#(I think now I can finally post this without as much issue)

[wxsteriawishes]

the lads men finding you again in this life. . . but you're already with someone else (angst version) what who said that

post-writing clarity: written while listening to the Dear Hongrang OST, very much set the mood. i recommend! most songs are instrumental.

go back to masterlist

content: mentions of death, mentions of toxic behavior/abuse, use of indecent language/swearing, use of pet names (pips)

caleb

bonus points: imagine zayne is "the other guy" in caleb's story

he'd immediately try sabotaging the two of you. over and over again, using his status and evol to his benefit and that asshole's detriment. he'd play the perfect older brother, you'd come crying to him each time something went wrong. each time an issue popped up. caleb wouldn't let him enter the house, wouldn't let him explain or apologize. he'd let the miscommunications fester. when you find out how much caleb had been meddling, you're furious, you're outraged -- you feel betrayed. he had already lied about his death, now this?initially, he's firm and stubborn. he won't let go of you. "can't you see how much better i could treat you?" maybe if you were single, he'd let you be. but you acted as if you were in love with that other guy, like you might marry him. spend your whole life with him? he can't have that, now, can he? no, that wouldn't do. he locks you up, hides you away from the rest of the world. you didn't even get to say goodbye, you had screamed at him once. he didn't care. you missed your lover, you never quite had the courage to confess. he could tell anyway. he didn't relent. "i know you, pips! he'll never know you like i do." you don't know for sure what happened to your partner ex. you get hints. caleb tells you he took care of him. you didn't have to guess at what that meant. the important part was that you'd never be able to see him again. it broke you apart. you stopped speaking, ate less, never laughed. your smiles were only half-hearted. you had trouble sleeping. it takes a while, but he eventually takes a step back. he sees you fading away, missing the man you used to be with, the one you really loved. you're just a shell of the bright, loving, confident woman you used to be. you don't even look at him anymore. he'd broken your trust. he was too intense, too possessive, too much. he lets you go. you don't look back. instead of your partner's loving arms, you come home to a tombstone and a death certificate. even though you eventually forgive caleb, you can't find it within yourself to love him back the way he's always loved you. he's killed (backstabbed) by one of his colleagues a few years later, eternally distracted by thoughts of you. people think he died without a lover. but he loved you to his grave, even when you didn't love him back. even when you had another in your own heart.

rafayel

bonus points: imagine sylus is "the other guy" in rafayel's story

he ignores you. initially, he wants to shout at you. he wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake until you remember him again, remember what you did to him, what the two of you had. he sees your eyes scanning the crowd and missing him. you didn't recognize him, you weren't even looking for him. he watches your lover lean down and plant a kiss on your lips, startling you. rafayel watches you blush and turns to leave. fine. if you were happy without him, who was he to object? the second time you meet, it's at one of rafayel's art exhibitions. he's mingling with the other guests. he's charming, captivating, unforgettable, everything a world-renowned artist like him should be. he's startled when you suddenly appear behind him. you introduce yourself and he turns around with his usual flirtatious gaze. he meets your sparkling eyes and, for a moment, he can't speak. why were you here? maybe you had finally remembered something-- but you only ask him for a favor. he pretends to be skeptical, when he was truly curious. he thought you might ask about lemuria. or at the very least, just be a fan of his work, wanting to meet him. but when he hears your favor. . . he laughs. hard. it sounds bitter, even to him. oh, you were audacious. who did you think you were? he wanted to say no, to just walk away, so badly. he was one of the best, for god's sake. he could afford to be an asshole this far in his career. but that would be cruel and unfair to you. you did not remember him, for whatever reason, and he couldn't expect anything from you. and, perhaps, he also just couldn't refuse you, no matter how hard he tried. like he was under your spell. thomas was right behind you. please say yes, his eyes seemed to be screaming at rafayel. so he does. only a few months later, he's dressed in soft pastels, blending in with the venue. he's sitting in the very front, a little off to the side, brush in hand. he paints. the life, the weather, the people. part of him feels like he's wasting his pigment on this. he's finally done when he hears you, "i do," voice full of emotion. rafayel watches the ring get pushed on your finger. he looks away. packs up his stuff, waits at the back, leaves before the afterparties. drowns himself in his work. years pass and people notice something had changed in his work. like something was missing. his fame and wealth skyrocketed. he had everything he could want. and most of all, he was happy. he didn't need you.

sylus

bonus points: imagine xavier is "the other guy" in sylus' story

he stalks you. he'd never call it that though. he was simply keeping an eye on you, to make sure you were safe. he has cameras set near your apartment building. when you go out, he usually sends luke and kieran, not willing to trust any of his mindless lackeys to ensure your safety. he has mephisto on the job when you're on a mission and you're trying to lay low. that's how he finds out you're with someone, another hunter. someone he had seen you spending time with at home and at work. instead of backing away, he keeps an even closer eye on you. what exactly had you two done? how far had you let him go? he kept catching his evol out of control, ready to strangle the man who dared touch you. he wouldn't believe you were in love with another. not when his soul was tied to yours. when you go on a sort of solo mission to find the leader of Onychinus, he sees his chance. he tries to get you to remember, he tries to resonate with you, he tries near everything he can think of. nothing works. no, he's only made things worse. you leave to go back to linkon city and he felt himself going insane. how had you forgotten everything? when it was you that tied your fate to his and cursed him. you, who doomed him to only be yours, when you couldn't even remember who he was to you now. on his better days, he has hope. he trusts that you'll make your way back to him. but on his worse days, he pays you a visit. he appears in your vicinity, scares the living hell out of you, and he wants to demand answers. but you hated him. you could only see him as the murderer of your foster grandmother and brother. he disgusted you, how could you love him with that fear, that betrayal in your eyes? one time, he appeared in your room while you were in his arms, the two of you in your bed. he went crazy. he lunged, aiming to kill. he almost did, but he caught sight of your eyes again. horror. pleading. tears. you call him a monster. his gaze dropped to his hands, strangling an innocent throat, black and crimson tendrils of smoke clouding his vision. you were in the corner of the room, looking like you wanted to disappear. sylus' grip loosened. he wanted to disappear. he stands up. takes a step back. he vanishes from the room. you never see him again.

xavier

bonus points: rafayel is "the other guy" in xavier's story

he'd introduce himself. he'd make his presence known each time he walked past your desk at work, past your door at home. he'd bring you home-baked muffins, to welcome you to the neighborhood. you're shocked by the acidic taste in the dough, but his aloof nature is charming. he leaves quite the impression on you. you become friends -- going on missions together, hanging out at his place on the weekends sometimes, having a drink together after a particularly intense fight. he's happy. he's friendly, he's sweet, he's respectful. he's such a gentleman, and honestly, a little bit of a flirt. he knows you don't remember anything. but he doesn't mind. it was more than perfect like this. he didn't have enough time to be nitpicking over the finer details. then you decide you want him to meet your fiancé. he had recently come back from a five-month-long world tour, you were saying, and you just had to introduce him to xavier. of course. xavier never did ask if you were single. he thought his feelings were obvious. he thought you two were on the same page. he forgot you didn't remember the things he did. you didn't catch the little inside jokes he made in reference to your past. and now, he was about to come face-to-face with your lover. fine, he'll be the judge of it. and when they met in person, xavier was livid. it would've been easier if he were horrible. but he wasn't. your fiancé was the whole package: deathly handsome, world-famous, wealthier than one could imagine, and most of all, he had left quite the impression on you too. only he had gotten to you first. xavier didn't ever smile at him, never spoke directly to him, always seething beneath the surface. the worst part was he was so good to you. he was so kind to you. xavier couldn't ignore that, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise. you invited xavier to your wedding. he still tried to make you see him as the better choice. he could fight, he could protect you, he would never forsake you. but you couldn't turn your head from your husband, your heart couldn't stop loving the passionate, flirtatious, loving man you were already tied to. he could feel how distant you were getting already. he could feel the friendship hanging on by a thread. he had a choice: he could try and save it, savor what little interactions he had with you, or go off the grid again. he never got to make the choice. his body was so tired and he already had such little time. he should've noticed the signs, without your love and comfort, all alone again, the stress, the solitude, it was all getting to him. then, one night, you found yourself dressed in black, hand-in-hand with your husband. you were told it was painless, in the middle of the night. you were grateful. you never knew how deep his feelings went for you.

zayne

bonus points: imagine caleb is "the other guy" in zayne's story

he'd keep his distance. at first, he couldn't believe it. it was you. you were the girl in his dreams. the woman formed from fragments of his mind. it had been years since you two had last spoke. but that was before the nightmares started, when he began to think there was something wrong with him. but like a fairytale come to life, he saw you. your eyes, your smile, your everything -- you were divine. his drink was untouched as he stared out the window, into the town square. he needed to speak to you. he thought he was crazy, having nightmares of killing a wife he never even met. but there you stood, laughing as you were grabbed by the waist, kissed until you ran out of breath. his heart dropped. you looked so happy. all hopes of talking to you vanished. he wouldn't cross that line. he got up and left the café immediately. it wasn't his place, to try to speak of such an intimate matter to a taken woman. how could he ruin that for you? he wouldn't. but, maybe. . . he'd make sure to be assigned to you as your primary physician. he'd get to know you in a professional setting, in a respectful manner. just for his own sake. when you had problems with your boyfriend, he'd comfort you. give you advice, sometimes as a doctor, sometimes as a friend. he kept his eye on you to make sure you were never hurt. he couldn't help himself, he couldn't completely stay away. how could he? but he never pushed it. he never flirted with you. even when he might've felt like you were attracted to him too. you had been in your relationship for years, why would you risk that for him? he never explicitly expressed his feelings to you, never wanting you to feel pressured to return them. there were boundaries he wouldn't cross. you weren't his, for god's sake, no matter how much he'd wished otherwise. but he kept telling himself if things didn't work out between you and that guy, he'd try his own luck. two years later, he was attending your wedding. he watched you exchange your vows, eyes sparkling, skin glowing, like you were made of gems. he was so happy for you. he moved towns. kept having nightmares of your lifeless body, dying at his scarred hands.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Some (late) holiday photos of the boye~!

[izzyizumi]

Digimon Adventure Last Evolution: Kizuna ~ ~ Meiko Mochizuki’s (Canon) Appearance (as Younger Meiko, same design used in Tri) + Meiko & Meicoomon

“Mochizuki...” - Yamato Ishida (Taichi also watching), Voice wavering, in growing shock

Bonus:

{Young Meiko, in Tottori} {Kyousei; Film #5 Flashback} (wearing the exact same outfit) {With the same Japanese-style home} Gifs by @izzyizumi / @koushirouizumi​ {Do Not Repost or Reproduce without my Permission} {Do Not Remove Caption} (Please Ask to Use)

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[buckysleftbicep]

for better or for worse (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, sexual tension, one bed trope,

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 2.5k

author's note: hi my loves! this is one of my uncompleted series, and i'm posting in hopes i could be motivated to complete it! if you'd like for a chapter two, let me know! your support means a lot to me <333

series masterlist

“You can’t be serious.”

Your voice cut sharply through the room, echoing off the concrete walls of the team's briefing room. The table was scattered with dossiers, mission files, half-drunk coffee, and exactly zero logic as far as you were concerned.

Val didn’t even blink. She just sat there at the head of the table, calm as ever, the faintest glint of amusement betraying her otherwise impassive face. “Dead serious.”

You folded your arms, glaring. “Out of everyone here… him?”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky muttered beside you, tone flat as a dry desert. He didn’t even look your way, probably didn’t want to see the way your eyes narrowed like you were about to throw something sharp at him.

Val’s smirk deepened. She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under her chin like a cartoon villain with far too much power. “You two have unresolved issues, so congratulations. You’re married now.”

Yelena let out a full snort of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was watching a slow-motion car crash.

John gave a low, gleeful whistle. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“Why can’t you send Walker?” you snapped, jerking a thumb at him. “He already looks like he belongs on a honeymoon with his ego.”

“He have emotional capacity of wrecking ball,” Alexei chimed in, voice thick with his Russian accent, waving a hand dismissively. “Very destructive, not subtle.”

“No, I don’t—” John started to protest, indignant.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “You cried at Fast and Furious 7, and it wasn’t even the sad part.”

John scowled. “It had layers.”

She dropped a thick file onto the table. Glossy surveillance photos slid free, including a few charred, smoking blueprints and a shot of Raskovic toasting champagne in a cabana.

“His last shipment,” Val continued, “levelled half a research compound in Tunisia. I need charm, subtlety. Not testosterone."

You let out a disbelieving huff and gestured vaguely in Bucky’s direction without looking at him. “And you think this has charm?”

“I ooze charm,” Bucky said flatly.

You finally turned to glance at him. “Yeah, I can see that. Real honeymoon material.”

Yelena grinned wide, leaning across the table toward you like she was settling in for the drama. “This is going to be so entertaining.”

“Better than reality TV,” Ava added, her boots kicked up on the table, legs crossed lazily.

Alexei clapped his hands together, beaming like someone’s very drunk uncle at a wedding. “Marriage is beautiful thing, bond of love. Trust."

You turned your gaze back to Val, still hoping against reason that she would crack and admit this was some twisted, long-game prank. “There has to be another way.”

She gave you that look. The one that always meant: I could have you killed and get away with it. And then she smiled, teeth sharp and polished.

“Not unless you want to tell the weapons dealer you’re siblings who sometimes make out.”

You blinked, as John gagged audibly in the background.

“…Fine,” you muttered, jaw clenching.

Bucky didn’t even react. He just let out a grunt, pushing his chair back slightly. “Let’s get this over with.”

With a dramatic flourish, Val produced two small velvet boxes from her bag and slid them across the table. “Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Barnes. Honeymoon begins in twenty-four hours. And if either of you screw this up, if he suspects anything, you’re both done. There are no second chances with Raskovic. None.”

You flipped open your box. Inside, a slim platinum band gleamed under the overhead lights. It looked delicate, elegant, like something a real wife would wear, if she didn’t want to commit murder against her husband before check-in.

Val’s voice was cool as steel. “Play the part. Laugh. Kiss. Look like you can’t keep your hands off each other. Be convincing.”

“Oh, we’ll be convincing,” Bucky muttered as he slid the ring onto his finger, his voice almost too casual. “Won’t we, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy imagining what it would feel like to punch your fake husband in the face.

Six Hours Later

“Tell me again why I agreed to this,” you muttered, yanking your suitcase behind you as the team's transport SUV barrelled down a sun-drenched coastal road, the ocean stretching endlessly beside it like a taunt.

The scent of saltwater mixed with the heat of the asphalt, the resort town glinting in the distance like something out of a luxury magazine ad you would never willingly sign up for.

Bucky’s voice cut through the silence from the driver’s seat. “Because you have a hero complex,” he said, one hand firm on the wheel, the other draped lazily across the armrest like he wasn’t wearing a metaphorical wedding ring that made your eye twitch. “And you like pretending you don’t.”

You scoffed, adjusting your sunglasses as you shot him a glare. “Because I was assigned to this.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re reckless and don’t listen to orders.”

Your head snapped toward him, the suitcase thudding into your shin as you turned in your seat. “Because you're a controlling jackass who never takes the stick out of his—”

“Children,” came John’s voice through the SUV’s overhead comms, the speaker crackling just enough to ruin the moment. “Behave. Uncle Walker’s listening in.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“I’m placing bets,” Yelena chimed in, the sound of chewing echoing faintly behind her smug tone. “Three days before they fuck. Two before they kill each other.”

“Both, maybe same night,” Alexei added almost cheerfully in the background, as if he were discussing weather patterns.

You let out a long, exasperated breath and turned back to the road, jaw tight, sunglasses hiding the slow blink of disbelief at your life choices.

Bucky didn’t look at you, but you could feel the smugness radiating off him like heat from the dash.

“You should rest,” he said, casting a sidelong glance your way. “You’re crankier than usual.”

You crossed your arms, slumping just enough to make your annoyance known. “Maybe I’d be in a better mood if I wasn't married the most aggravating man on the planet.”

Bucky smirked like you’d handed him a trophy. “I didn’t realise I outranked Walker.”

“I’m flattered,” came John’s voice again, low and mildly wounded. “Thanks, guys. Warms the heart.”

Twenty Minutes Later – Resort Arrival

The second your foot hit the ground, you nearly choked on the air.

The resort was obscene—like someone gave a billionaire an unlimited budget and said, go nuts.

The entrance was framed with cascading white orchids, marble walkways that looked freshly polished gleamed under the golden tropical sun, and an honest-to-god quartet played soft jazz somewhere near a sculpted garden arch.

Fountains bubbled lazily with rose petals floating on the surface, and in the distance, gauzy white silk cabanas shimmered beside an infinity pool that looked like it led directly into the ocean. Uniformed staff moved like clockwork, trays of champagne glasses catching the light like diamonds.

Bucky stepped up beside you, duffel slung over his shoulder, and took it all in with an arched brow. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “We’re in a Bond villain’s wet dream.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Try not to glower too hard. We’re supposed to be happy newlyweds, remember?”

His gaze flicked to you, mouth twitching like he wanted to laugh or maybe bite. “Try not to stab anyone with your heels.”

You didn’t reply. Not because he was right, but because the stilettos Val made you pack could absolutely be used as a weapon. And likely would.

Inside, the air conditioning hit like a blessing. The check-in lobby was all white marble and gold accents, with soft lighting that made your skin glow unnaturally perfect.

A stunning concierge greeted you with the kind of practiced smile that made you want to start lying immediately.

“Welcome to El Alma Dorada, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” she said, hands clasped over a sleek tablet. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Before you could even fake a smile, Bucky’s hand slid into yours.

It was warm—calloused, solid, and entirely too steady. You blinked down at the contact just as he turned on a grin so smooth it knocked the wind out of you.

He leaned in a little, close enough that you could smell his cologne, feel the press of his thumb brushing slow, affectionate circles against your knuckles.

“Couldn’t wait to get here,” he said easily, voice pitched low and full of some fabricated warmth. “Isn’t that right, babe?”

Your mouth went a little dry.

“…Uh—yeah,” you stammered, smile slow to appear as you forced yourself to lean into his shoulder like it was second nature. “We’re just so excited to start our new life together.”

His hand squeezed yours—subtle, but firm. Reminding you.

Play the part.

You turned your head just enough to rest lightly against his bicep, stretching your grin until your cheeks ached. “So excited.”

The concierge giggled, clearly charmed. “Your honeymoon suite is ready, and the champagne has been chilled. You’ll find rose petals and—”

“Perfect,” Bucky cut in smoothly, his voice suddenly thick with something intimate, possessive. “Can’t keep my hands off her.”

Your stomach flipped so fast it made you dizzy.

There was a cough—stifled, but unmistakable through the comms. Someone was definitely listening.

Probably Yelena. Or John, trying not to laugh himself into an aneurysm.

“Aw,” Yelena cooed through the comms, voice syrup-sweet. “You two are so cute I’m gonna throw up.”

And told yourself not to murder your fake husband until at least after the complimentary breakfast.

The suite was ridiculous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around half the space, bathing the room in warm, golden afternoon light. The ocean shimmered beyond the glass in postcard perfection, the view so breathtaking it too pristine to be real.

The ivory stone floors gleamed under your heels, each click echoing faintly as you stepped further inside. Silk-draped furniture was arranged like a magazine spread, and on the private balcony, a plunge pool glistened like a sapphire.

A bottle of vintage champagne waited on ice by the sitting area, and just past that, a trail of red rose petals led delicately toward—

“Oh, hell no.”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes locked ahead, body gone still.

Bucky stepped in behind you and raised a brow as he followed your line of sight. He didn’t say anything, just strolled past with calm and tossed your suitcase beside his own like the room didn’t feel like a honeymoon-themed fever dream.

The bed, if you could even call it that, was massive. King-sized, or maybe some custom size beyond your comprehension. It was piled with pristine white linens, oversized down pillows, and a tufted headboard that screamed expensive sin.

The rose petals continued onto the mattress like an arrow pointing straight to your worst nightmare.

Just one bed.

Of course.

You let out a slow, withering breath. “Real polite of you,” you muttered dryly as Bucky moved toward the closet like this was just another mission and not the set of some soft-core romance movie.

“I’m your husband, remember?” he shot back without looking at you, voice dripping with sarcastic charm that made your eye twitch.

You stepped further into the room, suitcase wheels clicking softly across the marble as your gaze remained stubbornly on the bed. “One bed,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Of course.”

“I’ll take the couch,” Bucky said immediately, nodding toward a chaise lounge in the corner.

It was upholstered in gold-tinged fabric, delicate and ornamental. Clearly decorative. Barely big enough for one leg, let alone a super soldier.

You turned and stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What are we, five?”

His brow rose. “I just figured—”

“We can share the bed,” you cut in, voice quieter now, trying not to sound as reluctant as you felt. “It’s not like we haven’t been in worse situations.”

He paused. Something flickered in his eyes, too quick to name. Surprise, maybe. Something unreadable, something that made your stomach tighten for half a second.

But then it was gone, shuttered behind the same mask he always wore when things got a little too real.

“Sure,” he said, easy as anything. “Whatever you want, princess.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the vanity, focusing on unpacking anything just to keep your hands busy. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

The words came out smooth, sarcastic, like everything else from his mouth—but the undertone lingered. He moved toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath about needing a shower.

And then—like he knew you were watching—he reached up and began undoing the top button of his shirt.

Your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag.

One button. Then the next. Then the next.

You watched—damn it, of course you watched. It wasn’t the first time you had seen Bucky shirtless, but this wasn’t mid-mission or after a fight.

There was no adrenaline. No distraction. Just him, standing in honeyed sunlight, undoing each button with casual ease like he wasn’t setting your pulse on fire.

He shrugged the shirt off one shoulder, then the other, folding it neatly before placing it at the edge of the bed. His left arm remained wrapped in a sleek black compression sleeve, but the shimmer of gold vibranium still peeked through.

His chest was broad and solid, scarred in places, inked in others. Each line of muscle moved with practiced grace, abs flexing slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

You tried not to stare. You really tried.

And then, just to finish you off, the bastard looked at you.

“Want me to leave the door open while I shower?” he asked, tone light. Innocent. Too innocent.

Your mouth went dry. “Why the hell would I want that?”

He smirked, eyes glittering with amusement as he tilted his head. “Thought you might want to join me. Water pressure’s supposed to be incredible.”

You narrowed your eyes, but the heat rising up your neck betrayed you. “You wish.”

“I do, actually.”

You jerked your gaze to the minibar, to the flowers, anywhere that wasn’t his bare chest or that infuriating mouth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He stepped closer as he passed—barefoot, because of course he was—his voice lowering to a near whisper. You could feel the warmth of him as he brushed by, feel the smugness radiating off every inch.

“Just say the word.”

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him with frustrating calm.

You stood there for a long beat, staring at the etched floral pattern on the wall. Your heart thumped uncomfortably, your skin too warm, your thoughts, well, they didn’t belong anywhere near a mission file.

This was going to be a problem.

Your earpiece crackled to life.

“Hey lovebirds,” Yelena said sweetly, voice soaked in amusement. “Remember the comms are still on, yes? We can hear everything.”

You groaned, ripped the tiny device from your ear, and tossed it onto the nightstand like it had personally betrayed you.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

a/n: here is me hoping you enjoyed this chapter! love ya and stay safe out there!

[gyuswhore]

Cherry Picker [1]

«« "Do me a favour and forget your mouth guard next time. Let the puck punch you in the mouth if I can't." »» 

Choi Seungcheol x reader | part of the winter with you collab hosted by @camandemstudios!

Part 1: 19k | Part 2

warnings: Hockey player! Seungcheol, figure skater! reader, *deep breath* ENEMIES TO LOVERS, angst, fluff, smut [MINORS DNI], toxic friends, cheol has anger issues, kkuma appearance, @miniseokminnies makes also makes a fluffy appearance, injuries, mentions of blood, smut tags in the next part

synopsis: Cherry Picking [ice hockey]: a manoeuver in which a player, the floater, literally loafs (spends time in idleness) or casually skates behind the opposing team's unsuspecting defencemen while they are in their attacking zone. There wasn't much you counted on in life; just your skates, your drive and how it felt to win. And of course, your local ice rink, that is now being colonised by an obnoxious hockey team in all their big, loud, stinking glory. Neither does it help that one particular red donned specimen forgets to leave his cherry picking on the ice.

[a/n] (it's a long one but PLEASE read) : ITS HERE FINALLY this was an extremely bumpy ride and I wouldn't have finished it without all of my friends who quite literally kept me going. I know I made an update saying this was gonna end up being 20k max but it turns out my yap-itis is for life </33

the posting schedule for this fic is going to be a little less predictable, I will try to get part 2 out asap but I do not currently have a date for you.

big thank you to @highvern for betaing and making me feel better about this fic, @amourcheol for talking me out of meltdowns multiple times and for giving me some really good scene pointers, @ugh-yoongi for being so patient w me and explaining how ice hockey works with so much patience. ty to @the-boy-meets-evil @tusswrites @lovetaroandtaemin for also proof reading for me 🥹

HUGE thank you to everyone at @camandemstudios who agreed to be part of this collab and being part of the journey as we grow 🫶 please check out the collab masterlist linked above, there's already so many amazing fics posted ready for you to read <33

that being said, I know more about figure skating than I do about hockey, but even so there are defo some inconsistencies in terms of accuracies in this, please bear with me 🫶 remember to reblog or send me an ask telling me your thoughts, id love to hear what you guys think 🥹 masterlist

“CAN I HELP YOU?”

“I’m sorry,” you gravel out. 

“Sorry isn’t gonna give back my hour and thirteen minutes.” 

The strap of your gym bag cuts into your bare shoulder where the collar had slipped, the tight threading sure to leave a scratch by the time this is bound to be done. You’d managed to avoid coach Carroll’s morning cornering for a couple months, going above and beyond by showing up to the icy rink before she could even pull up in the parking lot in her blaring red Porsche, let alone before her ten minute meditations in her cream coloured seats. 

“There was an accident on the highway. Truck tipped over.”

“It’s eight in the morning,” Carroll points.

“Illegal truck, I guess.” 

Teeth to tongue, you know you’ve done it. 

She’s in her usual tracksuit, green today, that contrasts her bright red hair in its tight curls. Her glasses are her sensible Ralph Laurens, eyes piercing through the tinted lens as she holds her chin in her hands. Silent, calculating. 

“Fine. Change.” 

Your legs want to give out before you can even get your skates on. 

There were many things Isabella Carroll was good at. The industry would have one of them be a good coach; one of the most expensive, the one that squeezed the life out of her students to inject into the golds, silvers and bronzes they would then bring her on an equally diamond encrusted platter. 

She has also mastered the art of impeccable dressing downs. 

The fact she chose to skip out on verbally humiliating you meant you’d managed to strike that cord. She might be leaving in the next 45 minutes, but she has a very particular way of stretching the minutes into years. 

Like a whipped horse, you scurry into the locker rooms, skin crawling. Your gym bag is positively launched into your designated locker, shoes kicked off as you attempt to stick your right foot into your skates, narrowly missing your heel as it grazes right past the toe pick. 

You slow down after that, not needing a scar on your heel to match the large one on the side of your calf. 

By the time you jog back out, unzipping your jacket to throw onto one of the benches, coach is on the ice, following Marina who zips around on the other end of the rink in her step routine. 

It’s difficult to not rush through your warmups when you’re already late, your splits hardly pushed out as you pray all that running around in the desolate locker rooms was enough to stretch everything out. 

