And that's not going to change, no matter what secrets you're hiding."

Something shifted in his expression, a crack in the armor he wore even in their most intimate moments. "I hope you're right."

"I am right." She leaned down to kiss him, putting all her conviction into the gesture. "Trust me on this one thing, even if you can't trust me with the rest."

When she woke the next morning, Bruce was already gone, but there was a note on his pillow: "Thank you for seeing me. -B"

It wasn't a confession, wasn't the full truth she craved, but it was something. A acknowledgment of the trust she was placing in him, of the faith she was showing in whatever version of himself he was too afraid to reveal.

It would have to be enough. For now.

[fleurelinathehybrid]

🪽[5]🪽

While they were trying to find a way to silence the little girl's loud cries, Zeus had already gone ahead to conjure another jar and take all the tears possible to fill it at the same time that he endured becoming almost deaf.

—I have tears! —the king of the Greeks exclaims in pain, after the bottle disappears with a snap— Now all we need is her laughter!

—Yes and to do it we have to make her stop crying! —Hermes panics, burying his head inside his helmet— AT THIS RATE THEY ARE GOING TO HUNT US!!

—They won't if we act quickly! —Zeus reassures him, as he takes little Dawn out of her cloud chair and rocks her in his enormous arms. Hermes remembers that this is how he used to reassure his other demigod brothers. —Calm down, sweet sunshine, we didn't mean to scare you —he proceeds to dry her tears with his thick finger, lulling her to sleep.

Dawn, still with the after-effects of her crying and her trembling lips, but with her crying subsided, looks at Zeus with doubt and serenity, while she feels his enormous arms rock her like a hammock.

Hermes, already discovering that he can stop burying his helmet, tries to look out and see the sweet baby calm, but with her beautiful eyes now red after crying.

After noticing that Dawn was already calmer, Zeus seats her again in the cloud chair for her. Dawn, now less scared but more confused, looks at the two of them.

—What now? how do we make her laugh? —Hermes questions, scratching the back of his neck.

—I don’t know. Whenever I tried to make your brothers laugh, they came out crying —Zeus said, sighing in defeat. —I guess being funny isn't my thing.

—With my adult siblings? Yes. With us as children and other children? You weren't even funny —the messenger speaks sarcastically.

Zeus looks at him with an offended but hurt face. —Thank you for your honesty, son.

He again sees Dawn, who lets out a small yawn due to the despondency she was experiencing. In the eyes of the Greek gods, this was a sign of insult to their pride.

It meant they were boring her. They definitely must have made her laugh.

They were silent for a while so they could think of something funny to amuse her, which were the longest seconds of their lives. Until Hermes' light bulb came on.

—I think I have an idea, —he turns his gaze between his father and the girl, as he approaches her— but I don't know if it's going to work.

— Do you have an idea and don't know if it will work? —Zeus looks at him confused, as he stands up, since he was sitting on the steps of his throne while they were looking for a solution— Can you explain your logic?

Hermes looks at him with a bad face. —Because I saw someone do the same thing with their son and it worked for them, and I don't know if it works for her. Not all children react the same way.

Again, he focuses his attention on the baby, who stares at him with her topaz eyes. Hermes, a little hesitant, begins to move his hands closer to Dawn's sides right where humans find the "funny bone".

With both index fingers pointing at the girl's ribs, Hermes continues to "puncture" said area with her eyes closed tightly, in case she cries again; as soon as he opens his eyes, he realizes that the girl is still paying attention to him.

He repeats the same action a couple of times, noticing that Dawn was looking at him curiously, without any expression of future crying, giving him a feeling of relief. He does the action again, this time noticing that Dawn was beginning to smile at him and color her cheeks as if she were a shining sun. He redoubles the action again, while he notices that his smile grows even wider, letting him understand that he had found exactly the right spot.

—Hihi… —Dawn starts laughing, making Hermes look at her with wide eyes—Hihihi…

Zeus gets up and walks over to see his son making her laugh, he looked at him with a proud face that he wouldn't give to any other god.

The messenger repeats the action, but this time he does it repeatedly and more quickly.

—Hehehe... —Dawn's laughter increases in volume, thrilling the gods.

⟪Well, the good thing is almost there…⟫. They both thought.

Hermes doubles and reduplicates the action, this time not only using his index fingers, but also his other fingers, taking turns as if he were playing an accordion.

That makes Dawn tremble from her laughter that was getting louder and louder. Almost as much as their crying was before, only they wanted it to increase in intensity.

Until Dawn screams which, at the same time, releases a bright light, which shoots out of the same cavity from which said thunderous laughter came (almost scaring the Greek gods). Even between spasms, the little girl continues laughing, while they notice that the small light is still up in the air, keeping the same intense brightness.

—That's it, the laugh! —exclaims Zeus excitedly, as if he were a child with a birthday present. Immediately, he conjures a jar to have the last ingredient and gives it to Hermes. —Would you do me the honors, son?

This question makes the messenger's eyes shine with excitement as he takes the jar (the size of a cookie jar) in his hands. Set your gaze on your goal: the light; and then, with his usual agility and speed, take flight and at once, catch the light with the same jar.

Hermes contemplates the last ingredient, excited at having managed to fulfill one of his usual missions. His excitement is so great that, as if it were a dream toy, Hermes affectionately hugs the jar with Dawn's laughter inside. And, without waiting too long, he goes down to his father to give him the ingredient obtained.

—Very good! We already have all the ingredients for the potion that Demeter entrusted to me —Zeus says proudly, while the third ingredient obtained disappears. —And now, it's time to return you to your father Oneiros. We don't want him to notice that you're not here, precious.

