#Mini f1

[viofitz]

Review: Bandai F-エフ Gunma Akagi and Kazuto Hiziri's F-3

Introduction:

Bandai Co., Ltd. is a Japanese multinational toy manufacturer and distributor headquartered in Taitō, Tokyo. Its international branches, Bandai Namco Toys & Collectables America and Bandai UK, are respectively headquartered in Irvine, California, and Richmond, London. Since 2005, Bandai is the toy production division of Bandai Namco Holdings, currently the world's second largest toy company measured by total revenue. In this review, it's not about Bandai's action figure but, their discontinued products which is an F-1 miniature 1:24 scale model. At the time Tamiya is booming, Bandai also tried to produce their own Mini 4WD, which they released several series of their own Mini 4WD, including this. It seems like back in 1988, the manga/anime of F-エフ became popular which piqued Bandai's interest to produce their own F1 cars in Mini 4WD style eventhough, they're actually F3 cars. However they only released 2 line and 2 series, 1st they created the car based on the F-エフ in 1/32 which the same scale to regular Tamiya Mini 4WD but, instead of using motor battery powered they made pull back feature. There were 2 model cars released which is Gunma Akagi and Hiziri Kazuto, then Bandai also made their own Mini 4WD style in 1/24 scale. Of course, the same 2 F3 cars featuring Gunma Akagi and Hiziri Kazuto, they are characters from F-エフ manga written and illustrated by Noboru Rokuda. It was serialized in Shogakukan's seinen manga magazine Big Comic Spirits from 1986 to 1992, with its chapters collected in 28 tankōbon volumes. The story follows Gunma Akagi, a country boy who fulfills his dream by racing in a Formula One car. The series has been followed by FRegeneration Ruri (2002–2006), F Final (2009–2011), and Final Complete (since 2020). It also adapted into anime series aired in 1988 for 31 episodes in total, however the anime only follows the rivalry of Gunma & Kazuto. In this conversions, the models were based on their manga counterparts, which Kazuto got blue colored car instead of black with red in the anime. The product numbers started from 1/32 versions which Gunma as number 1 while Kazuto as number 2, whereas 1/24 versions continuously Gunma being number 3 while Kazuto as number 4.

Contents:

Like every Model kits, the kit came up to be preassembled which we have to assemble them first.

Gunma Akagi F3:

In overall, Gunma's car is white colored with some very few livery, which made the car almost looked no different with/without stickers/decals. I gotta say, the bodyshell especially it's sidepods looks pretty thick and also precisely made. Due to some little red colored sponsors, they kinda gives a bit of McLaren F1 vibes. Judging by the airbox thing, the car is a fictional stylized of F3 cars made in 1987-1988. In the box representations, the car was used by Gunma for racing with Kazuto but, after reading the manga this is not the actual car Gunma used for racing with Kazuto, not sure why but, probably following how the anime was made despite they straightly using Noboru's manga artworks for the box art. However, this is still Gunma's car but, he used this car in later chapters post Kazuto race. The original car of Gunma during Kazuto arc has more resemblance to Kazuto's car and it has very different livery. Both 1/32 and 1/24 are the same model but, there're several differences such as in the 1/24 version, the driver's body is clearly visible even in the side view due to it's sitting quite higher while 1/32's driver is sitting deeper. Another funny thing that the 1/32 got "Toyota" sponsor decal on the airbox while the 1/24 didn't. As for the wheel sets, both of them are almost identical but, 1/32 uses rubber plastic tires while 1/24 uses sponge tires. I gotta say, I prefered the 1/32 alot better since they looked more accurate.

Kazuto Hiziri F3:

Kazuto got a blue colored F3 car, it's sidepods are made to be thin and asymmetrical compared to Gunma's car, once again it has very few livery which the car almost looked no different with/without stickers/decals. In both manga and anime this car was supposed to run faster than Gunma's car since the machine was handled by Tamotsu (Gunma's best friend) but, due to Kazuto's falling to his illness and dying, he didn't make it to finish the race. However, since Gunma's car was based from his post Kazuto arc so, both car's machines were handled by Tamotsu. I'm gonna be frank on this one; while the design may looking slim and good but, that rear wing thing looks unsafe for run, given the rear part appeared too exposed and that pole looking breakable. Here, I'm referring to the 1/24 one and I actually changed the sponge tires with my spare since I accidentally broke one of the original tire when I put them into the velg, probably due to old age. I'm glad the spare fits well, although it's a little different type. I gotta admit, I still love this since it's my favorite color. There're several minor differences between 1/32 and the 1/24; the rear wing in the 1/32 is a little wider compared to the 1/24 one, and the rear wing's pole in 1/32 is much thicker than the 1/24 one. Interestingly, the 1/32 got exhaust mold while 1/24 don't. The wheel sets also got different type of velgs but, Bandai didn't even bother to give a unique velgs for 1/24 version to equalize both versions. The rests I think it's pretty much identical except some minor paint details but, overall decals looking similar for both versions. Once again, from looks I prefered the 1/32 better.

1/24 Chassis:

The chassis surprisingly works the same way like Mini 4WD since they got their own Mini 4WD propeller shaft but, that thin lower bumpers below the bodyshell made them not recommended for run yet, even the rear wing's pole connection seems to be frail enough. Mainly on the Kazuto one. The motor they included is labelled as Hyper Engine, assuming it's like a ripoff of Tamiya's Hyper Dash but, it was Bandai's standard motor for their own Mini 4WD. Their size is surprisingly longer and bigger than Tamiya's Mini F1 but, I don't like how they made the wheelsets being too thin for their size. I gotta admit it has no appeal to how an F3 wheels should looks. Unlike most of Mini 4WD conversions, the rollers are using pin-shaped plastic parts instead of using metal screws which I'm already feeling skeptical if I ever want to make them run. Batteries are inserted underneath the chassis so, there's no need to remove their bodyshells. Because the bodyshell was designed to be attached firmly to the chassis for monocoque structure. However, if the instalation is not done properly this may lead to a trap, it ends up being a three-point installation. Their overall mechanism was quite different compared to any Mini 4WD companies.

1/32 Pull Back Feature:

These versions works just fine but, I don't like on how they made the whole plastics being all same color to their respective body color including the chassis and their velgs so, my friend had to paint the whole chassis and wheels to make them right. While their size are very much the same like most of Mini 4WDs, I really wished they're the one who would be given with Mini 4WD feature instead of the 1/24 one.

Thoughts:

I never expected Bandai would be making F3 cars instead of F1, gotta admit their designs are unique but, I heard from a Japanese reviewer that these products were known to be criticized harshly but, I don't know the details although, I can tell why judging by the looks of the kit. Despite this I still appreciated Bandai for recreating an actual manga character into their own Mini 4WD counterpart. It's so rare to see F3 representations since most of companies were too focused on producing F1 at the time. So, I'm happy to have this as my collections.

Repaint and details by Archyd. Thank youu for reading😁🙏🏻

[ham1lton]

mini sm au abt chronically online yn at the aus gp? 👀 ik the camera panned to her when lewis said leave me to it please on the radio and she was like 🤠

WAKING UP IN VEGAS MELBOURNE

summary: yn is a lewis hamilton stan first and his fiancée second.

same universe as not a chill girl! <3

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liked by iwantuyn, lewishamilton and 1,029,938 others

yourusername: SCUDERIA FERRARI YAYYYY

view all comments

user1: girl omg not u being bilingual. u speak spanish too?

— yourusername: MI GENTO LATINO!!!

user2: welcome to suffering girl.

— yourusername: im always suffering babe. my man loves the job more than spending time with me 😓

— yourusername: lewis has told me that i have to clarify this as he spent 18 hours with me yesterday but that’s literally a whole 6 hours he wasn’t with me and that? that is neglect.

— user3: you��re so me.

— user4: cause what is more important than the LOVE OF HIS LIFE??? 🤨

user5: miss seeing u at grand prixs queen!! the look ate today.

— user6: she looks so good in red.

alexandrasaintmleux: love u 🤍

— yourusername: virtual kisses 4 u and leo <3

user7: do u like australia yn?

— yourusername: saw a kangaroo and cried. cause why does it look like that i’m scared. but!! the sun is lovely. my tan is gorgeous 😜

user8: her and alex literally napping on each other yesterday? they’re so cute wtf?

— user9: MY fav wags.

— user10: hottest on the grid IDGAF!

user11: did u have a hand in lewis’ black outfit today? it was sexy. (sorry i have to be honest 😓).

— yourusername: honestly? no. although i am a stylist, i tend to dress women more often then men. he has his own very distinctive style and i recommend things but never put a look together for him. but!! i do have veto power.

— yourusername: call lewis sexy all u want babe it’s objectively true. i don’t get offended 😛

user12: this race was so bad. ferrari need help.

— user13: need a ferrari lewis win so idgaf. i will manifest this. he will!!! get his 8th championship.

— yourusername: girl I WAS CHEERING. I WAS SCREAMING. I WAS CRYING. and then I checked the final standings and realized I hallucinated a podium.

— user14: not u being delusional….

— yourusername: you must be new to my page xx

user15: did u at least get a good pic with him today?

— yourusername: yes but he blinked. but i looked really hot, my hair was so good. so now I have to photoshop his eyes open. again.

user16: YN i saw the broadcast. why were you biting your nails like a mother at a talent show

— yourusername: bc my fiancé was out there risking his LIFE and also because i may or may not have had $20 riding on him winning.

user16: not you repping ferrari like lewis didn’t just get P10

— yourusername: i was trying to manifest greatness with the red. didn’t work. real embarrassed rn.

user17: are you okay???

— yourusername: emotionally? no. physically? also no. i wore so kates.

user18: i saw you arguing with a ferrari fan in the paddock??

— yourusername: she said leclerc was hotter than lewis. so i naturally had to defend my man’s honor. sorry alex xoxo

user19: where do we apply to be like you and have this relationship.

— yourusername: step 1: delusion. step 2: good lighting (most important). step 3: never be normal. delusion is just manifestation in heels, believe in yourself baby. i do.

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[alexalblondo]

Baby just racking up wins that‘s my mini Vettel

[themissingmango]

[l4ndowife]

my god they are so tiny 😭😭

[multifandomgirl08]

Of Father's and Children [Mini Verstappen Series]

Dad!Max Verstappen x Wife!Reader (Established Relationship)

Summary: Father's Day 2029

Warning(s): Jos Verstappen (Off Screen)

A/N: I finished working on this while watching Suzuka Qualifying.

Words: 4.6k

Previous Part → Next Part Mini Verstappen Masterlist

Mykonos, Greece June 17, 2029

The smooth rocking of the ocean woke Y/N up. She opened her eyes to see that she was on the yacht and that Max was still asleep next to her in their bed.

They were in Greece for father’s day on a family trip. Sophie, Victoria, and Tom were here with the kids. Max had flown them to Monaco so they could get on the yacht and go to Greece. They were on the boat for two days, were spending the week in Greece and then would be sailing back to Monaco.

She slowly moved out of the bed placing her feet on the wood flooring slipping on her bathing suit and then a loose fitting cream summer dress over it. When she came back into the room Max seemed to have her pillow crushed into his chest.

She moved out of the room, and then over to the room closest to her and Max’s room to see if Nicole was awake. Nicole seemed to be fast asleep still. Y/N knew that picking her up  from her crib wouldn't rouse her  awake. So she reached in and placed her into her arms and headed towards the stairs that went up to the main deck to see that the staff on board had already laid out food for everyone.

“Morning, Mrs. Verstappen.” One of the Stewardesses said.

“Morning,” She replied, moving to an open chair so she could feed Nicole before anyone else woke up. She knew that everyone would slowly be filing into the main dining area soon. “Can I get a coffee?” She had asked before receiving a nod back.

“Your usual?”

“Yes, and can you also prepare some warm water?”

She got another quick nod back. Y/N was grateful that she was no longer breastfeeding Nicole and could just drink formula.

She had waited for the stewardess to bring her coffee and warm water with the packet of pre-measured formula. It was easy to add and shake in Nicole’s bottle, and Y/N got to sip at her coffee until Nicole decided to wake.

The Aegean Sea gave off a warm breeze in the early morning air. Nicole was drinking from her bottle, when two sets of footsteps entered the main deck. It was Sophie and Victoria, both in summer dresses.

“Morning, Y/N,” Victoria greeted her.

“Goedemorgen, mijn dochter.” Sophie said taking the seat next to her.

“Morning.” Y/N greeted them back. Sophie looked into the pink blanket around Nicole to see Max’s blue eyes greeting them both.

“Sometimes I forget that she looks like you, but has his eyes.”

She gave Sophie a smile back before a clean cup was placed before her. Nicole stopped eating after a few more moments and Sophie offered to burp Nicole.

She give it a few more minutes of her sitting with Sophie before taking Nicole with her to go and wake up Max. It was almost noon and she promised that the older kids would get to go swimming today.

She made her way to the owners cabin to Max still fast asleep. She climbed on top of the sheets and placed Nicole between her and Max. She slowly crawled over to him before he let out a small groan and turned over, his eyes slowly fluttered open, the blue of his eyes bright in the mid-day light.

“Happy Father’s day, Max,” She said with a smile.

“Thank you, mijn leeuwin.” He smiled back at her.

Nicole let out a little cry, trying to reach for Max and slapped the skin of his bare chest.

“Halo, schat.” He said with a small groan as he looked down and greeted her.

“Papa!” She heard a chorus of yells down the hallway before she heard three sets of feet making a run for the bed. Niki ended up sitting in her lap while Max looked over the hand drawn card that Nico had made Max with all of the kids names signed.

Niki looked at Max with a curious expression. “Like it Papa?” He asked.

“Yes, I do.” He reached to pull Nik into his chest a bit more.

She had been grateful when she had seen the size of the bed in the owners cabin, it was a Alaskan King; big enough if all of the kids somehow ended up asleep with her and Max.

It was hard to pull all of the kids out of her and Max’s cabin so he could put some clothes on and join everyone on the deck below for brunch.

When she was back on the deck below, the kids started to dig into the food laid out on the table while Nicole was now sitting in Sophie’s lap as she drank her coffee, letting Y/N eat and finish up her own coffee.

She heard a set of feet against the Italian flooring before feeling a very familiar hand on her shoulder.

“Morning,” Max greeted.

Max leaned down next to Y/N and kissed Sophie on the cheek and gave her a hug. Victoria came over and hugged Max.

“Is Tom still-” Y/N started to ask.

“He’s getting the boys up.” Victoria said, “Leo ended up waking us up after he had a nightmare.”

“Was he okay after?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Victoria said with a nod. “He slept with us last night, seemed to fall asleep not long after he came into our room.”

She saw Luka and Leo before seeing Tom trailing in after them.

“Afternoon,” Tom greets. She walk over to her brother-in-law giving him a hug which he returned

“Happy father’s day.” She say pulling away from him before Luka is reaching for his father’s hand.

“Thanks Y/N.” He replies.

Nico, Niki, and Nik eventually make their way over to Tom, giving their uncle a hug.

Max is next to come up to him and pulls him into a half hug. “Gelukkige vaderdag.” Max says. Tom says something to Max that she can’t quiet make out.

“Well I am a father two times more than you,” Max jokes before Tom ends up laughting having to push his glasses up before finding an empty seat at the table next to Victoria.

Y/N had already finished her coffee by the time that Nico begged if they can go swimming in the ocean.

“Please Mama, Luka and I will be careful.” Leo is trailing after them already having his blow up floaties in his hands.

“Let me get some towels and then I’ll come and watch you guys swim.”

“Yes!” Nico says before him and Luka high five running off to change into their swim gear.

“Mama,” Nik says reaching for her hand. Nik was very much her shadow, following her around the house, getting upset when she would leave a room. “No want to swim.”

She lifted him up and put him on the side of her hip. “Want to pick out a book? I can read to you instead.”

He just shook his head no and then pressed his face into the strap of her dress with his hand clutching onto the thin silk that was at the back of her dress.

Nik eneded up following her upstairs to get towels for the kids that were going to go swimming. She sat on one of the lounge chairs with Nik sprawled over her chest, the cotton fabric of his little hat buried in her neck.

Y/N looked out to where the swim platform was, she could see the older kids in the water with Max and Tom also in the water climbing over their shoulders trying to stay above the water. The loud sound of the kids laughter and the splashing of water filled her ears as Victoria moved to sit next to her.