There’s a crash on the illuminated ice as you slip off your skate guards, Marina already practising her Salchows. “You’re in the air for enough time, why can’t you rotate?!” 

Right blade first, you step into the cold encircling, gliding into the centre to begin making your usual rounds around the circumference.

There’s a positive screech of your name from across the ice, wind blowing in your hair as you turn to look. “Do I need to hire someone to hold up your free leg? Fix it, girl!”  

Holding your left leg more taut, you attempt to transition into a jump and spin. You fail, landing on both feet. Somehow, falling on your ass felt like a better conclusion to that arc. 

“Wonderfully executed! Let’s try both hands on the ice too next time, really complete the contemporary finish,” coach hollers out to you as she continues to follow Marina at the same time. 

Trying again, you manage to land on your outer left blade. You receive no comment. 

You try the jump again, pushing into a sit spin. 

The momentum is enough to begin the familiar slack in your scalp, your bun loosening its grip on your hair. Biting your tongue would be dangerous right now, but you would if you could, especially considering the ramifications of your hair coming undone in front of her. 

The crouch as you spin burns your thighs like you’re being branded, pulling yourself back up as you finish abruptly. Still no comment, the unintelligible string of nagging coming from the other side of the rink. 

Marina stands hands on her hips, breathing so heavily she’s nearly heaving. Her blonde hair is loosening far worse than yours, strands framing her face. Coach Carroll waves her hands and shakes her head so quickly you wonder how her glasses haven’t flown off. You didn’t get to see what cardinal sin Marina committed to warrant this reaction, but you feel better knowing she’s exhausted enough to let her insults swim past. 

Ten seconds is enough to catch your breath, moving to do something busy enough to avoid another being screamed at across the ice, again. 

By the end of the remaining forty five minutes, you realised your punishment was also punishing Marina. Coach Carroll remained tailing Marina as you attempted to do everything that would please her, far away from her. Not a direction, praise or neutral comment in sight or sound, sealed with her always expected retorts. 

She leaves without a word, leaving you scrambling to the benches for a seat. Putting your skate guards on is torture, your legs refusing to pull up to reach them. You hardly notice Marina slam down into the seat beside you to mimic you slumped down and head lolled back, eyes closed to the bright ceiling. 

“These skates are gonna kill me,” you whine once you’ve caught your breath, unlacing them to inspect the blistering damage. 

“They’re brand new, what did you expect?” she retorts, moving to sit up straighter. Of course, you were grappling at straws expecting anything akin to sympathy from Marina. 

It was your misfortune that the day you had to break in your skates was the day you’d be late, your heavily bandaged foot still aching as you sit idle. 

Your lungs are still burning when you pull yourself back up, knees buckling the absolute slightest bit as you attempt to take the first baby step back onto the ice. 

“We need to get back to it,” Marina says, and you have half a mind to bite that you were up before her. 

She’s faster at slipping off her skate guards though, and you watch her back as she glides back onto the ice. You follow suit, trailing her as you speak. 

“Hey, I’m sorry Carroll was on your ass because of me. My alarm didn’t go off this morning, I overslept.”

She turns to look at you, ghost of a smile on her face. “Time to go old school I guess, I think my brother left behind his old alarm clock from college.”

“I guess—”

“Besides, I needed that. Wouldn’t have known my Salchows were sucky otherwise.”

She doesn’t let you respond and you’re left to watch as she takes off to warm herself back up. 

Strange as it was, you’ve found her behaviour simply doesn’t affect you anymore, choosing to take her as she was. She pushed you to be better, to work harder. Even now, as your ankle burns and your hip screams, you brace yourself into another axel entry, trying your hardest to keep up with Marina. 

It’s another couple hours when Marina leaves for her second appointment with her personal trainer, leaving you alone. 

It’s less crowded now, despite the head count going from two to one, but you appreciate the alleviation as you continue to practise for the rest of the morning. The rink feels more vast and your hip has stopped its incessant aches. 

Having finished a run through of your routine without music, you move towards the sound booth to turn on the tail end of your track, skating back to the echoing rink to brace yourself for the next four agonising minutes. 

You’ve adjusted your starting position about ten times by the time the silence of the song restarting settles. And then it begins, soft piano as you push yourself off into the throngs of this hellsent routine. 

It’s muscle memory by now, but your stomach lurches before you push into a jump anyway. There isn’t much time to ponder when you’re midair, tight yet contorted, trying to land on the right side of the blade. But there’s a phantom pain in your right ankle, right when you’re at the point of your arc, and you feel the all too dreaded panic flood in. 

You land on both feet, less than ideal but with no one to watch the fail, it was better than falling on your ass. There’s been worse outcomes, so there’s little you can do but continue into the step sequence. 

Trying to shake off that bout of panic, you briefly wonder if the music suddenly had more bass than you’d last checked. Perhaps you just hadn’t been practising like you should, but you make a mental note mid-spin to listen to the track again later tonight for any tidbits you’d missed. 

Your heartbeat is trying to accommodate more air than you can let it, especially as you feel the pulse in your ears quicken as you approach your final jump sequence. The music is louder yet muffled all the same, there’s an incessant banging that you can’t figure out is from your head or a corrupted music file. But you find that sweet spot, deciphering through the ruckus in your brain, and you jump. 

It happens again, the strange ache in your ankle that should be long gone, and just like that, all that panic you shook off in the interim comes hurtling back. The world’s gone silent, blaringly so, and for some heaven known reason, you’ve closed your eyes.

You aren’t so lucky this time round, landing directly on your back with a spectacular crash, the ice cutting cold through your thermals as you slide in the direction of your epic fall. Eyelids opening, they’re met with the spotlighted ceiling, head cushioned by the hard plane of ice beneath you. 

The pain in your ankle’s escaped like a fugitive, done it’s damaged and left you crumpled on the floor. The adrenaline is rushing just enough to keep you from identifying any other awakened aches, but you have a sneaking feeling your hip is going to hate you after this. 

You’re still laying flat on the ice when you realise you're laying in mostly silence. Your music is off, and has been since you came to on the floor. The banging, you realise, wasn’t just in your head either. The unmistakable reverberation of the locker rooms is loud and assuming, noises rattling all the way out onto the echoing rink. 

It takes the strength of a village to pull yourself up, but you do it anyhow, ignoring the blatant protests of your mind and soul as you squint across the rink to the sound booth. 

As you skate towards the gate, you assume it’s Hansol trying to get your attention by disrupting you mid session, but the figure shuffling into view is telling you otherwise. 

It isn’t anyone you know, clearer as you grow closer to the gate. It’s obvious he’s the culprit that turned off your music, your laptop shut and the wire to the speakers disconnected from the port. 

You stare at it pointedly as you grapple for your skate guards. 

The man does nothing but remain with his hands in the pockets of his bright red hoodie, hovering over your laptop as he watches you struggle with your skates. SVT stitched onto the back in black. He’s as blank faced as ever, a stark contrast to your heavy breathing as you come round. 

Standing up straight, you dart between your laptop and this person, waiting for an explanation that seems to be lost in the void. You’re still heaving slightly, scowl forming on your face as this strange man offers you nothing.

“Um, did you—”

“Yeah. It’s four,” he responds, like it was supposed to explain enough. 

“And that means…?”

“We have the rink reserved.”

“But it’s Monday,” you respond. It sounds stupid, but it meant something. The rink was reserved on the weekdays for coach Carroll’s mentees, the weekends for the public. 

This man and his big brown eyes gaze directly into your soul as he responds, “And that means…?” 

You’re sweaty and tired, your feet ache with about five new blisters from the last time you checked, and you’re sure you need to get your hip checked out. Perhaps that’s why there’s this unreasonable surge of irritation that rises in the back of your head, irrational and half blinding. 

“That means—”

“Seungcheol! Get your ass in the locker room before I drag you in there myself.” The voice that rings out is heavy and has you flinching, the man’s order echoing from somewhere in the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms. 

The man you assume is named Seungcheol begins to walk away from you without a word or gesture, and you can only blink at his retreating back. 

“Hey! Do you mind not touching my stuff next time round?” you call out as a last ditch attempt to have the last word. He turns his head to you, eyebrows raised and a smirk of mild disbelief growing on his face. Nothing is said as his head turns back to the front, strutting into the tunnel.

He lets you have your last word as he walks away, your gaze the same shade of crimson as his retreating form. 

“AND THEN—THESE—HUGE dudes with fucking botox or fillers in their shoulders storm out—”

Your vent is interrupted by Lorelai who’s burst out laughing mid bite of her sandwich, “What?”

“Botox!” she muffles a shriek through a full mouth.

“They were shoulder pads or something, you get it!” 

The air in the outside seating of this cafe is stellar, the perfect in between you wait for all year. The parasol above you is enough so you don’t have to squint your eyes in the late afternoon sun, the wind perfectly paced in a breeze. Your own sandwich remains untouched, the bread gone stale as you pick at the corner of the crust. 

“Apologies,” she yips. “So you're saying we’re being partially colonised by hockey players?”

“I don’t know! Was it a one time thing, a weekly thing? It can’t be a weekly thing, Monday afternoons are routine practice days.” 

“The routine you’ve been practising for the past year and a half?” 

“I can’t afford getting rusty.” 

Lorelai drops her head like she’s had enough, “Maybe these hockey jocks are a blessing.”

“What?”

“Nothing! Hey, do you want cake, they have cheesecake, I could get some!” 

“Lorry!”

“Okay,” she huffs, dropping back into her seat with blown cheeks. “I’m sorry.” 

Lorelai has a sense of humour that took you more than enough time to decipher, but that wasn’t nearly the first thing you noticed about her. She was beautiful, even more so with the sun gracing her like a loving embrace. The highlights in her otherwise dark hair make the hazel of her eyes pop like two perfectly welcoming cliffs to jump off from. She was the definition of spunk and valour, yet graceful in everything she does. Even now, as she picks up her smoked turkey on honey oat, complete with every fixing and condiment on earth, you question how she can wrench her mouth open to take a reasonable bite; but she does, not a crumb out of place. 

“I have to share a rink with dudes whose hockey sticks are gonna make craters in the ice, why are you not mourning with me?”

“Pretty sure your toe picks do the same thing.”

“Lorelai!” 

“Not the government name!” she wails as though woefully wounded. 

“You’re impossible.”

“Carroll didn’t hate me for no reason.” She smiles in her pride. 

Lorelai’s competitive skating career came to an end sometime last year before the Grand Prix, a decision she announced gracefully with the words BITE ME etched with sharpie on her brand new competition skates. It was difficult to erase the mental image of the scarlet of Carrol’s face when Lorelai marched in with her hair chopped so short it’d be impossible to pull into a bun, marked skates in hand and a mask of determined rebellion on her face. Of course, the whole ordeal could’ve been an email, but it simply wouldn’t have been Lorelai. 

“It’s not like you were trying very hard to please her,” you grumble, nibbling on a fry. 

“Why would I try pleasing that woman?”

“For one thing, your sponsors were paying a bucketload so you could have her.”

“I didn’t want Carroll as a coach. Ever. I wanted Jameson. The only reason they put me with Carroll was because they were putting you and Marina with her.” Her voice is hard, eyebrows raised the slightest bit. 

“What does Jameson offer that Carroll doesn’t?!”

“Oh! I don’t know, let’s see,” she raises her voice as her sarcasm begins to simmer with a lethal edge. “Maybe the fact that an hour training with Jameson doesn’t feel like the subjected wrath of a world war two dictator!”

“Carroll is not that bad!”

“God, you become more like Marina everyday.”

You frown, “What does that mean?”

“It means—!” Lorelai pauses to close her eyes, and you can almost hear her counting in her head. “It means nothing. Eat your sandwich before the bread starts molding.”

“Ew.”

Lorelai smirks. “Bite me.”

You attempt to channel some of that Lorelai energy when you get to the rink past noon on a weekday. You hope you’re reasonable in your hope that Hansol will be in his office as you walk towards the door. 

Three rapt knocks before you hear a muffled voice telling you to come in. The door creaks when you open it. Loudly, might you add. 

“How long is it gonna sing every time I come in here?” you grimace. 

Hansol looks at you from behind his laptop with a tight smile. “For as long as I keep forgetting to oil the hinges.”

Hansol, for as young and qualified as he is, is only the rink manager because his family owns the place. Having graduated the year before with a shiny new law degree, he opted to take a break from moving forward with his career to “slow down” as he put it. The rink was as slow as it could get for him, betting the only important thing on his laptop screen currently was solitaire. 

“Did you also forget that I have the rink during the day on weekdays? 

“Ah. You’ve encountered the hockey team.”

“Yes. They turned off my music mid routine.”

“They're only here till the renovations in their home rink are done, we’re the only other rink in town that’s closed to the public on weekdays.” 

“But they’re cutting into my practice time?” you add, brows furrowed. 

Hansol opens his mouth before closing it again, eyebrows raised. “You clock in here five days a week, ten hours a day.”

“And?”

Hansol huffs out a breath. “Listen, I know you and the other skaters like having the rink to yourselves, and I’d be happy if it was always just you guys. Trust me, these jocks are impossible to clean up after, let alone deal with. Between the launch pad calibre noise and the stupid plastic barriers I have to put up on the railings, I’d love for it to just be you guys. But the only times you officially have the rinks booked is in the mornings when you’re training with coach Carrol, the rest of the week is technically up for grabs.”

“Let me book the rest of the slots then.”

“SVT’s already booked most of the remaining hours.” Hansol’s voice is sympathetic, but his words seemed final. You aren’t sure how bad your face was contorted, because suddenly he’s adding, “But hey, you can look at the leftover hours if they work for you.”

He pulls out the roster on a tablet before handing it to you. It only takes you a minute to scroll before you realise the only viable options were past 10 PM. The rink closed at 11. 

You sigh, shoulders visibly sagging as you let out a bated breath of tension. “It’s fine.” You hand the tablet back to Hansol. “I’ll figure it out.”

Turning on your heel, you make a move to leave the premises. Hansol calls out your name. 

“I’m sorry. Really.” 

You muster a smile, one that you cannot feel the slightest bit. “It’s alright.”

“Only a few months.”

Something in your smile sours, and you nod absentmindedly. “Only a few months.” 

THERE WERE OTHER WAYS the universe could have let it happen, someplace where you might have forgiven yourself. Someplace you had reason to be. 

You were accustomed to physical exertion, how could you not be when you were what you were, but hiking on an incline was never something you fancied yourself with. Gyms and coaches and paved running trails are nothing like rocky terrains and steep mountain paths with no guide but a mobile map. 

The semi finals had passed you by, handing you a gold medal along the way as you thrust yourself into bliss. It was a job well done, so much so that you allowed yourself a weekend of something other than skating rinks and training sessions. So many nights that you can hardly remember, yet flash like lightning under your eyelids. Where you sobbed into your pillow and cursed yourself for ever having the gall to take a step back, to be so arrogant and blustering to announce yourself away from the thing that should’ve mattered the most. 

It only took one tiny crater in the path to twist your ankle so hard you crumple to the ground with a scream you cannot remember. More hands than you have holding on to your searing ankle, like they were holding it together with nothing but their palms and fingers. Lorelai was talking, and talking and talking, but all you could hear was the roaring question in your mind. 

Why did you bring me here? 

Six weeks. 

You watched with your own eyes as the Grand Prix final shuttered away on a reel, like you were watching a movie from an age you could not visit. 

Six weeks. 

Marina sat beside your bed and said words you’d never forget. 

“I’m sorry, but…this is your own fault.”

Six weeks. 

Lorelai wept, and said the same words for an entirely different reason. 

“I’m sorry. This is my fault, it was my idea.” 

Six weeks. 

Carroll kept face, but you could see past the mask. A sigh that said more than any words of reassurance. Disappointed but not surprised. 

Six weeks you were bedridden with an ankle that refused to support your weight on the surface area of your bare foot, let alone on the 3/16th of an inch on a blade. 

Bedrest, meds, physical therapy, and still. The ache in your ankle follows you like a ghost haunting you of your worst mistake. 

It was your fault. You chose to put whimsy above everything you laboured for, for years and years. You chose to look past your shortcomings like they would not become your achilles heel. You chose to get on that trail. You chose to walk out on crutches.

You, who could land a jump on a fraction of an inch of steel, could now barely stand on her own two feet. 

You’d decided on that day, that you were as pathetic as they come.

IT WAS THE MOST natural decision to drag Lorelai out of where she rotted in bed to come with you to the rink. 

“You want me to fight them?” She’s wearing her Winnie the Pooh fuzzy pyjama pants and a university hoodie on top, her short hair concealed in the hood she’s pulled up. “They are hockey players. We are twigs!” 

“Lorry. Have you ever thrown a punch in your life?” you ask her as you pull your hair back into a loose bind. 

“No?” 

“Then why on earth would I ask you to fight goblins triple our size?” 

Her mouth is gaping in disbelief. “Why am I here then?” 

“You,” you start, grabbing your skates and moving out of the locker rooms. “Are gonna sit pretty in that sound booth and make sure nobody touches my laptop.”

“…you realise Hansol has security cameras right?”

“Are you planning on robbing my laptop?”

“No. Although it does have nice specs.” 

You ignore her as you walk towards the benches. “That stupid hockey team needs to know I have reinforcements of my own.”

Lorelai stands there, brows furrowed and in clothes that drown her. She glances down at her outfit and then back up at you. She deadpans, “This is the most unthreatening I have ever looked.”

“Just—” You stand up too quickly and feel yourself wobble. The railing is hardly a foot away, your hand moving over to grab it. Except your palms feel nothing but the flat of something smooth and hard, fingers bumping into the feeling of something unfamiliar. 

You manage to find your balance with a yelp, immediately snapping up to see where you missed the railing. The railing was still there, perfectly within arms reach. There’s a glare in your vision, like looking through a screen. Higher and higher, you realise quickly that you’ve been looking through a clear barrier so high up you can hardly find where it ends in its erect standing. 

Lorelai speaks up first, her voice resonating loudly, “Isn’t that supposed to be on the other side of the railing. Stupid, stupid Hansol.” 

It looks like it stretches throughout the circumference of the rink, wrapping whoever’s inside in a giant plastic fish bowl. 

There’s a clench in your jaw you can’t control, something a little more than annoyance building in your senses. It should be an easy thing to ignore, especially regarding its practically invisible nature, but its presence is all you can think about, even as you step your right blade onto the ice. 

Skating towards the middle of the rink, you feel claustrophobic. 

“Woah! You look like a zoo animal,” Lorealai adds unnecessarily. 

“Just play the track,” you grumble. 

“There should be a don’t tap on the glass sign,” she says, voice muffled as yells from the benches. “You already look like a weasel, can’t have confused people in the stands.” 

“Lorry!” 

“What?” she yells, her voice muffled as she yells from the benches. 

You curse the plastic that cages you as you yell louder, “Play the track!” 

Lorelai nods and makes a noise of understanding, and you watch her as she disappears into the sound booth. 

Taking your starting position, you wait for the quiet lull of the track before the beginning of the unmistakable piano; the low tremor in the beginning existing to prepare you to jump into the routine. You stand there with your arms out like a swan, waiting for your cue that won't seem to arrive. 

You almost yell out at Lorelai again before you suddenly hear the resonating shrill of the piano notes, startling yourself out of your first push. It’s fine, you’ll recover. You’re distracted by your staggered start and it’s enough to have you miss your first jump. It’s fine. You’ll recover. 

By the time the four minutes are up, you’ve missed two of your five jumps, a spin gone wrong, and nearly crashed into the plastic barrier. Not to mention, the aches in your body are enough to seem impossible to geographically pinpoint. 

It’s pointed, the way you make a beeline for the benches, refusing to look at Lorelai. You can almost imagine her expression, the poker face she has when she’s trying to think of ways to structure her next words nicely. 

“What was that?” she deadpans, voice a little far away. Your body hurts enough to take your focus away from her. 

“I don’t know.” 

“I thought your ankle was fine now?” she asks. 

You grit your teeth. “It is.” Lies. The way it was hurting you right now was making sure to remind you of that. 

“You know, you did pick back up a lot earlier than we thought—”

“I said I’m fine, Lorry,” you snap. “Now can you please play the track again.” 

You finally look up, and she looks like she wants to say something. But you’re on the ice before she can. 

You adapt to the excess muffle of the plastic barriers, ears straining to hear the beginning of the piano before you jump into the choreography smoother than last time. This time round, it’s better. The pain in your ankle and the budding one in your hip is apparent, but it’s suddenly easier to drown it out. Focusing on the music, keeping your centre of gravity, pushing into your jumps and spins with enough vigour to hold to what you are. 

Another four minutes pass and it’s over. Immediately, you swing over to the soundbooth to find Lorelai, only to find her joined by an extra set of people.

Impossibly, your blood runs cold. 

There’s a sneaking suspicion you know who it is despite the two men having their backs turned to you, especially judging by the obnoxious red jackets they have on. SVT. You can hear Lorelai speak indecipherably, her voice stern. 

“And you are?” one of them asks. You don’t recognise him, but you do the other one. The one who turned your music off the first day him and his team stepped foot in here. 

“Lorelai!” she yells it for no reason. 

“Gilmore?” The one you recognise snorts. Seungcheol, that’s what they called him the last time you saw him in the sound booth. 

“I’m worse,” she states. 

“Lorry?” you interrupt, arms crossed and gaze directed at her. 

“Lorry?” The one you don’t recognise says. “Like a truck?” 

“You think you’re funny?” Lorelai takes a step towards him, a fair attempt to look threatening if it weren’t for her very unthreatening attire. 

“Oh look at her pyjamas! It’s Pooh bear, Cheol,” he exclaims. That seems to irritate him. 

“Can you replay the track, please, I have to smooth things over,” you intervene. In your mind, ignoring their presence in your space was the best solution, refusing to give them a way to merge into your lane. 

“Woah, we have the rink booked today,” Seungcheol stops you. “4:30.”

Snapping around to find the clock on the adjacent wall, you read the time. “4:17. You can wait.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And thirteen minutes makes what difference?”

“You said 4:30. It is not 4:30 yet.”

The other one thumps him on the back, all smiles. “We can wait, right, Cheol? Besides, we have to put our skates on.” 

His gaze is hard and doesn’t leave yours. “Fine.” 

You break away first to find Lorelai still in the same position, staring at the exchange. You ignore the two men that stand there and address her, “Play the track.”

Before the music begins, you glance back to the benches where the two men have seated themselves, apparently strapping in to watch you. You dig your nails into your palm to reign yourself back in. No point in getting upset. 

The piano begins, and you're determined to not mess up. Especially not right now. 

It goes well for all of 45 seconds, you're hitting the right beats, you feel like water. But then the first jump comes along and you see a flash of red from the stands. An irrational feeling hits you as you push into the first jump, it’s enough to make you stumble when you land. You manage to not fall, but it’s obvious you’ve messed up. 

Somewhere beyond the music you hear a distinct, “Solid 4!”

It distracts you again, and you miss a move. Somehow your second jump ends up worse, and you feel your bottom hit the hard ice. 

“8 point 5! Nice!”

It doesn’t take long for you to realise what they’re doing, anger crashing into you like a flash flood. Scoring your falls? You’re determined to make the next jump combination. You make it fine, but your quad Salchow turns into a triple. The oafs are too shallow to notice, so you hear no jeer. 

But you know that you messed up the only quad in your entire program. 

The last jump goes from a triple axel to a double, and you want to break something. 

The song ends, and you know you have another nine minutes left to yourself, but all you can think about is getting out of the vicinity as soon as possible. Away from all of the eyes that are trained on your hunched form. 

There’s nothing you know about Seungcheol, and yet, the thought of him even looking at you right now is unbearable. Twice you fell, countless times you failed. 

Lorelai says nothing while you pack up, and nothing as you leave the rink. 

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL, CENTER,” LORELAI reads aloud from your bed with her mouth still full of salt ‘n vinegar chips. 

“Perfect, he already thinks he’s the center of the universe,” you grumble from your position on the floor of the bedroom. Your foam roller feels like heaven under your calves, but the position is beginning to cramp. 

“Surprised you haven’t heard of him, he’s half a celebrity.” 

You turn to her, “I have two gold medals and five podiums for every major skating event.”

“Do I ask for your autograph?”

“He’s not special.”

“Hm. His skill and popularity would beg to differ.”

“Why are you so hellbent on liking him?” 

“Because he’s cute,” she grins wide. “Although the other one was cuter, very angel-like. And he liked my Pooh Bear trousers. Can’t find his name on the team roster though.”

“He was wearing the same stupid jacket—”

You’re cut off by a gasp, a loud one at that. “He coaches the babies!” 

Her face is contorted into something between an “aw” and a sob. 

Lorelai’s phone is dropped dramatically on the bed as she thrashes on your made (now unmade) bed. You swipe the phone and read. His picture is there, the name Yoon Jeonghan, Junior League Coach.

“Good for him.”

“He just got five times hotter,” she states like she’s out of breath. 

“Give it another meeting and he’ll give you five other reasons to hate him.”

“God, you’re so negative,” she huffs. 

“They’re hogging my rink!”

“It is not your rink.”

“It’s as good as!”

“Whatever.” Lorelai rolls her eyes and sets back on the bed, no doubt searching the man up by name. 

“Ow!” you yelp as you stand up from the ground, ankle twisting slightly in the process. 

Lorelai jumps. “What?”

“Nothing,” you mumble quickly, hoping she’d drop it. But she catches your lingering stare on your bad ankle. 

“It’s still hurting, isn’t it?”

“I just twisted it weird,” you defend, walking to pack up your foam rollers. 

You’re met with silence, but you know she’s thinking. Lorelai speaks, “Maybe you should skip out on the shelter today.”

You snort, “Why would I do that?”

Once, sometimes twice a week, you’d volunteer at the local pet shelter. It wasn’t hard work, mostly taking the bigger, more energetic dogs for their runs because it seemed you were the only one who could keep up with their stamina. And now Lorelai is trying to take that away from you. 

“I saw how you struggled at the rink today, there’s not a day you don’t rest. Like, actually rest.”

“That has nothing to do with me struggling!” you retort. 

“What is it then?” she asks, sitting up straighter, defiance in her gaze. “What is it that’s making you skate like you bought your first pair yesterday?”

The irritation is growing into something hotter, her defiance pushing you into a corner. 

“I know what you want to hear from me.” Your voice is shaky. “I’m not going to say it.”

“Because it’s not true? Or because you’ve been convinced it’s not?” 

You know what she’s talking about, and you know you’ve been avoiding the topic like it’s the plague. The ache in your ankle comes alive, and in that moment, you cannot tell if you’re imagining it or not. 

“Convinced by who?” you snap, shoving the box of foam rollers under your desk. 

“Does that have to come from me too?” 

“Lorry, I don’t know what you want from me!” 

“I—”

There’s a knock on your door, loud and demanding. Wrenching it open, you find Marina behind it. 

She has a frown on her face. “You’re still here? I thought you were running with the dogs today?”

“It’s none of your business if she goes or not, Marina.” Lorelai’s tongue drips with venom most commonly reserved for her most hated people. 

Marina, still in her workout clothes and duffel bag, furrows her eyebrows. “Who shoved a pole up your ass?” 

“I’m leaving in five,” you hiss, before making a motion to close the door. 

When you turn around, Lorelai is still on your bed, hands in fists like she’s holding herself back. There’s more behind her eyes than you could even consider unravelling. 