—Dada! —Dawn exclaims happily, clearly not paying attention to Zeus.

—Eeeh, father? —Hermes calls him, audibly very nervous.

—Yes, yes. Your daddy Oneiros may worry a lot, and he may be like a crazy Endless looking for you —the king of the Greeks says in a honeyed voice to the little girl, who continued looking in another direction.

—Uuuuh, father? —the messenger called him again, ignoring the fact that he was now in a cold sweat.

—Aaand, for being a cooperative and helpful little princess… —she snaps her fingers to make a baby rattle appear with gold decorations and roses painted on it——I'll reward you with this cute little rattle! Do you like it-

—FATHER!! —Hermes exclaims terrified, interrupting him.

—WHAT?! —the king of the Greeks shouts angrily.

—I'M TRYING TO TELL YOU THAT THEY'VE COME FOR HER!! —he explodes in panic, holding his father's face and forcing him to look towards the entrance to his throne room.

And when he noticed it, like his son, Zeus turned pale and broke into a cold sweat.

At the entrance to the throne room of Olympus, no one approached except six of the seven children of Nyx, those beings that Zeus never had the audacity to bother or meddle in their affairs out of respect (and fear itself) of the goddess of Night. Cronus, their father, also had respect for him, but it was not as much as he had for his wife Nyx.

Now, those six of seven children were present to be held accountable for the enormous disrespect they had committed.

And among all her children, Oneiros stood out, the Giver of Forms and ex-husband of his muse daughter Calliope. That, just like when he was his son-in-law, he imposed respect and majesty wherever the Endless went.

Now, that was an exception, because it only primarily featured one emotion: Fury. And his black matter look said it all.

—Where is my baby? —The angry tone of Dream/Oneiros' question echoes through the walls of Zeus's throne room. —How dare you kidnap my daughter?!

—L-Lord Oneiros, allow us to explain to you... —the messenger god spoke, between stutters and stammers— You see, m-my father needed ingredients for a potion entrusted to Demeter. A-a-and that required a baby to steal, your daughter was the chosen baby! Hahaha…

After explaining everything that had happened, far from calming the brothers, it only made the father twice as angry as when he entered.

—And of all the babies in the damn world, you chose Dawn? —Desire asks angrily, crossing their arms looking at those causing the problems.

—What did Dawn have that no other human child had? —Questions Death, still not believing Hermes' story.

—Well, Lady Teleute, your girl was more powerful than an ordinary demigod. The ingredients needed for the potion would be more effective when making it. And it didn't take much, just three ingredients —Zeus speaks calmly, despite being extremely nervous inside.

—What were they? —Questions Dream, trying to level his anger— The ingredients, what were they?

By this moment, Hermes was already a waterfall of cold sweat from panic drowning him right there.

—Weeell… —his voice trembles when he tries to speak, and even more so when he sees the other siblings approaching them—. First we had to remove a little of her mucus, we had to make her sneeze. Afterwards… we had to get her tears out, so we had to make her cry. And finally-

—Did you... make her... cry?

Dream's slow question said with a touch of growing anger in his voice made the two Greek gods, who had been waiting for his direct attack for minutes, pale. The other siblings were already waiting for this reaction, but they knew that Dream was very protective and vengeful with anyone he loved. It was not new that he became twice as protective with his daughter.

—How dare you have the courage to make my daughter cry, messenger? —he asks furiously, looking at him with his eyes covered in darkness and black matter, whose pupils were replaced by small white stars that would reflect the anger in his gaze.

—Eeeh, weeell… we needed her tears for the potion; Plus we made her cry by accident... —Hermes, without noticing, falls on his butt due to a trip, giving Oneiros more advantage so that his threats were more effective; as the only movement of attempted escape, she crawled backwards until she collided with his father's feet. —But we made her laugh! We also needed his laughter as the last ingredient.

—It is worth mentioning, Lord Oneiros, that we have not inflicted any harm on her. What we need we already have from her, so we were going to return her safe and sound. No problems.

Despite Zeus's latest explanations, Dream was already reluctant to listen to blather from both of them and from his brothers with any intention of calming him down. He only came for one thing, and he was going to get it back.

—Give me back my daughter… NOW!!

The deafening scream thunders and echoes off the walls of the throne room, at the same time causing the brothers and the Greek gods to gasp at the force and volume of the claim.

And in less than the blink of an eye, as if somehow something woke him up and gave him back all the strength he had lost due to panic and terror, Hermes ran up as he went behind his father, where the baby lay sitting calmly still in her cloud chair with (he quickly assumed) the rattle that his father had given her held in her little hand. And without thinking twice, he grabbed her by the sides to carry her and take her to his Endless upset and furious father, who still did not stop threatening Zeus with his gaze of darkness.

—Dada!

The little girl's sweet call captures the attention of both her father and her other Endless piblings, who looked at her with a mixture of amazement and relief when they saw that Zeus had not lied.

—Dawn… —Dream focuses on her topaz gaze that saw him with innocence and tenderness, while she extended her little arms for a hug— My baby!

After exclaiming excitedly to see her again, he takes her in his arms and grants her the hug she was asking for. The sweet semi-Eterno rests her head on his shoulder, while she feels her father's warm lips kiss her forehead, ignoring her worried tears falling down her cheeks.

That beautiful scene is seen by the Eternos uncles and those responsible for the kidnapping, who hoped that the consequences would be a little merciful towards them.

—I'm glad you're okay, my beautiful dawn —he says with a soft voice in contrast to the threatening voice he had addressed to them a few seconds ago—. Let's go back home, your daddy is waiting for us.