She kept looking at Max seeing him moved his hair away from his eyes while Luka tried to climb onto his shoulders.

“Please stop looking at my brother like you want to jump his bones.” Victoria said to her as she kept looked down at him playing with the kids. “Isn’t making him a father four times over enough?”

She could only laugh at Victoria’s question. There was no way that Max could get Y/N pregnant again after he got a vasectomy after new years. She still couldn’t help but smile. God, did she so want to drag Max back to their cabin for a bit.

She could feel a light blush reaching her cheeks. How did Victoria know that what was what she were thinking?

“I promise that Max and I are done having kids, don’t worry.” She said as she did her best to try and hide her smile.

“You swear?” Victoria asked.

“I swear.” Y/N said looking over to Nicole to see her being cradled in Sophie’s arms. “We’re done having kids.”

“What about you and Tom? Another baby?”

Victoria just shook her head no. “After watching you and Max, I think Tom and I are done too. It would be nice to have more but-” She doesn’t finish her sentence.

She reach her hand over and then clasp it with Victoria’s.

She gives you a small but tight smile, a similar one that Y/N had seen on Max when he feels like he’s not ready to talk about something.

“I don’t know if I want to bring another baby into the family. We want more but with my dad,” Y/N noticed that Victoria says my dad not our as in her and Max when refering to Jos. “It just doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“Well regardless of your dad, if you and Tom want more kids, I think that should only be up to you. It’s not about anyone else, you’ll be the one who’s having this baby.”

Her and Victoria share a look for a moment before she ends up nodding. She gives Y/N’s hand a squeeze back before reaching for her phone.

“I’ll be back in a bit.” Victoria says heading towards the stairs that lead up to where the guest cabins are. She saw that Victoria was gripping her phone in her hand.

Nik ends up waking up a few minutes later at the loud sound of yelling, rolling off her chest and into the chair. Y/N tries to slip away back to her and Max’s cabin to grab her hat out of the small walk-in-closet. She was making her way back down to the deck that was above the swim platform before hearing Victoria’s voice from just around the corner of the stairs.

“Fijne vaderdag, Papa.” She can hear Victoria say.

Y/N now knows that Victoria had called Jos. She can’t tell Max, she doesn’t want them to get into an argument around the kids. So she just swallows down her breath and says nothing before watching as the older kids start to play a board game with all of the little pieces being littered over the table.

The stewardess come out from inside and places a plate of food that the kids can snack on.

“You were supposed to move two spaces, not three.” Luka says to Nico.

“No! I rolled a two, and then I had to move another space because of the card I picked up.” Nico protests.

Y/N ends up next to the table. Sophie giving her Nicole so she can go inside and quickly grab something from her room. It only takes a few moments before Sophie is back and sitting next to her with a small paperback novel in her hands and Nicole dozing in her arms.

She can hear wet feet against the wood flooring to see Max in his wet swim trunks. He reaches for a towel and then looks to see that Leo and Niki are still in the infinity edge Jacuzzi with Tom watching over them.

Max’s hair had caught quite a  bit of sun the last few days and he looks so blond now. The dirty hazel blond color she was so used to had been overtaken by sun soaked honey highlights and turning his skin a light tan color.

“Where is Vic?” Max asked her. She shrugged her shoulders while Max ran a dry towel through his wet hair and over his chest.

He walked inside and leaving everyone outside to see his sister on the phone.

“Yes, Dad. He seems happy.” He heard his sister say. She was on the phone with Jos. There was a pause before she spoke again. “No, but he's happy with his family. And we both know he doesn't consider you a part of that.”

It was weird hearing Victoria tell Jos that he didn’t consider Jos as part of their family. That’s how it always was after Nico had entered Max’s life. 

“I just wanted to wish you a happy Father's Day without bringing up Max.” She starts again. Max looks into the room and sees that Victoria has pulled the phone away from her ear. “He never asks about you so there's nothing to tell.”

Max just stands there for a few moments until he hears Victoria tell Jos goodbye and then he goes back outside.

He moves to sit next to Y/N as he sees her eating a few bites of food and then sees her do her best to feed Nik some of fruit that’s on a plate. He seems to have woken up in the time that has been gone. He resists for a few moments before she hands him over a cracker with cheese on it.

Victoria comes outside a few minutes later with a bottle of sparkling water in her hands. It looks like she’s been rubbing at her eyes with how red they look.

“Vic,” He says to her moving from his seat. “Can we talk for a moment?”

Victoria states at him for a second and then nods her head.

He leads her into the main living area of the yacht, puts a towel down and then sits on the leather couch.

“I heard you, when you were on the phone earlier,” He starts to say.

“Max-” Victoria starts. He puts his hand up to stop her from talking. He knows that she is going to try and reason with him. Say it’s not a big deal, that Jos is her father and she has a right to speak with him. She’s right, she does have the right to talk with him and he’s sick of feeling like he’s the reason that his sisters relationship with him is so fractured.

“I want to apologize to you about making everything hard when it comes to me and... dad.” He slowly says, the word dad feeling unfamiliar on his tongue. He hasn’t said it in almost 9 years. “You are my younger sister and you should never have been put in the middle of this.”

He took a small breath before starting again, “I understand that as the only daughter our parents had, you still want some type of relationship with him and it should have never been my place to make that harder on you. It’s just… we had very different childhoods when we were growing up, and once we were old enough to spend time with one another, Jos wasn’t around and I would be leaving home again in a few short months because of racing while he was locked away for something that he may or may not have done.”

Victoria just nodded at him meekly. He knew that she didn’t like talking about those years, it had always been a sore spot and only grew to be more so after Jos had taking the initiative to hide Nico from him. Max had never brought it up because he already had enough of a complicated relationship with Jos and he didn’t want to constantly remind his sister that having Jos around had never been easy even when they were kids.

“So you don’t need to hide when you call him or not bring him up to Luka and Leo. He is your father and I’m okay with him being in your life even if I don’t want him around Y/N and my kids… We’re family and he shouldn’t be the reason why we’re not close.” He says.

He’s waiting for her to say something back, ask a question, even yell at him that he has no right telling her this now after he was the one to sever the relationship with Jos and she had to deal with the fallout.

“Do, do you think that you’d be able to let him into your life again?” She manages to ask.

It’s too easy for him to immediately say no. He knows what she wants him to say and he can’t tell her what she wants to hear.

“I wish I could, but I just can’t trust him again. I know that it’s not what you want to hear-”

“But that’s how you feel Max,” She says placing her hands between her knees before looking up at him slowly.

“Yes it is.”

She just nods at him.

“Does that mean I can at least tell him things when he asks about you? I know you don’t want him to know about the kids, especially given the fact that Nico is in karts right now…”

He thinks about it, “I don’t know Vic. Maybe eventually, when I’m not racing anymore.”

That felt like it would be for the best. Jos could know about him when he was no longer a racing driver, when he was just a parent to his children.

“You don’t want to talk to him about those things?” She asked.

“He never made talking about those thing easy. With Christian-” He was about to say when Victoria seemed to pull away a little. “That isn’t a problem with Christian, he doesn’t push me to talk about those things even when we don’t agree.”

He can only guess what her and Jos talk about now but when Victoria gave up racing that was no longer a topic of conversation with them from what he can remember.

Victoria just nods at him. She is trying to understand, like every other time they have gotten into a argument about Jos. He wonders if she knows that he’s sick of fighting about this after all this time.

“I know that I haven’t really made it easy when you first wanted him out of your life, but I have been trying.”

“I know you have Vic and I know that he hasn’t done anything to you. It’s of course easier not to talk about him.”

“Maybe one day we can? You, me and mum?”

Max can only nod at her request. They manage to share a half-hearted hug before going back outside.

Max goes to find Y/N with Nicole awake in her arms eating. Max reaches down to kiss her on the cheek and feels her hand on the bare skin of his chest before he moves to sit next to her opening his arms for him to hold Nicole.

In the time that both he and Vic have been gone all of the kids seem to be out of the water. Victoria ends up coming outside a few moments after to sit next to Tom who seeems to be drying Leo off with a towel.

He can see them talking for a few minutes before Tom looks over at him and gives him a slight nod. He knows that Victoria and Tom have talking about this now.

Max drops his eyes to Nicole seeing her wide blue eyes looking up at him. He lets out a small breath and clutches her a little closer to him.

It’s a little hard for Max to be able to relax until dinner. Everyone is showered and changed into their dinner clothes. They’re eating out on the upper deck with the kids on the far end of the table with Nicole in a high chair next to his mom insisting that she feed her.

Dinner turns lighter as food is placed into the table, Y/n and Victoria talking about the latest clothing styles from one brand that they both like. And then he can hear them talk about the latest birthday gifts that they both want, Max only half listening to them. Tom pulls him into a conversation about Luka and Leo, and then he rebuttals with a story about Niki and Nik. He swears sometimes that they should have been born twins even though they were born 18 months apart. They have his lighter brown hair, Niki having Y/N’s eyes, Nik with his and are growing pretty tall for being almost 3 and 4.

He wonders where the time has gone. It seems like he was seeing them walk for the first time only a few weeks ago.

Nico had walked up to him abandoning his dinner leaning up into Max’s chair, “Papa can I show them my helmet?” He asked.

“Nico your helmet is at home.” He answered. “But if you get my phone I can let you show them pictures of it after it was done being painted.”

Nico nodded, leaving the deck in search of Max’s phone. He was back next to Max’s chair in a few minutes with his iPhone in his hands.

It took Max a few moments to look through his text messages from the guys at JMD helmets. He found a few of his own for this season before finding the custom one that was made for Nico.

“Here.” He said handing it over. “I want it back as soon as you are done.” Knowing that there was a chance that Nico would just end up playing games on his phone. Both he and Y/N were trying to break him of the habit of sitting in front of his iPad when there were people with them.

Nico ends up giving him back his phone after a few minutes.

The kids start to get ancy after they’ve eaten. It takes a few more minutes for the kids to decide on a board game to play. Niki, Nik, and Leo are falling asleep while Nico and Luka are still playing with all of the other game pieces being put back in the box after they’ve given up.

“Come on guys. Time for bed.” Max heard Y/N say as she is standing in the living room with Victoria at her side.

“But Mama we want to finish our game.” Nico whines. Luka nods in agreement.

Y/N just shakes her head. “Brush your teeth and then bed. We’re getting up early tomorrow to go into town.”

“Okay,” Nico says dragging his feet on the floor.

Max moves to help Y/N peel Niki and Nik off the couch and into their bed. Y/N does the job of quickly changing them into their pajamas settling them into the sheets.

Max moved out of the room to see that his mum was changing Nicole out of the white onesie that she had been wearing during the day and was now in her footie pajamas that was being buttoned up.

“Mum, you don’t have to.” He says stepping into Nicole’s room knowing that he needed to put her to bed or she could possibly wake everyone up.

“I want to. You and Y/N have your hands full with the other kids.”

“I know.”

“I just want to see them more.” She says reaching to pick her up.

“Well you’ll be able to see the kids as much as you want soon.” He says before he can stop himself.

She gives him a quizzical look.

“Y/N and I have been talking about moving home after my contract is up, maybe sooner.” Max had missed living in Belgium. It was where they normally spent Christmas, and all of the kids had been born there sans Nico. The house there felt the most like home, and it was nice that his mum lived a few kilometers from them. She could visit anytime she wanted once they were living there full time.

Sophie clutches Nicole to her chest.

“Really?” She asked and Max just nods. He doesn’t tell her that they’ve been talking about it since his previous contract ended. He wanted another year in F1, to see if he could even win another championship before the regulations changed again in 2031.

Sophie is quick to put Nicole into her crib before reaching over to Max to hug him. “How long before you think you’ll move?” She asks.

“Maybe another year, I want to see how the season will keep playing out. It may be worth it to leave sooner.”

Max can hear footsteps coming from the hallway to see Y/N standing in the hall making her way into the room.

“So, you know.” She says to Sophie. Sophie just nods back to her and then steps away from him.

“Good, I didn’t feel like hiding it from you anymore.”

Sophie laughs. “So this is why you were avoiding me, I just thought that you were pregnant again.”

“No, No.” Both he and Y/N said at the same time shaking their heads.

“I just told Victoria today that we are done having kids.” Y/N said leaning against the doorway.

“Well after Nicole, you never know.” They all share a laugh before looking over to see the little girl falling asleep in the crib.

“Okay, well I’ll leave you. I’ll be up on the deck.” Sophie says before hugging them both.

“Want to grab her and watch a movie?” She asks. Max just nods and then quickly and careful reaches into Nicole’s crib and lifts her out of it.

He ends up joining Y/N back in their room, she’s already changed into her lace nightgown and is climbing under the sheets. She moved a little closer to the edge of the bed, Nik already gripping one of the pillow under his arm.

Max sets Nicole down in bed so he can change out of his shorts and shirt. He brushes his teeth and then climbs under the sheets before reaching into the nightstand to turn on the TV to watch a movie.

They settle in to watch a comedy when he looks over to see that Y/N has started to fall asleep. There are a few minutes left and he is trying to keep his eyes open long enough to let it play out before turning the TV off and going to bed.

“Papa,” Nico said. Max immediately opens his eyes to see Nico standing in the doorway of the owner’s cabin. “Can I sleep in here tonight?”

Max looked over to the other side of the bed with Y/N already asleep with Nicole in her arms, and Niki and Nik sleep next to each other as the end credits of the movie were playing. Max knew that he shouldn’t let him as Nico was getting to big to still be sleeping in bed with his parents.

Max just nodded. Nico climbed up from the end of the bed. Max moved the sheets to the side before Nico ended up between his brothers. Max was quick to turn off the TV before it was lowered back into its stand and the lights in the room where fully turned off.

“Love you Papa.” Max heard as he started to close his eyes.

“Love you too, Nico.” Max said throwing his arm over the sheets to feel Y/N slips their hands together as his eyes finally grew to heavy to keep open anymore.

Mini Verstappen taglist: @karmabyfernando, @barcagirly, @sachaa-ff, @iamahallucinationnn, @glow-ish, @nonsensical-nonsence, @champomiel, @gothicwidowsworld, @lighttsoutlewis, @itsalwaysgay, @minkyungseokie, @mynameisangeloflife, @ursforever129, @aundercover, @bborra, @mindless-rock, @cixrosie, @barcelonaloverf1life, @taylorslovesswifties13, @konsti081, @mellowarcadefun, @smnthnclj, @brekkers-whore, @thedecalcomania-blog, @xoscar03, @em-gvf01, @haikyuen, @shelbyteller , @geniusalpaca, @princessria127, @mysticalnightenthusiast, @green-thots, @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp, @ellelabelle, @lilypat, @dreamercrowd

[chilling-seavey]

I thought of for TWIG, George fucking you so hard and you guys are having intimate and passional sex but have to be quiet when you hear your son and daughter wanting to come into your guys bedroom

This took me ages to get to but thank you for your patience!! I have to keep reminding myself not to search for perfection with these blurbs, but to just write for the sake of writing, for developing this universe together, and just being chill about it

Warnings: 18+, smut, imperfection, silly domestic moments, nipple play fingering, lazy handjobs, grinding, protected sex, getting interrupted.

A comfortable quiet had settled over the house that evening, your son and daughter long since tucked in and asleep and you and George having retired to your own room not long after. You were sitting on your bed and folding some clean laundry by the warm light of your bedside lamps as George showered in the ensuite, leaving a nice calming white noise to help you focus. It was just another quiet night of domestic bliss, the kind where even chores felt a little sweeter with George home. You always felt a little lighter. 

Soon, the shower turned off although you didn’t bat an eye, focused on the last of your folding—some of your son’s little underwear and socks mixed in with yours and George’s—unbothered by your husband’s lengthy nighttime routine after six years of marital bliss. However, the routine normally went on thirty minutes was cut short as the door opened barely five minutes after the water had shut off. You glanced over at him. 

George stood there in the doorway in only his towel sitting low around his waist and that ridiculous skinny headband of his that kept his hair out of his face on the days he didn’t want to wash it. He looked rather silly, honestly, with his hair stuck up at weird angles from the hairband and his skin still flushed from his shower, but he had this look on his face that meant business. 

You smothered back your snort, folding another pair of tiny undies before adding it to the growing pile on the bed, “Hello.”

“Hello, yourself,” George replied smoothly, pushing himself off the doorframe to saunter towards you. 

“How was your shower?” you asked casually. 

“Invigorating,” was his effortless reply. 