She leaves before you. 

THE ENTIRE WAY TO the rink was just one constant string of prayer. 

All of them go unanswered when you walk in to find the rink full of hockey players in red and black gear. 

The only thing you can do is curse under your breath, only watching frozen in your tracks as a million players skate across the rink passing and yelling at each other. No one you recognise, their helmets and gear eluding any semblance of individuality. 

Where you stand, a little ways away from the plastic screen and the benches, a dark circular puck suddenly slams directly into the boundary at eye level. On instinct, you flinch at the loud bang, half expecting to get hit. 

When you open your eyes, somebody’s skating up to the boundary, and you lock eyes through the cage of his helmet. 

Your blood is suddenly charged with something electric, fingers curling into fists on instinct. 

Suddenly, all that rings in your ears is the distinct jeers of numbers over the muffle of plastic as you continue to fall, and fall, and fall on the cold, unforgiving ice. The amusement in your failure, the joy in your defeat. 

Spinning on your heel, you stalk to Hansol’s office. 

In your blinding anger, you take a wrong turn, looking up to realise you’ve walked into the locker rooms. You’re one step into the men's locker room when you come back to your senses, startling yourself once again as you spin back from where you came, only you’ve been caught. 

For all the luck you’ve received in this life, it seems to opt out at that exact moment as you hear the unmistakable noise of a herd of ogres walking in, the glare of red on the walls surrounding them. Frozen in your spot, you can only grip the straps of your duffel bag harder, tense up like you were preparing for impact. When they turn the corner, the brilliant idea of simply walking towards the women’s locker rooms befalls you. But it’s too late. 

Seungcheol saunters into the hallway, leading the pack. 

His helmet is in his hands instead of on his head, revealing a sopping mop of hair drenched in what you can only imagine is sweat. He’s laughing at his teammate who’s making futile attempts to escape his own helmet, not noticing you in the way. 

Until he does. His smile fades immediately, eyebrows raised as he registers you in the doorway. You feel his gaze on you for a few silent moments, his teammates shushing at the shift in the air. Seungcheol opens his mouth, and you already know all that’s going to leave it is dung. “Didn’t realise the rink had a vacancy. Do I need to show you my ID to take a shower?”

A rustle of chortles and chuckles flitter from the group. “Go ahead. I don’t need an ID to tell you need a shower.”

Somebody ooh’s, despite it not being your best work. You suppose it was your delivery that did it. Deciding to continue riding that high, you simply turn towards the women’s locker rooms, refusing to give Seungcheol the luxury of your eyes on him.

Hurtling into the women’s locker room, you throw your duffel bag somewhere you’ll regret and crumple into one of the seats. You count to ten, attempting to take the image of Seungcheol out of your brain. 

It was difficult to rile you up to this extent, a trait you needed to possess if you were to be coached by Carroll in any capacity. There was so much you heard from her mouth, swallowing it like a prescribed pill and nothing more. Take what you were given, because it was given by the best, bought for you by the best.

Yet for some reason, Seungcheol manages to irk you in ways you previously have never encountered. Irritating people come and go, but you doubt you could place him as something as simple as just irritating. His presence felt like an intrusion, his air was thick like a concentrated gas. Everything he’s said to you so far has come from nothing but disdain and condescension, his haughty personality the only takeaway when he enters a room. 

You’re still in your outdoor shoes and jacket by the time twenty minutes are over, coming to a conclusion as you get up from the empty, soulless locker room. Hansol is in his office when you make the formality knock before barging in. His head is on the desk, like he’s asleep. It takes him a second, by he lifts his forehead from the papers on the tabletop to regard you at the door. You hear him sigh. 

“The hockey team’s done. It’s two.”

“I wanna book a slot.”

“The rink’s empty you don’t—”

“Let me book the slot, Hansol.”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re turning out worse than those baboons,” he curses before setting his forehead back onto the table. “Write it on the sticky note, I’ll put it in the schedule.”

“Now. I wanna book a slot for right now,” you grit. 

Hansol whips his head up again, eyes wide like he’s holding himself back, nodding furiously as he pulls his keyboard towards himself with an unnecessarily aggressive tug. “Fine. 2:16 till closing. Enter. Print. Here.”

He hands you the printed receipt of your slot, ripping it from the printer tray as he does it. You take it from him in the same vigour, hardly a thank you as you spin on your heels and walk out the door. You stop for a minute, turning back around to yell into the office. 

“Go home if you’re just gonna nap on your desk!” 

Not waiting for a response, you stalk towards the locker rooms. Within minutes you’ve tugged on your skates, laptop and shoes in each hand as you emerge out the tunnel to the rink. 

The ice is empty, mostly. Placing your laptop in the sound booth and your shoes under the benches, you step foot on the ice. They’re there, on the other end, sitting on the cold ice with their jerseys still on, eating what looks like cups of dippin dots. 

Seungcheol and Jeonghan, you remember from Lorelai’s squealing, either don’t notice you on the ice, or simply choose not to. Because it’s easy as you skate up to them, gaining speed from across the rink, you slide to a stop, sending a perfect spray of ice from your skates, directly into their ice cream cups. 

Seungcheol’s full spoon hangs mid air, halfway to his mouth, now garnished with ice shavings. 

“Thought you’d have the respect to keep the dippin dots out of this,” Jeonghan comments, disbelief in his eyes as he looks up at you. 

“Ice is booked.” 

“What time?” Seungcheol asks. Your gaze flickers to the left side of his face, a nasty bruise blooming purple and blue that you hadn’t noticed before. 

“2:16. It’s nearly fifteen minutes past.”

“You’re only one person.” He’s significantly more annoyed than when you saw him outside the locker rooms just minutes ago. 

“And?”

“And…you have about 97% of the rink to yourself.”

You raise your brows, hands on your hips. “But I booked 100% of it. So I’m gonna need that plane of ice you’re currently sitting on.” 

“What if I don’t move?” Seungcheol presses. It’s menacing, the way he looks at you, like he’s a lion only waiting to be provoked. Maybe he’s already halfway there, because it sure looks like it. 

“We’ll find out another day,” Jeonghan sings before you can snap back, grabbing onto the collar of Seungcheol’s red and white jersey to yank him up. He continues to glare as he obliges with his friend’s tugs, nearly as angry as you are. “Let’s go, sport.”

You watch as they walk to the exit of the ice, realising they’re wearing their shoes instead of their skates. 

Jeonghan calls from the benches, right before he and Seungcheol move out of view. “Trash those for us, would you?” 

Their half eaten dippin dots cups, with the ice now melting on them remains on the floor of the rink. Once again, the unexplainable urge to kick something befalls you, hearing them laugh and talk from far away as they exit the rink behind their long gone teammates. 

You give in, swinging a leg over to kick the cups and spoons, dippin dots and plastic scattering across the ice. It’s another sprawl of mess you’ll have to clean up, but it feels good to ruin something of his, no matter how inconsequential. The empty rink encourages you, needing to scream so loud the plastic barriers crack and break. You know it’s impossible, but that doesn’t stop the urge. 

You channel it into the most aggressive warmups on ice you’ve ever done. Your spins are faster, your jumps higher. But this also means you crash heavier, fall harder. It’s then, sitting on the bench to take a break, breathing so heavy you can hardly sip your water, you find an unmistakable headline on your browser home page. 

Everything stops. 

!HOT TOPIC! 

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here! 

!HOT TOPIC! 

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here! 

Choi Seungcheol’s seat for next season at risk? Insider reports that the hot headed center may be at risk of contract termination due to recent controversy. The hockey player, renowned for his aggressive playing tendencies, seems to be taking his temperament outside of the rink. Multiple games played by SVT have been subject to eventful halves and quarters, the center seen getting violent in the benches with opposing team members, and sometimes even team members of his own! While his short temper has always been a recurring subject in the news, his skills as a player have always remained top notch—we do wonder if he even has to try! The tables seem to turn a little differently this time around, because it looks that SVT higher ups have been fed up with the increasing reports of Choi’s aggressive behaviour. Insider sources report that talks of a contract termination may be coming into order. While he has proven to be an effective player on the ice, it seems as though it won’t be saving him from this particular ramification! 

Stay tuned, hockey fanatics, as we bring you more updates on Choi’s sticky situation! 

BEFORE EVERYTHING, BEFORE YOUR ankle, before it began to feel like your world was crumbling at your feet, came the scar on your leg. 

In hindsight, it feels like it was the very thing that set the ball rolling, the beginning of your demise. 

Coach Carroll was only on her first handful of sessions with you, Lorelai and Marina, all of you still learning her quirks and expectations as a coach. 

It happened when you were on the sidelines, hanging over the boundary as Lorelai handed you a water bottle from the benches. Marina was practicing her routine, taking up most of the ice as Coach followed on the side. It seemed unclear, to this day, whether you’d drifted inwards on the ice as you sipped from the bottle, unaware. But when you felt the hot searing pain in your calf, there were only two people on the scene. 

Marina skated past, her free leg in the air, meeting your calf as she skated past, effectively slicing into your leg in a deep gash. Blood was wiped off the ice, your leg bandaged and wrapped. Not without Coach and her comments, of course. 

You heard her berate Marina from the other room, for moving closer to the boundary than what was required for her routine, heard the way she gave her the blame. And then she round up on you. 

“Idiot! No reason to be on the ice when you aren’t practicing, did you want it to be your ankles too?!” 

It was the first time you realised that Carroll was beyond your perception of the word demanding, her gaze remained in a high place, no regard for what it took to get there. Even if it meant destroying her skaters. 

Marina apologised. “I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t see you there, I would’ve dropped my leg—”

“It’s okay, Marina. Really,” you smiled through the still aching wound. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

She smiled a little too, “Lesson learned, I guess. Don’t loiter on the ice.” 

It was difficult to keep the smile from fading as you heard her say that.

“What shit apology is that?!” Lorelai yelled as soon as you mentioned it to her later. You cringe as you realise what slipped, and to whom it slipped to. 

“It’s the best I’m gonna get from her, Lorry. Honestly, I don’t care.”

“You’re out of service for a week till that slice heals and that’s all she has to give you?” 

Lorelai is breathing heavily, mostly because she’s been practicing her triple axels for her routine, but also because she’s extensively heated for you. You watch her from the benches. 

“Lorry,” you sigh. 

“Listen, I wanna win too but—”

“Are you trying to say she did it on purpose?” you ask. 

“No! Let me finish, woman,” she snaps. “I wanna win, you wanna win. We’re doing everything we can because we want to win—”

“So this was a subconscious attack?” you interject. 

“Fuck this, I’m leaving,” Lorelai begins to skate backwards and away, leaving you on the bench. 

“NO! Wait, okay, I’m sorry I won’t interrupt.”

“Too late.”

“Lorry! Lorelai!”

It wasn’t until you were back in your shared apartment, Marina out doing whatever while Lorelai hijacked your bed that she got to finish her sentence. She was rubbing ointment on a bruise while you changed the  bandage on your calf. 

“Her need to win is ruining her. And it’s like she’s taking us down with her. I know she doesn’t mean it like that, doesn’t want to hurt us. But she thinks this kind of hurt is good, if it’s the kind of hurt that pushes you to win.”

You cringed at the sight of the wound, still red and ugly. 

“She might not have meant to hurt your leg, but—don’t loiter on the ice? Really?”

“She only meant it as a reminder.”

“Exactly! You don’t need that reminder because I think you’ve learned better than anyone else to not stay on the rink when someone is practising. A couple weeks ago she made some stupid comment because I left the gym early. Nothing inherently rude, she’s never actually rude. But it was pointed anyway. I’ve been up since six in the morning I think I deserve slacking off a little, it was nearly midnight for fuck’s sake!” 

Cleaning the wound was taking everything you had, the need to hiss at the contact of the wet cloth was near abominable. 

“Her…her perception’s a little warped. But her heart’s in the right place!”

Lorelai had rolled her eyes, screwing the cap of her ointment tube back on with unnecessary force. “I never said it wasn’t, just—stop defending her! I’m sorry but half the reason she continues to act like this is because you listen to her.”

At that moment, you felt a little offended. Of course, Marina had her moments where she’d say something a little less than healthy, especially coming from a friend. But you’d always thought you handled it better than most. 

You met Marina when you were still only splotchy faced preteens, during a competition where she came second and you came third. She’d been skating for longer, so it was expected, but you also couldn’t conceal your surprise when you’d found the state of her later on. You were ecstatic simply because you managed to make it to the podium, but it seemed Marina’s tears held another thought process for her. 

You found her crying in the locker rooms later on, her coach who looked like she…should’ve been comforting her, but it was more like a stern talking to, to suck it up and work harder next time round. 

When you tried to help her, out came words you felt oh so strange coming from a stranger. “What do you know? You came third!”

It hurt. Possibly the first genuine stab of the feeling you’d ever felt. In the following weeks, when Marina apologised and you’d begun to build a friendship, you felt something peculiar. Practice sessions on the ice became harder, your two hour sessions were suddenly extending to four, sometimes five hours a day. All of it, your own doing. 

It was subconscious when it was happening, the silent tug of You came third! What you first considered an achievement became an intermediate step. 

If there was anywhere that you’d pinpoint the shift, from when figure skating went from fun to a responsibility, you’d pick that exact moment. When someone congratulated you later on, it wasn’t a big smile and a thank you.

“I only came third.”

Your calf healed and all that was left was a scar, but there in the discolouration of your skin, also lay a realisation. 

SEUNGCHEOL HOSTS ABSOLUTELY ZERO thoughts in his mind as he shoves the collar of his hoodie over his head. Slamming the door shut on the rest of his red SVT paraphernalia, he makes quick work of his hair, shoes on and out the door within the minute. Jeonghan is still fast asleep when he leaves, mouth open and drooling onto his pillow when Seungcheol walks into his room to let him know he’s leaving. 

Jeonghan might tag along to practice for the fun of it despite leaving his competitive hockey career behind him, but his distaste for 6 AM practice remains forever unchanged. He’d see him later though, on the rink lingering once the sun is higher in the sky and Jeonghan deems it less of a sin to be awake. 

Seungcheol leaves without a response from his friend. 

By the time he gets to the rink, most of the team has already geared up. The locker room is splotched with red, moving towards the back of the room to get to his own locker. They weren’t assigned, but he liked to have his claim. He had one in the old rink, the one locker everyone knew was his. And now he has one here, despite the temporary nature of the ordeal. The rest of the boys know to steer clear, as does he for the others who have their lucky spots. 

Mingyu bumps into his shoulder when Seungcheol is looking down, immediately whipping around to bow a full ninety degrees. He’s laughing as he apologises, not really sorry, but Seungcheol is too exhausted to humour him too much. 

He’d been up playing games all night, under the covers in the dark, his phone brightness up too high and his eyes too wide open. He could feel the regret when his alarm blared while it was still dark outside, his eyelids stuck together, refusing to open. It cost him fifteen minutes of warming up, but he’d make it somehow. 

Seungcheol can hear coach Mason’s booming voice from outside, moving closer and closer to hustle the rest of the boys out onto the rink. He shoves his foot into his skates, making sure all that’s left is to lace them up. 

“Look alive, boys! I want you on the ice within the minute,” he booms into the locker room. 

Seungcheol doesn’t look up. When he gets up to leave the locker rooms, his hockey stick and helmet in hand, he’s the last straggling few to leave. Chan earns himself a hard thump on the back from Coach as he scurries out. 

There’s a hand on Seungcheol’s chest as he’s about to exit, Coach stopping him from leaving. 

He looks up, expecting a hard look from Mason, ready to hear a mildly violent threat about being late to call time again. Except Seungcheol finds him with his own gaze on the floor. 

“Rink manager said I could use his office. We should talk there.”

Seungcheol could’ve said he knows what this was going to be about. The game last weekend had less than ideal results, not because they didn’t win, but more so because of the WWE level brawl that went down in the benches during one of the intermissions. 

He tenses, but it was more like he was squaring up. His shoulders are hard, his grip on his hockey stick tighter. Of course, he wasn’t about to swing at his coach, but one could say it was simply a subconscious response. 

The entire walk to the office, Seungcheol thinks of new ways Coach could address his issue. But the gist was always simple. 

Choi, stop fucking fighting. 

He’d usually just rip Seungcheol a new one in front of the boys, berate him and verbally throttle him in the hopes that he’d keep his anger under check. But as they turn towards the door to the office, Seungcheol has to remind himself that this was a first. Being led aside, like he was being led into some formal meeting. 

A plea deal, perhaps?

Choi, what is it going to take?

The office is barren, hardly looks like it’s used with how sparse the equipment is. The amount of dark brown gives it enough warmth to not make it look like some sick form of solitary confinement. That doesn't stop Seungcheol from feeling a hint of pity for whoever has to work here. There’s no nameplate. 

Coach doesn’t take a seat, opting to lean against the table in front of him instead. His arms are folded, and he’s not looking him in the eye. A crawl of suspicion creeps up Seungcheol’s neck, as though in an attempt to ambush him. 

It’s silent in the room as he waits for Coach to speak, refusing to be the one to break it. 

When he does speak, it’s not in his usual Coach voice. Without the built in bass and tremors he was born with. 

“There’s no easy way to break this,” he starts, eyes drifting up to somewhere on the barren walls. “But I’m gonna try my darndest.”

Finally, he feels Coach’s gaze lock with Seungcheol’s expecting pair. 

“They wanna drop you.”

“What?”

Coach squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s recalibrating. “Your contract is up by the end of the season. And the tie wearers and the shoe shiners don't wanna re-sign you.”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean don’t wanna re-sign me, on what grounds?!”

“You’re temperament—”

“I’ve scored at least two goals for every game you’ve put me in, I’m your most consistent player!”

“They have no qualms with you when you’re on the ice.”

Seungcheol knows where this is going. He knows what knocked up alley this is turning to and he hates it. “Which is all that should matter.”

“In most cases.”

“Is this about last weekend? You didn’t hear him, he deserved more than a broken fucking nose—”

“I didn’t need to hear him, because I know. I know he’s a jackass, I know they’re all jackasses! They know that too. You need to learn to let things go, let them chirp—”

“He was coming on to my mother!” Seungcheol bellows, now properly angry. He remembers the guy’s name, Jason or something. 

“His coach came onto my entire bloodline when we were young, this is Kim’s strategy! You’re playing right into their hands like a dog! For fuck’s sake, Choi! Punching someone in the chiclets isn’t always the answer!” Coach Mason is shaking his hands in front of him like some violent prayer. 

Seungcheol drops his hockey stick and helmet, mouth open as he huffs and puffs. He wants to pace, wants to point his fingers at Coach and make a few threats of his own. 

“Just—”

Seungcheol rounds up on him. “Seungkwan punched a guy in the mouth. Wonwoo kicked one in the balls.”

“Seungcheol. This is becoming nearly. Every. Single. Game. Not the occasional tousle we can pull people out of. You can’t keep sending people to the hospital, it’s a wonder nobody's pressed charges yet!”

“So that’s it? I’m being punished because some dick runs his mouth?” 

“This is about you, Seungcheol. You need to get a fucking grip. You’ve started picking at your own teammates, shoving Mingyu around—seriously?”

Seungcheol’s mouth opens but nothing leaves it. He ends up gaping like a fish. 

For all that it was worth, for everything he’d been through, Seungcheol always assumed his seat was safe. Always assumed he’d have the position he does. Because he showed results, won them nearly every game and put up a damn good fight in the ones they didn’t. 

Seungcheol knew he was an asset, but not for one minute, stop to realise that this was all

conditional. 

For everything he did for this team, for every fiber of his being he poured into its chalice, they were spitting it all right back into his face. Chewed and warped and rid of anything worth salvaging. 

The red in his chest, back, stomach, spelling out the unmistakable letters of his team. The red in his helmet that rests beside the red in his hockey stick. 

“Listen, as much of a pain in the ass you are, you’re good fucking player. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters. But it’s not up to me, so we need to work around that. They’re worried about the repercussions of your behaviour. And you are gonna make sure you keep yourself in check.” 

Coach walks closer, finger digging into Seungcheol’s chest through his jersey. “I want no more fights, no more kicking and punching and swearing no matter how much that motherfucker deserves it, I don’t care. Do whatever it takes. God knows I’ll never forgive you if you make me agree to those prissy hands in suits.”

Coach left Seungcheol in the barren office, stepping over his stick and helmet as he exited the room, leaving him alone. His fingers flex under his gloves, like he’s trying to remind himself to stay in the moment. His exhales are stronger than his inhales, his vision blurring as the desk turns into two, and then disappears for a second. 

He can hear the distinct sound of the puck slamming into hockey sticks. Practice had started. By the time Seungcheol walks out, he’s the last person to go through the mandatory drills. 

The rink is mostly empty as the team gears up for a practice match, leaving Seungcheol enough reign to slam into every puck like he had some personal vendetta against every last one. It’s one after the other, sent directly into the open net, waiting. 

Practice goes fine, as good as it could go with the scrambled eggs that had become of Seungcheol’s mental state. He found himself whipping his head around to Jun when he fumbled an assist, face scrunched under his helmet as he prepared to send him to hell in a handbasket. 

He sees Jun physically tense up in defense, and the insult (for once) dies on Seungcheol’s tongue. 

“Just—keep up, alright,” he says instead. His tone is empty, and on a downward slope. 

If anyone finds it odd, they don’t say. 

It’s a couple more hours of passes, assists and hollers across the ice, regrouping the teams every so often to keep the rotation consistent. 

Over here, everyone is in red, everyone is on his side. The bleachers are empty, devoid of spectators to watch him lose his cool on anything. But he thinks of the way Jun recoiled, like he was preparing for the worst of his teammate’s words. He and Jun are friends. 

Somewhere amidst his thoughts, the puck flies directly into Seungcheol’s face, banging into the cage of his helmet with a noise that resonates across the rink. He’s startled enough to skate back a little, not before hearing another resounding thwack! from next to him. The puck rebounded from his helmet and hit the plastic barrier with a noise that had everyone looking over. 

Skating up to where the puck fell back onto the ice, he looks up to where it hit the barrier. 

Through the plastic he sees…you. You're staring at the same spot he is, where there’s a slight mark from the force of the rubber. 

And then your eyes drift up, locking with his own. 

Like every other person he’s around, he watches you tense up. But it’s laced with something more than just bracing for impact. 

It’s apprehension, your form turbulent and agitated. It’s all he can see when you spin on your heels and walk away in the opposite direction from him. 

The all too familiar irritation sparks in the back of Seungcheol’s mind, as it does when you’re around. All he does is slam his stick into the ice with force, pushing the puck back into the middle of the rink. 

They’re nearly done by that point, and he finds that Jeonghan has graced himself in the benches. He’s wearing his old jersey, likely because he doesn’t want Coach to notice him and accuse him of distracting his players. 

Jeonghan would’ve gotten away with it anyway. 

Seungcheol tells him to wait up, walking towards the locker room with the rest of the rest of the team to wash up. He finds some reprieve in Seungkwan’s attempts at fumbling with his helmet, letting out a laugh as he fights with it. Looking up as they take the turn towards the locker rooms as a group, he somehow finds himself in your presence, again. 

It’s the same thing, like you’ve been connected to a faulty circuit and you’re trying not to show it. You look like you want to say something but all Seungcheol can do is send a snarky remark of his own. 

Even as you walk away after the ordeal, he feels anything but settled. 

It’s like the world has it out for him, because as he opts to stalk back to where Jeonghan was, forgoing a shower, there’s only another calamity waiting for him. 

Jeonghan is in the rink, sitting on the ice with two cups of what looks like dippin dots. He looks up when he hears his treads on the ice, having taken his skates off already. Seungcheol crumples to the ground and on the ice next to his friend. 

The first words he utters are the only ones that’ve been on his mind all day. “They want to drop me.”

Jeonghan only grimaces in response, only running his hands through his hair as he sighs loudly. “I know. I heard.”

Seungcheol perks up, head lifting from the ice. “...How?”

That’s how Seungcheol has Jeonghan’s phone so close to his face he’s hardly an inch away from the screen. He reads and reads and reads. And his blood boils and boils and boils. 

!HOT TOPIC! 

SEAT AT RISK FOR SVT HOCKEY TEAM’S SHINING STAR? Read All About It Here! 

Choi Seungcheol’s seat for next season at risk? Insider reports that the hot headed centre may be at risk of contract termination due to recent controversy. The hockey player, renowned for his aggressive playing tendencies, seems to be taking his temperament outside of the rink. Multiple games played by SVT have been subject to eventful halves and quarters, the center seen getting violent in the benches with opposing team members, and sometimes even team members of his own! While his short temper has always been a recurring subject in the news, his skills as a player have always remained top notch—we do wonder if he even has to try! The tables seem to turn a little differently this time around though, because it looks that SVT higher ups have been fed up with the increasing reports of Choi’s aggressive behaviour. Insider sources report that talks of a contract termination may be coming into order. While he has proven to be an effective player on the ice, it seems as though it won’t be saving him from this particular ramification! 

Stay tuned, hockey fanatics, as we bring you more updates on Choi’s sticky situation! 

Of course, to add to the absolute media pandemonium, you had shown up on the rink itself after Seungcheol had to read through the entirety of that stupid article. Jeonghan was smart to pull him away from the situation before he wrapped both his hands around your neck in an ultimatum. 

The way you stood there, hip popped like you owned the damn place, face haughty and demanding. You stood while they sat, looking down at Seungcheol like he was some pesky ant. There was nothing he would’ve rather done in that moment than swing his leg clean across your ankles, and watch in delight as you crash onto the ice in front of him. 

“What the fuck is her problem?” he grits as soon as he’s in the locker rooms. Collecting his things to leave and take a shower at home. 

Jeonghan walks behind him, hands in his pocket in idleness as he watches his friend pack up. He’s humming a tune that’s possibly too familiar to Seungcheol. “Hm. She does seem a little wound too tight.”

“Wound too tight?! I’ve seen her thrice just today and every single time she looks like she wants to skin my fucking hide!”

Jeonghan only snorts. “Thing two isn’t any better. She’s cute though.”

Seungcheol whips around. “Who gets that territorial over a sound booth?!”

“Down, boy,” Jeonghan soothes, half in jest. “Surprised she isn’t here today either.”

“Yeah, you’d like to see her.”

“I would, actually, yes. What was her name?”

“Something to do with a train or a bus or something—”

“Lorry! Right,” Jeonghan furrows his brows. “I don’t think that’s her real name.”

Seungcheol throws his duffle bag over his shoulder as he motions he’s done. “I don’t think anyone who actually loves their child would name them after a bus.”

Jeonghan halts in his steps. “My dead dog’s name was Lorry.”

Seungcheol is extra nice for the rest of the way home. 

SEUNGCHEOL CAN'T SLEEP.

His dreams are full of voices, of every single teammate he’s ever had. The junior league, his high school team, up to his college team, and finally, his team right now. 

They’re all murmuring like they were paid to do it, uttering the same things, over and over. He doesn’t belong here, they don’t want him here, he doesn’t deserve what he has. 

And with the way his heart is racing when he jolts awake, cold sweat and all, he realises he’s kicked his blanket off of him sometime during the night. He looks over to his alarm clock that glares bright in the dark of his room; 5:08 AM.

He doesn’t need to be up, but it seems his own subconscious has given him a good enough scare to make sure every last essence of sleep escapes him. He lays on his back, catching his breath like he just ran a marathon. 