—Home —the girl repeats, with her sweet and melodious voice. To then see Zeus and Hermes with innocence—. Goodbye, Emes. Whanks for the wift, Zous.*

The scene seemed unreal to Dream, and he would gladly protest if it were not his sweet little daughter saying goodbye to her kidnappers with a kindness and politeness characteristic of an Endless One. It didn't take long to see what she meant by the “wift” she mentioned when she saw the rattle in the hand where her daughter had said goodbye. With a look he asks her to lend him the rattle, to which she gives it to him very innocently. Already with the “wift” in his hand, he looks contemptuously at the Greeks.

—This rattle is not going to make up for the fact that you kidnapped her and took her from my brother's realm, Hermes —he says, showing the rattle so that his other siblings could see it and hear what he said.

The rest of Endless, especially Delirium, looked at the Greeks as a sermon and warning of what would come next because of what had happened.

—I doubt that makes up for the fact that you snuck into my library and caused a disaster —Destiny demands sternly.

—And that you have freed my fish from my kingdom to make the commotion bigger, mindless messenger! —exclaims offended Delirium, who already had her hair darker black than her brother Dream's.

Zeus looks at his son in dismay after hearing the other siblings' complaints. —How did you take her, son? —he asks finally, knowing that he had told him not to ask about how he would get the girl.

Hermes, without any hint of fear and already fed up with the matter, continues to take a deep breath and explain the origin of everything.

—First of all, this was all HIS idea —he says, looking at the Endless and pointing accusingly at Zeus—. He told me that Demeter had told him she needed ingredients to make a healing potion for her loyal nymphs, but it turns out that that required taking it from a baby. I wouldn't have taken Dawn if he'd told me it would take any mortal baby; but no! He asks me to bring her SPECIFICALLY —all the Endless look at him attentively and then focus their attention furiously on Zeus. —So, for that I had to sneak into her kingdom, Lord Potmos, but you and the human were with her. He set a delivery limit for me, so I had to act quickly; For that reason, I snuck into your library and had to make them leave the dining room little by little with her. —this explanation attracts Destiny's attention, making him feel tempted to check his book to check and see if he was lying to him, but he decided to give him his vote of confidence— That's why I had to create a commotion in the library to distract you, but you were slow to leave the table (I know it's not an excuse, but it made me late), that's why I had to make the mess bigger and I took the option of dropping things. I sincerely apologize for dropping a statuette on your head, Lord Oneiros, but it was the way to get your human out of the way.

—Dropped? —Dream asks with a raised eyebrow, as he hands the rattle to Dawn to entertain her. —It hurt me!

Hermes, keeping his embarrassed look for a moment, then continued explaining. —When I had managed to get almost everyone out, only Lady Mania was left with the girl, so I took a somewhat drastic measure —he looked at Delirium with a lot of guilt and shame, making the Endless look at him with amazement and then with anger—. Forgive me, but it was necessary.

—Necessary? —she asks the messenger, offended— You made my brothers believe that they had caused the disaster, you moron!

—Del, calm down —Death warns her, taking her shoulder.

—Well, since we have clarified everything about the crime against my niece, I hope you don't mind me summoning the Fates for a separate matter regarding the potion you made —Destiny informs Zeus with terrifying politeness, making him sweat. —My siblings and my niece can retire back to my realm, for now. And, as soon as the time comes, I will summon you to the meeting with the Fates.

—O-Of course, Lord Potmos —the king of the Greeks answers nervously.

—As for you, Hermes —Destiny approaches him with a bit of authority, causing the feathers on his ankles to ruffle—. I don't think you'd mind if you did me a few favors as royal compensation for my library's disaster, would you?

—No trouble, Lord Potmos! —the messenger answers nervously.

—Well, it was a pleasure discussing matters with you, gentlemen —Destiny says goodbye, signaling to his brothers that they would be heading back home.

And as they left, both Greek gods saw sweet Dawn say goodbye to them with a smile and a wave of her hand where she was holding her rattle, receiving a soft kiss on the cheek from her father in response.

Well, the worst was over and, luckily for both of them, there was nothing to worry about regarding their crime. Only worry about their possible punishments, which would be a story for another day.

🪽 [END] 🪽

[panicsdemonically]

Character entry 2.0

Writers Note: This is one of my many Monoliths; a Monolith is a monster of my making so feel free to ask questions. A post outlining the details of Monoliths will be made in the future. TW: there is an image of a gun at the bottom of this post

Name: Deimos Calydon

Fandom: None

Species: Monolith

Literal Age: 2,235-ish

Birth Month: Apr. (Aries)

Sex/Gender: Cic Male (he/him)

Sexuality: Pan

Family: Angelina Calydon (Wife/Deceased), Isabella Calydon (daughter/Deceased), Brutus Calydon (son/living)

Nationality: Thracia/Greek

Occupation: Indentured Agent for the Disaster Prevention branch of the C.T.U. (Contain, Train, Utilize) Organization

Code Name: The Gladiator

Affiliated colors: Barn red #7C0902

______________________________________________________________ Personality His job comes with many social pressures to stay under the radar, which is quite a trying task when you look like a walking force of nature. So behaving like a cold-shouldered asshole that wants to be left the hell alone is just part of the course. Even without his job in mind, Deimos has a temper simmering close to the surface tenting every early interaction with snaky sarcasm. Suffering severe PTSD he's put up thick emotional walls and coined socially destructive tactics to keep people away, for their sake. He's a deeply emotional person under it all and wishes he could convey them better. But his life has required more of his blind rage than any other method, so he accepts the idea of never being anything more than a monster. So his undying loyalty and passions go untapped. He tries to fill the void with one-night stands and heavy drinking habits.