You hummed in reply, an amused smile on your lips, your eyes soaking up every inch of him as he drew closer as if he were an animal seeking a mate. Sure, he was bumping up the dramatics just to make you smile but he really didn’t have to, just the sight of his body was enough to have you succumbing to his desires quite easily. You didn’t even shy away as you stared at his abs and the line of hair that reached from his navel down past the fabric of the towel hung low on his hips, barely covering his v-lines. 

“And steamy, huh?” you teased, eyes flicking down to the obvious bulge pressing up against the front of his towel before turning back to the laundry. You could tell he wasn’t entirely hard but he was certainly getting there. 

He chuckled lowly, “Guess you could say that.”

You stacked the piles of folded undergarments back into the laundry basket to be put away in the morning and you pushed it towards him. He took it and walked it over to the chair in the corner without complaint, setting it aside for later. 

When he turned back to you, his fingers moved to toy with the edge of his towel as he pitched smoothly, “You up for a little romp?” 

You laughed out loud at his word choice, slumping back against the headboard, amused, “I could be persuaded.” 

Teasingly slowly, he untucked the fabric of his towel and let it fall to the floor at his feet, leaving him entirely bare apart from that ridiculous hairband. He stepped over the towel towards you, one slow step and then another, and you shamelessly let your eyes take him all in as he strode closer and closer. 

Then, just before he reached you, something sent him doubling over, slamming a hand down against the mattress at the side of the bed with a sharp, “Fuck!”

Normally you would have reminded him to keep quiet given your children were asleep down the hall and his voice had just echoed far too loud through the room, but he was bent over the foot of the bed, seemingly in agony.

“What happened?!” you asked hurriedly.

“Fucking…” he muttered, strained, through his teeth as he bent down to pick something up and toss it onto the bed in front of you. The single yellow Lego brick stood out against the sheets, “Lego fucking everywhere in this house.”

“Oh, geez,” you picked it up from the bed and leaned over to put it safely on your bedside table before setting a hand on his shoulder, “I’m so sorry, love. Laurie was playing in here this morning with me and I thought I had picked all the pieces up.”

“S’okay,” George groaned, flexing his foot to try and lessen the pain with his forearms holding him up on the side of the bed, fists clenched. 

“Those hurt like a bitch,” you acknowledged with a soft chuckle, “Want me to rub your foot? Kiss it better?”

George let out a breathy laugh and a shake of his head in disbelief, “Just wanted to seduce my wife.”

“You did,” you assured him with a soft chuckle, “Consider me wooed.”

He groaned and climbed onto the bed with you in all his nakedness, flopping backwards with a sigh. You adjusted yourself to join him laying down, snuggling up at his side with your arm around his chest, and you leaned in to kiss his cheek and along his jawline. His arm wrapped around you like second nature, pulling you closer, and adjusted your position so you were both lying chest to chest. Naturally, his thigh nudged between yours and you lifted a leg up to wrap around his waist, entangling yourself together with practiced ease. 

George sighed pleasantly into your hair and left a kiss to the same spot while his hand traveled down your body, mapping out your every curve, before finally grabbing a firm handful of your ass. You arched into him at his touch, sharing breathy giggles as your lips sought his in a dreamy kiss. It was casual and lighthearted, tangled together on your bed and sharing lazy kisses to end your evening, hands roaming over familiar bodies and flushed skin.

Soon, your pyjama pants were off and discarded to the floor and before you could get your shirt to follow, he was leaning down to tongue at your breasts through the thin fabric. His large hands caressed your figure, drawing you impossibly closer, encouraging you to grind against his thigh with just a bit more insistence. Your breath was shallow as he kissed and teased your nipples through your shirt until the fabric was dampening from his spit, helping to harden them up until they peaked the material. 

When his thumb and forefinger pinched one of your nipples through your shirt, he let his lips find yours again, licking his way into your mouth in such a way that had you whimpering into his kiss. Your leg tightened around his waist and you rubbed your clothed cunt against his firm thigh and he pushed it harder between your legs to give you more pressure. Groaning into his kiss, your fingers tangled in the back of his hair while your body rocked needily against his. A sensual and warm evening to share.

And then his hand was slipping down the back of your panties and he was shallowly fingering your pussy while you rubbed your clit against his thigh, nothing but the rustle of sheets and the sounds of your shared breaths and sloppy kisses filling your room. When you broke apart to breathe, you fluttered your eyes open to look up at him, nose to nose, cheeks flushed, gazes locked like there was nothing else you wanted to look at for the rest of your lives. 

Until your attention was brought to his hairbund still keeping his hair pushed back from his face and you laughed softly and grasped the back of it to pull it off his head. George ruffled a hand through his hair. 

“What? The hairband wasn’t doing it for you?” he asked playfully.

“Not quite,” you giggled.

He leaned in to kiss your neck and his hands pulled back long enough to start to push up the bottom of your shirt with a teasing, “Well your shirt isn’t doing it for me either.”

You helped him peel it off of you, quickly followed by your underwear, leaving you just as beautifully naked as he was. George’s lips were all over you like a man starved, kissing and sucking down the column of your neck, over your collarbones, your breasts, anywhere he could reach and shower you in affection. You could feel his erection against your thigh, taunting you with every roll of your bodies against each other. 

Finally, you reached down to get your hand on him, blindly stroking him in lazy motions as your eyes fluttered shut with bliss. George groaned against your neck, his fingers finding their way inside you again in shallow nudges just enough to keep you rocking against his thigh. There was no rush or any desire to make the other come faster, it was simply two individuals basking in love and sensuality, making the other feel good, sharing in your closeness. 

Eventually, George was rolling you over onto your back, pinning you flat to the mattress as he reached over to yank open your bedside table drawer. You busied yourself with kissing his neck and shoulders, trailing your fingertips up his sides and over the curve of his ass and into the roots of his hair, patient. He smelled so fresh and clean from his shower and you couldn’t help but inhale the scent of his skin deeply with your nose pressed just under his ear. 

George sat back on his haunches between your spread legs and ripped open the condom packet with a mumbled, “We gotta book you an appointment to get you back on the IUD.”

It had been three years since you had your daughter but life with two kids and your husband out of town most of the year, it just kept getting pushed back on your list of priorities. You acknowledged his statement with a soft hum, watching him roll the condom on himself before he was shifting to lay beside you. He bent your leg up towards your chest so he could get close enough to angle the head of his protected cock against your cunt, giving it a little nudge. 

“Comfy?” he asked as his other arm slid under your neck to cradle you close. 

“Mhm…” you adjusted yourself a little so he could reach you better, “Good.”

His lips pressed to yours in a gentle kiss as he pressed into you slowly, giving you a few slow, shallow thrusts to ease deeper until you were both groaning softly into each other’s mouths. Your fingers clutched the back of his hair as he leaned over you a little, propped up on one side while you were splayed out on your back for him, leg kinked up just enough to give him room. 

George exhaled lowly between tender kisses, breaking away to mutter a small, “Fuck.”

You reached a hand down to rub at your clit, panting against his cheek in your close proximity, taking every gentle thrust he offered you with quiet grace. Neither of you had to speak—after years together, nights like this often progressed as a simple way to scratch an itch—and, instead, you spoke with your eyes, gazing at each other and breathing as one. 

You pulled him down by the back of his neck to get his lips back on yours, moaning sweetly into his mouth as the warmth of pleasure filled your veins. George’s hand tightened on your thigh, keeping your leg bent up to your chest, using it as something to steady himself as he shoved into you a little harder. When you gasped into his kiss, he licked up the sounds of your pleasure with his tongue.

The two of you stayed there, with your lips pressed together, motionless, letting your bodies lead the way. Beneath you, the bed creaked faintly as he set his rhythm a little harder now, his once clean skin starting to feel warm and sweaty against yours as he cradled you close. Your fingers worked faster on your clit as the stretch of him thrusting inside you was drawing you closer. 

“Shit,” you huffed, breaking away from his kiss, resting your forehead against his, “I’m gonna come.”

“Yeah?” George replied warmly against your cheek, not letting up for a second, “Yeah, go on then.”

As much as the world fell away when you were with him in moments such as that, it never fell away enough that hindered your maternal instincts and the second you heard the rattle of the doorknob to your bedroom, you were torn from the moment. George didn’t hear it at first and, instead, he ducked his face into your neck and kept going. 

You pressed your hand against his waist with a slightly panicked, “Stop.”

“What?” George mumbled, lifting his head up to meet your gaze with concern with his cock still nestled inside you.

“Did you lock the door?”

“Yeah, of course.”

There was another rattle of the doorknob followed by a small muffled call from the hallway, “Mommy?”

George huffed and when he eased out of you, he flopped flat onto his back, pulling the duvet up around him as you scrambled to get up and answer the call of your son. You tugged your robe on and hurried to the door, unlocking it and opening it to reveal your six-year-old on the other side, holding the hand of his three-year-old sister, both little ones in their pyjamas and their hair mussed from sleep.

Motherhood made you an expert at hiding the frustrated disappointment in your voice in moments like this, and you passed as nothing more than soft and casual as you asked, “Hey, you two, what’s going on?” 

Lawrence nudged his little sister towards you, “She came into my bed.”

Charlotte, displeased with him pushing her away, stopped her little feet on the hardwood and let out a small cry before slinging her arms possessively around her brother’s waist. Lawrence merely blinked at you, unimpressed, as if to say ‘are you seeing this?’. 

You sighed, both with fondness at the sight of how much love your youngest had for her brother as well as exasperation that she was using that love to bother him at all hours of the night, “Sorry, Laurie, did she wake you?” 

He nodded.

“Dotty,” you cooed to your youngest as you bent down to scoop her up despite her protests, “you can’t go waking up brother in the middle of the night for a snuggle. He needs to sleep.”

The three-year-old held out her arms to her brother from where she was placed on your hip and she let out a small cry, “Laurie!”

You held her down towards him, “Kiss goodnight. You can have cuddles in the morning.”

Lawrence leaned in to kiss his little sister’s cheek which seemed to pacify her, “Night night, Dot. No more waking me up.”

You rangled your children back to bed in their proper rooms, tucking them both back in again and fetching glasses of water upon their demands, and soon you were back in your own room. George was right where you left him, stretched out in bed, duvet draped over his middle, and now with his phone in his hand. He glanced up when you returned and you joined him under the covers with an exasperated sigh. 

“Our kids need to hate each other more, like normal siblings,” you grumbled lightly.

“She snuck into his room again?” George asked with an understanding chuckle. 

“Uh huh.”

He shook his head in disbelief and set his phone down on the bedside table, “Jesus…”

“And now I’m not in the mood anymore.”

“It’s alright…me neither,” George sighed and rolled over to snake an arm around your waist, “We’ll pick it up another time.”

“When they’re moved out.”

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[disasteraleks]

More mini f1 drivers due to popular demand

[haneentifosa005]

Vegas this Vegas that, y'all are missing the real event

[faithsmadhouse]

Happy 1k! Could I get max verstappen and 🫀??

Ruin Me Right||Max Verstappen x Reader

Warnings—Worship kink, ruin kink, dom!Max, sub!Reader, implied aftercare, smut,name calling degradation/praise

Word count—596

A/n— I did a subby max version of this first before I did this one let me know if i should post it!!!!

You’re already on your knees when he walks in.

Bare. Waiting. Breathing like it hurts.

Max doesn’t speak at first. Just stands there, watching you from the doorway, like he’s deciding what to do with you. His jaw ticks. His eyes are dark—not angry, not impatient. Just hungry. And cold.

“Praying for something?” he finally says, voice smooth and sharp as a blade.

You nod slowly. “For you.”

Max smiles. It’s slow, crooked, dangerous. The kind of smile that makes your stomach drop and your thighs clench.

“Of course you are,” he says, stepping closer. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging your head back until you’re looking up at him—mouth parted, eyes wide, trembling.

“You kneel so pretty for me. But I don’t think you want forgiveness.”

“I don’t,” you whisper. “I want to be ruined.”

Max hums, pleased. “Good.”

He drags his thumb over your bottom lip. Pushes it into your mouth. You suck without thinking, needy and eager, moaning around his skin.

“Pathetic little thing,” he murmurs, pulling his thumb free with a wet pop. “All that aching in your belly, and no idea what to do with it unless I tell you.”

“I only want what you give me,” you say, heat flooding through you. “Nothing else matters.”

That earns you a sharp slap across the cheek—just enough to sting. You whimper, tears welling up instantly, more from relief than pain.

“You like it when I hurt you?”

You nod.

“You like knowing I could break you open and you’d still thank me?”

“Yes, Max. Please—please hurt me. Please fuck me. Please use me.”

He grabs you by the jaw and pulls you up roughly to your feet. Presses you back against the wall like he’s staking a claim.

“You wanna be my little altar?” he breathes against your lips. “Wanna let me wreck you?”

“Please,” you whisper. “I want your hands on my throat and your cock in my cunt. I want to feel you tomorrow. I want to ache.”

His mouth crashes down on yours—bruising, brutal. You kiss him like he’s sacred, like salvation lives in his tongue, his spit, his teeth dragging your lip until you whimper. His hands are already everywhere, greedy, pinning you like prey. One slides between your thighs.

“So wet already,” Max murmurs, sinking two fingers inside you without warning. You cry out, hips jerking. “Dripping like a good girl. My sweet, filthy little thing.”

He fingers you slow just to hear you beg. And when he drops his pants and lifts your leg, grinding the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, you sob his name like a hymn.

He thrusts in hard—once, all the way—and you scream, body arching, thighs shaking.

“That’s it,” Max growls, fucking you into the wall like you’re nothing but flesh to be used. “Take it. Take it like you were made for it.”

And you do. You take all of him, clawing at his back, moaning, breaking with every thrust until you’re nothing but wreckage in his hands.

When you cum, it’s wild and overwhelming, his name gasped between sobs.

And after—it shifts. The hands that held you down now cradle your face. The breath that cursed you now whispers your name with reverence.

He kisses you slow. Gentle. Wipes the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs and lets you cling to him as your legs shake.

“You did so good for me,” Max murmurs against your temple. “Let’s get you cleaned up, lie down. I’ve got you, baby. I’ll always have you.”

And he does.

[cheriecelestial]

Thank you for the mini event!! Can I request a F1 Jason Todd x reader story?

Red Lights Pt.1

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ F1 driver!Jason Todd x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ angst. fluff. mild suggestive content. themes of mental health and depression. swearing. car accidents. injuries. mention of drug use. non-canon complacent. not proofread.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ I can't believe i got this request. Just the other day I was like I wanna write an F1 driver au for a character. Anon are you spying on me? Should I be concerned? Nonetheless this made me so so happy. Comment, Like and Reblog (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡ Comment to be added to taglist

Part 2

Jason Peter Todd was a man who, at the peak of his career, could effortlessly be regarded as the very embodiment of Formula 1 excellence. He was everything a driver dreamed of becoming—wealthy, young, impossibly gifted, and the adopted heir of none other than Bruce Wayne, the legendary “Dark Knight” of motorsport himself. A five-time world champion, Bruce in his prime had been a force of nature, drawing comparisons to icons like Ayrton Senna and Alain Prost. And Jason? He was every bit his father's successor—perhaps even destined to surpass him.

Jason wasn't just successful; he was revolutionary. His meteoric rise shattered records with an almost casual ease. He wasn't just the youngest driver to ever compete in Formula 1—he was the youngest to win, and not just any race, but his very first. The accolades piled up faster than his rivals could keep track: most wins in a single season, most podium finishes, highest points tally ever recorded. The list seemed infinite, his potential boundless. The world adored him, idolizing him with near-religious fervor. Corporations fought tooth and nail for his endorsement, desperate to attach their brands to his golden image. Jason Todd—three-time world champion, impossibly handsome, and a marketing juggernaut—had single-handedly propelled Formula 1 into unprecedented popularity. Fans either wanted to stand beside him or become him.

There was no ceiling to what he could achieve. His future was a blinding horizon of endless possibility—until Bahrain.

The Sakhir Grand Prix unfolded under a scorching desert sun, the sky painted in hues of amber as dusk crept over the circuit. The air thrummed with the deafening roars of engines, the grandstands vibrating with the collective anticipation of thousands. The final laps loomed, tension thick enough to cut through. Jason Todd, the prodigy, the phenom, was locked in a relentless pursuit of history—his fourth Bahrain Grand Prix victory within grasp. His car screamed down the straights, tires dancing on the knife's edge of control. He was pushing beyond limits, chasing glory as always.