Seungcheol hasn’t woken up from a nightmare like this since middle school, one that knocks the breath from his lungs and fills his head with all the horrible things in the world. With every moment that passes after that conversation with Coach Mason, his ordeal becomes increasingly real. 

In that moment, laying in his bedroom, staring blankly at the dark ceiling above, he wonders if he’s made the right choice to come this far. 

With all the confidence he’s exuded, the thought is downright terrifying. 

Seungcheol was a difficult child. Too much energy, too much to say, too much to do. His parents didn’t know the first thing about hockey, just that it involved enough hitting and running and practice to let their son let out all that pent up energy, so maybe, just maybe, he’d sit still and do his homework. While they attempted to sign him up at the local rink, he was already zooming out towards the benches to see the fabled giant block of ice his parents told him about. 

And there it was, just like in the movies, a giant expanse of ice that made him shiver even in his thick Winnie The Pooh puffer vest. There’s sounds, loud ones, of deep clacks that echo across the rink. It seems to be coming from the dozens of people skating on the rink, decked out in red gear. 

SVT, he reads on their jerseys. 

His mother chides him for straying when they finally find him near the gate, watching the team practice. The rink manager is there as well, showing his parents around. 

“The SVT’s practice here and have a junior league too, but I’m afraid it’s full. But our coach is great too, I’m sure he’ll do well.”

Seungcheol’s parents didn’t mind, but he wanted those jerseys, wanted his name in red splashed across his back as he glided across the ice. 

It didn’t take long for his coach and his parents to realise that putting him in a helmet was a good idea. He was smoking the rest of the kids from day one, his balance on the ice better than any other his age, his hold on a hockey stick like second nature, his aim as he hit his first puck, dazzling. 

As he got older, entering his preteen and teen years, he had another realisation. That he was as horrible at school as he was good at hockey. 

“Perhaps you should take a break from hockey,” his high school guidance counsellor had said. His grades were displayed in front of her like a case study, the hopeless clear in her intermittent sighs and the occasional purse of her lips. “Utilise that time to fix at least one of your grades. Pour all your eggs in one basket.”

The thought was absurd. No, he would not be dropping hockey when it was the only thing that pushed him to wake up in the morning. 

He’d felt the tremble of irritation rise in himself, sitting there in that office. It angered him, made him feel like his success was measured by a criteria not made for him. He had said nothing as he slipped out of chair and left the room. 

The day before his graduation, sweat dripping onto the ice as he sent free pucks into the net, he was missing more than he was getting in. It was making him more mad than it should, hands shaking with fury as he berated himself for not being able to succeed in something so simple.

His last puck was before him, and he swung his stick harder than ever and watched as it flew directly into the net. The sound is louder than usual, resonating across the rink. Seungcheol looked down at the detached pieces in his hand and quickly realised that he’d effectively broken his hockey stick.

It wasn’t expensive, so the quality wasn’t nearly what it should be, wasn’t nearly as durable. But this was new to him. He’d never broken a stick before. 

Anger. Perhaps that was what he'd forgone, perhaps that was what he needed. To get on his knees from his back, to get on his feet from his knees. 

When he graduated the next day, Seungcheol knew what he was going to do with his life. Finally had an answer for the infinite questions about his future. 

Hockey. Seungcheol was going to play hockey for the rest of his life. He was going to get into SVT, he was going to become the best player they’ve ever had. He was going to make more money than what he would have as a doctor or a lawyer or whatever else the entire world wanted him to do instead. 

Seungcheol was going to be on the ice wearing red if it’s the last thing he does. 

That’s what pushes him out of bed at 8:45 in the morning, his dream that was once in his hands now flitting through the gaps of his fingers. 

The anger that pushed him here, was now pushing him out. 

He packs his things and leaves the house, welcoming the cold of the outdoors. 

There’s the distinct sound of blade cutting through ice when he gets nearer to the rink itself, a shout of a shrill voice he can’t decipher. Official practice doesn’t start for another couple hours, and he doesn’t remember Coach Mason cutting the pitch in his voice for anything ever. There’s only one other person that could possibly be gracing the rink.

Seungcheol finds three people on the rink. The bright red curly mop of hair catches his eye first, her arms folded over her green puffer jacket, apprehension in her entire posture. He assumes this is your coach. 

There’s a blonde one breathing heavily as she straightens out of a spin, listening to the coach as she shakes her head violently as she speaks. 

Seungcheol finds you a little ways away from the pair, practising jumps. 

He doesn’t emerge into the benches, remaining in the shadows where he wouldn’t be so blaringly obvious. There’s no reason for him to hide, but he doesn’t think of this as hiding. 

Seungcheol watches for the next few minutes, watches you make most of your jumps, fall for some. Your coach shouts for particular names for jumps, something about axels and lutz’ that he can’t tell the difference from when put into action. At least he thinks that’s what you’re doing. 

And then he hears it as your coach moves closer to the barriers. “What’s gotten into you? Keep acting this stupid and I’ll excuse myself from the job, I have better people to coach.”

Her tone, her words, the sharp edge of her tongue, it’s all triggering a very specific part of Seunghceol’s brain. 

“Is it your ankle? Because if it is, then I’m here to tell you to get out of your own head. Your ankle is fine, you wouldn’t be able to get on the ice at all if it wasn’t.” 

There it comes. Those words aren’t directed towards Seungcheol, nor could they apply to him in any capacity. But the way this coach is speaking is making him irrationally angry. 

“Are you gonna keep pretending you have a handicap? Because if you are then I have no work here.”

“I’m sorry.” 

For whatever reason, the sound of you apologising makes the fire rage doubly. It’s enough to blur his vision, enough to make him question what on earth this coach could have on you to let her speak to you in that way. 

The choice words are already in his head as he claps back in his own head, like he was the one at the receiving end. 

He doesn’t stay, disappearing even further into the tunnel to where the locker rooms are. He doesn’t understand why he’s huffing and puffing as much as he is. All that occupies him is what possible reasons you could have to just take it lying down. 

Seungcheol’s phone vibrates in his pocket, slipping it out to realise it’s Jeonghan. 

He picks up, and barely has time to say hello before his voice perks up from the other line. “Where are you?” He sounds like he just woke up. 

“I’m at the rink.”

“Why is your angry voice on?”

“My angry voice is not—” he begins to grit, seething, but closes his eyes and takes a moment. “I’m not mad.”

“Do I need to sing?”

“No, you do not have to sing—”

“Everything is honey—”

“Jeonghan, stop!”

“—everywhere I see—”

Seungcheol hangs up before he can go on. To his utmost irritation, he feels significantly calmer. 

The rink is devoid of your red headed coach when Seungcheol makes his way there after a few minutes. The blonde one is nowhere to be seen, leaving you alone in the rink as you skated across the expanse. He only watches as you land the couple attempts at jumps, the ice breaking ground in a spray every time you put pressure on your blades. 

Seungcheol is just standing there, blank faced with an empty head. His mind was quiet for the first time since he’d woken up that morning. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing there, standing idle as he follows your figure around the rink like a fixation point. 

The sound is more consistent, less of the loud jabs of hockey sticks meeting the ice, more constant lines of scraping as you migrate across the rink. The speakers boom no sound, but the musicality in the noise of the ice is enough to imagine a rhythm. 

No part of him desires getting on the ice to oust you out, no part of him wants to touch his hockey stick that sits in the locker room. He doesn’t need extra practice, not with hockey at least. 

And when you notice him, unmoving in the benches, he watches as something hard overcomes your expression. You skate over, and he keeps his gaze fixated on the ice.

Skating up to the gate, he sees in his peripheral vision as you slip on your skate guards, stepping out into the real world. 

“You don’t have the rink booked, I checked,” you huff, moving to find your things on the other set of benches. 

Seungcheol’s jaw tenses. “I don’t want the rink right now.”

“And yet the ghost loiters.”

“I’m here to tell you to start filling in the stupid craters your skates make in the ice. The guys keep tripping.” 

“You big hockey thugs getting defeated by a toe pick?” 

Seungcheol turns to finally look at you, and you look nothing as graceful as you did on the ice. He wants to scoff. 

You continue, “I have to deal with your stupid barriers fucking up my sound system. I think your guys can deal with a couple digs in the ice.” 

“Great, we’ll just lose a couple teeth, who really gives a fuck.” 

“If this is about giving fucks,” you get up from your water break, leaving the bench. “Do me a favour and forget your mouth guard next time. Let the puck punch you in the mouth if I can't."

Seungcheol’s entire being is ablaze. He reshuffles his footing. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” you repeat, voice moving a pitch higher. “My fucking problem is that you and your overgrown posse of baboons drop in here out of the blue and then act like you own the damn place!”

“Right, because it’s your name on the fucking lease. Excuse us for trespassing on public property!”

You’re yelling. Seungcheol is yelling. It’s either that or the hollow of the rink is now carrying your voices farther out. 

“I’ve had enough of you acting like you don’t take up this entire fucking space!” Your arms wave wildly, gesturing to the large area of the rink. “You’re everywhere, all the fucking time, it’s sickening!”

“Everywhere, huh?” He takes a step closer to you. And then another. He revels in the sight of your face turning a splotchy red. “Thought I was only a bother on the ice? Where else have I been plaguing you in mystic hallucinations?”

Seungcheol’s eyes give away nothing but provocation. He knows he didn’t start this, but in the true essence of who he is, he would be the one to end it. 

It’s clear you’re taken aback. At this moment, he’s the closest he’s ever been to you. But it’s for nothing if it isn’t to press on you further, to tower over you and your outburst. 

“Get your head out of the gutter, you brute.”

“Then is it not me taking up all your space?” he asks. “Because there’s three feet of air between us, and yet the least in our very short time together.”

He watches as you take a small step back.

“So where else have I been any closer, so consistently, if it wasn’t part of your imagination?”

There’s a certain kind of venom in your stare, in the sneer that lifts your mouth, enough to ensure that it’d render him six feet deep. But he lives in reality, so he deems it safe to take another step closer. 

“You’re a screw up,” you almost whisper. Appalled and scandalised. 

“So I’ve been told,” Seungcheol breathed. “But something tells me we’re not so different in that department.”

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

“I know that I’m all you can think about,” he says, eyebrows raised. “That feels like a lot. You’d agree, because everywhere, all the fucking time is a lot.” 

Seungcheol has hardly finished his sentence before he feels the light breeze of you gathering your few things, shouldering him hard and walking away from him. Into the tunnel, into the locker rooms, into hell, wherever it was that you ended up by the close of the day. 

He isn’t afraid to admit that he stumbled.

LORELAI HAD MADE IT quite clear that any figure skating talk was off the table, and talk surrounding Marina even more so. You tried not to point out the obvious predicament, but the fact that you lived with Marina did not affect her demand. 

Miraculously, not talking about skating or Marina was the most free you’d felt in ages. It was mildly embarrassing in the beginning, when on a run with Lorealai who was also helping out at the dog shelter, because you realised all you talked about was, maybe not Marina, but definitely a lot of skating. 

You slow down a little to give Kkuma a couple minutes to breathe, but Lorealai is still running at her pace with her significantly more energetic husky, Bennie. 

“Stay there, I’ll catch up!” she yells over her shoulder as she takes the left around the block to circle back. 

You oblige, moving to a walking pace as Lorelai appears from behind you after a couple minutes. She slows to a jog and loiters around you for a minute, you increase your speed to match hers. 

“Jeonghan…” she pauses to take a breath. But your interest is piqued, especially if she was talking about the same Jeonghan you were thinking about. “Jeonghan invited me to the game this weekend.”

Hold. 

“What?” you snap.

“Game. This weekend,” she huffs, still breathing heavily. 

“Like, a hockey game?” you ask, brows furrowed. 

“No, for disney on ice,” she announces. “They’re doing beauty and the beast, Jeonghan’s the beauty, Seungcheol is the beast. It’s a whole production, really. Real good stuff.”

You can only roll your eyes at the elaborate sarcasm. She continues, “Of course, it's a hockey game! What else do they do at that rink all day?”

“Gosh, sorry,” you frown. “Since when do you talk to Jeonghan?”

She looks over, wicked smile on her face. “Since I found him on Instagram.”

“You followed him?”

“No, why would I do that? Bumped into him at the gym a while ago, and we went out for coffee afterwards.”

Nothing of the ordeal is making sense, your brows still knit together and your mouth downturned in confusion. 

“Catch you in a minute!” she yelps as she takes off into a run again, Bennie right next to her as she circles round again. 

The few minutes that it’s just you and tiny Kkuma are flooded with questions. How did she just bump into Jeonghan? Lorelai hardly goes to the gym. Asking her to come to the hockey game? 

And then worst of all. 

Are they dating? 

By the time Lorelai is back, she’s out of breath again, and fully unequipped to answer all of the questions you shoot at her like rapid fire. 

“Why were you at the gym? He’s a junior league coach, he’s not even gonna be playing!”

“God!” she groans, heaving. “Slow…down.”

“Fine!” You stop in your tracks entirely, to which Lorelai is happy to oblige as she crouches with her hand on her knees. Bennie tugs at her leash, the big bounding ball of fluff ready to race the winds again. 

You count to ten, hands on your hips as Kkuma lets out a small, confused yip now that you’re completely idle on the track. 

“Talk.” 

With an all too dramatic flip of her short hair, she pulls herself up and into an explanation. “I couldn’t tell you because we weren’t talking when it all happened.”

It’s true, it did take a while for you to go back to normal after that run in with Marina in your bedroom. You suppose it won’t be happening again with the new no-Marina-talk rule, since she seemed to be quite the common factor in many of your rifts over the years. 

“I went to the gym to blow off some steam—don’t look like that, I’m being serious!” 

You make an attempt at fixing your face as she continues. 

“He saw me first and came up to say hi. Went our separate ways but once we finished up he asked if I wanted to grab a coffee since we were both done working out.” 

“And you said yes?”

“I said yes. Because he is cute, and I had been stalking his very public Instagram and it was just the perfect opportunity!” 

“So you’re dating?” you ask sharply. 

“I don’t know.”

“He asked you to the game?” you point out. 

“Well, yes, but he hasn’t asked me asked me.” Somewhere in her voice there’s the tiniest hint of disappointment. “Besides, he said to bring you as well.”

“Fuck no.”

“Come ooon! Jeonghan’s gonna be in the benches and I don’t know anyone else there!” she whines. 

“Hey, we should switch dogs!” you announce as you yank Bennie’s leash out of Lorelai’s hands, stuffing  Kkuma’s leash into her free hand. 

You take off into a sprint, and Bennie is happy to keep up with you as you quite literally run away from the situation. Lorelai is yelling your name, her annoyance abundant. 

Ignoring her is easy. Just the thought of walking into one of those games is enough to force a scoff, to watch your rink inhabited with like minded buffoonery as they ruin the bleachers and the ice. 

By the time you make it back, the hilarity of the situation hasn’t left you. And it seems neither has Lorelai, who remains standing with Kkuma at her feet, waiting to trap you. 

It’s the easiest thing to do, to turn right back around and circle the other way. 

“You can’t run away from me forever!” she shouts behind you as you disappear again. 

Maybe you couldn’t, but you wouldn’t go down without a fight. 

“You can’t run away from Seungcheol forever! Quit pretending like you aren’t dying to fall into those giant arms!” Lorelai has a very specific talent of injecting all the drama in the world in the tone of her voice. She’s sure to utilize that skill as she hollers after you. 

That seems to do it for you, slowing down, half ready to whip around and holler a profanity or two right back. 

You’re more triggered than usual, but mostly because all the jab does is remind you of the last time you saw him. The arrogance in his demeanor, the way he belittled you with just his eyes, the shadow of his towering frame, caging you like a lost animal. 

You hated it. Despised it. Despised him. His disgusting innuendos, the all so misleading innocence on his face as he cornered you with both his body and his words. 

Lorelai could deal you whatever card there was tied up her sleeve, but getting you anywhere near the rink for the game this weekend was going to require more than just dessert bribes and sweet talking. Dragging you by the ankles could be a possibility, but all for naught when you dig your nails in anyway. 

It was impossible. Not doable. Non-existent in the cards of your destiny. A repelling force. 

So why, would one ask, were you decked out in the most  heinous red scarf with the letters SVT stitched on like a warning, sitting in the bleachers and looking down at the same rink you practice your spins and jumps in everyday? 

Neither you or Lorelai could answer that question, both your stories as blurry as fog as to how either of you managed to get you in that fabled seat. 

You could see the exact place you and Seungcheol had your last showdown, the opposing team in black now occupying that side of the benches. The thought puts you in an impossibly sour mood. It’s not like Lorelai could say anything about it, half because she knows you’re one snide remark away from jumping into the merch table, and half because she was too busy making heart eyes at Jeonghan who’s just spotted her in her seat. 

“I’ll be back,” she informs haphazardly as she positively bounds down the steps to the end of the bleachers, where Jeonghan waits for her. The people in their seats shuffle, annoyed at the overenthusiastic fan who practically slides down in front of their legs towards the railing. But Lorelai couldn’t care less, not with what stood beyond that very railing. 

Tearing your eyes away from the lovebirds, you take in the hustle and bustle of the pregame happenings, most of the bleachers in disarray as they humour the merch stands and the food stalls. The rink smells different because of it, both the added number of food trucks and drink stands, but also with the amount of people that occupy the expanse. 

The only times you see the rink this packed is when you’re too wracked with nerves to notice anything other than your own two feet. Hands wringing and head spinning, the chaos of the world is nothing against the pandemonium in your mind. You’re usually wearing a sparkly dress that glitters even from the very last row of bleachers, hair taut and makeup caked on like a layer of icing. 

Taking your time, you let your eyes flit over all that you forgo the other times. The stands are a mix of red and black, and so are the benches and ice that are occupied by men in full hockey gear. 

You’re too high up to make out the names on the back of all those jerseys, let alone a face underneath the already concealing helmets. The problem is forgotten when you feel the weight of two hands slam against your folded arms, tugging you out of your seat like it was stolen property. 

“Jeonghan said we could sit closer to the benches downstairs!” Lorelai is frantic, like this wasn’t a matter of reserved seats but the last plane to leave hell itself. 

“Lor—” Finishing a sentence when she’s in this state is a luxury you learn quickly to live without, because all that concerns her right now is getting closer to the man that seems to have enraptured her like never before. 

It’s disgusting. But you follow her anyway, down the steps that you nearly eat shit on, gracefully of course, because what figure skater doesn’t fall with an epic crash worthy of an Expendables cameo. You stabilise yourself enough to get to the seats Lorelai is talking about, and sure enough, Jeonghan would barely have to get on his tiptoes to hoist himself into the bleachers altogether. You question the safety of the context but decide that it wasn’t your problem if someone decided to pounce on one of the players. 

Besides, you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t revel in the absolute scene of Seungcheol getting jumped by an over-passionate fan. You’re suddenly very grateful for the front row seats. 

There’s a bucket of chicken tenders and fries in your lap out of nowhere, matching the one in Lorelai’s hands. “Also Jeonghan?” you hum as you inspect the sauce options. 

“Mhm, he’s friends with the vendor outside,” she grins. 

You narrow your eyes at the revelation, finding it utmost strange how close he seems to be with nearly everyone. “Why is he on the benches, again?” you ask. 

“Because—” she draws before you cut her off. 

“Friends with the coach?”

“How’d you know?!” she exclaims. Her attention is diverted as the speakers suddenly boom with something other than generic pop music. So is yours, when you hear a deep baritone of a commentator’s voice carries throughout the rink. 

The shuffle around you is suddenly doubling in speed, everyone getting into their seats. You look over in front of you, where the benches are in an equally panicked shuffle. You spot Jeonghan easily, mostly because he’s one of the few in the vicinity without a helmet or what looks like a giant space suit. The next thing you note is the person he’s talking to, his back turned to you, but familiar all the same. 

CHOI, 95, reads his jersey. Automatically, your jaw clenches.  “Don’t look over there!” Lorelai chides, grabbing your jaw and moving it to force you to rip your eyes away from him. 

“Lorelai, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but unlike your boy toy, he’s actually gonna be on the ice,” you verbalise through clenched teeth. 

“Don’t look at the ice,” she blurts. 

Rolling your eyes, you only listen as she realises what she’s said. “Okay, um, look at Jeon instead! Or Kim, or Boo, just. For god’s sake, there’s fifty other players on the ice, just don’t let one of them ruin your night!” 

“I’m fine,” you grumble, sinking into your seat. 

It isn’t long before your eyes trail over anyway, and Seungcheol still doesn’t have his helmet on. You can see his face now, and he looks like he’s mad at Jeonghan about something. 

Inevitably, your mind wanders to the fated article that somehow made its way into your recommended, the certainty it put in you that Seungcheol didn’t stand a chance in his team anymore. It seemed true enough, his anger, that he continues to display, seemed to be his default emotional setting. 

Your hockey knowledge was subpar at best, but one thing you did know was the aggression factor of the sport. Of all the things that could cut his career clean down the middle, this was the last of your guesses.  

Even now, as you watch him absentmindedly point and jerk like his supposed friend had managed to bring him something that was personally offensive, it’s all connecting too well. 

But when you snap into reality, you realise very quickly that he was pointing…at you. 

Seungcheol is mad that Jeonghan (effectively) brought you to the match. 

A chortle of disbelief is quick to make itself known, wanting to yell across the throng that you were every bit as upset that he was in your vicinity too. It also brings you satisfaction, a pure grain of hope, that maybe this would be enough for him to completely fuck up on the ice today. 

You say a quick amen before the baritone of the commentator makes itself known again. The echo is too much for you to decipher what’s going on, but you have your answer when you watch the reds and the blacks form what looks like a line across the width of the rink, right in the center. 

You don’t register when the puck landed, or if it was always there, just that the loud clacks and bangs are in tandem with the cheer from the crowds. The puck is an impossible commodity to keep up with, even with just your eyes. It appears for a moment before it’s lost again, shooting around in your peripheral vision like a pesky fly you can never get a hold of. 

“What is happening?” you whisper to yourself. 

Lorelai answers anyway, snorting, “Fuck if I know.”

The numbers on the lit screens are doing nothing to help out your predicament, too much happening for you to even begin to deconstruct. You choose to lay back and enjoy your chicken tenders and fries, complimenting the sauce choices to Lorelai along the way, who continues to calibrate her attention on the man that remains in the benches. Jeonghan looks over periodically to send her a wave and a blinding smile. 

You’ve made a good enough dent in your chicken and fries bucket by the time it’s intermission, about ready for a drink by now. Lorelai makes herself useful and runs down to get you both something, mostly because Jeonghan was now more focused on the team that’s huddled around one another, another man you assume is their coach huddled right with them. 

The scores are 2-2, as provided by the person behind you who was apparently sick of your placid obliviousness. It did feel slightly awkward to be the only person not as excited to be front and center, so you remind yourself to thank him profusely. 

Your attention drifts back to the benches, inevitably as you’ve been so unfortunately placed to be able to breathe down the player’s necks. They’ve dispersed from their huddle, but are not yet on the ice. They’re sitting down, catching their breaths, drinking from water bottles. On the other side, the opposing team, a sea of black and white flooding their own end of the benches. It’s a sinking colour, not an ounce of depth in the shade. It’s taking over the benches. 

Except it’s the players that are moving, like they’re diffusing into the scarlet territory. 

You watch, as one player in black moves his mouth, speaking, upturned and eyebrows cocked. It’s clear he’s gone well past enemy lines, the front lines suddenly at attention. There’s not much you can make out, nothing much besides the very haughty expression on the player’s face. His eyes are covered by the sweaty mop on his head, but you don’t need to see them to find the malice that infiltrates his entire stance.

The scene, where both sides seem to be closing in on each other, has you automatically sitting up straighter. The air is going static, especially as you realise the player's mouth is moving faster as he jabs at — Seungcheol. 

They’re fighting, only verbally for now, but it’s undeniable the way the heat grows by the second. All you can see is the back of Seugncheol’s jersey as he begins to step back from the ordeal, like he was fighting the urge to take a step forward instead. 

Jeonghan’s hand is on Seungcheol’s elbow, and one glance at the rest of the players on this side shows every last one on edge. Their coach is nowhere to be seen. 

But he doesn’t stop talking, still standing in their territory. He yells something loud enough to hear the pitch of his voice, but not nearly enough to understand what he’s saying. 

You could see it on the player’s face. Hook, line and sinker. 

It happens so suddenly. Seungcheol surges forward like a dart, something flies out and hits the player square in the face. 

Seungcheol had spat his mouth guard into his face. 

You gasp out loud as you register what’s happening. The player removes his hand from his face, and for some reason, emerges grinning. 

Seungcheol swings first, his fist rising and coming down on his cheek with a sound you can hear. You feel nauseous. 

It’s pandemonium. You can see Jeonghan practically on top of Seungcheol, a number of other players attempting to get him off the man he continues to grab and shake up like a fugitive. The other player is throwing his own punches.

For one, horrifying moment, the force of the punch pushes Seungcheol’s face towards the stands enough to let you get an eyeful. All you see is red, beyond just his jersey. His mouth is full of blood, the front of his jersey dripped with it, his knuckles clustered with it. 

The hand clasped around your mouth is your own, eyes blown in horror. 

All around you, the world has their phones out like it was some show meant just for them, like this was exactly what they came here for. 

It’s sickening. Sickening. 

You brave another look, and they’ve been yanked off of one another. Seungcheol is being pushed down the tunnel and away from sight. Jeonghan has his hands clutched around Seungcheol like he’s nearly ready for another outbreak, his face grim. 

Your eyes keep away from Seungcheol’s face on purpose.  “Goodness, what is going on, I could barely get through the crowd,” Lorelai’s irritated voice infiltrates your ears, and you’re immediately brought back down to earth. 

Arms full of more snacks and drinks, it only takes her one look at your rattled self to know. 

“What happened?”

“I…they were…fighting. I don’t know, it just—Seungcheol was throwing punches and there was…blood, so much blood.”

She’s gotten a grip on your hand, her fingers warm under your cold, shivering ones. “Do you wanna leave?” she asks slowly. 

One look over her shoulder is enough to tell you it’d be impossible. Everyone was too excited to care to cater to two people going in the opposite direction of the action. So you tell her there was no point, and you attempt to calm your racing heart as she sits next to you. 

Snagging one of the packs from her mountain of snacks, you rip it open and let the sickly sweet smell infiltrate your nostrils. Popping one of the confections in your mouth, it’s hard to not make a face. It’s the sourest thing you could’ve picked, the tartness enough to distract you from the outside world. Eyes scrunched closed, you swallow the rush of saliva to ask Lorelai what the fuck she brought.

You chortle, and it has Lorelai looking over. “Whoops! That one’s mine.”

She snags the bag from your loosened grip, replacing it with a tamer bag of original flavoured potato chips. The chips are trying, but there’s not much you can do besides wait for the residues of the godawful candy to subside. 

The ordeal seems to have calmed you the slightest bit, finally able to turn back to the ice. The rink is back to being occupied, players from both ends pouring onto the ice. You note a minor shoulder shove at the gate, but look away like it’d stop the calamity from intensifying. 

The game ensues as normal, but you note the blatant absence of CHOI in the sea of red and white jerseys. You don’t mention it, and neither does Lorelai. 

You’re about to burst by the time the finals moments are upon the game, the overtime minutes beginning to tick as the crowd grows restless by the second. With the little you’ve managed to grasp, you’re sure that SVT is only one goal away from the overtake. It’s making you nervous, like you’re waiting for your own score to be announced after a free skate. 