_____________________________________________________________

Physical Appearance

Monoliths have varying control over their appearance depending on their experience and how long they've been a Monolith. Their True Forms are bestial and range in size and shape.

Human: A tan muscular man with a bad case of Resting Bitch Face. His physical age appears 35-ish, he’s 71", and he weighs around 300lb with long, wavy, dark brown/black hair he keeps up in a low bun. Sometimes he'll only pull back the front locks into a small ponytail to keep it out of his face. You'll find this dark hair everywhere else on his body too, excluding his face which is kept clean-shaven. He has dark brown eyes with faint crow's feet and freckles from sun damage, and a repeatably broken nose. His physique is muscular with a healthy amount of fat padding to soften his sharp edges, adding to the bulk of his already thick build. Many notable scars are littering his body. One across his neck was given to him by his late wife; knife cuts on his right arm and bullet impacts on his chest from mafia activity; scratches on his right shoulder and left forearm from a fight with another Monolith; stab wounds on his left arm and under his left ribs, ware mark on the right ankle, and lashes on his back are from his time spent as a gladiator.

Half-form: This can be any combination of his typically hidden features depending on his mood. Boar ears, glowing eyes, sharp claws, visible tusks, etc. He can choose to show these at will, however, at times when he’s overwhelmed by emotion these features will begin to seep through unintentionally.

Full monster: He rarely uses it due to the sheer size. Standing 24'1", close to the same height as a two-story building, he dawns the appearance of a large half-boar man reminiscent of the minotaur from Greek legend. With long dull claws and padded palms, he uses his long arms to walk on all fours when not in combat. Fur coats his body in varying lengths, the longest being along his back and head like a mane. His coat's texture feels bristly and coarse along the rest of his body, protecting his thick hide from environmental abrasions and cold.

Writers Note: There is an NSFW version attached to the Twitter post linked.

______________________________________________________________

Likes/Dislikes Likes: Liquar, Cigars, Rare Meat, Sparing

Dislikes: Having his morals criticized, Nightmares, being called a 'pig', and unnecessarily loud noises.

______________________________________________________________

Spells Spells must be learned and practiced to master. Shared Pain: This spell can be used on small wounds. The caster can transfer the damage done to their subject to themselves. The caster uses their blood to write runes on their subject's wounded area. To complete the link the caster then uses their subject's blood on themselves, on the same location mirroring their subject's wound. Blood for Blood: Specifically sacrificing the one who harmed the caster's subject to bring them back from the brink of death. This transfers all damage dealt to the sacrifice, killing them in the process. This spell can not be used if the subject has already ceased living.

______________________________________________________________

Skills Something the character has worked on perfecting physically, mentally, or academically Weapons Master: Deimos has used many different weapons throughout his life, leaving him the skill to use: Staffs, swords and shields, bows, and too many gun types to count. Hands-On: Hand-to-hand combat with Deimos is the worst place to be. From a young age, he was taught how to wrestle and was gifted with bone density and muscle growth to allow a hit to land without fazing him.

______________________________________________________________

Monolithic Power Monoliths have signature abilities unique to them requiring no learning outside of practice. Bone Armor: As Deimos takes damage he has a passive ability where bone will regrow over heavily damaged parts of soft tissue. The more you damage him, the harder he hits, but the slower he moves due to the weight. this can affect anywhere on his body and can be forcefully activated if he self-inflicts. His most common move is to pound his fists into a hard surface to build the bone around his knuckles before engaging in combat. The bone can also be broken off and used as a weapon. This power can be used in any form.

______________________________________________________________

Extras

Deimos's eyesight is shit. His sense of smell and hearing are heightened like a boar's, this also means however his eyes take a hit. He didn't technically learn how to read till glasses were invented due to it.

He refuses to cut his hair, wearing it as a sign of pride after having it all shaved off when sold into slavery to become a gladiator. Ever since he's put extra effort into avoiding being struck in the head and fire.

The car he drives is a 2008 Ford Excursion, Black. Perfect for transporting large loads.

His weapon of choice that he keeps on his hip at all times when on the job is a gun called The Judge. It's a five-shot revolver chambered for .410 bore shot shells and the .45 Colt cartridge.

[uniarycode]

MeiKaRu Headcannons.

For no reason in particular.

Friendship:

Takeru makes a point of visiting Meiko whenever he swings by to visit his grandmother, which he does more and more since Meiko's on her own without chosen nearby.

Hikari will often tag along to 'keep an eye on Takeru'. as such, his grandmother thinks Takeru and Hikari are secretly dating.

As seen in the epilogue to Tri, Takeru also writes letters to Meimei on a regular basis, updating her on the goings ons. Meiko appreciates them, but never writes a response.

Taichi and Meiko date for a short time, Hikari and Meiko become instant besties in this period.

Hikari is still mad at Taichi and is perfectly open about trying to steal his girlfriend (platonically at this point)

When Taichi and Meiko break up, the common joke is that Meiko got to keep Hikari in the separation.

Hikari and Meiko have a private messaging channel where they just send each other pictures and gifs of cats.

Occasionally Hikari sends a cute sheep gif.

The two of them are major Ghibli/Disney fans. Takeru will often join them to watch, but pretends he's cooler than that in public.

Takeru does bring the confections however.

The three of them are all creative in different ways. Hikari is a photographer, Meiko's an artist, and Takeru an author.

Meiko and Takeru have done art trades before, drawing something to go with the other's story or vice versa.

The three of them go to art museums together. Takeru takes the longest because he'll find a picture he likes and stares at it for 10 minutes as he tries to piece together a story to go along with it.