But as he himself had said once before “Speed is a relentless god. And sometimes, it demands sacrifice.”

Bahrain's Sakhir Circuit had always been a beast of a track—deceptive in its sweeping curves, punishing in its tire degradation, unforgiving to even the slightest misjudgment. Jason's tires were fading fast, the rubber screaming in protest with every high-speed corner. The team's warnings buzzed in his ear, urgent yet distant, drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Roy Harper, his closest friend and fiercest rival, loomed in his mirrors, a mere eight-tenths of a second behind—close enough to strike if Jason so much as blinked.

The radio crackled again, the voice of his engineer strained with concern: “Jason, watch the rear left—it's going off!”

But Jason Todd had never been one to yield. Not to his rivals. Not to the limits of physics. And certainly not to caution. He was five laps away from etching his name deeper into the history books, from claiming yet another record that would silence even his harshest critics. The thrill of the chase, the roar of the crowd, the intoxicating rush of speed—it all blurred into a singular, all-consuming obsession. He knew his car better than anyone alive. He had pushed it beyond its limits before and walked away victorious. Why would this time be any different?

At 200 miles per hour, the world narrowed to a tunnel of asphalt and adrenaline. The next turn approached—a brutal, high-speed corner that demanded precision. He braked hard, but the rear tires, worn to the cords, betrayed him. The car shuddered, the tail snapping out in a violent fishtail. For a heartbeat, his reflexes prevailed—his hands a blur as he wrestled the steering wheel, correcting the slide with the instincts of a champion.

And then—catastrophe.

A deafening bang ripped through the air as his left rear tire failed explosively. The car lurched sideways, spearing toward the barriers at a near-perpendicular angle. The carbon-fiber monocoque—a marvel of engineering designed to withstand brutal impacts—shattered like glass upon collision. The force of the crash sent debris flying in a lethal storm of shrapnel, scattering across the track in a grotesque spectacle. The wreckage rebounded violently, spinning back onto the racing line—just as Roy Harper's car, helpless to avoid the chaos, hurtled into the carnage.

A second impact. A sickening crunch of metal and carbon fiber.

Roy had no time to react. No time to swerve. His front wing speared through the mangled remains of Jason's cockpit like a blade. The halo device—the very piece of safety equipment designed to protect drivers from such horrors—held firm, but the sheer force of the collision tore the survival cell apart, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.

“Jason? Jason, can you hear me?”

The voice of Dick Grayson—Jason's brother, his race engineer and his unwavering support—crackled over the radio, raw with desperation. A silence followed, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant wail of sirens.

And then, as if the universe itself sought to twist the knife deeper, fuel from Roy's ruptured tank spilled onto the scorched asphalt. A single spark—a fleeting, inevitable spark—ignited the fumes.

The world erupted in flames.

Marshals in fireproof suits charged forward, their extinguishers spraying thick plumes of retardant, but the devastation was absolute. The grandstands fell eerily silent, thousands of spectators frozen in horror. Mechanics, engineers, and rival team members stood motionless, hands clasped in prayer or pressed over mouths in disbelief. Roy Harper, miraculously conscious but dazed, was dragged from his ruined car with relative ease—his injuries severe but survivable.

But Jason Todd?

The reigning world champion was still trapped inside the inferno.

The fireproof material of his race suit glowed beneath the flames, his silhouette barely visible through the thick, black smoke. Over the team radio, Dick Grayson's voice cracked with increasing desperation, begging for any sign of life. “Jason, talk to me. Please, just say something—anything!” Only static answered.

The medical car arrived within seconds, but the violence of the crash had left almost no room for hope. The extraction was a nightmare—jaws of life prying apart twisted metal, paramedics shouting over the roar of the flames. When they finally pulled him free, his body was limp, his helmet scorched, his suit seared in places. The world blurred into chaos after that—screaming sirens, frantic radio calls, the paddock holding its breath.

Then, whispers spread through the garage like wildfire.

The hospital's initial prognosis was grim: incompatible with life. The injuries were catastrophic—internal bleeding, multiple fractures, third-degree burns covering nearly 40% of his body. At one point, his heart stopped entirely, flatlining for over a minute as Bruce Wayne, the legendary Dark Knight of motorsport, stood helpless outside the ICU, restraining a sobbing Dick Grayson from pounding on the glass in sheer despair.

Time of death: 20:45 hours.

The words hung in the air like a death knell.

But then—

A single, weak beep.

The head surgeon blinked, certain he had imagined it. Then another. And another. Jason's heart, stubborn as the man himself, refused to surrender. The news rocketed through the paddock, a shockwave of disbelief and cautious relief: Jason Peter Todd was alive. Barely. Clinging to life by the thinnest of threads, but alive.

What followed was a waking nightmare.

Roy Harper, consumed by guilt, retired from Formula 1 immediately, unable to bear the weight of what had happened. Months later, he was found half-dead in a hotel room, an empty bottle of pills beside him—another casualty of that cursed day. The FIA scrambled to implement new safety regulations, mandating stronger cockpit protections and stricter tire wear monitoring. The team, once dominant, floundered without their star driver.

And Jason?

He slept.

For six agonizing months, he remained in a coma, his body healing at a glacial pace. When he finally woke, the details were kept fiercely private—no press releases, no interviews, just a single, guarded statement confirming his consciousness. But those who saw him in those early days knew: the Jason Todd who emerged from the darkness was not the same man who had entered it.

The fire had taken more than just flesh.

It had taken a legend.

“I want to race.”

The words hit Bruce Wayne like a physical blow.

For a man who had stood unshaken in the face of countless crises—both as a five-time world champion and as the iron-willed owner of Wayne Racing—the sheer weight of that simple declaration brought the world to a staggering halt. His son's voice was barely more than a whisper, raw and fractured, yet burning with a desperation that cut deeper than any scream could have.

It had been two months since Jason Todd had woken from the abyss of his coma. Two months of slow, agonizing progress—of bandages being peeled away, of casts removed, of wounds grudgingly closing. The hospital had kept the worst of the scarring hidden beneath layers of sterile gauze, not just for medical reasons, but out of fear for his fragile psyche. The first days after his awakening had been a storm of rage and denial—violent outbursts that left nurses scrambling for sedatives, his own body betraying him as orderlies pinned him down to keep him from tearing at IV lines and heart monitor leads.

The crash had taken more than flesh and bone. The doctors had warned Bruce in hushed tones: PTSD. Depression. Nightmares that never end. Jason's body, though stable, was a battleground. His mind? A warzone.

“I understand, Jay, but—”

“No, you don't!” Jason's voice shattered like glass against steel. “You don't get it! These four walls, these fucking machines and tubes—they're driving me insane. I don't belong here!”

And he was right.

Jason Todd had never been meant for cages. He was wildfire in human form—meant to blaze across the rain-slicked straights of Interlagos, to carve through the golden-hour shadows of COTA's esses, to exist where the air smelled of scorched rubber and high-octane fuel, not antiseptic and despair. The hospital was a prison, and every second spent trapped inside it was another piece of him dying.

Bruce exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor rather than meeting his son's fever-bright eyes. “Jason,” he said, forcing calm into his voice, “you need to heal.”

Jason's hands clenched into fists, the heart rate monitor spiking beside him. “I have healed enough!”

The words weren't just defiance—they were a plea, a demand, a last stand. Because Jason Todd had spent his entire life pushing past limits, and this? This was no different.

Except it was.

And the crushing weight of that truth hung between them, suffocating and unspoken. Bruce, the man who had faced down the most ruthless competitors on the track, who had rebuilt entire teams from ashes, found himself paralyzed by the one battle he couldn't strategize his way out of. How do you make a force of nature understand it's been fractured?

Bruce didn't—couldn't—answer. The silence that followed was deafening, thick with everything left unsaid. The heart monitor's steady beep mocked them, a cruel reminder of time moving forward even when Jason's world had screeched to a halt.

Then, like a blade slicing through the tension, Jason spoke again, his voice stripped of its earlier fire, replaced by something colder. “Who did the seat go to?”

It was a logical question. The season hadn't ended with his crash. The circus marched on, the cars kept racing, and the world didn't stop turning just because Jason Todd had been ripped out of his cockpit.

“Tim got the seat.”

Tim Drake. The reigning F2 champion. Bruce's godson. The kid with a mind sharper than a scalpel and reflexes that bordered on preternatural. After his parents' tragic death, Bruce had taken him in, just as he had with Jason. And Jason knew—hated that he knew—Tim was good. Scary good. But potential didn't change the brutal arithmetic of Formula 1: seats were finite. Tim's promotion meant Jason's throne had been filled before he'd even left the ICU.

Before the crash, Jason's teammate had been Cassandra Cain. A prodigy in her own right, the only woman on the grid outside of Themyscira Formula One team—Diana Prince's all-female team, founded to shatter the sport's glass ceiling. Cass had been more than a teammate; she'd become family. Diana herself had tried to poach her, offering a coveted seat in her revolutionary outfit. But Cass had chosen Wayne Racing, loyalty outweighing opportunity. And Jason would sooner set himself on fire again than take her place.

“He's half-baked at best,” Jason spat, the words dripping with acid. His fingers dug into the sheets, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. “I saw him at testing. He can't do shit.”

Tim Drake was brilliant. A prodigy by any measure, but raw talent wasn't enough in Formula 1 and brilliance didn't erase inexperience. Not when you were thrust into the spotlight mid-season, expected to fill the void left by a living legend. Not when every lap, every turn, every mistake was measured against the ghost of Jason Todd—the youngest champion, the record-breaker, the firebrand who had redefined what it meant to be fearless behind the wheel.

Tim wasn't just racing against the competition. He was racing against a memory. And right now, memory was winning.

Bruce exhaled, slow and measured. “But that doesn't change the fact that you're not ready yet.”

Jason's jaw clenched. “The season's coming to an end. I have plenty of time to train and get back in the game by the time next season rolls around.”

“Jason, but—”

“YOU DON'T GET TO TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME!”

The roar tore through the room, raw and unfiltered. In a flash of movement, Jason's hand shot out, snatching the call remote from the side of his bed. Before Bruce could react, it was hurled through the air with enough force to shatter the fragile illusion of control Jason had been clinging to.

Bruce sidestepped on instinct, the remote clattering against the wall behind him. But when his gaze snapped back to his son—really looked at him for the first time since entering the room—something in him faltered.

A flinch.

Subtle, involuntary, but there.

Jason saw it. Saw the way Bruce's eyes flickered, the way his breath hitched for the barest fraction of a second. Saw the look in his father's gaze—not just concern, not just frustration, but something far worse.

Revulsion.

Or at least, that's what it felt like.

The realization hit Jason like a lightning. His chest tightened, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it had surged, leaving behind something hollow and brittle.

Bruce Wayne—the man who had faced down the most dangerous corners in the world without blinking, who had stared death in the eye more times than he could count—flinched at the sight of his own son.

And in that moment, Jason understood.

This wasn't just about whether he was ready to race again.

This was about whether he'd ever be seen the same way again.

“Boy Wonder No More?”“Crash Down Bahrain Lane: What It Means for the Champion Team”“Robin Fails to Fly”

The headlines screamed at him from every newsstand, every digital feed, every godforsaken screen in the hospital waiting room. Bold, black letters against stark white backgrounds, each one a dagger twisting deeper into the wound. And beneath them—always beneath them—the same grotesque images: his car wrapped around the barriers, the inferno licking at the sky, the thick plume of smoke staining the Bahraini horizon like an omen.

They had reduced his entire legacy to a single, catastrophic moment.

Three-time world champion. Youngest race winner in history. The driver who had redefined dominance. None of it mattered now. The trophies gathering dust in Wayne Manor's halls, the records that still bore his name, the races where he'd crossed the line with his fist raised in triumph—all of it was trumped by one mistake. One lapse in judgment. One turn taken a fraction too late.

Jason Todd: No longer the Boy Wonder. Now, forevermore, The One Who Died.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He had died—if only for a minute. Flatlined on the table, his heart stubbornly restarting as if to spite the universe itself. But the world didn't care about comebacks. It cared about spectacle. And what was more spectacular than the fall of a golden child?

He was Lucifer, wasn't he? God's most favored son, the brightest of angels, cast down from heaven for the sin of pride. Wings broken, flames licking at his heels as he plummeted into the abyss. Maybe it had always been inevitable. Maybe this was his divine punishment—for daring to believe he was untouchable, for thinking the throne was his by right.

Fall from grace. Fall from his throne. Fall from his rightful spot.

So he trained.

Day and night, through the pain that lanced up his spine with every movement, through the phantom screams of tires that echoed in his dreams. He pushed his body to the brink, then past it, his muscles screaming in protest as he forced them to remember what they'd once been capable of. The rage inside him was a living thing, coiled tight around his ribs, whispering in his ear: Prove them wrong. Make them regret it.

There were days when the fury was all-consuming, a black tide that drowned out reason. Days when he'd catch his reflection—the scars, the hollows under his eyes, the gauntness of a face that had once been called ridiculously pretty—and something inside him would snap. Mirrors shattered under his fists. Posters torn from walls, trophies hurled across rooms, their polished surfaces dented against the hardwood. The boy who had been worshiped now couldn't stand the sight of himself.

Bruce tried. He really did. He threw money at the media, buying silence where he could, burying stories of Jason's outbursts beneath layers of PR spin and legal threats. Staff members who looked at Jason with pity in their eyes found themselves abruptly unemployed. But none of it changed the truth: Bruce Wayne, for all his resources, all his power, didn't know how to fix this.

How do you mend a shattered reputation? How do you rebuild a ghost?

The world had already written Jason Todd's epitaph. Now he had to claw his way out of the grave.

The new season began with a quiet humiliation—Tim Drake, the temporary heir to Jason's throne, was demoted back to F2 with barely a whisper of protest. If anything, the young driver seemed relieved to return to the junior category, away from the suffocating expectations of filling Jason Todd's fireproof shoes.

Jason reclaimed his seat, but not his crown.

The first race back was... acceptable. Mediocre by his old standards, but passable for a man who'd crawled back from death's doorstep. The commentators tiptoed around his performance—“He's shaking off rust,” they said. “The speed will come,” they assured. But Jason heard the unspoken truth beneath their carefully chosen words: the fire that had once made him untouchable had dimmed to embers.

Heavens know how he tried. But no amount of willpower could stop his breath from shortening at corners that reminded him of that turn in Bahrain. No mental gymnastics could prevent his palms from sweating through his gloves when the pack bunched too close. The doctors had a name for it: PTSD-induced panic attacks. Jason had another word for it: weakness.

And weakness had no place in Formula 1.

Race after race, he watched helplessly as rivals streamed past—drivers he'd once dominated now leaving him in their wake. The unthinkable happened in Jeddah: Jason Todd, the boy wonder who'd podiumed here in his rookie year, finished outside the points for the first time since his debut.

The garage wrapped him in cotton-wool encouragement. “You'll get there, J.” “Just need more seat time.” Each well-meaning word landed like a scalpel, peeling back layers of pride to reveal the rot beneath—their pity, their disappointment, their fading belief in the myth of Jason Todd.

He wanted to scream. To tear the fucking garage apart. To make them all see—really see—what this was doing to him. But he stayed silent, letting their hollow encouragement wash over him like acid rain.

The truth was simple: Jason Todd wasn't back. He was just... there. Haunting his own career. And the worst part? He wasn't sure which was more unbearable—the idea that this might be permanent, or the terrifying possibility that the old Jason, the real Jason, had died in that Bahrain crash after all.

Jason leaned heavily against the balcony railing, a cigarette dangling carelessly between his fingers. Below him, the team party roared on—champagne corks popping, laughter ringing through the Wayne Racing hospitality suite. Cass had podiumed at their home race in Gotham, keeping the team's legacy alive where he had failed. He was proud of her. She'd earned this. But pride couldn't fill the hollow space in his chest where ambition used to live.

The nicotine burned his lungs in a way that felt almost comforting. The old Jason—the real Jason—had treated his body like a temple. No alcohol, no junk food, certainly no cigarettes. Every calorie counted, every heartbeat optimized for performance. But that man had died in Bahrain. This new version of him? This one didn't give a damn.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the Gotham night. It was funny, in a twisted way. Every drag brought him back to that moment—the acrid smell of burning carbon fiber, the taste of gasoline and fear. In a world where nothing felt familiar anymore, only the memory of his destruction remained vivid.