The puck is a mere percentage easier to navigate after a couple hours of keeping after it; it skips between players you’re beginning to recognise from the back of their jersey. Kim, Boo, Wen, Kim, Lee. The opposing team intercepts for a moment, and you find yourself letting out an irritated shake of the shoulders. Back to Kim, Lee, Lee, and then, right into the net. 

The jittering crowd suddenly went so silent you could hear a pin drop. 

And then the world around you erupts. It’s impossible to classify the sound as cheers when racketeers off your entire being like an unearthly sound, the stands on their feet hollering and screaming and yelling at their players that are fighting to keep their new overtake in the final seconds before the game officially ends. 

And when it does, you’re sure you need to get your ears checked out. 

Looking over, you catch Lorelai’s eye, and you can’t help but laugh. A delightful laugh that releases itself in the midst of the chaos of red, scarlet and cherry. Somebody’s thrown a red blanket over you, another has begun to hand out congratulatory cherry lollipops (you pass, but Lorealai would be damned if she did), people are hugging each other so tight and you get the inkling they’ve only met each other today. 

The ice is one giant dogpile, red on red as they suffocate one another in celebration. 

Perhaps you didn’t realise how important the game actually was, or maybe every game is like this, loud, proud and exultant. You find yourself imagining how they feel. 

The lost feeling of bouquets and flowers whisked in your direction, stuffed animals and hundreds of other things that scream adoration as your performance comes to a close. It’s a physical manifestation of an adoring crowd, as though making it tangible makes it a little more real. 

The rush, you can feel it resonate off of the scarlet side of the benches, and it’s enough for you to realise that yes, this was an important match. For them anyway. 

The way out of the rink is reasonably packed, but you manage to squeeze through the doors and towards where Lorelai had parked with fewer than expected obstruction. “Thought you might wait to see Jeonghan before we leave,” you hum as you walk to the parking spot. 

“I was going to, but he’s probably dealing with what happened,” she utters slowly. A flash of red at the mention, gone as soon as it came. Lorelai adds with a little extra pep to her voice, “It’s okay! I’ll send him a text, we were planning on dinner tomorrow anyway.”

The side eye you send is met with a light shove. “This one seems serious. Dragging me here for his sake and now dinner with him?”

Lorelai was infamous for taking it excruciatingly slow, the time between the talking stage and the first date stretching for months. She claims it’s to make sure she's not roping herself into something she’d regret, which you’ll admit has seemed to work out in her favour. Her last relationship lasted years before Josh had to move away. 

Jeonghan seems to have her under some warped spell, because Lorelai was hurtling into this relationship like a too compressed cannon ball. There was nothing you knew about Jeonghan other than his friendship with Seungcheol, his position as junior league coach and his habit of loitering on the ice; which means there wasn’t much opinion to be had on the whole conquest. Regardless, you decide to caution her some other day, when she’s not glowing and over the moon like a robust teenager. 

Slipping into the passenger seat, you slump like never before, already dreaming about the bedrotting session you’re about to have; glorious enough for the books. 

“Do you wanna grab food and rot on the couch?” she asks. 

“You’re still hungry after all that?” you huff, your mouth still flavoured with artificial sweetness paired with the savoury of the chicken and fries. You pull out your phone for the first time in nearly three hours, the home screen alarming full of missed notifications. Text messages, mentions and phone calls. For whatever reason, you swipe right past and open your browser. 

“It’ll take about an hour till we’re settled, should be hungry enough by then,” she comments, a gentle growl coming from beneath you as the engine comes to life. 

Somewhere between the lines of the seatbelt sign pinging, and the radio blaring itself into the space, you’ve read a headline that’s enough to halt your world. 

“There’s this new Chinese place that opened nearby here. Or this Persian restaurant but it’s like 20 minutes in the other direction. Or do we just do soup—”

“Lorelai.”

She turns to look at you in the passenger seat, seatbelt alarm still dinging as you remain with your seatbelt off as she pulls out of the parking space, like the official soundtrack to your doom. She brakes, hard. Lorelai is always Lorry with you, her full name only ever when you’re feigning irritation. 

There’s nothing irritating about the situation, but everything is wrong with it. 

It’s like you were in the benches, taking punches while simultaneously throwing a few yourself. You’re out of breath still seated, your skin tingles like a million arachnids crawling under your skin under your layers. You’re in the eddy of a horrifying whirlpool, that’s pulling you down, down, down, down, down, down—

!HOT TOPIC!

FIGURE SKATER OR FIGURINE? NOTHING GRACEFUL ABOUT Y/N L/N’S FALL FROM THE PINNACLE OF THE SKATING WORLD. Read from the Source!

From a pocket princess, to a rising star. From a rising star to the top of the world. From the top of the world to… a bottomless hell? How did Y/N L/N end up here? 

It’s nothing new that L/N’s presence was notable during the flashy ISU Grand Prix held in Beijing last year, the podium notably shuffled as a result. The skater’s ankle injury was never awarded a career ending title, but with the way her comeback remains as foggy as it did since the initial announcement, one must begin to wonder if we’ll ever see L/N on the competitive ice again. 

Or perhaps she’s simply lost her spark? 

Trusted sources report that L/N’s sponsors are growing weary of her extended vacation, and are just about ready to pull the rug! In addition, sources also report her floundering lack of consistency in practice sessions on the ice, her condition beyond someone as onerous as even Isabella Carroll to manoeuvre into success. Talk about futile! 

Now, we’re all hoping that our glittering gold medalist is only a victim of mindless chatter, however, we must concede, neither we nor our sources are holding on to too much hope. 

Keep on the lookout for more updates from us on our fallen (?) star!

[a/n]: hehehehehe remember to reblog and tell me your thoughts

[sonicboomseason3]

a brief recap of what has been going on with the sonic movieverse in the past several months:

paramount has come out in public support of israel

keanu reeves, a man who has publicly rubbed elbows with none other than benjamin netanyahu, reportedly gets cast as shadow for the upcoming third movie

james marsden, the guy who plays tom, got exposed as having written a letter of support for a convicted pedophile

there's fucking??? zionist propaganda in the knuckles series???

kind of connected to the last point but adam pally, the guy who plays wade, is evidently pro-israel too

this is a complete and utter joke.

EDIT AS OF 4/30/24: if people see this version of the post, i'd really appreciate it if you reblog it instead of the other versions, as it's the most updated one with all the information that i want included. thank you :]

you know, it's been a few days since i've made this post, and some of you (not most) are staying determined in defending/justifying/giving the benefit of the doubt to keanu for that photo with netanyahu, whether it's because "it was a decade ago," "him being civil to someone he ran into at a party one time doesn't mean anything," "he's probably just silent because his pr managers won't allow him to speak up," etc. i've made my thoughts on the matter quite clear by directly responding to these people, but at this point, i'm tired of both seeing them in my notes and repeating myself, so take this as my final word on the issue.

i can't help it if you don't think the photo with netanyahu is damning, and i'm done engaging with everyone going out of their way to tell me that. i obviously disagree, especially after finding out that 1. the host of the party, arnon milchan, is a former israeli spy who has a history of developing israel's nuclear program and promoting apartheid in south africa (information that had broken out a few months prior to the party and thus would've been fresh news around the time keanu chose to attend) and 2. keanu has been caught hanging around at least two other weirdos, but if you don't find any of that to be cause for reasonable concern, then there really is nothing else i can say afaik.

with all that said, i'm beginning to realize how strange it is that these people's first instinct when seeing this post is to start debating about keanu's political stances without ever acknowledging any of the other bullet points. you guys realize that this isn't just about him, right? i know tumblr reading comprehension is known for being piss-poor, but like… you realize that i was trying to make a point of how there are MULTIPLE terrible things that have broken out about the people and company involved in the sonic movies, right? and yet, a lot of the people leaping to speak on keanu's behalf in my notes are completely ignoring the parts where i bring up paramount, pally, etc. all in favor of zeroing in on the singular point about keanu and making bad faith assumptions about me for holding him accountable. really makes one wonder where your priorities lie if, in a post that talks about so many other things, me accusing an a-list celebrity with, according to google, a net worth of almost $400 million is where you draw the line and apparently the only thing worth your acknowledgment.

ultimately, what i'm trying to say is that the intention of this post was just to gather up everything that i had been hearing for the past several months and put it all together in one place. there were a bunch of people who didn't know about at least one of the bullet points before seeing this post, and i'm glad that i could help inform them, that was what i was hoping to do! but as for the keanu thing, i've said pretty much all i can say for now, and i don't want to derail the original post even more than i may have already. unless something new comes up, i'm done talking about him.

[aajjks]

Mommy Issues (V)

Synopsis. They wanted you, they needed you.

Pairing. Yandere single dad jungkook x fem reader

Warnings. Yändërë bëhàvìøür, ëmøtìøñàl mánìpùlàtìøñ, pøssëssìvënëss, dëlùsìøñàl thìñkìñg, gùìlt-trìppìñg, jùñgkøøk bëìñg wëìrdly søft ànd scàrÿ àt thë sàmë tìmë, ùnhéàlthÿ àttàchmënt, sèdúctìón, lónlínèss.

note. OH MY GOD I KNOW YOU GUYS HAVE PROBABLY FORGOTTEN ABOUT THIS BUT LIKE SERIOUSLY I MISS THIS SO MUCH SO I HOPE YOU GUYS WILL LIKE THIS CHAPTER. PLEASE SHARE YOUR FEEDBACK AND LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED REPLY UNDER THIS POST!

series masterlist.

•••

The house is too quiet.

That’s the first thing jungkook notices when they get home.

Seol runs inside ahead of him, dropping his little backpack by the door like always, shoes half-kicked off, already calling for his tablet.

Jungkook doesn’t move.

He stands in the hallway with the door still cracked open behind him, hand on the knob, heart way too loud in his ears.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

Your face.

The way you looked at him when he said it. Like he’d shattered something between you with that one sentence.

You’re not his mother. You’re just his teacher.

God.

He didn’t mean it. Or maybe he did. He’s not even sure anymore.

He just wanted to hurt you the way you hurt him. The way you made his son feel like he wasn’t normal.

Like he loved too hard. Like needing you was a problem.

But it’s not.

It’s not.

Jungkook locks the door, finally, and shrugs off his jacket. He can hear seol’s little voice somewhere in the house, but he can’t make out the words.

Probably talking to his tablet again.

Or talking to you. He’s been doing that lately. Pretending to FaceTime you.

It’s cute. It’s scary.

Jungkook walks to the kitchen and grabs a beer, doesn’t bother with a glass. His hand is still shaking a little when he takes the first sip.

Why did you look so… disappointed?

Why did you make him feel like some broken thing?

You smiled at him just days ago. You tucked his son’s scarf under his chin. You touched his shoulder when you laughed at that dumb joke he made.

You wanted them.

He saw it.

So why are you backing away now?

What changed?

“Daddy,” a small voice says from the hallway. Seol’s peeking around the corner, thumb in his mouth. His eyes are wide. Wet. “Are you mad?”

Jungkook blinks. “No, baby. I’m not mad.”

Seol shuffles into the room and wraps his little arms around jungkook’s leg. “Miss yn didn’t say bye to me.”

And just like that, jungkook wants to punch a wall.

He crouches down slowly and cups seol’s face in his hands. “She still loves you. Okay? She’s just confused. Grown-ups get confused sometimes.”

Seol sniffs. “But I didn’t mean to be bad…”

“You weren’t bad.” Jungkook kisses his forehead. “You were perfect. You were just trying to protect what’s yours.”

He means it.

He means every word.

Jungkook tucks his son into bed a little early that night. Reads him his favorite story twice.

Holds him until his breathing slows.

Then sits beside him for a long time, staring at the glowing nightlight and the picture on the wall.

The one seol drew.

Stick figures. Him. Daddy. And you.

Under a rainbow.

Labeled “our family.”

Jungkook stares at it until his throat hurts.

You don’t get to walk away.

You made them need you.

So now you have to stay.

•••

The morning starts soft.

Sunlight spills, Jungkook wakes up before his alarm, which never happens, but something about the quiet feels right today.

He stretches and slips out of bed without waking seol, who somehow ended up tangled in the covers beside him again. Tiny limbs everywhere.

Drool on his pillow.

God, he’s perfect.

Jungkook stares for a moment, just watches his son’s chest rise and fall, messy hair sticking up in every direction.

He’s all he has.

He’s all he needs.

And now… they have a mission.

•••

“Come here, baby.” Jungkook kneels in front of seol, zipping up his puffy little coat. “Let me fix your hair.”

Seol groans dramatically, already eating a rice cracker in one hand while holding a toy car in the other. “You always make it look weird.”

“It’s called handsome.” Jungkook grins, ruffling the front until it doesn’t look like a bird nest. “Miss yn likes it like this, remember?”

Seol perks up at that.

Jungkook sees it. Sees the glow in his face whenever you’re mentioned. It stings.

He ties seol’s shoelaces slowly.

“You know what?” Jungkook says softly. “I think… maybe we don’t talk to miss yn too much today.”

Seol frowns. “Why?”

“She’s a little… busy lately.” He keeps his tone gentle. Like it’s nothing serious. Like he isn’t burning inside. “And sometimes when people are busy, they don’t like being bothered.”

“But… she likes when I talk to her…”

Jungkook nods, brushing seol’s cheek. “I know. I know you love her.”

He swallows.

“But today… maybe just wave. Be polite. But not too much. Let’s give her space, okay? If she wants to talk, she’ll come to us.”

Seol is quiet for a second, then nods. “Okay…”

Jungkook kisses the top of his head. “That’s my boy.”

He zips up his own jacket, picks up seol’s little lunchbox, and heads for the door with his son’s tiny hand tucked in his.

They’re the perfect picture.

A young father. A devoted son. Matching shoes.

But inside?

Inside jungkook is ice.

He’s still angry. Still hurt. You made him feel small yesterday. Like he wasn’t doing enough. Like his love wasn’t enough.

So fine.

If you think you can turn away from them, he’ll show you what that feels like.

You want to act like you’re just the teacher?

Then that’s all you’ll be.

For now.

•••

The classroom is already buzzing when you look up and see them walk in.

Jungkook with his hand on seol’s back, guiding him through the little sea of cubbies and jackets. He doesn’t even glance at you.

Not even once.

Your heart dips. But it’s fine. You’re used to parents being distant after difficult conversations. You can handle this. You’re professional.

But then seol walks past you too.

No bright “miss yn!”

No little hug around your waist like he usually does.

Not even eye contact.

He just walks straight to his seat and sits down, fiddling with the zipper of his jacket.

You feel it like a slap.

You blink. Smile. Try not to let it show on your face. “Good morning, seol.”

Nothing.

He doesn’t respond.

Jungkook is standing at the door, arms crossed, silent. He meets your eyes now, just briefly. His expression is unreadable.

Cold.

“Thank you for yesterday,” you manage to say, keeping your voice soft. “I hope—;”

He cuts you off. “We’re good.”

That’s all.

Then he’s gone.

And you’re standing there like a ghost.

•••

You make it through the first hour of class on autopilot.

Your voice is gentle. Your instructions are clear. But your eyes keep flicking to the corner where seol is sitting, shoulders small, lips pressed together, refusing to look at you.

Your chest aches.

You want to walk over and crouch beside him. Ask him what’s wrong. Run your hand through his hair the way he used to love.

But you don’t.

Because you know what this is.

You’ve seen it before.

You’ve felt it before.

A man with power. Pulling the strings. Turning love into a punishment.

You press your hand to your stomach for a second, right where the pain used to be. The pain that never really left.

You remember the hospital. The pale blue gowns. The way your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The nurse who asked, “Was this your first?”

You nodded.

You lied.

That baby was already real to you.

You already loved them.

And now? now you’re losing another one.

Even if seol’s not yours, he was something close.

Something sacred.

And you don’t know how to stop the tears welling in your eyes as you turn away from the class, just for a second. Just long enough to breathe through it.

You’re just his teacher.

That’s what jungkook said.

That’s what he wants you to be.

But he doesn’t know what it cost you to love his son the way you did.

And he doesn’t know what it’s doing to you to let go.

•••

You wait until story time. The kids are all sitting on the carpet, half-listening, half-daydreaming.

Seol is sitting cross-legged at the very edge, back straighter than usual, like he’s trying not to look comfortable.

You pretend it’s nothing.

You keep your voice steady as you read, but your eyes flick to him again and again.

He doesn’t raise his hand like he used to. Doesn’t giggle when you do silly voices. Doesn’t lean against your leg, even though he’s sitting right there.

You close the book and say, “Okay, let’s go get ready for snack time.”

As the kids scramble up, you place a gentle hand on seol’s shoulder, just like you always used to.

He flinches.

It’s small. Barely there. But he flinches.

And then he stands up without looking at you. Walks away without saying a word.

You follow him.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Seol…”

He stops at the sink, washing his hands.

You kneel beside him, slow and careful, like he’s something fragile.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just nods.

It shatters you.

Because seol is never like this. He always has something to say. Always wants to show you something, tell you something, ask for something.

You try again.

“You’re being really quiet today,” you murmur. “Did something happen?”

He dries his hands. Doesn’t meet your eyes.

“No,” he says.

Just that. No.

It’s not angry. It’s not rude. It’s just…

Empty.

You’re still kneeling there as he walks away to join the other kids, and you feel like the floor could split open beneath you and you’d just disappear into it.

You sit on your knees for a few more seconds before you slowly get up, your legs numb, your hands trembling.

This isn’t just about him being tired.

This is deliberate.

And now you know exactly who taught him how to do it.

•••

You find a moment alone in the staff bathroom. You close the door. You sit on the closed toilet lid and press your hands to your face.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

But you feel it creeping up your throat like nausea.

You were a mother once.

Not for long. Not even long enough to hear a heartbeat. But you felt it. Felt them.

And when they left, you thought that maybe that part of your heart would just stay empty forever.

And then there was seol.

Seol who clung to your leg the first week of school. Seol who drew you pictures of his “family” and put you right in the middle.

Seol who looked up at you with love like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You didn’t try to take his mother’s place.

You didn’t mean to.

But he gave you that role.

And now. now he’s being taught to unlove you. To unneed you.

To keep you out.

And it hurts in a way you can’t even explain. It’s a grief that has no name.

Because how do you mourn a child that was never really yours?

How do you mourn a second time?

•••

The day ends slow.

Painfully slow.

Every smile you force feels like peeling a band-aid off skin that’s still bleeding underneath.

Seol doesn’t come to show you his crayon drawing.

Seol doesn’t ask for help opening his snack.

Seol doesn’t even flinch when you help another student zip their backpack.

You keep checking. Watching. Hoping.

But he’s gone. Still right there. but emotionally, he’s already been walked away.

The final bell rings and your chest squeezes like it always does when it’s time for dismissal.

Usually, you’re crouched down with open arms when seol runs into them, squealing about something that happened at lunch.

Usually, he makes you promise to come watch him draw chalk outside before his dad gets there.

Today, he stands by the door like a stranger.

You call each name one by one as the kids are picked up, and you pretend your eyes aren’t glancing to the street every five seconds.

And then you see him.

Jungkook.

Standing tall in that all-black outfit like he’s about to bury you.

His hair’s still a little messy, and his hand is tucked into his pocket, but his face?

Blank.

Cold.

You call seol’s name and the little boy lights up. It’s instinctive. Like a switch was flipped.

He runs.

Straight into his father’s arms.

“Appa!” he squeals.

You watch jungkook drop to one knee to scoop him up. Seol throws his arms around his neck, burying his nose against his cheek.

“I missed you!” he says.

You feel your heart rip a little more.

Because he used to say that to you.

You see jungkook’s mouth twitch with the faintest smile as he lifts his son, holding him close like a trophy.

You try to look away. You try to breathe through it.

But then jungkook looks straight at you.

And that’s when he twists the knife.

“Did you have a good day?” he asks seol, loud enough that you can hear.

The boy nods quickly. “Uh huh! I didn’t talk to miss yn just like you said!”

Your stomach drops.

Jungkook doesn’t flinch.

He just brushes his son’s hair back gently and murmurs, “Good boy.”

You nearly stumble.

There’s this heavy silence pressing against your ribs and you’re trying not to show how fast your pulse is racing. You’re trying not to cry.

He meets your eyes again, gaze calm—almost amused.

Like this is what you asked for.

Like this is what you deserve.

“You ready to go, bud?” he says, and seol nods again, still clinging tight.

And then jungkook turns.

Walks away without a word to you.

Not even a glance back.

You’re left standing there, arms empty, watching the boy you loved be carried away like you were never anything at all.

This is the consequence of your concern.

•••

The ride home is quiet at first.

Jungkook adjusts the mirror. Checks the street. Buckles seol in, tight and gentle.

He doesn’t speak.

Not until he knows you’re watching.

He saw your face at pickup. Saw the pain, the guilt, the confusion spinning like a storm behind your eyes. You looked so lost. So broken.

It made him hard.

He pulls out from the school lot slow and smooth, his voice low but firm.

“You did good today, seol-ah.”

The little boy beams in his car seat. “I did what you said! I didn’t talk to miss yn!”

Jungkook hums.

His hand rests on the steering wheel but his knuckles are white from how tightly he’s gripping it.

“That’s right,” he says softly. “Because she’s not your mommy. You remember that now, right?”

Seol nods, a little slower this time. His voice drops, quieter. “Yeah… she’s just my teacher.”

“That’s right, baby,” jungkook murmurs. “She’s just a teacher. And teachers don’t get to love you like I do.”

He glances in the rearview mirror. Seol is kicking his legs gently, humming to himself now.

It’s almost too easy.

He knows it hurt you. The silence. The rejection. He knows how tender you are.

he’s watched it grow.

The way you used to touch seol’s hair like it was sacred. The way you bent down to his level and told him he was brave. The way you always said our boy during conferences.

And yet, you had the nerve to stand there and say he had a problem for loving you too much.

No, baby. You just didn’t understand. You still don’t.

But you will.

Jungkook reaches into the console and pulls out a small pack of gummies. He hands it back to his son.

“Good boys get treats,” he says, and seol lights up.

You should be here to see this.

But you’re not.

That’s the point.

“You know…” jungkook starts again, voice dripping low, almost wistful. “If she was your mommy…”

He trails off.

Lets it hang.

Seol tilts his head, curious. “What?”

Jungkook smiles, slow and secretive.

“If she was your mommy, she’d be here in the car with us. She’d sit next to you, maybe even hold your hand. She’d help you pick what to eat for dinner. She’d tuck you in and kiss your forehead.”

Seol goes quiet.

Jungkook watches his son blink up at the ceiling, his little mind drawing pictures he can’t fully understand yet.

“She’d love you forever,” jungkook finishes softly.

And in his head— he sees it.

You.

In the passenger seat.

Hair messy, eyes soft. Your hand resting on the center console, close enough to touch. Seol in the back, giggling. A little family. His family.

But you ruined it.

You said things you shouldn’t have.

So now?

Now he’ll make you want it so badly you’ll beg to be part of it.

You’ll beg to be his.

“Appa,” seol says quietly, “do you think miss yn is sad?”

Jungkook’s smile grows.

That twisted, beautiful smile.

“Maybe,” he says.

And he drives the rest of the way home with that ache in his chest slowly fading into satisfaction.

Because you’re hurting.

Because you miss something that was never yours.

And because he knows—

It won’t be long until you come crawling back.

Begging to be her again.

Begging to be theirs.

•••

Later that night, the silence is too loud.

You’re still in your work clothes.

Sitting at the edge of your bed. Staring at the folded drawings seol made you two weeks ago.

Crayon hearts. Stick figures with messy smiles. One of them had you holding his hand and saying “I’m proud of you.”

He used to shove them into your hands every day like they were treasure.

You trace the wobbly letters with your finger and your throat tightens.

God, you miss him.

It’s been one day and you miss him like you lost a limb.

And it hurts even more because you know that detachment wasn’t his idea. Seol’s just five.

A soft, clingy little thing who loves big and easy.

He doesn’t understand emotional punishment. He doesn’t understand passive rejection.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing to you.

Someone told him to do it.

But you don’t blame jungkook.

Because maybe… maybe he’s right.

Maybe you were too harsh in that meeting.

Maybe you shouldn’t have said it like that. Called his son possessive. Said “he’s not your mother” out loud.

It sounded so clinical. So cold. You didn’t mean it to be. You just wanted to help.

But now?

Now that warm, sweet little boy is looking right through you.

And the worst part?

You can’t even be mad at him. You get it.

You press your hand to your chest, eyes blurring.

You’ve always been maternal. Even when you tried to pretend you weren’t anymore.

But no one knows what you’ve lost. No one knows the way your arms still ache when you wake up some nights.

No one knows how your heart cracked in half when you lost your baby in that apartment with the thin walls and the screaming man who never loved you.

You never got to hold her.

But seol…

He made you feel like a mother again.

For just a moment. He gave you the thing you were so sure you’d never have.

And now he’s gone.

You blink back tears, but they come anyway. Hot and heavy. You curl in on yourself and try to swallow the sobs.

Maybe this is your punishment.

You tried to set boundaries. You tried to do the right thing. But it feels like you’ve only made it worse.

And the image that haunts you the most?

Seol’s face as he ran into his father’s arms. That tiny, bunny smile.

The soft brown hair, those Bambi eyes. He looks just like jungkook.

You can’t stop seeing it.

The way he clung to him. The way he laughed. The way he didn’t even look back.

You lost two people in that parking lot today.

And you don’t know how to get them back.

Maybe you shouldn’t.

Maybe you can’t.

You don’t even notice your phone vibrating at first. You wipe your face and blink at the screen.

Mr Jeon:

[9:52 PM]

I hope your day was peaceful, Miss yn. Seol had a wonderful one. Thank you for everything you’ve done for him. Truly.

You stare.

No name. No heart emoji. Just that cold politeness that stabs like a knife.

You type a reply. Then delete it.

Then cry harder.

Because you miss them.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to believe you don’t deserve them.

•••

The house is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that’s peaceful. No, this is curated. Designed. Controlled.

The lamp in the living room hums softly. The wine glass on the table is half full. The screen of his phone glows against his skin, illuminating the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

He reads the message again.

I hope your day was peaceful, Miss yn. Seol had a wonderful one. Thank you for everything you’ve done for him. Truly.

Polite. Distant. Perfect.

It sounds just fake enough to stab.

He takes a slow sip of wine, eyes flicking to the couch across from him.

Seol is fast asleep there, curled up with his favorite blanket. Lips parted. Cheek smushed against the pillow.

One arm clinging to the stuffed rabbit you gave him on his birthday.

It’s kind of cruel, really. How easily seol trusts.

But that’s what makes this so easy.

So beautiful.

Jungkook reaches for his phone again. Opens his camera. Snaps a quiet photo of the boy, soft and small and vulnerable.

The bunny toy in frame. That’s the detail that makes his smile widen.

He hovers his thumb over your contact. The urge to send it pulses in his fingertips.

You’d break down if you saw it.

He knows you would.

You’d take one look at that little boy with his matching smile and think about everything you’ll never have.

Not unless he gives it to you.

Not unless he lets you have them again. But he doesn’t send the photo. Not yet.

He wants to wait.

Let you sweat. Let your guilt simmer until it burns. Until you’re begging to be let back in. Until you think you’re the one who left.

That’s the thing about good manipulation. It’s never rushed.

He’s been alone a long time. He’s gotten good at waiting. And now that he has something worth fighting for worth keeping? he’s not about to let it go.