All of them are sweet tooths. They will travel around to find new sugary deserts to try and compare notes. one day they hope to find the perfect desert they can all agree is the best.

Getting together:

Takeru made no secret about his interest in either of the girls.  However, he is always careful to leave an exit for them.  He had not actually expect to start dating both at once, except in his wildest fantasies.

Meiko realizes she is bisexual fairly early, and realizes that the outing are better than any of her dates, and at some point puts two and two together to realize her attraction.  However she is initially intimidated by the age gap and not knowing which she should go for.  She does start referring to their outing as dates and dropping other hints.

Hikari is the one that actually made the first move.  Not that she was intending too.  The three of them stubled back to on of their rooms together after a party and she was drunk and curious and kissed Takeru, then kissed Meiko, then told them to kiss and everything spiraled from there.

The next morning they had a very sober ‘are we actually trying this’ talk, where they decided that yes, it was best to try.

Because Hikari made the first move, the other two tease her about being so bold, especially since she is normally the most reserved of the three of them when it comes to PDA. 

Dating:

Initially they kept it mostly secret, unsure if the unusual relationship would last long enough.

Mimi figures out Meiko’s seeing someone.  Miyako figures out Hikari is seeing someone.  Sora doesn’t suspect anything until after the other two start gossiping, and then she starts dropping questions around Takeru and puts everything together.

Sora is also required to be present when the brothers are told to try and ensure the responses are more ….proper for an insecure relationship outside the social norm.

No, “Why is my sister dating my ex?” is not a proper response.

“I’m so proud of you little brother.” is fine. Insinuating it’s because he gets to have a threesome every night is not.

And it is especially not fine to insinuate this is a familial trat in front of your singular fiancé.

Thankfully a good few elbows to the ribs beget more supportive responses.

The rest are more easily told afterward, although Miyako could have used a few more elbows to the ribs.

The three are all comfortable in each other’s company, so they are happy to stay inside most nights, maybe with a movie and a bucket of ice cream.

Takeru s the most extroverted, and thus the one who plans most of their outings.  Meiko is the one who perfects them.

Hikari is very grateful that, because there are three of them, everyone just assumes they are friends no matter how dolled-up they are when they go out.  She feels it takes the pressure off her if no one around realizes she’s on a date.

Although it does make PDA more difficult.

Multiple acquaintances of Hikari hae warned her of her cheating boyfriend.  Hikari isn’t super comfortable explaining their relationship, so she normally acts flighty and teasy and insinuates something random. 

“He’s got a brother, they look alike.”  “No, he was with me at that time.”  “Why are you spying on my boyfriend?  Are you interested in him?”

Meiko is the first one to say “Love” and she means it.  The other two mean it as well, but are far more scared to commit.

Takeru does most of the housework, as his mom was always busy with work and taught him how to do most basic chores so they would get done.  Hikari does the least as her mother was always happy to do them herself and wanted to support Hikari’s dream of being a teacher.

Hikari is also the first of the three with a sizable stable income, which makes her feel better about being less of a homemaker.

Takeru tends not to go grocery shopping though, and always buys something new and different whenever he does.

They have adopted two recue cats.  Sometimes thy just go look at potential rescues, and will likely end up with more.

Patamon and especially Tailmon do try and fill the void for Meiko with her own lost partner, but sometimes they do more harm than good.

Tailmon spends all day with Meiko on the anniversary of Meicoomon’s death, she feels it’s her duty, as the last one able to comfort Meicoomon.

All 3 of them have reasons to feel like the third wheel.  Hikari and Takeru have been inseparable since forever, so Meiko feels like an outsider.  Hikari knew Takeru and Meiko were attracted to each other before they started dating, and feels like an outsider in their love story.  Takeru’s is less rational, and more divorce trauma that makes him feel like the other two will run away and leave him behind one day.

Takeru is absolutely the most jealous and pouty if excluded from things.  He watches make-up tutorials just to feel included.

Of course, they also work hard to keep their relationship going.  Being chosen in a hostile world does help.

Polygamy is illegal in Japan.  It is not illegal in the digital world.

Their wedding has three courses of dessert, on top of the richest, most grandiose wedding cake they could find.

[rogersevans]

Back to You

Summary: A drunken night in with his sister and her friends had him regretting ever letting you walk out of his life.

Notes: 18+ Minors DNI

authors note: i got this idea after thinking about that one interview chris had, where he’s asked “what’s the most romantic thing someone has done for you?” and he struggles to think of something. but the opposite; jake can’t stop thinking about all the romantic things reader did for him. there might be a part two to this...

masterlist

Jake didn’t know how the topic of their drunken conversation had shifted to his past relationships. The last he remembered they were talking about which Avenger they’d fuck and why. Jake all too eager blurted out Scarlet Witch and then went on a ten minute rant about how cool she was when they admitted not knowing who she was.

He had been dropping off his niece when he was forced into ‘girls night’, now here he was three beers deep and having conversations about his past relationships.

His sister started it. Talking about his bad taste in women. That was until she mentioned you. “Ya’know who I liked?!” She slurred out, her once full wine glass now holding the remnants of the cheap stuff she’d bought earlier today. Your name rolled off her lips with such ease, she practically sung it.

Jake listened to the small group of women all swoon at the mere mention of your name, his entire body tensing. These women had grown up with the Jensen’s, so you’d been close with them all. Especially his niece. They all took the break-up hard.

A lump started to form in his throat, like it did every time someone mentioned you or whenever he thought about you.

“I’m telling you Jakey, she’s the one that got away!” The high pitched tones of his sisters voice made him cringe. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Something he did when he was uncomfortable.