“I thought F1 drivers weren't allowed to smoke.”

The voice startled him. He turned to see a young woman swaying slightly, her cocktail sloshing precariously in her hand. She couldn't have been more than mid to early twenties, her designer dress wrinkled from dancing, her makeup smudged at the edges. Some sponsor's daughter, probably. Or a journalist's plus-one.

“You shouldn't be here,” Jason said flatly. “The bar's over there.” He gestured vaguely toward the party without looking at her.

“Smoking is bad for you,” she persisted, ignoring his dismissal. “You're the best of the best. You're supposed to—”

“I'm roadkill, sweetheart.” The words came out harsher than he intended, edged with something bitter. “All charred meat and bones. Ain't nothing special anymore.” He waved the cigarette absently, sending a lazy spiral of smoke her way. “They don't get rid of me ‘cause I've got too much on them to lose.”

For a second, she just blinked at him. Then, with a suddenness that almost made him laugh, she snatched the cigarette from his fingers and flicked it over the railing.

“Hey—!”

“You listen up,” she slurred, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You are Jason fucking Todd. You are literally the coolest.” Her words were drunken, but her conviction was startling. She said it like it was scripture. Like she truly believed it from the bottom of her heart.

“That was before the—”

“NO!”

Her voice cut through the night, sharp and unyielding, all traces of drunken slurring stripped away by sheer frustration. She stepped closer, invading his space, her finger jabbing into his chest with enough force to make him stagger back half a step. The scent of vodka and citrus clung to her breath, but her gaze was startlingly clear—burning with an intensity that pinned him in place.

“Don't you dare give me that.”

Her words struck like a hammer to glass.

“You're still him. It doesn't matter how deep you bury yourself in hate and self-pity, you're still the Jason I know.” Her voice cracked, raw with something that sounded too much like betrayal. “And honestly? You're the best out there is— snap the fuck out of it. And also don’t you dare talk smack about my idol. Because I will fight you for it.”

Normally, Jason would’ve had security drag her away by now. Normally, he wouldn’t tolerate some drunk stranger laying into him like this. But there was nothing normal about tonight.

Because she wasn’t tiptoeing around him. Wasn’t feeding him hollow platitudes or empty encouragement. She was the first person in months who looked at him and didn’t see a cautionary tale—just a man too stubborn to climb out of the hole he dug himself.

And damn if that didn’t terrify him.

Her hands flew to his shoulders, shaking him with a desperation that bordered on violence. “Why do you do this to yourself?” Her voice broke, and suddenly, the anger bled into something else entirely. Tears spilled over, streaking her mascara in inky rivers down her cheeks. The dam broke—great, heaving sobs wracked her frame, her words dissolving into incoherent hiccups.

Jason stood frozen, arms stiff at his sides, utterly unprepared for the emotional hurricane in front of him. He glanced toward the party, grateful the crowd was still oblivious, but the reprieve was short-lived.

Footsteps pounded against the terrace tiles.

Danny, one of his oldest friends, a race mechanic who’d known him since their karting days—burst onto the balcony, breathless and wide-eyed.

The woman whirled, launching herself at Danny with a wail. “Dan-Dan, he—” She jabbed a finger wildly at Jason, her words devolving into unintelligible sniffles.

Danny caught her, steadying her swaying frame. “He what?”

“He’s being mean.”

Jason’s hands flew up in surrender. “I didn’t do anything to her!”

Danny’s gaze flicked between them, bewildered. “To whom?”

“To himself!” she wailed, fresh tears erupting. “Tell him to stop!”

Realization dawned on Danny’s face, followed swiftly by mortification. He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling through his nose like a man praying for patience.

“Toddster, I am so sorry for her behavior,” he muttered, already maneuvering her toward the door. “Please forgive her.”

Jason barely had time to process before Danny hauled her away, her protests fading into the din of the party.

The balcony was silent again.

Jason stared at the empty space where they’d stood.

What the hell just happened?

The next race weekend arrived with an unexpected turn—Jason clawed his way past the midfield, securing a respectable finish that, while nowhere near his former glory, at least silenced the whispers of his inevitable decline. The garage hummed with cautious optimism, the tension easing just enough for Dick to crack a joke, for the engineers to clap him on the back without that lingering hesitation. It was progress.

But Jason's mind wasn't on the race.

It was on her.

That drunken, furious woman who'd screamed at him like he was worth the effort. Her words had burrowed under his skin, festering like a splinter he couldn't dig out. “You're still the Jason I know.” The worst part? She'd said it like she meant it. Like she'd seen him—really seen him—through the wreckage of Bahrain and still believed in whatever of himself remained.

He'd resigned himself to never seeing her again.

Until the broadcast screens flashed her face.

There she was—no smudged mascara, no vodka-induced haze—standing trackside with a microphone in hand, interviewing the podium finishers with effortless charm. The realization hit him like a missed gear shift: she wasn't just some random party crasher. She was one of the presenters. And now that he really looked, he did recognize her. Not just from the balcony, but from the periphery of his world for months. Lingering near Danny in the garage, passing through the paddock with a press badge. He'd been too consumed by his own spiral to notice.

His curiosity flared.

He watched her wrap up the interview, then slip toward the back of the garage—a restricted area for presenters. Equipment rooms weren't on the media tour. Even if she was connected to Danny, she had no business there.

For the sake of the company, Jason told himself, and followed.

The equipment room was dim, cluttered with spare parts and toolkits. She was already inside, rummaging through a duffel bag that looked suspiciously personal.

“Looking for something, miss?”

She whirled, clutching the bag to her chest like a shield. “I-I wasn't snooping, I swear! I just came to get my bag—”

“Yes, of course,” Jason said, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. “And about that night on the terrace...”

Her face drained of color, lips parting slightly as if she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. “I'm so sorry, really,” she stammered, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “I understand if you want to press charges, but just know I—”

“Actually,” Jason interrupted, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it, “I wanted to thank you.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. “What.”

It wasn't a question—it was pure, unfiltered disbelief, the kind that left her rooted to the spot, staring at him like he'd just spoken in tongues.

Jason exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck in a rare show of vulnerability. The movement was almost self-conscious, as if he wasn't entirely sure how to navigate this moment either. “You were right,” he admitted, the words rough but sincere. “About... all of it.”

His gaze lifted to hers, bracing for the pity he'd grown so accustomed to seeing in people's eyes. But it wasn't there. Instead, he found something far more disarming—wary confusion, yes, but beneath it, a flicker of something that might've been hope. Or maybe just surprise that he hadn't thrown her out of the garage yet.

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged.

Then, as if her brain had finally caught up with the absurdity of the situation, she blurted: “So... you're not gonna press charges? Or slap me with a lawsuit that would probably cost more than everything I own and land me in jail?” The words tumbled out in a rush, her hands gesturing wildly. “Because, honestly, I've been mentally preparing for that exact scenario for the past week, and—”

Jason laughed.

Not the hollow, humorless sound he'd been making for the past year, but a real, genuine laugh—the kind that caught even him off guard. It rumbled deep in his chest, startlingly warm in the dim light of the equipment room.

“Not today, sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head. Then, with a smirk that was equal parts challenge and invitation: “But if you're feeling that guilty, you could make it up to me by keeping me company over dinner.”

The woman looked like she was about to faint.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You—what?”

Jason arched a brow. “You heard me.”

“You're asking me to dinner?”

“Unless you'd prefer the lawsuit?”

She stared at him, torn between disbelief and the dawning realization that he was, in fact, serious. And then—slowly, hesitantly—the corners of her lips curled upward. “You're insane.”

Jason grinned. “Yeah. Thought you knew that already. So what's the verdict?”

She exhaled, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe her own answer. “...Fine. Better than a ruined career I suppose.”

“That's the spirit,” Jason said, pushing off the doorframe. “Now, you gonna tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you ‘the drunk girl who yelled at me’ in my head?”

“Oh my god,” She groaned, covering her face with her hands. 

The moment Jason’s manager contacted her after their encounter in the equipment room, reality hit like a sudden downpour at a race—unexpected and impossible to ignore. A sleek car would arrive at her doorstep at 7 PM sharp, the message stated, its tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, caught between exhilaration and sheer terror.

What if this was all an elaborate trap?

The thought circled her mind like a vulture. Maybe Jason Todd had taken offense to her drunken tirade, and this dinner was simply a prelude to legal annihilation—a chance to personally serve her with a lawsuit that would bankrupt her and tarnish her fledgling career before it even took off. The possibilities were endless, and none of them comforting.

But beneath the anxiety, a traitorous spark of anticipation flickered.

Because it was Jason Todd.

Three-time world champion. The man whose posters had adorned her walls as a teenager. The driver whose career she’d followed with near-religious devotion long before she ever stepped foot in the paddock as a presenter. And now? Now she was supposed to sit across from him at a dinner table without combusting from sheer nerves.

Outfit crisis imminent.

As a presenter, her wardrobe was extensive—filled with sleek blazers, tailored dresses, and enough heels to make a fashion blogger weep. But suddenly, nothing felt sufficient. Too formal? Too casual? Too try-hard? She stood frozen in front of her closet, hands buried in her hair, as the existential dread mounted.

“Steph. Help.”

The phone call to Stephanie Brown—her closest friend and a rising star in the motorsports styling world—was nothing short of a distress signal.

“I have a very, very, very important dinner today, and I have nothing to wear. What do I do? Should I just die? God, I can’t do this. I—”

“Woah, woah, easy, girl,” Steph interrupted, her voice a calming anchor amidst the storm. “I caught ‘dinner,’ ‘important,’ and ‘nothing to wear’—that correct?” A muffled sound followed, then Steph’s sharp, “Tim, stop that—”

“Uh-huh,” she confirmed, nodding vigorously out of habit despite Steph’s inability to see her. “Also, tell Tim congratulations for his podium. I was going to catch up with you guys, but you’d already flown out.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Steph sighed. “Tim just couldn’t wait to get some ‘me time’ at home.” The unspoken eye roll was almost audible.

“That’s okay. It’s understandable.”

“See? Y/N gets it!” Tim’s voice chirped in the background, smug.

“Shut up, Timothy,” Steph snapped. “Ain’t nobody asked yo ass.” What followed was a familiar symphony of bickering— a dynamic so ingrained it nearly made her smile despite her panic.

“Steph! Dinner!” she interjected before the couple could fully derail.

“Oh, right.” Steph’s tone shifted back to business. “Let’s see—is this like a professional ‘don’t fuck with me’ dinner? Or a ‘I lowkey wanna bang you’ dinner? Or a ‘this could’ve been an email’ dinner?”

The blunt categorization forced a laugh out of her, but the truth was far more complicated. “It’s a ‘please don’t kill me and my career’ dinner,” she confessed, voice small.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Y/N,” Steph said slowly, “What did you do?”

“Fucked up big time.” The admission came out in a rush, followed by Tim’s audible “Ooh,” in the background.

“Shut up, Tim!” Both girls barked in unison, effectively silencing the young driver.

Steph’s sigh was long-suffering. “Alright. First, breathe. Second, we’re fixing this. But you owe me the full story later.”

Y/N had stood in the presence of racing legends before - interviewed world champions with champagne still dripping from their hair, exchanged banter with team principals who controlled billion-dollar empires, even moderated press conferences where the tension between rival drivers could have powered the entire paddock. Yet none of those experiences could compare to the visceral, gut-churning nerves currently twisting her stomach into knots as the luxury car glided toward the restaurant.

It was ironic really. She'd interacted with Jason Todd quite a few times in professional settings - the obligatory media day interviews, the post-race scrums where she'd lobbed softball questions about tire strategy and a couple more here and there. Those encounters should have made this easier. Familiarity should have bred comfort.

But this wasn't a media event with carefully scripted questions and PR handlers monitoring every word. This was dinner. Intimate. Unfiltered. Just two people and whatever uncomfortable truths might surface between the appetizer and dessert.

Before that disastrous night on the terrace, she would have sold her soul for this opportunity - a private audience with the man whose racing prowess had inspired her career path. Now? Now she fantasized about the floor opening up beneath her. The cruel twist of fate wasn't just that Jason Todd finally knew she existed - it was that he knew her as the drunken harpy who'd screamed at him like some deranged fangirl.

Her fingers plucked nervously at the burgundy tulle of her dress, the delicate fabric whispering with every fidget. Stephanie had insisted this was the perfect choice - “It says ‘I’m too sexy to kill, so please don't ruin my career’,” she'd declared while wrestling Y/N into the designer garment through the phone. The color was no accident either: Jason's signature shade, the one that adorned his helmet and racing suit. A subtle homage or a desperate plea for mercy? She wasn't sure anymore.

The car slowed as they approached their destination - one of those impossibly exclusive restaurants where the maître d' could spot an impostor from fifty paces. The kind of establishment where reservations required connections more than money, though God knew there'd be plenty of both behind these doors. Y/N had walked past places like this her whole life, never imagining she'd actually enter one - certainly not under these circumstances.

Through the tinted windows, the restaurant's facade glowed like some temple of the elite, its polished brass and artfully distressed oak radiating quiet money and old-world power. The sort of place where Bruce Wayne might hold court in a private dining room while discussing billion-dollar deals between courses.

Her throat went dry. Against the combined might of Wayne Enterprises and Jason Todd's racing fortune, she was utterly insignificant. A single ill-advised outburst could vaporize not just her career, but Danny's position at the team too. The weight of that realization settled over her like a lead apron as the car door opened, releasing her into the lion's den.

The maître d' didn't even check the reservation list. One glance at her and he was nodding deferentially. “Mr. Todd's guest. Right this way.”

Her heels clicked against the marble floor like a countdown to judgment. Somewhere in this temple of haute cuisine, Jason Todd waited and Y/N wasn't sure whether to beg for forgiveness or prepare for war. The ambient chatter of the elite patrons seemed to fade into a distant hum as her eyes scanned the dimly lit dining room, searching for the one face that had haunted her thoughts since that disastrous balcony confrontation.

And then she saw him.

Jason Todd sat bathed in the warm glow of an artfully placed spotlight, looking every bit the racing royalty he was. The crisp lines of his tailored shirt—a deep burgundy that matched her dress with embarrassing precision—stretched across his broad shoulders, the top button undone just enough to reveal the faintest glimpse of the scars that marred his collarbone and running up his neck. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run his fingers through it one too many times in frustration and the ghost of a smirk played at the corner of his lips as he watched her approach.

“Wasn't aware there was a dress code,” he remarked dryly, his voice laced with amusement as his gaze flickered pointedly between her dress and his own shirt.

Y/N felt the heat rise to her cheeks, turning her face the same shade as the offending fabric. Goddammit, Stephanie.

“It's a coincidence,” she muttered, sliding into the plush chair opposite him with all the grace of a startled deer. Her eyes darted anywhere but at him—studying the intricate pattern of the tablecloth, the way the candlelight reflected off the polished silverware, the distant exit sign she was sorely tempted to bolt toward.

Jason chuckled lowly, the sound sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. “I know I ain’t much to look at, but you don’t need to make it so obvious,” he teased, accepting the leather-bound menu from the waiter with a nod of thanks.

Her head snapped up at that, indignation momentarily overriding her embarrassment. “What? No! You're gorgeous—”

The words tumbled out unchecked, her filter obliterated by sheer panic.

Jason froze, the menu hovering mid-air as his eyebrows shot up in surprise. A slow, dangerously smug grin spread across his face. “I see,” he drawled, the teasing lilt in his voice making her want to vault over the table and strangle him—or maybe herself.

Mortified, Y/N yanked the menu up like a shield, pressing the cool leather against her burning face. You're so done, Y/N, her inner voice screamed at her, equal parts horrified and exasperated.

From behind her makeshift barricade, she heard Jason let out a huff that oddly sounded like a  laugh—the kind that vibrated through his chest and made her traitorous stomach flip. “You planning to order from behind there or should I just guess what you want?”

She groaned, the sound muffled by the menu. It trembled slightly in Y/N's grip as she fought to regain control of her traitorous tongue. The embossed letters blurred before her eyes— foie gras, truffle-infused something, caviar that probably cost more than her monthly rent. None of it registered.

The candle between them cast flickering shadows across the sharp planes of his face, highlighting the faint scar that bisected his left eyebrow— a souvenir from his early racing days that no media outlet had ever gotten the full story on.