You were too good at loving seol.

Too gentle.

Too warm.

And when you looked at him with those soft eyes, when you smiled and asked if he’d been eating properly, if he was sleeping okay.

jungkook couldn’t stop thinking about it for days.

Not because he wanted your care.

Because he wanted it forever.

From the same person.

Over and over. On his terms.

His.

He leans back, phone resting on his chest. Wine glass in his other hand. His gaze drifts to the side table where a folded paper rests.

One of seol’s drawings.

Stick figures. You, him, and seol. All holding hands. Big red heart in the middle.

He keeps it close. Like a promise. Like a prophecy.

You’ll come back.

You have to.

Because you were made to be theirs.

And the longer he keeps you out, the harder you’ll try to claw your way in.

•••

You read the message five times.

Then a sixth.

You sit on the edge of your bed, the silence of your apartment suddenly heavy. Your phone is still in your hand, thumb trembling slightly over the screen.

The glow of it makes your eyes sting, but you can’t look away.

I hope your day was peaceful, Miss yn. Seol had a wonderful one. Thank you for everything you’ve done for him. Truly.

Miss yn.

Truly.

Your chest tightens.

You almost laugh. He used to call you “yn” like it was a delicate, precious thing. And now you’re back to Miss yn.Like a stranger.

Like the woman across the hall who used to matter.

You set the phone down, face down on the comforter, like it’s infected.

But it doesn’t stop the ache.

Because all you can think about is seol.

Sweet, clingy seol. The boy who used to throw his arms around you and bury his little nose in your neck when he didn’t want to say goodbye.

The boy who used to smile like you were the sun.

And today? He didn’t even meet your eyes.

He clutched his backpack straps too tightly and gave a quiet, polite “bye.” And that was it. No hug. No smile. Nothing.

And the worst part is— he looked just like his father.

The same bunny smile. The same soft, dark lashes and wide, unblinking eyes. The same ability to gut you without saying a word.

You press your hand to your stomach, not because it hurts—but because there’s a ghost of something that used to live there. Something you lost.

A baby that never made it.

Maybe you’re too soft.

Too maternal.

Maybe that’s why this hurts so much. Because somewhere in the back of your mind, you let yourself feel like a mother again.

And now it’s gone.

Stripped.

Ripped away with a smile and a formal text from the man who lives just across the hall.

You stand up too fast. You don’t know where you’re going, but you end up by the window.

Your building complex is quiet. The lights in jungkook’s apartment are still on.

You can’t see much from here—but it makes your chest ache anyway.

You press your fingers to the glass.

It’s pathetic, maybe.

But you just miss him.

Both of them.

You miss the boy who called you mama in his sleep, even though you told him not to.

You miss the father who used to watch you like you hung the stars, even when you pretended not to notice.

You pick up your phone.

You start to type a reply. Just something simple. Something soft.

I’m glad he had a good day. I’ve been thinking about him.

Delete.

Too much.

You try again.

Thank you for the update. Please let me know if he needs anything.

Too formal.

You delete it again.

In the end, you don’t send anything at all.

You just curl up on your side of the bed. The side that’s always cold. And you wonder— just for a second. what it would be like to live in the warmth of their home instead.

Even if it’s built on a lie.

Even if it hurts.

Because love always hurts. And you?

You already know what it’s like to lose a child.

You don’t think you can survive losing another—even if he was never yours to begin with.

•••

You feel weird.

Attached. Too attached.

You’ve been thinking about Seol all night. The way he brushed you off. The way he used to cling to you like you were his lifeline. Now he barely acknowledges you.

You never meant to get this close to a student.

But here you are. Sitting in your apartment, heart heavy. You’re too deep in this, too involved.

You need to clear your head.

You decide to go outside. Maybe the cold will help.

The wind hits you hard as you step out onto the balcony. It cuts through you. Makes your chest tighten.

You don’t expect it, but it hits you all at once.

You feel the tears.

You try to hold them back, but they fall anyway.

I have to make it up to him, you think.

Seol. The sweet boy who doesn’t even know what happened. He doesn’t understand why he’s being distant.

You should apologize. Maybe that’ll fix it.

Maybe if you talk to Jungkook tomorrow, maybe you can fix it.

But there’s a lump in your throat.

You know you’re being manipulated. You know this is more than just a mistake.

You’re already in too deep.

And as the wind whips around you, you don’t know how to stop yourself from falling even deeper.

•••

It’s almost midnight when you finally decide.

You’ll bring cookies. Just a small gesture. Something to say “I’m sorry” without using words.

It’s Saturday tomorrow—no school. You know they’ll be home. And maybe if Seol sees you outside of the classroom, it’ll soften him. Maybe he’ll remember how much you care.

You bake them yourself.

Sleep-deprived, face still puffy from crying, but your hands move like they know what to do.

Like they’re aching for something warm, something gentle, something motherly.

Chocolate chip. The kind he once said was his favorite.

You go to bed feeling a little calmer. A little bit stupid. But hopeful.

The next morning, you’re at their door by ten.

Your hand hovers over the doorbell.

Then— press.

A few seconds pass.

And then the door swings open.

Jungkook stands there.

He’s wearing grey sweatpants and a fitted black tee, like he didn’t expect company but somehow still looks devastating. His tattoos peek from the sleeves.

His hair is messy. He looks… domestic.

You almost forget why you’re there.

Then his eyes drop to the cookies in your hand.

You smile, nervously. “Um… I brought something for Seol. Just thought maybe— uhh I know it seems a little inappropriate that I’m here, but you know I’m here as a neighbor..”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.

Not rude. But not welcoming, either.

Still, he opens the door wider.

“Come in.”

You step inside.

The apartment smells like detergent and lemon and something soft. You don’t know why that makes your chest ache.

You spot Seol curled up on the couch, a little blanket over his lap, cartoons playing softly on the TV.

But he doesn’t jump up when he sees you.

He just blinks.

“Hi sweetheart,” you say gently. He waves. A small, half-hearted wave.

And it punches the breath out of you.

You turn to Jungkook, trying to stay composed.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. I just… wanted to see him. I felt bad.”

“Why?” he asks. His tone is innocent. Too innocent.

You blink. “After the meeting. I think maybe I… overstepped.”

He doesn’t reply.

You place the cookies on the counter.

“I know it doesn’t fix anything, but I hope he likes them.”

Jungkook nods slowly. Then he steps a little closer.

“You didn’t have to bring anything.”

His voice is low. Soft. He looks at you with those deep, unreadable eyes.

“But you did.”

You feel your stomach twist.

He walks past you, picks up one of the cookies, bites into it. Chews, thoughtful. Then…

“These are really good.”

You smile, a little. “I’m glad.”

He takes another bite. Still watching you.

“He missed you yesterday,” he says suddenly.

Your heart jumps. “He did?”

Jungkook nods, licking a bit of chocolate from his thumb.

“He told me after we got home. Said he missed your hugs. Your voice.”

You feel your eyes sting.

“I think he was just… confused,” you whisper.

“Maybe,” Jungkook says. “Or maybe he just needs someone who won’t leave.”

You stare at him.

His words are so simple.

But they feel like a blade.

“I never meant to—;”

“I know.”

Silence.

The TV buzzes softly in the background. You hear Seol’s soft humming from the couch.

The warmth of their home is thick around you, pulling you in.

And yet— why does it feel so lonely?

Why does it feel like you’re on the outside, looking in?

Like you’re being allowed in for just a moment. Just enough to crave it. Just enough to never forget what it felt like.

Jungkook looks at you for a long, long second.

Then he smiles.

Small. Gentle.

“You can stay for coffee if you want.”

•••

You sit on the edge of their couch with your hands curled around the warm coffee mug, trying to stop the ache in your chest from spreading.

The apartment is quiet, except for the sound of Seol’s cartoon.

Spider-Man zips across the screen in bright flashes of red and blue, his little voice chiming in every now and then.

But he doesn’t look at you.

Not once.

You thought maybe. just maybe he’d come over.

You baked. You apologized. You tried.

And now you’re sitting here feeling like an extra.

Like someone on the outside of a picture-perfect family.

You sip your coffee, throat tight.

Jungkook is across from you at the kitchen counter, leaning against it like he lives in a magazine.

His arms are crossed, tattoos on full display, the shirt hugging his chest in a way that’s way too intentional for a Saturday morning.

You try not to look.

But of course you do.

Because he’s beautiful. And soft in all the places you miss having. And strong in all the ways you don’t.

“Seol,” he calls softly. “Aren’t you gonna say thank you for the cookies?”

The little boy turns, mouth full of juice pouch, and gives you the same small wave from earlier. “Thank you, Ms. Yn.

“Yn,” Jungkook corrects, voice smooth. “She’s not at school.”

You blink.

Seol repeats, “Thank you, Yn.”

You smile, aching. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

But the ache doesn’t go away.

He turns back to the TV, curling deeper into his blanket. Like that’s all he needs. A cartoon. A blanket. His dad.

You watch the scene in front of you and feel something raw bubble in your chest.

This is what you wanted.

This is what you used to have. Before it was taken.

Before it was crushed.

You blink fast. Sip your coffee again. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“You alright?” Jungkook asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He tilts his head, a little smile playing on his lips.

“You don’t look alright.”

He moves closer.

Stands behind the couch. Behind you.

You feel the warmth of him. The weight of his gaze. The quiet power in the way he doesn’t speak unless he wantssomething.

“I just haven’t been sleeping,” you say.

“You should,” he murmurs. “You look like you need rest.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean it.”

He walks around the couch now. Closer. You feel the heat of him as he leans against the armrest near you.

“I think you need to let yourself be taken care of for once.”

You look up.

His eyes are so dark. So steady.

“You’re always taking care of other people. Of kids. Of their parents. Who takes care of you?”

The words drop into your chest like heavy stones.

“I’m fine,” you say. Too quick.

He doesn’t reply. Just sips his coffee, slow. His jaw tightens with every swallow.

And for some reason, watching him do something so simpleit wrecks you.

You wonder what it would feel like to sit like this every morning.

In silence. With coffee. With someone beside you.

Not alone in your apartment, holding your own body through another long night.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he says, voice low. “I see through it.”

You glance at him.

He’s watching Seol. But his words are for you.

“You’re lonely.”

You freeze.

“You don’t need to say it,” he adds. “It’s just written all over you.”

Your breath hitches.

You open your mouth. Close it.

The silence between you hums.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t move. Just sits there.

Radiating heat.

Smelling like woodsy cologne and dryer sheets and safety.

But the kind that’s too close to danger. Too close to falling.

“You can stay for lunch,” he says.

Not a question.

Just a line. A trap.

And something in you… something soft and broken wants to walk right into it.

[5sospenguinqueen]

Toy Cars Pt 2 | Fernando Alonso x Mum! Reader

Summary: After some reflection (and maybe a scolding from your son), Fernando realises that toy cars, alongside karts, might make his life a lot better.

Warnings: angst, fluff, reconciliation

just a short one 

F1 Masterlist

prev.

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yn_ln just posted

liked by prema_team, formula2 and others 

yn_ln when i’m missing my twins, at least i have bearnelli’s antics to keep me going

7,994 comments 

kimi.antonelli thanks for watching over us, mum

→ yn_ln keeping you out of danger is the more appropriate term

olliebearman appreciation post? finally. only taken almost a year of being your grid son 

→ yn_ln because i tell you how much i appreciate you in person??

→ prema_team they need online validation. they’re teenagers 

user1 not bearnelli calling her mum 🥲

user2 the bear in the airbox is sending me

→ olliebearman y/n found it for me, said her baby bear had to have a bear?

→ user3 baby bear!! 

→ user4 somebody get this woman some more kids please

→ kimi.antonelli she has us and the twins. she doesn’t need any others otherwise we will have less attention

user5 anyone else find it weird not seeing fernando hanging around the prema garage? 

→ user6 he’s always caught watching the f2 races so he can see y/n :( 

→ user7 i’m guessing he was told to stay away now they’re not together anymore? 

user8 fernando was still there for the f2 race but he was in gabi’s garage 

→ user9 pretending to do manager duties but using it as an excuse to stare at y/n like a lovesick puppy 

liked by gabrielbortelo_ 

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replies

user10 is he really their step dad if he’s no longer with their mother?

→ user11 yes! because he’s known them for years and he’s always said that they’re his, regardless of blood or distance

user12 fernando is the physical embodiment of the ‘dad who stepped up’ meme 

user13 the ultimate daddy 

user14 okay but can we shelf this for a second to talk about how we got a fernando and y/n interaction today??

→ user15 WHAT! why isn’t FA14 twitter talking about this instead 

→ user16 yes but they were so awkward together, bless

→ user14 he made sure to keep like 2 feet of space between them the entire time they were talking

→ user16 but she actually smiled at him! we had a smile by the end of it 

→ user17 that smile made fernando look like all of his dreams came true 

→ user18 y/n and fernando reconciliation??

→ user19 we need the twins to parent trap them 

user20 nice to see that we all have daddy issues

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astonmartinf1 just posted

liked by gabrielbortoleto_, lance_stroll and others

astonmartinf1 a tough day for the team with a wet dnf for lance and our #14 coming home in p14. proud of them both on an unusual race day here in sao paulo. here we come sin city 

8,866 comments 

user1 no but did anyone else see that fernando had be lifted out the car by his mechanics?? 

user2 i hope fernando is okay. his radio had me in bits 

→ user3 he sounded so upset and exhausted

user4 i have so much respect to fernando for finishing the race despite his pain so the mechanics didn’t have to deal with a double dnf 

user5 him finishing his race for the mechanics whilst in agony goat

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yn_ln just posted

liked by chloestroll, fa_alonsokart and others 

yn_ln this is much better than spending another weekend in an empty nest 

8,140 comments 

olliebearman i think you should’ve stayed home to look after me instead 

kimi.antonelli can’t believe you left the country without me :(

user6 not bearnelli suffering whilst their mother is living her best life 

user7 the twins and bearnelli got her so stressed, she fled the country 

kellypiquet i am not at all jealous of those cocktails 

→ yn_ln not long and you’ll have cocktails and a gorgeous baby to bring to brunch 

→ kellypiquet baby brunch sounds like a brilliant idea 

→ user8 chat, i don’t think yn was the one who didn’t want more children. she seems to love babies 

user9 excuse me, why do i see two glasses? 

→ user10 maybe she went with a friend

→ user11 a special friend 

user12 fernando fell to his knees at the sight of this post

→ user13 i hope not. he wouldn’t be able to get back up

astonmartin added to their story

astonmartin shh, we have a secret #valkyrie  

user1 replied excuse me, is this a wedding car!! 

user2 replied no because who is commissioning a personalised AM wedding car 

user3 replied wtf is that fernando? am I crazy? tell me that’s not the side of fernando’s head 

user5 replied surely AM would only make a wedding car for someone really important 

fernandoalo_official replied looking good  

fernandoalo_official just posted

liked by astonmartinf1, gabrielborteleto_ and others 

fernandoalo_official lance taught me what a photo dump was 

14,028 comments 

jensonbutton haha the pic of the twins

→ fernandoalo_official he did immediately drop his brother afterwards. wasn’t too impressed with being beaten

user6 the wedding ring and the baby belly 🥹 they went from being apart to having a whole life together

aussiegrit has y/n been waxing your legs again, mate

→ yn_ln if i have to deal with his baby squeezing my bladder, he can deal with my yanking out his leg hairs 

lance_stroll this is what we call a very nice photo dump 

→ astonmartinf1 all our favourite people in one place

user7 omg the aston martin valkyrie was their wedding car

→ user8 not aston martin hard launching them before they did

→ user9 was it really a hard launch if none of us were smart enough to figure it out

user10 a baby nando? he’s finally going to have his own child 

→ fernandoalo_official i already have 2. we’re just adding a third 

→ olliebearman a fourth

→ kimi.antonelli excuse you, a fifth

→ maxverstappen1 i was here before all of you

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

Baby Fever Angst Series

I've had a few requests to do these with some of the other drivers and whilst I appreciate all the love this series has had, I'm running out of ideas to vary these without delving into some sensitive topics

tag list

@caroto-porta-world-blog @anoukformula1 @lightdragonrayne @thatsnotaddy @anayaverse @honethatty12 @number08 @thefinnishfrom1999 @royallybrit @hippopotamusdreamer @raizelchrysanderoctavius

[asidian]

This post was originally made with still images, but the extremely kind @thecaseofcas offered to make gifs for me. So without further ado, a body language post, now with motion! ✨

I want to point out a little character body language tell that Charles has that I think has flown largely under the radar. Every time he's gearing himself up for something he thinks is going to be difficult, he does the cutest tiny double-bounce.

He does it in Esther's house, while Edwin's getting ready to go into the cabinet.

Depending on how you interpret the scene, he's either gearing himself up for a potentially dangerous situation or (let's be real) psyching himself up for the temptation of watching Edwin strip his jacket off. (We see you, Charles.)

He does it near the end of episode two, talking to Crystal by the window.

He's just gotten a look into her heartbreaking issues regarding not being wanted and having nowhere to belong, and he's heading into what he expects is a fraught conversation, trying to talk her up into knowing that he, at least, appreciates her.

He does it when he steps forward to address the washer woman.

He knows the stakes here are high; people might be killed in the hundreds, and this is their chance to get the information they need to stop it.

He does it just before he lobs the Molotov cocktail at the doll-spider.

This is the one of the highest stakes we see all season; this is Charles gearing up for what he likely considers to be the most important moment of his afterlife. If he doesn't get this right, he's condemning Edwin to an eternity of torture.

And he does it again when the doll-spider reappears on the stairway, just before the final dash for the doorway at the top.

Again, the stakes couldn't be higher; he knows very well they've got to make this happen, or the consequences are unthinkable.

There are likely more instances throughout the season; these are just the times I recall off the top of my head.

But more importantly than any of these, it's really telling that Charles still does this while he's in disguise.

It shows up in the very first episode, when they go to speak to Becky's parents about her disappearance.

Here, too, he's gearing himself up to handle something he knows will be difficult. It's going to be an emotional conversation, and it's desperately important that they have it so that Crystal can get the information they need.

But this is a different actor. That means that this is such a significant character tell that they prompted the actor who plays disguise!Charles to use it, in much the same way that disguise!Edwin keeps his hand mannerisms. It's not the actor's body language. It doesn't seem to be something Jayden Revri does in interviews. It's something he's decided on for the character, a deliberate acting choice.

It's very much intentional, and it appears again and again, throughout the series.

I don't know that I had a point, here. I just wanted to appreciate the fact that this boy psychs himself up when he thinks things are about to get rough, and that he has such a charming way of doing it.

[kerosene-in-a-blender]

I think my biggest issue with a lot of the storytelling decisions in C3's finale is that it seems like the story prioritized being nice over being interesting.

It's nice that ultimately the gods-become-mortal plan went off without a hitch and Predathos left without complications, but it would have been more interesting to see one or two gods be uninterested in it and get consumed or flee. It's nice that Ashton choosing to allow the Matron to use them to catalyze the ritual didn't permanently kill him, but it would have been more interesting as a character beat if it did (or as per this previous post a resurrection skill challenge occurred). It's nice that serving as the Vessel of Predathos didn't permanently change or kill Imogen, but it would have been interesting for all the unknowns about what serving as the Vessel means to come to something other than "not much as it turns out". It's nice that Opal is not longer obligated to serve Lolth, but it would have been more interesting if her obligations as a Champion stood (and she got to attempt to reform Lolth's image by influencing her from infancy). It's nice that the leadership of Vasselheim is mostly understanding of the Hells and bares them no ill will, but it would have been more interesting to see the Hells held to account for betraying the Accord. It's nice that Orym is not (and indeed never was) bound to serve Nana Morri, but it would have been more interesting for him to have to grapple with paying that debt now that the threat has passed and he's also starting a romantic relationship with Dorian. It's nice for Keyleth that divinity being reorganized means Vax can exist on the mortal plane now and they can start a new relationship, but it would have been more interesting to see her have to come to terms with the fact that with the Matron gone from her realm into that of mortals, it is not her, but rather Vax and his choices, that is keeping them separated.

[bougiebutchbinch]

Intersectionality, disability, and being 'one of the good ones'

I am 'one of the good ones'.

I have been told this, verbatim, by various healthcare professionals.

This is because I have a severe manifestation of my disease - worse than 90% of what my specialist sees - but to their eyes, unlike most in the same bracket, I am driven to maintain as much mobility as possible.

I do the work I need to in order to remain able to work, even at a greatly reduced capacity (even if this constant effort towards condition management means making lots of sacrifices in my social and personal life). This makes me a 'good disabled person'.

This entire concept is fascinating to me - not least for the conflation of 'good' and 'has worth within a capitalist society'. It's also hugely damaging to other disabled people.

First off: I'm privileged in that one of my diseases at least, CAN have symptoms mitigated by medication, (ridiculous amounts of) physio, and surgery, even if it is still degenerative and the overall problem remains. A lot of folks have diseases that, whether due to the intractable processes involved, or medical neglect and lack of research, have no treatment whatsoever.

I'm privileged because I genuinely love my job. There are problems, don't get me wrong, but it's on its way to being a decent-paying, well-respected career that I can do from a wheelchair. People who work my job are typically treated well by society. There are strong protections in place to defend my rights as a disabled person, and though managers absolutely try to cut corners, those legal protections are still there. I find fulfilment in this work, to the point I would still do it in a perfect post-capitalist society without monetary gain. Although many people are ableist to me on a day-to-day basis, on the whole, people in this sector are somewhat educated about patient rights and disability advocation.

Why would I have any motivation to maintain my ability to work, if I was paid a poverty wage and treated like dirt for what I did for a living, on top of facing structural and interpersonal ableism?

I'm privileged because I have a loving family who help me with ADLs. While we still have our issues, they never make me feel 'lesser' for being disabled. While we used to be working class, we got very lucky and now live a comfortable middle class life, which means I have a stable home in a country with universal healthcare, that I am not in immediate danger of losing. We live together, so I receive care from them, and we get along excellently. They support me, and help me to achieve my goals.

How could I do the ridiculous amounts of extra physio and symptom management work I need to do if I didn't have people who were happy to help me cook, clean, and care for myself? How could I keep track of my medication and doctors appointments if I didn't have people who understand my memory problems and help me? How could I have the energy to work on controlling my condition - as much as it can be controlled - if I was constantly worrying about making rent or where my next meal was going to come from?

And finally, my mental health is in a genuinely good place! I do suffer from some long-term mental health problems, but they're managed and treatable, and I haven't had a severe episode in years.

How could I focus on looking after my body if my mind was constantly under attack from itself?

It's like... yeah, I've worked extremely hard to get where I am, and achieved rare results. I'm glad that's acknowledged by my healthcare team. But every day I am reminded that I would never have made it this far, had circumstances been different. That people across the world put in the exact same effort as me, and receive none of the results or the praise.

Caling me 'one of the good ones' isn't a compliment. It's a backhanded put-down to other, more vulnerable members of the disabled community. I think those of us who are classed as 'The Virtuous And Hardworking Disabled' do need to be conscientious of this. We should challenge this attitude where we can, even if we have diseases or manifestations that may be classed as 'more severe' than others.

[mortisghost]

Jurnal #64

Hi! Second issue of the Journal on Tumblr, and number 64 in fact, 64 like the Nintendo 64, a console I adored as a child and that I hate viscerally today, even more than the damned Wii. However, Ocarina of Time remains one of my all-time favorite games, and yes, I am a contradictory person, driven by unjust hatred. Don't send me a PM to talk about this; it'll make me seethe with rage!! (Really, don't do it). What interesting things did I do this week besides write a very long list of reasons to hate the N64 (which I won't share)? Well, like last week, mainly commissioned images that I'm unfortunately unable to reveal to you. But I also used my free time to advance two comic book projects I'm currently working on, and I can show that to you. First, with a few friends as geeky as I am, we have the ambition to create a small illegal fanzine with superhero stories. I've already written a short Silver Surfer episode for my friend Félix Laurent (which can be found here, but unfortunately only in French), and I'm now working on a little Superman adventure, which I'll draw myself. It'll be called "Superman Speaks," and I think it will be fun and touching. I love the Superman character, even though I find he's very rarely used. Here are some images!

The other comic book project I'm spending some of my free time on is a much longer story. I already showed you excerpts from it last time, here are a few more. It's a tragic story with doctors, a homeless man, and a sick baby. It's inspired by Dostoyevsky's "Crime and Punishment," a book I love and recommend if you like mentally tortured humans; it's truly amazing.

Finally, I can't conclude this post without telling you that Fangamer released a demo of the new version of Off this month! It's called "Prologue," and it includes the entire first zone of the game. If you're interested, I highly recommend you try it out and send us and the development team your feedback so we can further improve everything we can before the release, which will take place later this year. OFF PROLOGUE ON STEAM

That's all for this Jurnal. My recommendations for the month are the film "Love Streams" by John Cassavetes, one of my all-time favorites, and also iced coffees when it's a little too hot outside. I love these things!!

Sending you kind thoughts, don't think about the N64 too much, see you next time!

[luveline]

Hey my lovely, could i equest a blurb where reader seeks one of spencer's hugs and he's all soft and mushy about it!! I just think he'd give really warm hugs and want one so bad!

shy!reader + post!prison Spencer have a hug

Spencer understands why you might find him intimidating. He did go to prison for a few weeks, and even if the idea of his being a potential felon didn’t scare you, there’s nothing wrong with being nervous around the unknown. You’ve had a few more weeks to get to know the others on the team. He tries not to take it personally that you’re closer with some of them than you are him. 

Plus, you’re awfully shy. 

Spencer’s been trying to communicate that he’s an idiot. He was shy, once, and he tends to be shy about things now, too, even if he’s taken to hiding that. He hides a lot, these days. 

But things aren’t hopeless with you. You’re inarguably his best work friend now that Morgan’s not around, taking the desk next to his —through coincidence or insistence, he has no idea. 

“What flavour do you have today?” he asks. 

You show him your bag. The convenience store outside of work has the strangest sweets from all sorts of places. You’ve been bringing in a different bag each day, and you always share. “Today is apricot and peach ‘millions’,” you tell him, shaking the bright pink bag like a rattle. 

Inside, the millions bounce against each other like miniscule polystyrene balls but with a heavier weight. 

“Awesome!” he says, holding out his hand. “Please?” 

You rip the corner and tip a generous helping of candies into his palm, doing the same in your own hand. “Ready?” you ask. 

“Three, two, one.” 

You both tip your heads back at the same time. Apricot and peach are similar flavours, and Spencer can’t tell the difference when they’re both in play. He can also taste apple juice and the sharp citric acid flavour they put in every candy. 

He can’t tell if you like them. He quite enjoys it, will happily eat the leftovers if you’re not interested, but your attention isn’t on the candy when he looks up. You’re staring straight at him. 

“What?” he asks, perturbed. 

“Nothing, just. Had a rough morning. Thanks for trying the candy with me.” 

He frowns. “I’m sorry. Let me know if there’s something I can do to make you feel better. I can make you a cup of hot chocolate?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

Spencer’s sure that to an outsider, he and the team appear to travel to a hundred cities a month. In reality, cases aren’t as densely packed, especially with the government expanding their profiling teams, and the majority of Spencer’s day is spent answering emails and giving advice to agents, law enforcement, and his colleagues. He doesn’t see much of you (where you’re forced to work ViCAP calibration as newbies usually are, almost like a hazing) but he does take you that hot chocolate around lunch time. Just to make sure you have the option. 