“Yeah!” Another friend piped up. “Why’d you guys even break up?”

“She wanted him to grow up-”

“That’s not why.” Jake started to become agitated, picking at the label on the brown beer bottle. The lump in his throat growing bigger. “Can we stop talking about this?” He coughed to cover up the fact that his voice was cracking.

You and Jake had been together for two years, you were his world, even planned to marry you. But somewhere along the way that plan got derailed. If he was being honest he couldn’t remember why you broke up. He just remembers how quiet it was. You never raised your voice, not even when you argued. Something he’d always admired of you.

He remembers watching as you silently packed your things, tears falling down your cheeks.

“Bubba-”

“Don’t,” his nickname for you making your heart ache, his own voice cracking under the strain of trying not to cry. Holding your palm flat against his chest as he tried to take a step closer to you. “Please,” you pleaded with him. “Because if you touch me right now I’ll cry,” you hiccuped out, your bottom lip trembly slightly. “And if I start crying then I won’t ever stop.”

Jake just silently nodded, understanding your wishes. Not confident that if he did hold you he’d stay strong himself.

That was the last time Jake saw you, two months ago. The longest you’d been apart from one another and it was killing him. He wanted nothing more than to ring you up and tell you he missed you. Ask you to take him back. But he knew it was too late.

“We should call her and ask!!” Another friend piped up, snapping Jake back to the conversation. “Don’t you still speak to her-”

“You what?” Jake didn’t intend for his question to come out as a bark or harsh, maybe it was the beers altering his mood. Or maybe it was the rawness of the conversation topic that made him snap. 

He’d spent two months thinking about you, missing you, wanting nothing more than to hear your voice. Only to find out that you’ve been in contact with his sister this whole time. His heart started to pound against his ribs.

“We chat on occasion.” She defended, folding her arms across her chest.

“How often are these ‘chats’?” He’d forgotten about everyone else in the room, too focused on you. He felt the anger bubble inside of him. For two months you’d ignored every voicemail or text he’d sent. But his sister calls and you’re willing to speak to her. 

“Once or twice a week. Jake, we’re friends.” She tried to reason with him.

“If you’re friends, why isn’t she here?” His tone was bitter, his upper lip curling.

“If that’s your reaction then no wonder she left.” The words came out quicker than she could stop them, god damn wine. Everyone watched as he stared her down, his fists balling until his knuckles turned white. His sister had a tendency to always push his buttons, it’s what sisters do. But even she knew that was a low blow. “Jake...” She tried when she saw him stand and grab his jacket, but in true Jake fashion he had to have the last word.

“No, I get it. I’m the bad guy. The love of my life walks out of on me, ignores me, but still makes a point to communicate with my sister!” 

“Don’t get it twisted Jake. She didn’t leave in the middle of the night, you guys broke up, because you couldn’t get your shit together and figure out that she was the best thing to happen to you. When she came over that night-”

“What did you just say?” Jake stopped dead at his sisters drunk confession, his blood running cold. Had you really left the home you shared, after breaking up with him, to go and sleep on his sisters couch?

Oh, he was pissed.

“She had no where to go!”

“Yes she did! She had a perfectly good apartment and loving boyfriend waiting for her!” 

“You’re such an ass.” She mumbled, shaking her head. “She told me everything that happened that night, how you promised her to be home so you could talk, but instead came home piss drunk after being out with the guys all day. How you told her that marriage wasn’t something you could picture right now.” The last one made everyone, including Jake, cringe. The memories coming back to him like a brick to the face. “She didn’t want to be around you so she came here. I’m sorry that upsets you, but she’s my friend.”

Jake could’t bring himself to talk, the emotion of the situation becoming too much for him. His skin itching as he felt everyone’s eyes on him. He’d fucked up. He didn’t need his sister to tell him that. But it was easier to pretend that he hadn’t. It was easier for him to live with himself, live with the guilt. 

“Where’re you going?” Her voice now strained from shouting and the amount of wine she’d drank throughout the night.

“For a walk.” Was all he said before letting the door slam behind him as he left her home. The cool winter air hitting him, sobering him up to the harsh reality he was now facing. 

He’d fucked up.

Big time.

It was 2am and Jake was walking the cold streets, his thumb teasing over your name in his contacts. Tears now staining his cheeks. He knew he’d overreacted back at his sister’s, but too prideful to admit that he’d rather suffer in the cold and wallow in his own self-inflicted pity.

He remembered everything about you. 

The way you scrunched your nose when you were nervous, like the time you set up an entire office in the spare room of your apartment, nervous that you’d set everything up wrong. Decked out with tech you didn’t understand, the small bed that once occupied the room now gone, replaced with a pull out sofa facing the desk. Oh the desk, Jake thought he’d died and gone to heaven. You’d spotted him eyeing this exact desk a couple of weeks a go. He remembered how you listened to every detail of his rant after you asked why that desk just thinking you were being polite. But you were taking mental notes, remembering the details of how he would set it up if he were to buy it. How important the positioning of the desk is. He’d been stuck at the dining table working from there with just one screen. Two screens are much better bubba. He’d grumble to you, his arms wrapping around your waist as you stood next to him. But when he saw three screens lighting up the room he couldn’t contain the squeal of excitement. You’re getting head tonight, the best head you’ve ever had. Breakfast in bed. A puppy. Anything you want bubba. He promised you as he peppered your entire face with soft kisses. 