“It's a bold strategy,” Jason mused, leaning back in his chair with the effortless grace of someone completely at home in this world of white tablecloths and thousand-dollar bottles of wine. “First you scream at me drunk, now you're trying to suffocate yourself with the menu. I'm starting to think you've got a death wish, doll.”

Y/N finally dropped the menu with a defeated thud. “I was hoping for spontaneous combustion actually,” she admitted, reaching for her water glass with only the slightest tremor in her fingers. “Seems more dignified than whatever this is.”

Jason's laughter rang out, unfiltered and unguarded. It transformed his face completely - the harsh lines of trauma and exhaustion momentarily smoothed away, revealing the more of the boyish charmer who'd taken the racing world by storm years ago, almost making Y/N's heart stagger.

“But you know,” He said swirling the liquid in his glass with deliberate nonchalance, “most people who think I'm going to ruin their careers don't compliment me quite so... enthusiastically.”

The ice cubes clinked mockingly as he took a sip.

“I was being polite,” Y/N lied through clenched teeth, surrendering her menu shield to the hovering waiter.

“Polite would've been ‘you clean up nice.’ But ‘Gorgeous’?” He leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching the gold flecks in his otherwise stormy eyes. “That's the kind of word that makes a man think dangerous thoughts.”

The waiter chose that moment to reappear with their first course - some delicate arrangement of edible flowers and microgreens that looked more like a museum installation than food. Y/N seized the distraction like a lifeline, stabbing at her plate with slightly more force than necessary.

“Careful,” Jason murmured, watching her assault on the defenseless appetizer. “That fork's not one of my sponsors.” Y/N shrugged and muttered something unintelligble before continuning with the same.

“Christ, you’re something else,” he said, shaking his head as he signaled the sommelier. When he turned back, his expression had shifted into something more contemplative. “Look, let's get one thing straight - you're not here because I'm planning to sue you into oblivion.”

The waiter arrived with the wine list before she could respond. Jason barely glanced at it. “The '89 Margaux,” he said automatically, then paused. “Unless you'd prefer something else?”

Y/N blinked. That particular Bordeaux cost more than what she made in a month. “The... the Margaux is perfect,” she managed, watching as Jason nodded dismissal to the waiter.

When they were alone again, he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. The movement caused his shirt to pull tight across his shoulders, and Y/N suddenly found the stem of her water glass fascinating.

“I asked you here,” Jason continued, voice dropping into a more serious register, “because you were the first person in a year who didn't treat me like either a ticking time bomb or a broken trophy.” His fingers traced the rim of his glass absentmindedly.

The raw honesty in his words stole Y/N's breath. This wasn't the carefully curated media persona or the angry driver she'd confronted on the balcony. This was Jason Todd stripped bare— vulnerable in a way she'd never imagined seeing.

Her professional instincts warred with something far more personal. “I saw someone who needed to get his head out of his ass,” she said before she could stop herself, then immediately winced. “Sorry, that was-”

“No,” Jason interrupted, that ghost of a smile returning. “That's exactly it. It was... refreshing. Let's just say it helped me think differently.” His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the tablecloth. “And I'd like to thank you for that.”

Y/N nodded slowly, taking a deliberate sip of her wine to buy time. The rich, oaky flavor bloomed across her tongue. “You're welcome, I suppose,” she murmured, the rim of the glass muffling her words slightly.

An awkward silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant clink of silverware and the muted conversations of other diners. Jason's gaze drifted to the window where Gotham's skyline glittered against the night sky, his expression unreadable.

“You know,” he said suddenly, turning back to her with renewed focus, “you're free to make conversation with me. It's more entertaining than most people I talk to.”

The challenge in his tone sparked something in Y/N. She tilted her head, considering him for a long moment before asking, “So what do you do when you're not racing?”

It was a genuine question - one she'd always wondered about. In every interview she'd ever watched or conducted with Jason Todd, the conversation inevitably circled back to racing strategies, training regimens, or future competitions. His social media showed nothing but carefully curated content - podium finishes, sponsor events, the occasional vacation photo that still somehow related to racing. There was never any glimpse of who Jason Todd might be when he stepped away from the track.

Jason opened his mouth automatically. “Um, I usually train or go over my past races, analyze data, study tracks—”

“No,” Y/N interrupted gently but firmly. “I mean outside of racing. You've pretty much dedicated all of you to racing, but who is Jason Todd outside of that?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. His fingers stilled against the tablecloth, and for the first time that evening, the ever-present confidence in his posture faltered slightly. The silence stretched between them, growing heavier with each passing second.

Jason's brow furrowed as he stared into his wine glass, as if the answer might be hidden in its depths. When he finally looked up, there was something unsettlingly vulnerable in his expression.

He paused, then continued with a soft huff of self-deprecating laughter, “I mean I used to read.” The admission came slowly, dragged up from some long-buried place in his memory. “Before races. History, mostly.” A faint, nostalgic smile touched his lips. “There was... there was something about empires rising and falling that put the whole 'will I qualify P1 or P2' thing in perspective.”

Y/N found herself leaning forward without realizing it. This was new territory - an actual glimpse behind the carefully constructed media persona. The Jason Todd of press conferences and interviews was all sharp edges and racing statistics, a human embodiment of competitive drive. This Jason? This one had layers.

“And now?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, afraid to break the fragile moment.

Jason's thumb traced slow circles around the base of his glass, his gaze distant. “Now I...” The sentence trailed off into silence, his brow furrowing deeper. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a rougher edge, the words tinged with something like self-reproach. “Christ, you're right. There isn't a Jason Todd outside of racing. Hasn't been for a long time.”

Y/N could see the moment of realization hitting him, could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he confronted this truth about himself. The way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the slight narrowing of his eyes - she recognized the signs of someone spiraling inward with uncomfortable self-examination.

Seeking to lighten the mood before it turned too heavy, she quipped, “For someone who just admitted he has no life outside racing, you're doing a terrible job of convincing me to take this dinner seriously as a networking opportunity.”

The tension shattered as Jason barked out a surprised laugh that made the waiters look curiously. “Fuck you,” he shot back, but there was no real venom in it - just a warmth that softened the edges of his usual sharp demeanor. He speared a bite of his appetizer with more force than necessary, the action betraying his lingering discomfort with the direction of their conversation. “Fine. Next time I'll lie. Tell you I breed rare orchids or some shit.”

“Next time?” Y/N raised an eyebrow, her own fork hovering mid-air as she caught the implication.

Jason froze for a fraction of a second, then recovered with a shrug that was far too studied to be casual. “Figure of speech.” But the way his eyes darted briefly away, the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, told a different story entirely.

Y/N deadpanned, “You just admitted your entire identity is wrapped up in going fast in circles. That means we've got our work cut out for us.”

“'We'?” Jason latched onto the word with surprising quickness, his tone dripping with exaggerated sarcasm though something in his eyes betrayed genuine curiosity. “As in you want to accompany me in this grand journey of self-discovery?” The question was framed as rhetorical, but there was an undercurrent of something more - a quiet hope that surprised even him.

Y/N smiled at his characteristic sarcastic flair, recognizing the defense mechanism for what it was. “That depends on you, Mr. Todd,” she replied, matching his tone but letting her amusement show through.

Jason regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I suppose it does,” he finally conceded, the words neither a confirmation nor denial, but something intriguingly in between.

The sleek black town car had glided through the city's rain-slicked streets in near silence, the hum of the engine the only sound as Jason’s chauffeur navigated the late-night traffic. Y/N had sat stiffly in the plush leather seat, fingers twisting in her lap, replaying every moment of the evening in her head. Jason had been... different than she expected. Not the brooding, closed-off champion the media painted him as, but someone sharper, wittier—someone who had actually laughed at her jokes.

When the car finally pulled up to her apartment building, she had thanked the driver with a polite smile, maintaining her composure right up until the moment her front door clicked shut behind her.

Then her knees gave out.

She slid down the length of the door until she hit the floor, back pressed against the wood, heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. A giddy, disbelieving laugh bubbled up, followed immediately by a wave of sheer panic.

She needed to talk to someone. Now.

Stephanie picked up the video call on the second ring, her face already alight with curiosity. “Okay, so how did it go?”

Y/N opened her mouth—and promptly burst into tears. Stephanie’s eyes widened as Y/N devolved into a babbling, incoherent mess, words tumbling out between hiccuping sobs.

“I can’t understand shit,” Stephanie said, leaning closer to the screen. “Are these happy tears or sad?”

“Seems happy to me,” Tim chimed in from somewhere off-camera. “Happy?” Stephanie repeated, narrowing her eyes. “What the hell happened? You’re acting like Jason Todd took you on a date or something.”

Y/N froze.

Then, slowly, she looked up at Stephanie through her lashes, her lips quirking into a sheepish smile. “I mean—” A giggle escaped, high-pitched and entirely involuntary.

Stephanie’s expression morphed into pure shock. “Hol’up, bitch. What do you mean by ‘I mean’? Whatchu teehee’ing for?” she shrieked, loud enough that Y/N had to pull the phone away from her ear.

“Y/N went on a date with who now?” Tim’s voice floated into frame as he leaned over Stephanie’s shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“That’s why I just asked her, dipshit,” Stephanie snapped, shoving him away.

“It wasn’t a date,” Y/N insisted, though the way she twirled a strand of hair around her finger betrayed her. “I mean, it was one in my head, but that doesn’t matter.”

Stephanie’s jaw dropped. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

Y/N snapped out of her daze, straightening up as the full weight of the evening came crashing back. Words poured out of her in a frantic, breathless rush—Jason’s unexpected dinner invitation, the way he’d actually listened to her, the way his smirk had softened into something dangerously close to genuine amusement.

Stephanie’s reaction was instantaneous. “Jason FUCKING Todd? As in three-time world champion Jason Todd? The guy who hasn’t been seen in public outside of races for like a year? The same Jason Todd whose poster you had above your bed and wrote like a thousand fanfictions about in high school and college? The one who’s—”

“Steph! That was years ago!” Y/N’s face burned so hot she was surprised her phone didn’t melt.

From the background, Tim’s voice piped up again, smug. “Wait, Y/N had a crush on Ja—”

“TIMOTHY DRAKE, IF YOU DON’T SHUT YOUR MOUTH RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD—”

A scuffle ensued, followed by a yelp and the sound of something—or someone—being forcibly silenced.

Y/N buried her face in her hands, groaning.

Then her phone chimed.

A text.

From an unknown number.

Her stomach dropped. With trembling fingers, she opened the message.

Unknown: So when do we start?

Y/N let out a strangled scream and threw her phone across the room like it had burned her.

“Y/N? HELLO? WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?” Stephanie’s voice screeched from the discarded device. Y/N scrambled to retrieve it, her voice pitching into hysterics. “H-he just texted me. What do I do? What do I DO?”

She collapsed back onto the floor, biting her fist to muffle another scream.

Y/N's phone continued to blare Stephanie's increasingly frantic voice from where it had landed face-up on the rug. She stared at it like it might explode, her entire body frozen in panic.

Jason Todd had her number.

Jason Todd had texted her.

Jason Todd was somehow already ruining her ability to function like a normal human being.

Stephanie's pixelated face twisted in exasperation on the screen. “Y/N, I swear to god if you don't pick up this phone right now—”

With trembling fingers, Y/N grabbed the device, her wide-eyed reflection staring back at her in the front camera. “Steph,” she whispered hoarsely. “What do I say?”

Stephanie opened her mouth—probably to deliver one of her famously unhinged pep talks—when Tim suddenly shouldered his way back into frame, his grin downright diabolical.

“Say yes, obviously.”

“TIM—”

“No, listen,” he barreled on, ignoring Stephanie's death grip on his arm. “Jason doesn't text people. Like, ever. Dick had to bribe him just to answer group chats. If he's reaching out first? That's basically a declaration of—”

Stephanie clamped a hand over his mouth. “What my handsome yet unburdened by intelligence boyfriend is trying to say is,” she said through gritted teeth, “that you should reply before you psych yourself out of it. Also, tim don't spout bull, she's plenty delulu as it is.”

Y/N's thumb hovered over the screen. The cursor blinked mockingly in the text box.

Unknown: So when do we start?

She swallowed hard.

This was Jason Todd. The same Jason Todd who had once flipped off an entire grandstand after a controversial penalty. The same Jason Todd whose post-race interviews were legendary for their sarcasm and barely-contained rage. The same Jason Todd who had just admitted he had no identity outside of racing—and was now asking her to help him find one.

Her fingers moved before she could overthink it.

Y/N: Depends. Are we starting with book recommendations or full-blown personality reconstruction with something more hands-on? 

The reply came almost instantly.

Jason: Never been the one to back out from a challenge. So what's it gonna be doll?

Y/N's breath hitched. She could practically hear his voice in her head, that low, teasing drawl that had made her stomach flip more than once during dinner.

“Steph,” she blurted out, turning back to her still-active video call where Stephanie and Tim were watching this unfold with rapt attention. “Suggestions. Fast. Something I can take Jason to.”

Stephanie's grin was instantaneous. “Oh, I know you're not about to drag Jason Todd into one of your hyperfixation hobbies.”

“Good idea and that I absolutely will.”

Stephanie snorted. “Well, you could take him to that artisan ceramics workshop with the old Italian nonnas you're obsessed with. Or that dance class you signed up for in Barcelona last year.”

One thing about Y/N: she happened to be on the ADHD spectrum and every Grand Prix weekend in a new country had become an opportunity to dive headfirst into a new hobby. From pottery in Italy to flamenco dancing in Spain, her restless mind latching onto anything that could provide that sweet, sweet dopamine hit. It made her the perfect person to help Jason Todd find something—anything—that wasn't racing. Collecting herself, Y/N typed back with renewed determination:

Y/N: Give me a country, and I'll tell you what we're doing.

Jason: Race in Imola in two days.

Y/N: So Italy it is.

Excitement buzzed under Y/N's skin. Imola. The Emilia Romagna Grand Prix. And now, the backdrop for whatever this was becoming.

Across the world, in a private jet en route to Italy, Jason found himself staring at his phone with an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. For the first time in years, he was looking forward to something that wasn't a race.

Their messages continued late into the night—Y/N enthusiastically listing every obscure Italian hobby she'd tried, Jason responding with dry humor that slowly melted into genuine interest. He didn't even realize when the tension in his shoulders began to ease, when the ever-present anger that had fueled him since his return started to fade, replaced by something lighter. Something like anticipation.

In just a span of two days, his phone was filled with ridiculous stickers, mostly consisting of a concerning number of cat memes and a plan for their first “non-racing activity.” His phone buzzed again—another meme from Y/N, this time a photoshopped image of Bruce Wayne with cat ears next to an actual grumpy Persian. Jason snorted, thumb hovering over the keyboard to reply, when a quiet voice interrupted.

“Jason, can we talk?”

Cass's voice cut through the controlled chaos of the garage, where mechanics buzzed around the car like worker bees. Jason slipped his phone into his pocket, though not before Cass caught a glimpse of his screen— the ridiculous meme Y/N had sent him.

“Sure, Cass. What's up?” he said, turning to face her.

Cass studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes perceptive as ever. “You've been... different.”

Jason stiffened. Different. Did that mean distracted? Unfocused? Cass was one of the few people who had never treated him like glass after the accident, never looked at him with pity. If she said he'd changed—

But then Cass's lips quirked. “You smile more.”

Jason blinked.

“And you keep checking your phone,” she added, nodding to his pocket, where another notification had just buzzed. “Whoever they are... I like them.”

Jason opened his mouth—to protest, to deflect—but found he didn't want to. Instead, a slow, unguarded smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,”

he admitted, pulling out his phone to see Y/N's latest message.

Y/N: Pack something you don't mind getting messy. We're starting with ceramics tomorrow.

“Me too.”

Jason stood frozen outside the unassuming ceramics studio, his boots scuffing against the worn cobblestones as he double-checked the address. The building looked like something out of a postcard—sun-bleached terracotta walls draped in lush ivy, the faint scent of lemon trees mingling with the earthy aroma of clay from the open windows. A hand-painted wooden sign swung gently in the breeze, its blue door chipped with age.

He glanced at his watch—10:02 AM. He was late.

Not that it mattered, he told himself. This wasn’t a race briefing or a sponsor meeting. Just... an odd detour into unfamiliar territory.

The street was blessedly empty, tucked away in the city’s historic district where tourists rarely wandered. Jason exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension coiled there. These days, being recognized outside the paddock meant one of two things—either starstruck fans shoving phones in his face, or pitying glances from those who remembered the crash. He hated both reactions equally.