It’s sometime past four PM when you appear again. 

“Hey,” he says, turning to you where you’re paused behind your desk chair, “you're finally done?” 

“Not yet. So many case files to transcribe, opinions to cross check, signatures and…” You wince. “It’s a lot. You already know.” 

“I don’t, actually. I only ever had to do ViCAP as punishment, and I was extremely well-behaved. For a while, anyway.” 

You hesitate with something heavy on the tip of your tongue. You’re like every profiler wherein your tells are self-identified and quelled, but you’re still so new, and Spencer’s an expert. You want to ask him for something, but you don’t think you’re allowed. If he presses the issue you’ll shut down, and if he offers you another cup of hot chocolate you’ll simply drink it without letting him in on the real secret. 

Spencer waits. 

“Spencer, you don’t have to say yes, just… You’re the nicest friend I have, and you always know what I need to hear. Um, I know you don’t like touching people and I wouldn’t ask you to if you don’t want to, but it’s been a really long time since someone hugged me, and…” Your voice gets quieter and quieter, until you’re whispering, and then fizzling out. 

“You want a hug?” he asks, surprised. 

“If that’s okay.” 

“I give really good hugs,” he warns, climbing from his chair immediately, arms opened, an unmissable invitation. “You’ll never get over it.” 

“Really?” 

He can’t believe you came to him specifically for a hug. He’s gonna lose his mind. Gentle, Spencer ushers you into his arms, head quick to duck down, his thumb on your shoulder. 

You could’ve asked anybody in the office for a hug. Penelope would have hugged your brains out. Emily, Unit Chief and secret sweetheart, would’ve taken you off of ViCAP and given you a loving pat on the back. But you didn’t ask Penelope or Emily, you asked him. 

“You don’t have to ask me first,” he says quietly. 

“You don’t like touching.” 

“That’s more to do with germs, and I’m not worried about yours,” he says. “Unless you’re about to tell me you have a headache.” 

“It’s like this pounding behind my eyes,” you say with a laugh. 

Spencer smiles, his mouth and nose to the side of your head. He gives you a good ten seconds of quiet, his palm warming your shoulder, before he murmurs, “Any better?” 

“You’re really warm,” you murmur back. 

Spencer resists the urge to squeeze you. “It's the oxytocin.”

“Or you’re just really, really warm.”

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Shelter - 6

Summary: You saved Soap's life. And Simon gains some insight.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader

Warnings For This Chapter: Continued military inaccuracies, mentions of drug abuse, neglectful parents, threats of harm against a child, death, terrible baby daddies, my attempt at accents, and terrible childhood memories, and more Soft!Simon, MDNI

A/N: Again, thank you all so much for your love for this story! Your comments mean the world to me, truly. Please be mindful of the warnings for this chapter. And I hope to keep up with this schedule of posting a chapter every other week!

Previous Chapter

It was honestly impressive how easily Kirby seemed to take to motherhood. It was definitely her own twist on it, but she was a mom. Through and through. Somehow, she’d already mastered holding her little one one-handed while nursing. She’d devoured her double cheeseburger faster than you had ever seen her do before at the same time. But as soon as the burger was demolished (and the fries, too), she was quick to hold the baby closer, glowing with each breath. It might have been sweat, but it didn’t really matter.

You were waffling between embarrassment that Simon had managed to have the food waiting—one for Kirby and another for you—or embarrassment that your heart had leapt and raced from something so inane. But he was kind. Kind to you.

You could try to deal with all that later.

For now, you were happy to just be with Kirby. The time was limited, you knew that, too. Simon had managed to stay out of sight when he’d given you the food and Kirby simply thought you’d had it delivered. Technically, you did.

You gathered up the trash as Kirby fed her daughter and pointedly ignored the look the nurse sent you when she noticed it in the trash can. You listened to them talk, happy to hear that everything seemed to be going smoothly if not ahead of schedule. They’d probably be discharged tomorrow.

Kirby waved off the doctor who came in soon after asking if she wanted anything for the residual pain. That was something she’d picked up alongside you, much to your dismay. But it wasn’t something you would comment on tonight. No. Not right now.

Eventually, Kirby started to doze off and you stayed a little longer, making sure she was okay, before taking the time to just sit and quietly look over your niece in her tiny, hospital-issued bassinet. She was perfect. She let out a little coo as you gently brushed the pad of your thumb against her cheek but didn’t wake up.

You stood after finally pulling yourself away and then kissed Kirby’s cheek, too. It wasn’t as if you knew when you would be able to do it again. You had the distinct feeling that you probably wouldn’t be allowed outside the hotel again any time soon. You really did need to find out a way to pay back the guys for letting you do this.

You stepped out into the hall, intent on hunting down a bathroom, but you were almost immediately stopped by a few familiar faces. Your heart hiccuped as Soap and Gaz each had armfuls of flowers, balloons, gifts. Welcome Baby Girl! was scrawled across a card you spied in Soap’s hand. “What’s all this?”

“When my sister had her wee ones, we always filled her room. Made sure she knew she was loved,” Soap said, keeping his voice low to match the late hour.

“That…that’s really kind. You guys didn’t have to do that.” And it was kind. Heartbreakingly so.

Gaz shrugged, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You didn’t have to be kind to us either. We can do this.” And then they slipped by you and into Kirby’s room, moving without a sound, despite everything in their arms. And soon the hospital room was mostly tastefully decorated with flowers and balloons and care packages. And then they silently left again, both squeezing your hand as they walked back out, probably to join Price downstairs again. Kirby was going to love all of that when she woke up. You’d have to think of a story of who sent it—maybe you could say they were from your “new coworkers” from your “consulting” job.

As you dried your hands and stepped back into the quiet hallway, you noticed Simon once again standing near the door. He had made himself scarce while Gaz and Soap had come up. A tiny, yellow teddy bear looked absolutely miniscule in his large hands and your lungs filled with butterflies as he carefully righted one of its ears. He was so careful with the tiny stuffed animal and your mind quickly conjured a ridiculous thought of him holding a tiny baby, too: careful and wrapped up in his strong arms.

Stop it. Stop.

But the thoughts continued when a nurse walked by him and definitely checked him out. She shouldn’t be looking at him! You should not be looking at him.

His dark eyes dragged up your form as you stepped to his side. “That for the baby?”

He nodded and handed it to you. It was buttery soft and had a delicately stitched smile and eyes in a shade darker. “For you. To give to ‘er. Didn’t think you’d get down to that shop they’ve got downstairs.”

The butterflies in your lungs beat their wings harder and harder.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”

“Made sure it was the right color.”

You pressed a thumb into the teddy’s stomach, the softness compressed easily as your eyes stung with tears you didn’t remember forming. It was the perfect shade, actually. Daffodil yellow. “Yeah, you did.” You reached out and squeezed his arm in thanks. The muscle didn’t budge but your stomach did an impressive swoop down your feet. Good god he was massive. “Thank you,” you said again, voice tight.

“The chocolates Soap had were from me. Thought she’d like ‘em.”

You had spotted a small bouquet of chocolate bars that had probably cost an arm and a leg at the hospital gift shop propped up beneath one of the balloons Gaz had carried in. “She will—she’s the only person who has a bigger sweet tooth than mine.” Another kindness you’d need to repay. These were good men. Simon was a good man.

“What’s your favorite?”

You almost smiled at the question. He was going to know more about you than anyone else aside from Kirby…and all he’d asked was your favorite sweet. “I love Kit Kats. And Cadbury Flake.”

Simon made a noise, low in his throat. “Those are rubbish.”

“Wh-no!” You laughed, almost appalled. “They’re good! I love Flake bars.”

He shook his head. “‘s mostly air. Not proper chocolate. And it gets everywhere.”

“They’re good! What’s your favorite—and if you tell me something like Curly Wurly, I’m going to have to fight you.”

Your empty threat coaxed a single “heh” out of him with that one and you smiled up at him, watching the corners of his eyes crease just above the edge of his mask. It was only there for a moment—but you saw it. He’d smiled. “I like dark chocolate.”

“Plain?” It suited him. Something rich and decadent, a little bit of an acquired taste.

“Not fussy.”

“I’ll remember that.” The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. How many times had that happened with him? Thankfully, you heard Kirby call for you and you held up the tiny teddy bear with a lopsided smile. “I’ll give this to her. Be right back.” And then you scurried away, metaphorical tail between your legs.

She had left the door cracked. He wasn’t sure if she did that on purpose but he was a bit chuffed to hear Kirby say that the tiny bear was “perfect” and that she liked the rest of the stuff Kyle and Johnny had hauled in. Kirby also giggled a bit when she explained that a lot of it were well wishes from her “new coworkers” in London. “They seem like a good bunch, no?”

“Yeah, I kinda like them so far.” High praise.

The smile he felt growing was squashed as Simon scanned the floor again, noting that the number of nurses hadn’t changed and he recognized each of their faces. Good. That was good. Everything was normal. The others downstairs were watching exits and had managed to get into the hospital’s security office with a bit of persuasion.

But still, when the doors to the labor and delivery department opened and a man in a too-tight suit walked in, Simon distrusted his presence immediately. He watched, unmoving, as he walked up to the desk and the prat fucking snapped his fingers to get the nurse’s attention. And then he said Kirby’s name. The nurse blew a bubble with her gum and gave an noncommittal “huh?” which Simon thought was a well done diversion.

Simon looked back into the room and saw her smiling with Kirby as they split one of the candy bars. But she looked up and he watched her smile slide off her face and her lip start to curl. But the moment she turned back to Kirby and the baby, her smile was back in place. “I just need to step out for a moment, okay? I’ll be right back.”

And then she was marching out of the hall, closing the door behind her. Simon followed without a word, watching as she walked right up to the guy and poked at his fucking pocket square.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Julian?” She hissed.

“What the fuck happened to you?” The guy retorted, looking her over. His mouth opened with a scoff. Simon hated him already.

“I asked: what the fuck are you doing here?” Her hands curled into fists at her sides and Simon took a single step closer. The way she was moving, he had no doubt she could handle this rich boy. But he wouldn’t let her do it alone.

The guy—Julian—seemed to try to shake himself out of his “Did…did she have the-”

“You don’t get to ask that. Remember? I was there when your daddy dearest made my sister sign an NDA about how you proposed to her and then got cold feet when you knocked her up.”

Simon glanced around to see a handful of nurses looking in their direction but most seemed content to let the scene play out or ignore it completely. It must have been a slow day.

Julian went white before splotches of red started to rush across his face. “That’s not-”

“Oh, right.” Her answering smile was all teeth and Simon felt his mouth fill with saliva. She was a sight to behold, battered and bruised and angry. “He also insinuated she was a low class whore who tricked you into bed when it was you who pursued her for months! And you, you sniveling little cunt, just rolled over. And then he wanted to make sure that any, and I quote, ‘brat that came out of that snatch’ didn’t have a claim to your daddy’s money. So yes, the NDA and then you signed away all your parental rights with a stroke of that stupid, fancy pen. Your overpriced lawyer was so impressed with himself. Everything tied up in a neat little bow. He just forgot about the tiny detail about me being in the room and hearing everything.”

Julian’s face was an impressive shade of red. “Sh-she got money!”

And she took another step forward and Julian took several back. “Oh yes. A tidy sum to become a single mother. Two million dollars is barely a drop in the bucket for your family, Julian. Basically chump change. So no. You have no right to be here. As I said: you signed everything away. My sister doesn’t exist to you. Her child—and let me be crystal clear in this: that baby is only hers—does not exist to you. You might have contributed a pathetic amount of genetic material in an equally pathetic bedroom performance, but that’s it. That’s all you’re reduced to. Kirby wants nothing to do with you. Your lawyer made sure none of this could be undone. You have no say. No right. You have nothing. And if I see you around Kirby or the baby again, I’ll make sure you’ll never be able to make another.”

He seemed to stand a little straighter at that. Perhaps he wasn’t used to someone threatening him so openly. Or maybe he realized he had an audience and felt the need to peacock. Simon thought it was probably a bit of both. “You can’t threaten me! I am-”

“You’re nothing. And you’ll always be nothing. Now leave.” This was the same woman who’d just been cooing over her niece, now spitting mad at a stranger. And that had something stirring behind Simon’s ribs. Hot and hungry.

Julian must've felt brave or extra stupid—Simon was betting he was both—when he stepped toward her, a long finger pointed at her face. “You better shut your fucking mouth-”

“Excuse me, you need to either lower your voice and watch your language or you need to leave.” The nurse at the desk pointed a pen at Julian and Simon smirked beneath his mask. She’d heard everything. It wasn’t until Julian started getting stupid that the nurse said anything. But honestly, what had Kirby seen in this wanker? She seemed to be reasonable and this guy was a tosser.

“She’s keeping me from my kid-”

“You don’t have a kid!”

Julian turned and that stupid finger was in her face again. “If you don’t-”

“Sir. I’ll not ask again: either you lower your voice and-”

“Shut up!” Julian sneered as he rounded on the nurse. The red in his cheeks had bled down his pencil-thin neck. Hilarious.

“Don’t talk to her that way. You shouldn’t even be here.”

And then he turned back to her and pointed that finger at her.

Simon didn’t even really remember moving. But he had Julian’s finger bent backward until it almost hit the back of his hand. “You’re going to leave.”

Julian had tears in his eyes and the red in his cheeks had completely taken over his face now as he howled and yelped, trying to yank his hand free as Simon kept his hold, pulling his finger back, back, back. He tried to struggle but all he did was crumple to his knees—it was a natural reaction, trying to pull away, but Simon wouldn’t let go. “You-”

“You’re going to leave. Understand? Never come back. Never tell your father about this. Never contact Kirby or her kid.” Simon adjusted his grip and didn’t blank as he heard the finger finally pop out of its socket.

Julian gave another yelp but Simon simply adjusted his grip to keep the finger pressed down. “I-”

“You’re done talking. When I let go, you get up and you leave.”

Tears started to slide down Julian’s face and he nodded with a whimper when Simon squeezed.

And then Simon did let go, having made his point. Julian pushed his purpling hand to his chest as he stood and his knees knocked together as he turned and fled back toward the doors without a look back.

The nurse at the desk sighed and pointed her pen at him. “If he raises a stink downstairs, I’m saying I know nothing about it.”

Simon just nodded. Price was probably scrubbing the security footage already anyway.

But then he felt someone step beside him and saw her. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He knew he didn’t. But he wanted to and he couldn’t have stopped himself even if he had tried. He knew that now. “You had it ‘andled. I know. I just sped it up.”

She huffed but he still saw how the corners of her mouth tilted up. “Let’s get out of here for a bit just in case he comes back with security.”

Julian wasn’t going to come back with security. Simon knew that. But he still followed where she led.

You didn’t even mean to take him to the hospital roof. You’d accidentally found it when you wandered aimlessly years ago after Kirby’s grandfather lay dying in a room a few floors down and you’d given them space to say goodbye. It was quiet here, aside from the wind rushing by. Almost peaceful as you looked out over the still-sleeping city. You tilted your head, letting the growing sunlight wash over your face. Kirby had her baby. You made it. They were safe. You were alive.

God, that was embarrassing. You hadn’t lost your temper like that in years. Julian had once called you Kirby’s rabid guard dog. The moniker fit, but that didn’t mean you were exactly proud of it. You’d tried so hard, over the years, to not hold onto Kirby so tightly. Not try to push her into a life you knew would keep her safe. She’d once, rightly, raged at you for overstepping when you’d tried to convince her to change her mind when she’d enrolled at Northwestern and wanted to pursue a music major. It had been the first time you had seen how much you had tried to keep her from turning out like your mothers. Or like you. And after not speaking with her for months, and bi-weekly appointments with your therapist, you saw that you needed to let Kirby be Kirby. She forgave you, as her heart was always too big, and you tried to support her in everything else that you could. It seemed to work out well, anyway. She had a cushy job at one of the uppity schools in the city, teaching music and sometimes played at a few jazz clubs on the weekend. She loved it. She was happy. And that was all you wanted. That was why you’d kept your mouth shut when she’d introduced you to Julian. The bad vibes had been instant but you told her, just once, “just make sure you’re happy.” You might have made a snide comment or two when he’d said something about Kirby’s job or your shared upbringing. No one was going to make Kirby less-than. Especially not some son of a billionaire without a single redeeming quality. “I’m sure you pieced together who that was.”

“A prick.”

You snorted and didn’t even care that it hurt your throat. “Yeah. He’s a prick.”

Simon was quiet and you opened your eyes and turned just enough to look at him. Your heart thundered and warmth bloomed in your chest when you realized he was looking at you. “Could make him disappear.”

The laugh that bubbled out of you and couldn’t be stopped. “I think you made your point quite clear. He might run to his dad, but he’d probably tell him that he shouldn’t’ve been here anyway.” You sighed and your throat stung. “Thank you. Again. Not sure if you’re keeping score, but I owe you and the guys quite a bit now.”

He made a noise, not quite like a scoff but something close. “Don’t owe us anything. You saved Soap. And we’re doing our jobs.” And you were sure he didn’t mean for it to sting, but it did. All of this was just him doing his job. He was kind, but it was just a job. You were just a job. And that had to be okay. There were worse things you could be. He was quiet again and then he said, “you said you both had crap mums.”

You sighed but nodded. You hadn’t realized he remembered any of your rambling from last night after your nightmare. And really, what harm would it do to tell him? He deserved something. And, eventually, you would never see him again—even if the thought twisted into thorns behind your ribs. “Her mom was loads better than mine, and better still with just Kirby. I was just sort of,” you waved a hand, trying to find the words your therapist taught you to use but still came up blank, “a very small roommate and then a trial-run kid.”

“How did they know each other?”

You resisted the urge to sigh again. “Chauncey, Kirby’s mom, was my mother’s sponsor for Narcotics Anonymous. Mom lasted two weeks, by the way. Called it a waste of time.” You shook your head. “It all sounds like I pulled my life from Days of Our Lives or something. Some bullshit soap opera.”

“You said it was a long story. Think we’ve got time.”

Simon was right. For now, you had time. “My mom was a junkie. Blamed me for it, by the way. And I realize that addiction is a sickness and everything, but she made no attempt to get better. From what I can remember, I think she was in a car accident as a teenager and liked how the painkillers made her feel and it spiraled from there. She’d leave me at home to go chase another fix and not really care that I needed my diaper changed or that she’d forgotten to feed me at all that day.” You pressed on the end of your nose to keep your familiar feelings of resentment from festering too long. “Sometimes she’d have people over. I just hid in my room, a blanket over my head to pretend I didn’t exist, that the conversations they were having weren’t real. I was six, I shouldn’t’ve been listening to…that. She’s why I wake up if there’s light in the room. Sometimes they’d come in and just look. There were a few who liked to tug on my hair, trying to see if I’d wake up.” You pressed harder on your nose. “I know I’m lucky that is all they did. But I never knew if they would do more. And my mother just let it happen. And then she met a guy, said he had everything she ever wanted. I was just a bit of a roadblock—he didn’t want kids. And that was how I wound up on Chauncey’s doorstep.” The pressing on your nose didn’t help. You couldn’t stop your mind from conjuring the memory of your mother grabbing your tiny, six-year-old shoulders and staring at you with a smile too wide and eyes too blown. “You be good for Chauncey.” She listed all the ways for you to “earn your keep” so you wouldn’t end up on the streets “like a dog.” And that was fine. You already knew how to make breakfast. You knew how to walk to school and look both ways before crossing the street. Never speak unless you were spoken to. Messes meant your mother got angry. Chauncey would be no different, you had been sure of it.

“Why did she pick Chauncey?”

You bit back the wince you felt growing as you dropped your hand back to your side. That had been particularly underhanded on your mother’s part. “I found an old diary of hers after she and that guy got themselves killed trying to hold up a gas station and I’d been the only one they could find to send her belongings to after they identified her.” She’d threatened to tell Chauncey’s boss that she used to pay coworkers to do the mandatory drug tests for her before she got sober.” It had been something Chauncey had said in confidence in a safe place and your mother had ruined it. “I guess she saw it as easier than surrendering me to the state. Or it at least made her feel better about herself. That I wasn’t in the system.”

Simon couldn’t understand how anyone could throw her away like she was nothing. She was… Well, that didn’t need to be said. But he kept listening.

“Chauncey tried. I’ll give her that. But she wasn’t meant to be a mom. She didn’t want to be a mom; she told me that a couple of times, actually. And there I was, in her house, a walking talking thing she couldn’t get rid of in case my mother ever came back and actually ruined her life. She didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. But she never let me go hungry. Made sure I got to school. Had clothes and shoes that fit. I thought I was dreaming the first time she actually cared about the bruise I got at school. She got me arnica cream.”

It was a little thing. Simon knew that. But sometimes the little things were what kept a person’s head above water. He knew that, too. Tommy had sometimes snuck him ice from the kitchen when his ribs hurt from where his father had hit him. He remembered each time he did. His mother had tears in her eyes the first time she made him a birthday cake after she’d kicked out his dad for the final time. The little things.

“And then Paul entered the picture. Kind. Funny. Smart. He didn’t even bat an eye when Chauncey stuttered through her explanation that she was my legal guardian. He showed up to pick her up for her next date with a bouquet for her, and a daisy for me. That was the first time anyone had given me flowers. And he was good. Good to Chauncey. Kind to me. Helped me with my math homework and told me all about his job as a history professor at one of the community colleges in the city.” She moved to tilt her head up again. He watched her close her eyes against the dawn and the purples and pinks of the sunlight. If he could draw like Johnny, he might have wanted to draw her. To remember how she looked like this forever.

“She found out she was pregnant a few months into their relationship. I remember Chauncey trying so hard to be excited about it all. So hard. But she couldn’t do it. She didn’t want to be a mother. But, god, she loved Paul. Wanted everything he wanted. Wanted him forever. And maybe she saw a baby as a way to strengthen their relationship? It sounds awful when I say it like that. But she asked him over and over and over if a baby was really what he wanted. And Paul was so excited. Couldn’t wait to be a dad. He did the hand on the belly thing. Got up at three in the morning for her cravings. Built the crib, painted the nursery. All of it. He did all of it. And he was the one who let me think of Kirby as a sister. Let me hold her. Taught me how to change her diaper. Let me read her bedtime stories or sing her to sleep beside him. She was mine just like she was his. I didn’t have a lot, but knowing I could come home to Kirby made everything easier. Made my mother’s terrible choices easier to handle.”

“What happened to ‘im?” Simon already knew he was dead. But this was something else, he could tell by the way she pulled her lips into her mouth for a moment.

“It was Kirby’s seventh birthday. Was going to be a big one. Paul wanted it to be perfect. I was fifteen. It was easy to see that Paul could tell that Chauncey didn’t want to be a mom. He was trying to make it work. Trying and trying and trying for years. They’d go to family therapy. They got a dog. The whole nine yards. And Paul seemed to think that if he showered all of his love on Kirby, she wouldn’t realize her mom didn’t know how to love her like a mother should.” But she knew. That was unspoken. “We were going to pick up the three tier cake Paul had ordered.” Her next breath stuttered and Simon felt his hands curl at his sides, just for a moment. “Some asshole was on his phone and ran the light. The doctors told us that it was quick. He hadn’t been in pain and that I was lucky I’d only broken my arm.” She pressed at her nose again. “I didn’t feel lucky.”

And Simon knew that it wasn’t the end of the story.

“Chauncey spiraled. Tried to hold it together and I have to give it to her, she tried her hardest. But she drank. A lot. I made sure Kirby got to school. Helped her with her homework. Made her meals. Made sure she was dressed in the morning and her teeth were brushed at bedtime. I knew this song and dance. I just had a smaller partner in it now.” She paused and her next breath rattled.

Simon felt the urge to reach out to her, touch her to let her know that he was listening, that he cared. But what if he moved too fast and scared her? What if just touching her made her realize she was telling him everything and she stopped? He couldn’t chance it. Not now. Not when he finally felt like she trusted him.

“I didn’t think Chauncey would start using again. And, to be fair, she only did it once. I think she thought she could handle a bigger dose, or needed something to take the edge off. To make her forget.” She paused. “I got home an hour before Kirby. I opened the front door and Chauncey was just slumped against the coffee table.”

“What did you do?”

“I wasn’t going to let Kirby see her mom like that. See her home like that. I cleaned up the mess and I…” She swallowed. It seemed like it took a concentrated effort. “I-I picked her up and put her in her room. Made it look like she was sleeping.” She paused again and rubbed at her throat, wincing. “Paul’s dad, Rick, came to pick up Kirby and I guess Paul had told him about me. Told him about the girl nobody wanted. He said I could go live with them, too. Some overworked social worker filed something wrong or missed filing anything because I don’t really think anyone cared that I was going away with yet another stranger to a different state.”

And Simon knew what she’d done there. He could see it without her needing to say anything. She stayed out of the way. She made everything easier for Kirby and Rick so she could quietly earn her keep. Kept her head down and mouth shut. Pulled more than her weight. Because that’s what she did. That’s what she’d always done. “Was he good to you?”

“Better than I deserved, I think. Paul must’ve learned how to be kind to unwanted things from him. But I knew I was just a guest in his house. And when I graduated, I stayed close. I couldn’t let go of Kirby. She was…is the best thing that ever happened to me.” And that was the whole of it. He knew what came next. University. Her internship. Her job in the archives. Neat little boxes until the tunnel blew it all to hell.

“She’s lucky to have you.”

She laughed and regretted it. “Doubtful. More trouble than I’m worth. You can attest to that.”

And that crack in Simon’s chest whispered and widened. “I think you’re worth a lot, actually.” He wanted to swallow the words back as soon as they slipped by his lips. It was too much.

Her eyes shot open and widened as she looked at him. Like she couldn’t believe it. Didn’t believe it. “Oh.” She blinked several times in rapid succession before turning back to look over the city. “Thank you.” And then he watched her wince. At least he wasn’t the only one who felt odd up here on the roof. “I think you’re the only one who’s ever said that to me.” And before he could respond to that, she started walking quickly toward the door back inside. “I think we should go back down before someone catches us up here.”

And again, Simon followed where she led.

It shouldn’t have surprised you to see Soap lurking outside Kirby’s door by the time you made it back. He was pretending to read a magazine when you and Simon walked up. He winked at you before Simon stood beside him and you made your way back into Kirby’s room. The baby was fussing and Kirby explained that the doctor had just administered her first vaccine and eye drops.

“My brave little girl,” Kirby said, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead.

“Have you decided on a name? Are you continuing the video game monikers?”

(Paul had managed to convince Chauncey that Kirby was a perfectly acceptable name—not that she fought him much on anything—and had a strong meaning and was definitely not his favorite video game character.)

Kirby giggled. “Maybe.” The baby settled, cherubic cheek pressed against her mother’s chest. “But I’m thinking Pauline for a first name.”

Your heart broke in a good way. A cathartic ache. “It’s perfect.”

“Pauline Zelda.”

You tried to groan but could only laugh. It worked.

But the lights overhead flickered for a moment and you tried to ignore how your entire body reacted, seizing and locking each of your joints. You quickly looked out into the hallway to see Soap and Simon both outside the door, now both pretending to read the magazine while staying within earshot. They didn’t seem fazed so you tried to push out a slow breath, forcing yourself to relax.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine. Probably just a little jumpy still.”

Kirby just laughed. “Remember a couple of years ago with that blackout that came out of nowhere?”