Or how you never asked questions, trusting him completely. Especially when he needed to leave at the drop of a hat. He always joked that he was tech genius and business owner by day, hero by night. Loving how it always made you playfully role your eyes and giggle. You’re my hero sunshine. You’d always say back to him. He remembers how you would spray the inside of his bag with your perfume when you packed it, leaving your pillow case folded up on top of clothes. It was an unspoken tradition. He’d find himself itching to get to his sketchy motel room, opening the bag to have your perfumed scent taking over his senses, relaxing him instantly. Replacing the grubby motel pillow case with yours, the smell of your shampoo helping him drift off to sleep quicker. 

When his team found out they teased him relentlessly but he didn’t care.

How you’d widen your eyes slightly, making them big and adorable, to get your own way, your bottom lip would shortly follow, poking out. You would never use your power for evil, only for mundane things like convincing him to come shopping with you. He would love the way your eyes would light up when he agreed. Now, Jake hated shopping, hated doing the weekly food shop. He much prefers doing it online, but not you. He would watch as your perused the isles with such care and determination. Always moving out of the way for people. Jake would spot his favourite brand of beer or cereal and before he could move to grab them you would be already putting them in the cart, ticking them off your list. His heart swelling at the thought of you just adding his favourite things to your list, without thinking. 

Before he knew what he was doing his thumb pressed against your name, calling you. He needed to see you, to hear your voice again. 

The dull and loud vibrations from your phone woke you. Turning onto your back and letting out a heavy sigh you reached for your phone and swiped the screen, not even checking who was calling you at this ungodly hour. 

But they were about to feel your wrath.

“Who the fuck is ringing me at... 3am?! On a Sunday morning!” You grumbled into the speaker, throwing your free arm over your eyes. 

The line was silent, except for the background noise of wind whipping past the caller. “I-I-”

You didn’t have to be awake to know that voice, you’d spent two years memorising that voice. Listening to how it would reach a higher pitch when upset, deeper when angry. How it purred your name on Sunday mornings. Waking up to it singing in the kitchen, so off key and out of timing. It had been imprinted on your soul.

“Ja-Jake?” Now sitting up, the covers pooling around your waist. He sounded upset, distressed. “Jake, are you alright?” And you couldn’t stop yourself, no matter how much you wanted to, from giving a shit. You’d always care about Jake.

“You still speak to my sister?” He asked back, slumping his body against the brick wall of a building. “But you won’t speak to me?” He was hurt and he knew he didn’t have a right to be, but that didn’t stop him. His voice breaking as he spoke.

“Are you drunk?” Ignoring his questions, twisting your body to get out of bed and pad across the cold floor of your apartment. “Jake, where are you?” You were worried, he never rang you this late or this drunk. He didn’t need to tell you how drunk he was, you could hear it in his voice. 

“Some street.” He mumbled out.

“Gonna need you to be more descriptive sunshine, what does it look like? There a name for that street?” The nickname just came out, you didn’t think much of it until you heard Jake gasp, screwing your eyes shut and cursing under your breath.

“You called me sunshine!?” He beamed, his still slumped against the brick wall but now the goofiest looking grin taking over the soft features of his face.

Letting a soft sigh escape you pulled the phone away from your ear, putting it on speaker and opening the “find my friends” app, cursing yourself for never taking him off of it. When his location displayed on the screen you slipped on your shoes. “Stay put Jensen, I’m on my way.” 

“You know I don’t like it when you call me Jensen, I prefer Sunshine.” You could practically hear him pouting, making you roll your eyes. 

“Jensen.” You greeted the short, spikey haired blonde, his glasses now wonky, putting the window down and leaning over to the passenger side to open the door. “Get in.” 

You tried to ignore the way his eyes lit when they landed on you, how his smile turned wide, displaying his perfectly white teeth, crinkles forming in the corners of his eyes. But fuck, it was hard. 

Annoyance slowly creeping in when he remained seated on the concrete steps that lead to someone’s home. “Jake.” You hissed, not wanting to wake the street. A frustrated sigh bouncing around the car when he continued to stay sat, staring at you with those puppy dog like eyes. 

Grumbling as you unbuckled your belt, rounding the car and making your way over to Jake. It was too early for this shit, or too late, you couldn’t tell. 

“Jake. Up. Now.” You commanded, your hands resting on your hips.

“Nope.” He cheerfully protested, popping the ‘p’.

It took everything in you not to smack him, your fingers twitching at the urge. Your blood was starting to boil at how selfish he was being. How selfish he had been these past two months. Trying to worm his way back into your life instead of leaving you to heal and move on. Knowing you’d listen to every voicemail he’d leave you, read every text he’d send you. 

“Just get in the car.” You spoke through gritted teeth, your shoulders hunched.

“Just sit with me.” He replied, looking up at you. His eyes glossy and that small stupid, addictive small smile that had your body relaxing and moving to sit next to him in an instant. “Wasn’t so hard, was it.” He teased, using his shoulder to shove you a little. 

“How drunk are you?” 

“Drunk enough to call you.”

“You always call me.” You point out.

“But this time you answered.” He also pointed out, leaning back and resting his elbows on the steps behind him.

“I didn’t know who I was answering to, unlike you, I was asleep.” Turning your body to face him.

“So, if you knew it was me you wouldn’t of answered?” His brows frowning at the thought, his voice sounded broken.

“Jake,” you sighed out, resting your hands in your lap and focusing your gaze on them. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” he started, sitting up properly and turning to face you. “What’s not fair is me finding out that you still speak to my family, but won’t take my calls.” He knew it was wrong, what he was saying was unfair. To demand that from you.

“We broke up, Jake.” You rasp out, emotion taking over now.

“But,” you watched as he licked his lips, like he was thinking about what he was about to say. “You didn’t think how that would effect me.”