His outfit felt foreign against his skin—a lightweight linen shirt layered over his usual thin turtleneck, loose trousers instead of fireproof racing gear, boots that had never touched a garage floor. The fabric moved differently, unrestrictive in ways his racing suits never were.

Jason raised his fist and knocked twice on the weathered blue door.

The door flew open before his knuckles could make contact a third time.

“Ah! Finalmente!”

A tiny, silver-haired woman—Nonna Gianna, he presumed—grabbed his wrist with surprising strength and yanked him inside before he could protest. The studio was cooler than the sunlit street, the air thick with the mineral scent of wet clay and something herbal—maybe thyme or rosemary from the small kitchen in the back.

“You are il ragazzo who knows nothing, sì?” Gianna declared, her dark eyes scanning him with the same intensity engineers used when inspecting a damaged chassis.

Jason opened his mouth to argue—he’d mastered the most complex racing circuits in the world, surely he could handle some clay—but she was already dragging him past shelves of glazed pottery, their surfaces catching the morning light filtering through the windows.

The back room was bathed in golden sunlight from the open roof and thin shades, the hum of a spinning pottery wheel filling the air. And there—

Y/N sat at the wheel, her hands buried in a mound of wet clay that spun hypnotically under her fingers. She’d traded her usual paddock attire for a linen shirt that matched his own—though hers was already streaked with earthy smudges—her hair tied back with a vibrant scarf. And a smudge of clay decorated her cheek.

“Wasn’t aware there was a dress code,” she quipped without looking up, her voice laced with amusement.

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown by the quip and the sight of her—so at ease here, so different from the polished presenter or the drunk socialite he saw earlier. But before he could respond, Gianna shoved him toward the empty wheel beside Y/N’s.

“Bello ma stupido,” the old woman muttered, patting his bicep approvingly before grabbing his hands to inspect them. “Strong hands,” she announced, turning them palm-up like a fortune teller. “Good for clay.” Her smile was slightly unnerving—the kind usually reserved for fresh meat in a lion’s den.

Jason, who had faced down the most intimidating team principals and aggressive reporters without flinching, felt an odd prickle of nerves under her scrutiny. “I’ll... try my best?”

Gianna snorted and slapped a wet lump of clay onto his wheel with a decisive thwap. “Non provare. Do it.”

For the next two hours, Jason Todd—three-time world champion, master of precision—was thoroughly humbled by a lump of wet earth.

His first attempt collapsed inward like a deflating balloon. His second wobbled violently before spiraling off-center. His third attempt earned him a sharp rap on the knuckles with Gianna’s wooden spoon when he gripped the clay too tightly.

“Troppa forza!” she scolded. “Clay is not enemy! You fight it, it fights back.”

Y/N muffled a laugh into her shoulder, her own wheel producing something suspiciously vase-shaped. “She’s right, you know,” she said, pushing back a stray strand from her forehead with her wrist. “It’s about listening, not controlling.”

Jason glared at his latest failed attempt, the clay stubbornly refusing to obey him the way his car always did. “I’m used to things responding immediately when I tell them what to do.”

Y/N’s grin was downright wicked. “Welcome to the real world, hotshot.”

He flicked a bit of clay at her. She gasped in mock outrage and retaliated by smearing a streak across his cheek, her fingers lingering just a second too long. Gianna threw her hands up and muttered something in rapid Italian before stomping off.

By the session’s end, his shirt was thoroughly ruined, patience exhausted and—against all odds—he’d somehow produced something vaguely cup-shaped.

“Non male,” Gianna conceded, examining his lopsided creation with a critical eye. “For first try.” She turned to Y/N and said something that made the younger woman nearly drop her perfectly formed vase.

Jason wiped his clay-caked hands on a towel. “What’d she say?”

Y/N refused to meet his eyes. “Nothing important.”

The warm afternoon sunlight streamed through the studio’s windows as Gianna’s cackling faded into the distance, leaving Jason and Y/N alone at their worktable. Jason found his gaze tracing the details of Y/N’s profile—the way her nose scrunched in concentration when examining their pottery, the smudge of clay drying along her collarbone that she’d missed when cleaning up. He noticed how her shoulders curved slightly forward when focused, the golden chain around her neck catching the light with each movement. A glimpse of ink at the base of her neck peeked through her hair—some tattoo he couldn’t quite make out, its meaning hidden just like so much about her still remained unknown to him.

It struck him then how rarely he noticed these small things about people. In the paddock, he saw drivers as competitors, engineers as problem-solvers, journalists as obstacles to navigate. But Y/N—he was seeing her in fragments, piece by unexpected piece, and each discovery left him strangely curious for more.

As Y/N carefully carried their creations to the kiln, Jason wiped his clay-streaked hands on a towel. The studio’s elderly owner reappeared at his side, moving with surprising stealth for someone who’d just been cackling moments before.

“Tu e Y/N,” Gianna began, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Da quanto tempo vi frequentate?”

Jason blinked. “Pardon? Uh, signora um... non parlo italiano.”

Gianna’s wrinkled face scrunched in concentration as she searched for the right English words, then gave up with an exasperated wave of her hands. Instead, she brought her pinched fingers together in the universal sign for kissing.

Jason’s eyes widened comically. “No, no, me and Y/N—not like that,” he protested, waving his hands in denial.

“Non?” Gianna looked genuinely surprised. “Ma l’ultima volta che l’ho vista eri nello sfondo del suo telefono.”

Jason stared blankly, the rapid Italian washing over him without comprehension. Before he could respond, Y/N returned, immediately picking up on the tension.

“Hey, you okay?” she asked, tilting her head at Jason’s bewildered expression.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it,” Jason muttered, suddenly finding the clay remnants on the table fascinating.

Gianna said something rapid-fire to Y/N, who laughed and shook her head before turning back to Jason. “She said we can fix ourselves a meal in her kitchen if we want while the pots bake. What do you say?”

Jason automatically shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I have to strictly watch what I eat.”

Y/N groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. “Jay, look. It’s two weeks before the next race. One sandwich won’t destroy you.” She clasped her hands together in mock pleading. “And Gianna makes her own cheese! With goat milk from her nephew’s farm. Pretty please?”

The way she said it—the exaggerated pout, the way her eyes sparkled with challenge, the way she said his name—stirred something in Jason. He’d spent years following nutrition plans to the gram, never deviating, never indulging. But standing there, with clay under his nails and Y/N looking at him like that, the strict rules he’d lived by suddenly felt less important.

“Fine,” he conceded, holding up a warning finger. “One sandwich.”

Y/N’s triumphant grin was worth whatever lecture his nutritionist would give him later. As Gianna led them toward the small kitchen in the back, chattering away in Italian, Jason realized with startling clarity that for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about macros or race weight.

He was simply... enjoying himself.

The small kitchen was warm and fragrant, filled with the earthy scent of baking bread and the sharp tang of fresh herbs. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across the worn wooden counter where Y/N stood, her hands deftly slicing into a crusty loaf of sourdough. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board filled the comfortable silence between them.

Jason leaned against the counter nearby, watching as she worked. There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved—practical yet graceful, her fingers sure and steady as she portioned the bread. The quiet domesticity of the moment felt foreign to him, like stepping into a scene from a life he’d never allowed himself to imagine.

Then Y/N glanced up, her eyes flickering briefly to the high collar of his turtleneck before meeting his gaze.

“I respect people’s fashion choices and all,” she began, her tone light but curious, “but if you don’t mind me asking... why the turtleneck?”

The question shouldn’t have caught him off guard. He’d been asked it before—by reporters, by fans, even by well-meaning acquaintances who didn’t know how to tiptoe around the subject of his scars. But coming from Y/N, it felt different. There was no pity in her voice, no morbid fascination. Just simple, straightforward curiosity.

Jason hesitated, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his sleeve. He could deflect, could make a joke and steer the conversation elsewhere. But something about the quiet intimacy of the kitchen, the way Y/N waited without pressing, made the truth feel less like a burden and more like just another part of himself.

“After the crash,” he started, his voice quieter than he intended, “people tend to... stare.” He shrugged, as if that explained it all. And in a way, it did. The scars were a map of his worst moment, etched permanently into his skin. A reminder he carried everywhere, whether he wanted to or not.

He realized how somber his words sounded and quickly tried to lighten the mood. “And even then, I wouldn’t wanna scare you with ‘em. It’s ugly stuff.”

Y/N didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she turned back to the bread, her knife moving steadily. But just as Jason thought she’d let the subject drop, she murmured, so softly he almost missed it:

“Not to me, it’s not.”

The words hung in the air between them, delicate as the dust motes floating in the sunlight. Jason wasn’t sure if he’d heard her correctly—if he’d imagined the quiet sincerity in her voice. But before he could question it, Y/N looked up again, her expression shifting seamlessly back to casual ease.

“Hey, can you wash the cherry tomatoes, please?”

Jason nodded, pushing away from the counter to comply. As he turned on the faucet and let the cool water run over the vibrant red tomatoes, he became acutely aware of the quiet sounds filling the kitchen—the splash of water, the rustle of Y/N gathering herbs, and beneath it all, the soft, absentminded hum escaping her lips.

The melody was unfamiliar, but the way she let it drift in and out of her thoughts, barely aware she was doing it, struck something deep in his chest. It reminded him of his mother—how she would hum old lullabies while cooking, the sound wrapping around him like a comfort as he sat on the countertop, swinging his legs and waiting for dinner. It reminded him, too, of Alfred—the Wayne family’s butler—patiently teaching him how to prep vegetables, his dry wit hiding a warmth Jason had taken for granted in his youth.

He hadn’t thought about those moments in years. Hadn’t let himself.

The water ran over his fingers, the tomatoes glistening like little gems in his palms. For the first time in longer than he could remember, the simmering anger that had fueled him since the crash—the bitterness, the relentless drive to prove he was still the same, still unbeatable—felt distant. Fading, like an old wound finally beginning to heal.

And standing there, in a kitchen with the scent of fresh bread in the air and Y/N’s quiet humming weaving through the space between them, Jason realized something with startling clarity:

He was happy.

Not the fleeting rush of a podium finish, not the hollow satisfaction of proving his critics wrong. Just... happy.

Y/N perched on the edge of the worn wooden counter, her legs swinging idly as she took another enthusiastic bite of her sandwich. Crumbs tumbled onto the plate below, but she paid them no mind, too absorbed in savoring the flavors—the rich creaminess of Gianna’s homemade goat cheese, the sweetness of sun-ripened tomatoes, the crunch of freshly baked sourdough.

Across from her, Jason sat frozen, his own sandwich hovering halfway to his lips. His expression was distant, conflicted, as if caught in some internal debate. The voices of his past—his coaches, his nutritionists, even his own relentless drive—whispered warnings in his mind. This isn’t part of the plan. This isn’t what champions do.

Across from her, Jason sat frozen, his own sandwich hovering inches from his mouth. His fingers gripped the bread just a fraction too tightly, his knuckles pale with tension. The voices in his head were louder than the cheerful clatter of the kitchen—his old trainer’s stern warnings about maintaining race weight, the nutritionist’s rigid meal plans, the unspoken expectations of a champion who couldn’t afford to slip, not even for a moment.

Was this weakness? The thought slithered through his mind. Was he throwing away years of discipline, all the sacrifices he’d made—the early mornings, the grueling workouts, the endless self-denial—for something as trivial as a sandwich?

“Is there something wrong?”

Y/N’s voice cut through his spiral, her brow furrowing as she studied him. The concern in her eyes was genuine, untainted by the judgment he’d come to expect from the racing world.

Jason shook his head, more to clear his thoughts than to answer her. Then, before he could overthink it further, he took a bite.

The flavors exploded across his tongue—sharp, tangy cheese mellowed by the sweetness of sun-ripened tomatoes, all anchored by the nutty depth of freshly baked bread. It was simple. It was perfect. And for the first time in years, Jason actually tasted his food.

His so-called “cheat meals” had always been at Michelin-starred restaurants—obligatory team dinners or sponsor events where the food was secondary to the politics. He’d long since trained himself to ignore the delicate dishes placed before him. The flavors had become irrelevant, just another sacrifice in the pursuit of perfection.

But here, in this tiny kitchen with its chipped tiles and sun-faded curtains, with Y/N swinging her feet like a child and Gianna humming off-key in the corner, the weight of expectation lifted. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Jason was present—truly present—in a moment that had nothing to do with racing.

“Want one more?” Y/N asked, already reaching for the bread.

Jason didn’t hesitate. “Actually, yes I do.”

The words felt like a revelation.

Between races, in stolen days across different time zones, he found himself dragged into what Y/N affectionately called their “hobby hunts”— whirlwind excursions into the mundane wonders of each Grand Prix host country. In Italy, he’d learned the meditative art of pasta-making from a Nonna who smacked him whenever he kneaded the dough too aggressively. He’d reluctantly tried watercolor painting, only to discover an unexpected satisfaction in the way colors bled across the paper.

And now, in Venice after the triple header, Y/N was determined to subject him to what he firmly believed was the most ridiculous “hobby” yet.

“Mask-making is not a real hobby,” Jason declared, arms crossed as they stood outside a tiny workshop in Dorsoduro, its windows filled with elaborate papier-mâché creations. Y/N’s expression shifted instantly—her usual playful smirk dissolving into something far more serious. When she spoke, her voice carried a weight that gave Jason pause.

“Tell that to Guillermo,” she said quietly, “who spent thirty years perfecting this ‘hobby’ of his. After he lost his job and his son stopped speaking to him, it was the masks that kept a roof over his and his wife’s heads.”

The raw sincerity in her words hit Jason like a missed braking point. He stiffened, suddenly aware of the careless privilege in his dismissal.

“I—” He swallowed, uncharacteristically lost for words. “That was insensitive of me. I’m sorry.”

Y/N studied him for a long moment before her face lit up with sudden mischief. “So that means you’ll give it a go?” The whiplash-inducing shift in tone left Jason blinking. “...What?”

“You promised,” she singsonged, bouncing on her heels with renewed energy. Realization dawned slowly, then all at once. Jason’s jaw dropped. “You made that up?”

“Every word,” Y/N confirmed cheerfully. “And no takesies-backsies. You already agreed.”

Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re an evil little thing, you know that?”

“But you love it,” she teased, already pushing open the workshop door.

The protest died on Jason’s lips. Because as much as he hated to admit it, she wasn’t wrong.

The crisp Canadian air carried a bite that was absent in the Mediterranean warmth they’d left behind. The empty rink stretched before them, its surface gleaming under the soft glow of evening lights, freshly smoothed by the zamboni. Jason exhaled, watching his breath curl into the cold air as he stepped onto the ice, the blades of his skates cutting effortlessly into the pristine surface.

He hadn’t expected this. When Y/N had mentioned renting out an entire rink as a thank-you for flying her to Montreal in his private jet, he’d assumed she was joking. But here they were, the only two people in the arena, the silence broken only by the distant hum of refrigeration systems and the occasional scrape of steel against ice.

It was… thoughtful. Unnervingly so. Y/N had a way of anticipating what he wanted before he even voiced it—like she understood that, despite his love for the roars of the grandstands on track, he craved these quiet moments away from prying eyes and cameras.

As a high-performance athlete, Jason found his balance almost immediately. The muscle memory from years of rigorous training translated seamlessly to the ice, and within minutes, he was gliding across the rink with the same natural ease he carried on the racetrack.

Y/N, however, was another story entirely.

She clung to the boards like her life depended on it, her usual confidence replaced by wide-eyed terror as her skates betrayed her at every turn. Jason watched, amused, as she attempted to push off—only to immediately pitch forward with a yelp, arms flailing wildly before she somehow managed to right herself.

“Show-off,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at him as he executed a lazy backward crossover right in front of her.

Jason smirked. “You’re the one who picked this hobby, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t realize you’d turn out to be some figure-skating prodigy,” she shot back in an attempt to gain back some of her dignity, gingerly releasing the railing—and immediately regretting it as her feet slid out from under her.

Jason darted forward, catching her by the waist before she could faceplant onto the ice. “You’re hopeless, I swear,” he laughed, steadying her as she wobbled like a newborn fawn.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, though whether from embarrassment or the cold, he couldn’t tell. “I’m great at plenty of other things!” she grumbled, attempting to shake him off.

“Oh, I believe you,” Jason said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “But skating isn’t one of them.”