The subtle gaze Soap sent toward Simon had you frowning. That blackout had been explained as a power surge but there was now something at the back of your head whispering that it wasn’t what you had believed. (It was probably because you and Kirby had seen an explosion and it didn’t look like it was just a converter giving out.) You know what? You weren’t going to ask.

“We spent that whole night sipping on soda and eating your melting ice cream out of the freezer.” Kirby reached out and nudged at your elbow. “Remember?”

You sighed, fighting a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember.” She’d made you laugh until your stomach hurt, regaling you with tales of her classes at Northwestern and the shenanigans she got up to with her ragtag team of friends.

Kirby was quiet for a little longer before shifting and placing little Pauline into your arms. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Other than the obvious?” You asked, pressing a surely crooked smile to your face. “I’ve never been happier.” It was almost true.

Eventually, Kirby settled in to rest, hoping for more than the handful of minutes she’d had earlier, and you excused yourself after apologizing for having to leave so soon. “You aren’t leaving forever, silly.” She mused, a tired smile pressing at her mouth. “I’ll see you soon, yeah? I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you replied, the syllables breaking on your tongue as you kissed her forehead and then did the same to a happily sleeping Pauline. And it was time to go—your time was up. You kept your eyes on your sister as the door closed, trying to press the picture into your mind…just in case.

Simon and Soap quietly led you back downstairs and Gaz and Price wordlessly stepped to your side when you hit the lobby, boxing you in as you walked back out to the SUV. You sagged against the seat. The last handful of hours had been a lot. Beautiful and strange in several different ways.

You needed a nap.

Simon settled in next to you as the engine started and you watched him for a moment, knowing he was well aware of your gaze. You’d poured out your pathetic life story to him. Left your cards out on the proverbial table. He hadn’t seemed at all disturbed or grossly intrigued like a few others had been. He had been quiet. But maybe you should’ve seen that one coming.

Soap filled the quiet of the SUV with stories about him being a doting uncle to his gaggle of nieces and nephews. It was fun to listen to and you might have to take his trick about sneaking Pauline chocolate whenever she ate something she didn’t like; his nieces always needed to be bribed whenever brussel sprouts ended up on their plates. “Gotta balance it out,” he said with a grin.

You were nearly dead on your feet by the time the lock to your room beeped and you slipped inside. Toeing off your shoes, you washed your face and changed back into your pajamas despite it nearing breakfast time now. But you didn’t mind when you heard the wall click.

“Olright?” Simon asked. “Big day.”

Your laugh hurt and was more of a squeak anyway. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He nodded, but still lingered. And you didn’t mind the company. “Where are you from?” It was an innocuous enough question. But you really didn’t know much about him at all. You had just dumped your mess of a life story at his feet and didn’t even know where he was born.

“Manchester.” He gave the answer easily and didn’t move from his place beside you.

And you had to smile. Maybe you should’ve guessed it with the accent, but you were always bad at placing those. “Did you know that the oldest library in the UK is in Manchester? I always wanted to go when I was doing my internship in London, ages ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Never found the time.” You sighed, not brave enough to look at him now. Not brave enough to linger on the thought that you might have met him years ago if you had made a different choice. But Manchester was a big city and you weren’t exactly someone who’d walk up to someone you found attractive and introduce yourself. And Simon didn’t seem the type, either. …not that he thought you were attractive—SHUT UP! “Maybe after all this is over, I’ll go.”

The combined adrenaline and exhaustion from everything was probably making you think you could take on the world, but you did have a list miles-long of places you wanted to see, restaurants you wanted to try, things you wanted to do. If you could survive being on a known terrorist’s hit list, maybe you could actually live your life. Maybe. Maybe you’d start with that bakery down the street in your neighborhood across town (and then work your way back up to international travel; this trip to London was proving to be a lot). It supposedly had good chocolate croissants-

“I could show you.”

Your mouth hung open, dumbly, just for a moment at Simon’s simple sentence. “You would?”

He looked at you, his stare heavy and unblinking. “‘Course.”

That one word felt like a brick to your sternum. “Oh.”

Next Chapter

A/N: Sorry this chapter was so "talk-y" but I figured you guys (and Simon) deserved some answers before [redacted redacted redacted]. Please let me know what you think! Your comments really keep me motivated!

[leah-lover]

Sketches. Mapi x Ingrid x reader.

Summary: what happens when Ingrid and mapi discover the sketches r drew of them.

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Doom scrolling on your phone after practice was your favorite activity of the day. You would come home exhausted, throw your kitbag in the hallway, and cocoon in your coach for about an hour.

Today was no different. You got home and did the same thing. You opened TikTok, and scrolled half mindedly. One video though grabbed your attention. It was a tik tok from the official page of Barcelona where your teammates were asked to describe you in a few words.

Cata was the first to answer and she did so by describing you as quiet. It was fair you didn't talk much if at all. It's not that you weren't comfortable enough with the team, you were just a quiet person. Irene was next and she called you kind which put a smile on your face. All your teammates called you different versions of sweet, kind, funny, quiet, and shy. You found their words endearing and it almost brought you to tears. This reaction quickly went away after you heard what mapi described you. “ Talented artist.” your face turned white and your heartbeat was accelerating. Her answer was followed by Ingrid who described you as an “ impressive painter.”

You dropped your phone quickly. “ No it can't be. No no no no. Fuck!!” You got up from the couch and tried to keep yourself busy. You put away your kit bag, did laundry , cleaned the house surprisingly thoroughly. You even meal prepped. all of this so that you wouldn't think about that video, their response, and what most likely saw.

Your alarm found you awake for the first time since the champion’s league final which spoke greatly to the anxiety you were experiencing. The thought of being face to face with them knowing that they know your secret terrified you but had to go to training so you did, and your mission was to get through the day without making contact with them because if you did you would either cry or throw up and that wasn't an option.

“ Nena what's wrong?” Asked Alexia at the meeting room.

“ Nothing capi everything is good.” You say trying to contain your tears. That's when she held your hand and redirected her focus to the coach. She rubbed her thumb across your knuckles once in a while. Once the meeting was over she pulled you gently out of the room and to a different room.

“ We are not getting out of this room until you tell me what is wrong.” Alexia looked so gentle, caring and a little bit worried. But you couldn't tell her what was wrong.

“ Nena I love you and I care about you deeply. Your anxiety is clearly through the roof. Just let me help you. We decided that you would let me help, remember.” She put her hand on your shoulder and desperately waited for an answer.

Alexia was like a big sister to you. She helped you survive your time in Barca but your issue right now was within the team not the pressure or the limelight and you know there was nothing to fix it.

“ I want a transfer. I want to leave Barcelona. I want to leave. “ You close your eyes so that you won't cry.

“ It's okay pequena everything is gonna be okay. I can fix this, whatever this is I can fix it. Trust me.” She pulled you in for a hug. Your anxiety was through the roof and the voices in your head were screaming vile and scary things at you.

“ I want to leave ale. I am serious.” You try to say sturnely.

“ You are one of your best strikers. We need you now more than ever if we want to quadruple again. And we do so you are staying.” She just held you as you cried some more.

Once you calmed down you apologized to Alexia. “ I guess you aren't gonna tell me right?” she asked again.

“ It's just about a stupid video.” You tried to stop the words as they were coming out of your mouth but it was too late.

“What video?” She asked suspiciously.

“ A video posted by the Barca page. It's nothing to worry about. Sorry capi, I didn't mean to freak out.”

“ It's fine Nena if you don't feel like training you can go home. “ She proposed after realizing you won't say anything.

“ Yeah I think that is a good idea.” You went to the locker room, grabbed your bag and left. Alexia then pulled out her phone and searched for the video you were talking about. She watched it 3 times and her teamates’s answers seemed fine, but she got suspicious of mapi and Ingrid's answers so she went to talk to them.

“ Maria, Ingrid, I need to talk to you.” Demanded the captain. They complied and waited for her at the side of the pitch.

“ Where is Nena?” Asked mapi.

“ That's what I am here to talk to you about. She went home now. I just managed to calm her down but she isn't okay. She was crying and she said she wanted a transfer from this team. She also said something about a video the social media team posted. I didn't understand anything.” Mapi and Ingrid gave one another a look they both understood. They knew what troubled you and they felt bad for it.

“ Don't worry about it ale. We will make things right, I promise you.” Said Ingrid.

“So you did something wrong. You hurt her somehow” Alexia started to frown with anger.

“ Ale calm down, I will tell you everything just not now. Everything will be alright tomorrow.”

“Well it better fucking be or you will answer to me.” added the captain before leaving.

When you arrived home your head was pounding because of the crying so you headed straight to your bedroom, got under the covers and slept almost immediately, too tired to do anything else. You only woke up when your phone was buzzing under your pillow.

“ Hola” you answered without checking who is calling.

“ Hola Nena, I need you to open the door. We are standing outside.” Said a familiar voice.

You put your phone to the side and went straight to your door not realizing what you were doing.

Once you opened the door, your eyes opened wide, surprised at who was at your door. You stood there like a statue trying desperately to calm the voices in your head.

“Nena , please let us in, we need to talk to you.” said ingrid in the gentlest voice you ever heard.

You couldn't kick them out so you stepped aside and let them get in. By the time you got to the living room your heart was beating very fast, each breath was harder and harder and the walls around you started to close in on you. Mapi was the first one to notice so she came running towards you. She took your hand, guided you to the couch and started to construct you to take deep breaths.

“ I am gonna leave. Transfer window is in 2 weeks so the coach has enough time to secure a deal with a new team. Even if they dont we can fake an injury for the media and I can just stay home until the summer where we can look again for another deal. You don't have to worry about anything. I won't cause any problems i swear. . ” you say once you get your breath back.

“ nena why do you think anybody wants you to leave?” askes ingrid.

“ I know you think I am a creep, I understand that. I don't want to cause any problems within the team so I am leaving.” you try to say as calmly as you can.

“ nena we don't think you are creepy.” replied mapi. You look at them with confusion. What if you understood everything all wrong? what if you had jumped to false confusion? What if this was all a misunderstanding from you part?

“ You said in that video that I draw really well. I never showed you any of my drawings so that means that you saw them.” you try to piece everything together.

They both look at eachother hesitantly before ingrid starts talking.

“ The other day in the locker room you wanted to talk to the physio and left your ipad open, that's when I saw a drawing of myself and I zoomed out to see the full picture. I then accidentally swiped and saw that you drew a few portraits of me and mapi separately and together.” you knew that they saw the portraits, but hearing the words come out of ingrid’s mouth made the situation much worse for you. Those drawings were something sacred and intimate to you. You expressed your every thought through them. They were your safe space and they gave solace. But now they have changed into a nightmare that would force you to leave your favorite place in the world.

“ Did you see all of them?” your voice seemed to have shrunk and as you ask the question staring at the floor.

“ yes but we don't think it's creepy. We think it's beautiful that you drew us.” mapi didn't know what to say. She was afraid that she said the wrong thing and made the situation worse.

“ mapi you saw 79 portraits of you and your girlfriend on my ipad. Very detailed portraits of the two of you that I drew when I was near you in the meeting room or training or the dinner hall or even my own bedroom and you don't think that that’s a little bit sick.” you ask the question sarcastically.

“ No we don't. look we didn't come here to fight with you or reprimand you we….” you didn't let ingrid finish her sentence, you instead got up, grabbed your ipad and displayed the portraits for them.

“ You seriously don't think this portrait is creepy.” you show them a portrait you drew of them kissing. You weren't thinking of how embarrassing this moment was, you were trying to convince yourself that they hate you because it was better than the alternative. “ Look, I hate myself for this more than you could ever hate me. That's why I want to leave. I am not going to make you feel uncomfortable anymore. “

“ can you please just shut up for a moment. We don't hate you, we don't find you creepy, we liked what we saw, and we think you are very talented. Please don't turn this into something it's not. And please don't ask for a transfer.” mapi didn't mean for her words to come out like that but she couldn't stand seeing the hurt on your face.

“ Look what Maria means to say is that it's all good with us. You don't have to worry about anything and that we are sorry we brought it up in the first place.” ingrid then extended her arms and offered you a hug which you took. You hugged her and mapi again as they left your apartment. Once you found yourself alone in your house again you grabbed your ipad and smashed it to the ground cracking the screen. You left it there on the ground and went straight to bed.

While you slept soundly the couple were the ones that would stay awake late at night.

' you shouldn't have said it like that maria.’ reprimanded ingrid.

“ What did you want me to do? I couldn't just sit there and let her insult herself.” defended mapi.

“ I don't think we handled it right. We should have talked to her more.”

“ you have seen her when she closes herself off. You can't break through when she does that. Once she convinced herself with something you can't undo it. And now she convinced herself that we hate her which isn't true.”

“ We have to find a way to convince her otherwise. She can't leave.”

“ she won't, amor.”

The next day was travel day and you were the first on that bus. You sat in the front, put on your head phones and closed your eyes. The team knew from alexia not to bother you and alexia was informed by ingrid and mapi to let them handle your situation.

You didn't hear anybody get on the bus, you only realized what was happening when the bus started moving. You weren't bothered for the first 20 minutes of the ride but that didn't last long because somebody snatched an airpod from your ear.

“ No iPad today?” asked a smiling mapi who sat next to you . Ingrid sat in front of you.

“ No, I gave that up.”

“ It's a shame you were very good at it.” she responded.

“ Since when did you start drawing?” asked ingrid.

“ since I was a kid. My therapist used to encourage me to do it because I wasn't so good at expressing what i am feeling.”

“ and these drawings help you express your feelings?” you knew what ingrid was getting to and you didn't want to go there so you went for your phone to try and increase the volume of the airpod left in your ear but ingrid’s hand got to it first.

“ Yesterday we were scared that we would say the wrong thing. But today I would rather say the wrong thing than lose you nena.” what ingrid said shocked you.

“ So you were saying that drawing helps you express things right?” continues mapi.

“ yeah. I am not very good at words. I never was so I drew all the words I couldn't say. “

“ Do you have your ipad with you?” asked ingrid.

“ No, I don't have an ipad anymore i smashed it yesterday.”

“ why?”

“ because….” you were quickly interrupted by mapi “ don't you dare say it's creepy.”

A staff member interrupts your conversation by putting an envelope on the table.

“ room 1209, 3 beds like you asked.” she said looking at mapi.

“ What did you do?” you ask confused.

“ I am making sure you are not leaving.”

The bus stopped so you couldn't continue the conversation. You weren't left any room to protest the decision that was made for you as the couple were more stubborn than you are.

Once you got in the room you were hit with the reality that you were going to have to sleep in the same room as them.

“ mapi i can't stay here.”

“ why not?”

“ You know the reason why.”

“ No we dont.” said ingrid.

“ Please don't make me go through this. I promise I won't leave, just please don't make me.”

“ I don't understand why you are so upset right now. We are just going to share a room.

The couple knew that playing dumb would anger you enough that you would start talking. The melancholic look on their faces hit the nail on the head.

“ i cant be here because of the same reason i drew those fucking drawing.. I tried to get you out of my head by drawing you and fantasizing about you but i can't stay stop whatever i am feeling from coming out when i'm sleeping and you are cuddling next to me.”

“ Why would that bother you?” they continued to play on your built up anger.

“ It bothers me because I want to be in the middle of you. I want to be with you. That's why I drew you, that's why I fantasize about it and that's why I can't sleep here.” you weren't realizing what you were saying not until you said it and it hit you like a truck.

Suddenly , you see the couple moving two beds together, taking off their shoes, and laying on the bed. Ingrid then taps on the space between them calling you over.

“ you gotta be fucking kidding me?” you say.

“ We knew what you felt the day we saw you drawing but we thought we were just reaching or projecting our feelings towards you. Since yesterday we were trying to get you to admit your feelings so that we would do too but you kept on insulting yourself which was nice by the way so we resulted in playing dumb which clearly worked. “ said mapi.

“ We care about you, we don't want to lose you. We don't have to figure out everything right now so just come and lay with us please. “ added ingrid.

You were moving on autopilot when you took off your shoes and layed in the middle of the bed between them . you stared at ingrid’s eyes for long time before you moved or spoke.

“ Your eyes are so beautiful I could never capture them in a drawing.” you then look over at mapi “ and you smile i don't think i have never seen it up close. This is too much.” you try to get up but they stop you.

“ We don't have to do anything right now.” mapi handed you a notebook and a pen.

“ Why don't you draw this moment now.” you take the pen and the biggest smile spreads on your face as you get up, look at them, and start drawing as they admired you.

[gigiwritess]

BACK TO EARTH

dr. jack abbott x f!resident!reader!vega aka "wildcard"

wc: 2,100 synopsis: the weeks go by—until the pittfest happens. jack wasn't even supposed to be working, but there he was. he didn't expect to have to save vega from herself, too, as her personal dark spiraled out of her control.

contents: 20-year age gap (vega is 26, jack is 46). vega's worsening mental health issues; she's having an anxiety attack, but it's not heavily described. usual pitt dynamics. probably lots of medical inaccuracies that i'm not gonna apologize for. this is totally self-inserted and vega is totally based in lots of aspects of myself. this list is concerns general warnings and specific chapter warnings—i'm gonna keep updating it as i go

gigi's notes: hi people!!!! i'm sorry for not posting the 3rd piece sooner. besides work, classes, organizing and academic conference, my depression keeps getting the best of me and i dissociate and don't do all the shit i need to do and it's an endless cycle. so it took me a bit longer to be able to flesh it out exactly how i wanted this to go and to find the right voice for the things i wanted to write. i really loved this piece and i hope you like it to. i'll try my best to write the next one sooner <3 about the 'jack abbot x reader x frank langdon love triangle', i can tell she's here and she's called TRAITOR (based on the song TRAITOR by elley duhé). i'm nowhere near finished but i'm already at 3k soooo it might take a bit longer to finish cooking it. i should probably make a list of jack abbot's works in progress because i have many lol i'm also gonna write jack abbot x firefighter!reader bc it's my alter-ego, probably a mini-series shorter than BRIGHTER, and i'm also thinking of somethinng like jack abbot x brat!reader in nessa barrett's vibes. as you can tell, jack abbot is rotting my brain :()

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There was something wrong.

The worst of the Pittfest chaos had passed. The ER wasn’t quiet—it never was—, but now the screaming had dulled down to murmurs, the steady beep of machines, the last critical cases being dealt with. Even though it wasn’t over, there was finally a small semblance of quiet starting to spread.

Jack was hands-deep in a tracheotomy when it happened—a kid. Couldn’t have been older than ten. Vega had been working on him since he arrived; Jack caught a glimpse of her across the room as she stopped her compressions and called time of death. He saw the way she stilled for a second, the way something in her eyes cracked. She didn’t lose it, didn’t panic, didn’t break protocol. Just took a deep breath and moved on. But he saw the look in her eyes. He knew that look.

He knew, the moment she stepped out of Trauma Two, her shoulders sagging, her hands shaking as she pulled the latex gloves off with far more force than necessary, there was something wrong.

The beeping from the monitor finally went back to a steady rhythm; his patient was stable. Jack could finally breathe normally again; no one else was calling out his name to go help another patient. He ripped off his gloves, shoved a blood-soaked gown into a bin, and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. By the time his patient was finally handed off, Vega was gone.

He probably shouldn’t have been paying that much attention to her all this time working together, but he couldn’t help it—he was, by nature, an observant person; he had thrived in workplaces exactly because of that. But Vega was the biggest mystery Jack had ever faced—the most fascinating one.

Every time they worked together or were near each other—which happened way more frequently than it should’ve, considering they worked opposing shifts—, he noticed something about her, sometimes without even meaning to.

It was almost as if she were a giant magnet and he was made of iron (part of him was, at least). He noticed the way her forehead would furrow whenever she was in deep thinking; he noticed the way she would let a quiet groan escape when stretching her back, always a grimace of pain she was quick to disguise when there were people around. He noticed how picky she was with her fingers, always scratching something, filing her nails, finding something to fix in her cuticles. He noticed how expressive she was; how her face always showed what she was feeling, even when she was trying to pretend otherwise.

He noticed a lot of things about her. Especially how well she held herself together, but her eyes gave her away—he always saw right through them.

It took him longer than it should’ve to find her. She wasn’t in the break room, wasn’t in the stairwell. Not in the far supply closet that staff usually went to scream into empty shelves, not in the ambulance bay.

It was one of the old, near-empty trauma bays, half-lit, curtain drawn. Vega sat on the edge of a gurney, knees close to her chest, elbows on her knees. Her hands were covering her face, her palms pressed against her eyes as if she could absorb back her own tears.

Jack didn’t announce himself. He just stepped inside, quietly closed the door behind him, pulling the curtain shut. For a moment, he just stood there. The room felt too small, the air too heavy.

“Vega?” He called out in a low voice, rough from a long, chaotic day.

No response—she didn’t move. He could hear her small, soft sobs.

He crossed the room in two strides, invading her space, her knees touching his chest. Carefully, gently, Jack took her hands in his and slowly pulled them away from her face, her eyes, wet with tears, sealed shut as he lowered her hands to her sides.

“Look at me,” Jack said, both his hands coming to cup her face, firm and steady, warm palms against the sides of her neck.

She did. Her eyes, usually so full of fire and life, were dark, red-rimmed, almost vacant as they met his. It was as if an angry, destructive storm had passed through them, taking everything in its wake, taking a piece of her with it. A storm that had been hidden deep, brewing for some time—not just the Pittfest.

“Breathe.” Quietly, she did. “In and out.”

Her breathing hitched, the tears subsiding, the tremor in her chest slowly fading away. His thumbs brushed the sharp line of her cheekbones—not soft, not tender. Grounding. Just enough to tether her back to Earth, back to the present, away from her spiraling thoughts, back to him.

“Good girl,” he muttered as her breath came in shaky but obedient, almost even now.

It was meant to come out as a tease, something for her to laugh, to bring her back to reality. But it didn’t sound that way, not as she shivered, not as his thumb grazed the corner of her mouth. Not as her gaze fell to his lips once, twice before flicking back to his eyes. It shouldn’t have made his stomach twist—but it did. They stayed that way for a moment, just breathing, just looking at each other, existing in each other’s space. Simply being with each other, her pulse a steady rhythm against his fingers.

But his eyes betrayed him—his gaze dropped to her lips before he could stop himself. Maybe it was the tiredness. Maybe it was the blood stuck under his nails, or the way his chest still ached from all the patients he’d lost. Or maybe it was the way that here, in this room, right now, with her, none of it mattered.

Jack leaned in—Vega met him halfway. It wasn’t a careful kiss, not sweet. It was like a collision of exhaustion and adrenaline, and months of looking at each other as if they were two souls who knew something about each other, who recognized something in each other. Her hands gripped the collar of his scrubs, his palms sliding to the back of her neck—it was a kiss meant to ground them both. Hard and a little desperate, meant to translate everything that couldn’t be said yet. No promises, no words, no soft confessions. Just here, right now.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads stood almost touching for a moment. Jack’s breath was ragged; his hands still cupped her face.

“Keep looking at me like that, old man,” she said, voice hoarse, “and I might start thinking you like having me around.”

The wicked smirk on her lips, swollen from his kiss, was the first real thing he’d seen on her face all night.

It took a moment for her teasing to hit its mark, for him to realize she was back. “Yeah, yeah,” he laughed. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Jack was the first to pull back, hands falling away slowly, reluctantly. The air between them still crackled, was still charged as they stared at each other for a moment longer, the memory and the weight of the kiss too fresh, too sharp. For a second, neither of them spoke.

Outside, someone faintly asked about more negative O units—the world hadn’t stopped.

He jerked his chin toward the toward.

“Come on, Wildcard,” he said, the usual sharp-edged version of him settling back into place, “you’ve got a shift to finish.”

There was something about the way he uttered ‘Wildcard’. It was not in the usual teasing, mocking way people did. It felt personal—he spoke it like a secret kept between just the two of them.

She slid off the gurney, her hand brushing his as she walked, her pinkie tangling with his for a single moment before she put distance between them. Her expression was the same as it always was—cool, a little cocky, composed. But her pulse was still visible at her throat.

Jack noticed. Of course he did.

The world was calmer now as they sat down on the park benches, Matteo happily handing beers to whomever would accept. Life still went on around them—music thudding faintly against the night air, sirens going off in the distance—but here it felt quieter. Slower.

Vega looked up; the night sky was clear and bright, stars twinkling faintly. Jack sat beside her on the same worn-out bench. He was sitting close, almost too close. His thigh brushed hers, solid and warm; his arm bumped hers when he shifted slightly to accommodate his prosthetic leg, but he didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned closer, the barest tilt of his body, casual enough that no one would notice.

She noticed—every single second. She could’ve inched away, could’ve created a little space. She didn’t.

They hadn’t spoken since leaving that trauma bay, hadn’t worked together—only traded stolen glances throughout the ER, glances full of everything they didn’t recognize yet.

“You held up good today,” Jack said, nudging her leg with his left knee, beer in hand, “better than most.” He angled his body towards her, looking at her profile.

She nudged his leg back, turning her head to look at him, finding his eyes. “Even with a breakdown?”

“Even then,” he said, sipping his beer and staring intently into her.

Vega tried to play it off, act cool—but her throat still tightened all the same as she held his gaze, as she tried not to think about the anxiety black hole she’d just barely clawed her way out of. She tried not to think about how everything had been spiraling each time worse than the previous, each time getting far out of her control, until his warm, steady hands pulled her out. She didn’t want to think about how grounding his touch felt—or how his kiss felt like a lifeline she didn’t know she needed, how his kiss felt like being above the surface after being underwater for so long, how his kiss felt like feeling a spark of something after being numb for so long.

But that was all she could think about as she looked into his eyes, as the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them under the amber streetlights.

She looked away; her heart sounded stupidly loud in her ears, overwhelming. She took a breath, trying to quiet it down.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” she said, breaking the moment, pretending like it didn’t weigh heavily on her chest. “But thank you.”

“I know,” Jack said after a beat, a half-smirk ghosting across his mouth. “Guess I just have a thing for trouble.”

Vega let out a breath of a laugh, genuine, small, and surprised, meant just for him. Something warm started to spread over her chest, something good. When she turned to him again, her eyes were brighter, crinkling just a little at the corners. She shouldn’t say anything—or at least say something else. But she couldn’t help it when his eyes had a spark of something daring, of something dangerous, something familiar.

“Yeah? That why you keep hanging around?”

The air between them went still. Heavy, charged. Like something coiled and tense, just waiting for someone to make a move—any move.

Feeling just a bit emboldened by the spark in his eyes, she reached out and snagged the beer right out of his hand. Jack’s eyebrows shot up, surprised, but he let her do it, watching as she lifted it to her lips and took a long sip. Brave. Almost defiant.

Vega handed the beer back. Eyes still locked on Jack’s hazel ones, his fingers closed around hers, slow, deliberate, and his head tipped toward her, just a bit, like he was going to say something to Robby instead—he didn’t.

Jack’s mouth brushed near her ear, low enough that only she caught it, meant just for her.

“Careful, kid. Keep that up and I’ll think you’re flirting.”

It was her turn to stay silent, her breath caught like a deer caught in a trap, just for a split second before she masked it into a tiny, sly smile. Her cheeks, her whole face, felt like it was on fire. She didn’t need to look at him to feel the wicked grin tugging at his mouth.

Vega leaned back against the bench, purposefully pressing her shoulder against his. She said nothing as she stole his beer again, brushing his fingers—and he let her—, acting as if her heart was beating normally. It wasn’t. Not since his kiss brought her back to earth.

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