That pissed you off. Was he really saying this to you right now? Would you get arrested if you knocked him around? Honestly, you weren’t a violent person but Jake Jensen was doing an amazing job of making you into one.

“And you didn’t think about how it would effect me when you told me you didn’t want to marry me, how you weren’t ready for that type of commitment.” Shaking your head you stood, turning to face him. “Find your own way home.” You sneered, turning back towards your car and getting it. 

“Bubba-” The sound of your car door and your engine starting cut him off. His shoulders slumped when he watched you drive away. “Shit.” He cursed under his breath, using the back of his hand to wipe away tears he didn’t know were falling. 

[world-of-fire-and-flight]

Mirth's Ebenezer: Part 14

A/N: OMG I think I can see the light at the end of the tunnel😲 Now the longest standing series on my blog, I’m throwing it back to part 4, part 5, and part 6 in the hopes of tying up some loose ends like who the mole is and how Supervillain got them to leak the holiday schedule. You know, the truly important stuff (though at some point I should probably figure out this love triangle thing. Maybe I should make a poll?? You know what yeah: drop a comment about whether you’d like to vote for who Mirth ends up with and I’ll make a poll for it 😊)

Warnings: reference to past violence, reference to past betrayal, reference to past murder and bodily harm, fleeing, reference to past home invasion (well, safe house invasion😉)

My Masterlist | Taglist Info or Taglist Request Form | Mirth’s Ebenezer masterlist

Mirth let her eyes fall shut and her head go limp, leaning against the cool windowpane of the truck’s rear passenger seat as Superhero and Baron discussed which of their potential suspects was actually Supervillain’s mole.

“I’m telling you, it has to be Agent,” Baron was saying insistently, leaning forward over the center console with one hand dangling over the empty passenger seat and the other over the driver seat. “Who else had access—”

“There’s still Civilian to consider, the H.R. assistant, and as much as I hate to say it, the H.R. director herself, Carole.”

“Well if we’re just going to keep throwing names at the wall, we might as well as add Other Agent to the list too.”

“No,” Mirth finally said, peeling herself away from the window and straightening in her seat beside Baron. “They’re too loyal even if they are a little dimwitted.”

Superhero caught her eye in the rear view mirror, their brow arched in question. Before they could say anything, she added, “I do think we need to consider Judge Whitmire or someone in his office though.”

Baron glanced at her. “Why?”

“Because who else knew where the safe house was?”

Silence descended upon the car. Baron slumped back in the seat and finally buckled himself in. Mirth turned her head back toward the window, watching the forest pass by as Superhero sped through the narrow dirt roads and took the already sharp turns a little too vigorously. Her stomach roiled from the suddenness of the car’s movements and sliding around the backseat with every high speed turn they took. Acid simmered in her gut from both the jerky ride and the fresh memory of Supervillain’s attack on the safe house.

Taking a long breath in through her nose, Mirth tried to focus on anything other than the snap of bones in her ears as she’d slammed henchmen into trees or threw her fist at their faces.

None of it made any sense. How would Civilian or Carole know where they were serving Baron’s house arrest at? But how would anyone in Judge Whitmire’s office know which heroes were scheduled to work during this past holiday season?

Unless…

“What if we’re all right but also wrong?” she started, forcing her eyes to focus on first Superhero’s reflection in the rear view mirror and then Baron beside her. “What if there’re two moles?”

Superhero slammed on the brakes, bringing the truck to a careening stop that had Mirth nearly emptying the contents of her stomach as she flew forward and nearly slammed into the back of their seat behind the wheel. Baron cursed, rubbing his head from where he had actually hit the seat in front of him.

“A little warning would’ve—”

“Then the courthouse isn’t safe either,” Superhero said at the same time, interrupting Baron’s snide remark.

“Then where are we supposed to go?” Mirth asked, rubbing her ribs from where the seat belt had pulled a little too taunt in its effort to prevent her from flying forward at Superhero’s sudden braking.

“I know a place,” Baron said quietly. “Just promise me it won’t violate the terms of my Rogue Trial?”

Superhero’s jaw visibly clenched. “Why would we need to promise that?”

“Oh please,” Baron shot back, “would you trust the system if you were in my position?” Superhero didn’t respond, and in their silence, Baron visibly tempered himself, slumping back in his seat and closing his eyed for a moment. “Let me drive, it’ll be easier that way.”

“No.” Superhero didn’t leave any room for argument, but Baron persisted.

“Look, we don’t have time to fight or for me to direct you to my last safe house, so just let me drive before Supervillain catches up to us.”

“And what makes you think they’re even—”

“Because what we just did? It’s a blow to their ego and they’re going to want to prove that they’re still on top of things, so unless you want to help prove that, let me drive.”

Begrudgingly, Superhero reached for the door handle and undid their seat belt. “Fine. But if I even suspect you’re leading us into a trap—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Baron said flippantly, “you’ll kill me.”

Mirth rolled her eyes. At least their pathetic squabbling hadn’t been impacted by Supervillain’s surprise attack on the safe house. And so much for their near deaths bringing them closer together. Resting her head against the window, she let her eyes fall shut again as Superhero sat in the passenger seat and Baron took the wheel.

Hopefully, Baron’s last-resort safe house actually proved to be secure and safe and they could take a breath before tackling just who the mole was—and how many there actually were.

Mirth’s Ebenezer Taglist: @heroes-villains-side-blog @selene-stories @violetcancerian @kaiwewi @averyconfusedhuman Just let me know if you’d like to be added or removed (no reason necessary!) You can also add yourself using this handy dandy form 😊

Part 15