As she wobbled dangerously again, his arm shot out to steady her. “Careful, doll. Can’t have you messing up that pretty face.”

She muttered something decidedly unflattering under her breath, but the effect was ruined by the way her lips twitched, fighting a smile.

Jason held out his hand. “Alright, baby steps. Take my hand.”

Y/N hesitated, staring at his outstretched palm like it was a trap. On one side: this was Jason Todd, the man whose posters had adorned her teenage walls, whose career she’d followed with near-religious devotion— offering to teach her something for once. It should’ve been a dream come true. But letting him witness her utter lack of coordination was humiliating enough and accepting his help felt like surrendering the little dignity she had left. Especially considering how insufferably smug he looked seeing her struggle.

For a brief, stubborn moment, she considered refusing. But the ice was unforgiving, her pride bruised but definitely not worth a broken tailbone and his hand looked awfully steady. With a sigh, she placed her hand in his. Perhaps this was karma from the pottery class.

“Don’t you dare let go,” she warned.

Jason’s grin was all teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it doll.”

The scrape of blades against ice filled the quiet rink as Jason guided Y/N in slow, careful circles. Her fingers trembled slightly in his grip - whether from the cold or the unfamiliar intimacy, he couldn’t tell.

“Stop looking at your feet,” Jason chided gently. “Look at me instead. It helps with balance.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked up, meeting his with a mixture of irritation and reluctant trust. The moment their gazes locked, her posture straightened almost imperceptibly.

“See? You’re getting it,” he murmured, unable to resist a small, genuine smile.

“I’m literally just standing here while you do all the work,” Y/N grumbled.

Jason chuckled, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before slowly releasing it. “Alright, try on your own. Just remember - knees bent, weight forward.”

For a glorious three seconds, Y/N glided unaided, her face lighting up with triumph. Then physics intervened. Her arms became frantic windmills, her balance abandoning her in an instant. Jason saw the exact moment panic flooded her wide eyes—the dilation of pupils, the part of lips ready to yelp—before his body moved on instinct honed from years of split-second reactions.

One strong arm banded around her waist, hauling her flush against his chest with enough force to knock the breath from them both. His other hand slapped against the boards to arrest their momentum, the impact vibrating up his arm. But all Jason registered was the feel of Y/N pressed along his entire side—the warmth of her even through layers of clothing, the way her racing heartbeat thudded against his ribs in perfect sync with his own runaway pulse.

Jason had always known Y/N was attractive. Objectively. The way one might note a well-composed photograph or an elegant car design. As a presenter, she fit the expected mold of paddock beauty—polished, camera-ready, the kind of woman sponsors loved to position near their drivers for photo ops.

But this... this was different.

In his years as a champion, Jason had been paraded before countless models and starlets, had endured awkward PR “dates” arranged by the team, had smiled for cameras with women whose names he barely remembered. None of them had ever made him notice how the arena lights caught gold flecks in their eyes. None had hands that fit so perfectly in his, as if engineered by some higher power just for this moment. No one’s cheeks had ever flushed such an enticing pink from cold and exertion, nor had their lips—currently parted in surprise and glistening with whatever gloss she’d applied that morning—ever seemed so impossibly, distractingly soft.

And the scent of her—citrus and something sweet beneath the cold air—wrapped around him more completely than any embrace.

“Maybe... maybe we should call it a night,” Y/N whispered, her breath puffing warm against his neck.

The words were a surrender, but her body told a different story—the way she hadn’t pulled away, how her fingers had fisted in the front of his jacket as if to anchor herself.

Jason blinked, suddenly aware he’d been cataloging her features with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He cleared his throat, carefully putting space between them while keeping a steadying hand at her elbow. The air from the refridgeration systems rushed in to fill the void she left, chilling him instantly.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed, voice rougher than intended. He busied himself with adjusting his gloves, avoiding her gaze. “We can, uh... try again another time.”

The words tasted like a lie. Because what Jason really wanted was to pull her close again, to see if her hair really was as soft as it looked, to discover if her lips tasted as sweet as that damned gloss promised. But that way lay madness—or at the very least, a complication neither of them needed.

In the weeks that followed, something undeniable shifted in Jason Todd’s racing—a transformation that didn’t go unnoticed by the sharp analysts and devoted fans who tracked his every lap. The reckless, almost desperate aggression that had once defined his driving—the “madman” style commentators loved to dramatize—had mellowed into something far more dangerous.

His moves were calculated now, his overtakes executed with surgical patience rather than brute force. Where he once would have forced a risky gap, he now waited, biding his time until the perfect moment presented itself. The result? A steady climb up the championship order that left his rivals scrambling to adjust their strategies.

“What the hell’s gotten into Todd?” became the paddock’s favorite question.

Only Jason knew the answer.

In the quiet hours between races, when the roar of engines faded to memory and the paddock emptied of its usual chaos, Jason found himself reaching for the books Y/N had slipped into his life like secret treasures. Each volume carried her fingerprints—literally, in the smudges on the pages where she’d gripped them too tightly during thrilling passages, and metaphorically, in the notes she’d scribbled in the margins with her characteristic wit and insight.

“While finding new hobbies, it’s important not to lose the old ones,” she’d told him with that knowing smile of hers, pressing another book into his hands after their delightful attempt at Venetian mask-making.

He’d taken her words to heart in a way that surprised even himself. The books became his companions on long flights between races, their pages a refuge when the weight of expectation grew too heavy. He raced through them not just for the stories they held, but for the promise of her next recommendation—the quiet thrill of her commentary when he texted her his thoughts at 2 AM after finishing one. 

What he didn’t tell her—what he couldn’t bring himself to admit—was that he’d commissioned a custom sandalwood bookshelf for his bedroom, its rich grain polished to a warm glow. It stood as a shrine to something that was uniquely theirs’s: the slightly lopsided cup that he made at Nonna Gianna’s, a beer mug from their trappist brewing adventure in Belgium, the framed photo of them covered in cheese curds in Austria, the pressed wildflowers from their trek across the Scottish highlands after his P1 finish in Silverstone. The one that brought him back in contention for the World Championship. It felt like he was building something more than just a collection.

It felt like proof.

Proof that there was a Jason Todd beyond the racetrack. Proof that he could be more than the sum of his scars and his victories.

And it was all because of her.

His phone was a dangerous thing these days.

The gallery, once filled with nothing but race data and engineering schematics, now held a growing album of stolen moments—candid shots of Y/N laughing at a joke he hadn’t meant to be funny, her nose scrunched in that way he’d come to adore. Screenshots of her social media posts and presenter segments saved before he could talk himself out of it. 

It was pathetic, really.

World champion. Three-time title holder. And yet here he was, lurking on her Instagram like some lovestruck fan, his stomach twisting every time she posted something new.

Most of her older posts were about him—race photos, blurry grandstand shots, captions filled with exclamation points and heart emojis. The realization should have been flattering. Instead, it left him unsettled.

Did she still see him that way? As some untouchable idol, a fantasy to be admired from afar?

Or could she want the man behind the helmet—the one who woke up sweating from nightmares, who still caught himself holding his breath when tire smoke curled too thick on race day?

Then there was Danny.

A single photo, buried deep in her feed like a landmine. Y/N pressing a kiss to some grinning bastard’s cheek, her caption cheerful and simple: Happy birthday, loser.

Jason knew Danny. Knew him in the way you only know someone who’s shared both your childhood dreams and their dissolution. They’d started karting together, two scrappy kids with more talent than sense, pushing each other until their tires wore bald and their wrists ached from steering. Danny had been one of the few who could match him turn for turn, whose laughter rang just as loud when they tumbled into the grass after some reckless, glorious overtake.

Jason had assumed they’d climb the ranks together, side by side. But life had other plans—Danny’s family couldn’t sustain the financial hemorrhage of competitive karting and pragmatism won out over passion. While Jason raced forward, Danny stepped back, trading the driver’s seat for textbooks, determined to stay close to the sport in whatever way he could. He still remembered the hollow look in his friend’s eyes the day he packed up his helmet— “Engineering school,”  he’d muttered, “like the old man wants.”  Jason had fought to keep him close, badgering Bruce until Wayne Racing took Danny on as a junior mechanic. They weren’t the brothers-in-arms they’d once been, but the bond remained, worn comfortable with time.

But his closeness to Y/N bothered him. Jason stared until the pixels blurred. He could ask her. Three words —“Who is Danny?” —and he’d have his answer. Who was he to her? A friend? An ex? Worse—a current? 

But the thought of hearing the answer—of watching her face shift in that way when someone mentions a name that matters—left him cold.

Better not to know. Better to—

His phone buzzed, Y/N’s name flashing across the screen like she’d somehow sensed his spiral.

Y/N: It’s a shame the race in Zandvoort is so late. You should see the tulips they have in April.

Jason exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing as he typed back without thinking.

Jason: Yeah well. Next year I’ll take you.

The reply came instantly.

Y/N: Bet. Though the beach there is pretty cool too. The water’s cold this time of year but still warmer than your ice tubs :P And then there are the museums too—a history buff like you would appreciate them.

Jason smiled despite himself, imagining her rolling her eyes as she typed.

Jason: I’ll go wherever the lady takes me.

The words hung in the air between them, heavier than he’d intended. For a long moment, the typing bubbles appeared and disappeared, until finally—

Y/N: Careful, Todd. That almost sounded like a promise. 

“Jason, what do you think?” Bruce’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation in the boardroom. He was seated at the far end of the long, polished table, flanked by executives in tailored suits and their managers poised with styluses over tablets.

Jason blinked, startled. His head snapped up from the phone in his lap, only to find nearly a dozen eyes trained on him. He straightened in his seat, his screen going dark as he shoved the device into his blazer pocket. Of course, he had zoned out—texting during a sponsor meeting was probably frowned upon, but truthfully, Jason didn’t give a damn.

The Wayne Formula One team hardly needed financial backing. Bruce’s wealth alone could fund a fleet of cars and pit crews for the next decade. But apparently, having glossy logos of luxury brands and legacy sponsors plastered across the chassis was “strategic”—whatever that meant. Optics over necessity. It was all part of the game.

“Uh, yeah. It’s… cool, I guess,” Jason mumbled, shrugging one shoulder with disinterest.

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose in silent frustration. But without missing a beat, he turned back to the others and carried on with the presentation.

As the meeting ended and people began shuffling out with polite handshakes and promises to circle back via email, Dick approached him with a concerned look, pulling him gently aside into a quieter corner of the lounge just outside the boardroom.

“Jason, I think you should see this.”

╰┈➤ Masterlist

╰┈➤ Event masterlist Tags: @joekitsu @sophiethewitch1 @hana-no-seiiki @thisisafish123 @ceramic-raven @millyhelp @blamedbisexual @trunkswithlonghair-blog @jasontoddthings @deans-spinster-witch @12134z03 @johnnysilverhandeeznuts @yasmin-oviedo @rosecentury @pierayanna @jinviktor @crybaby-21 @solarrexplosion @sahana28banana @ari-sama21 @princessbl0ss0m @fictionalwhor3 @leeleecats @lalalozer @shkosm @swamiiyasssss @lilyalone @cxcilla @one-pea-in-a-pod-blog @cooki3dough @misaki-kira8 @br0ke-b1tch @cherriespopsicle @lilithskywalker @multifandom-simp @hayleym1234 @sukaretto-n @idontwantthis22 @sarveshishwarishsuta @eclipse-msoul @aaaashiiii

A/n: Ughhhhhh this is what I get for trying to cram what should be a multi-chapter fic into a single one-shot. Tumblr said "bitch i think the fuck not" and slapped a only-1000-blocks-allowed-per-post on my dreams 😭😭😭Anon I'm so sorry it took me so long😔😔 (Tumblr, I beg you—just let me post my novel-length emotional support in peace.) Feel free to send more requests for the event.

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2025

[lovelytsunoda]

its going to be a cold winter | lando norris

summary: it’s landos first christmas with his girlfriends family, and as long as he doesn’t let his ugly christmas sweater catch fire, he should be fine. right?

pairing: lando norris x female reader

warnings: family christmas content, lando and y/n both have some major moments of self doubt, but it's mostly just holiday fluff. some suggestive content, but barely any. i'm sorry its so short lmao i kind of lost steam towards the end, but i started out super strong!! it's a fic about nothing lmao enjoy it.

frank sinatra played softly in the background of the country house as y/n puttered around, straightening the christmas pillows and lighting the pine candles throughout the house. her dad got a fire burning in the living room, and the kitchen smelled like warm apple pie. snow was falling gently outside, blanketing the roof of her old audi.

lando would be here any minute, and it was important that everything be just perfect.

it was their first christmas together, and y/n was anxious as all hell about having lando visit the house where she grew up. she knew that the country house was different from the house where lando grew up, and the lifestyle he was accustomed to now.

of course, she didn't know that lando was just as nervous as she was, anxiously drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as he pulled off the highway. what would her parents think of him? would they find him pretentious? too much of a player?

it was obvious as he steered his top-of-the-line mercedes into the gravel driveway, parking next to his lover's aging audi sedan that the environment where she grew up was so different from his. a decrepit volkswagen beetle sat next to the garage, no doubt a project for her dad to tinker with.

snowflakes dusted his hair as he attempted to maneuver the laundry basket full of wrapped presents out of his narrow trunk. he knocked on the door, hiding his shaking hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. he could hear music coming from inside, see the shadows of a figure rushing to open the front door.

"lando! you made it." y/n beamed, opening the front door, a wide smile on her face. she threw her arms around him, kissing him softly before brushing the snow off of his jacket. "i'm glad you're here. everybody is so excited to meet you."

lando stepped inside, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. as his hands began to thaw, family members came rushing at him from all sides, gushing about how they were glad he'd found the place all right, and how it was so lovely to meet him. y/n shooed them all out of the main hallway, but not before her mother managed to shove a christmas sweater into his arms, insisting that he wear it.

"let's try that again." y/n grumbled, clearly biting back a curse word as she wrapped her arms around lando's midsection, resting her chest just over from his heart. "thank you for coming. and mom's sweaters are horrific, please don't feel like you have to wear it."

lando chuckled, unfolding the sweater, which prominently featured a reindeer with a blinking nose, activated by a button hidden in the right sleeve. "why wouldn't i wear it? this thing is hysterical."

"here, let me help." she smiled, helping him out of the jacket. "and you didn't need to bring gifts either. nobody would have been mad if you didn't."

"baby, i think you're worrying too much." lando laughed, pulling the sweater on over his black t-shirt. "everything is going to be fine."

"says the man who worried the entire drive here and called me over his bluetooth three times before he got of the m60." she joked, poking him over the heart. "this is new for both of us."

the pair wandered through the house, converging in the living room with the rest of the family. a christmas tree stood against an exposed brick wall, and two young men in christmas sweaters just as atrocious as the one lando was wearing were sat by the fire with their arms around their partners. a four year old girl was running around the room with a jingle bell paddle in her hand, shaking it up and down. from the expressions on the faces of the other guests, she had been doing that for a while.

"lando, this is my cousin, james, and his wife alexandra. and this is my brother will and his girlfriend clara. the little munchkin in the red dress is eliza, james and alex's daughter."

"nice to meet you!" will said, getting up from the floor. "y/n has told us so much about you!"

"only good things, i hope." lando joked, shaking will's hand. she could see the nervous crinkle at the corner of his eyes, hear what was slightly off in his voice. she reached out to lay a ahnd on his back, fingers splayed, hoping it was reassuring. she felt him relax under her touch, and her heart burned with love for the mclaren driver.

eliza ran over towards him, waving a set of antlers in her hand. "these are for you." she giggled, standing on her tiptoes and reaching for lando's head, despite only coming up to his torso.

beaming, lando knelt down and allowed eliza to put the antlers on his head. he sat next to y/n on the couch, curled up with her as they listened to alexandra talk about how she met james.

"you don't need to wear the antlers if you don't want to. lize will lose interest in like, ten minutes."

lando made a face. "of course i want to. i want your family ot love me, and clearly its pretty easy to win eliza's affections."

she laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "i'm going to go and help mom and aunt deb with the honey potatoes. you'll be okay here by yourself?"

"of course he will!" will shouted. "we'll take good care of mr. mclaren for you!"

in the kitchen, y/n found her mom and her aunt puttering about, adding honey to the roast potatoes and pulling the apple pie out of the oven. it was wrapped in tinfoil, with brown sugar and apple goo oozing out of the graham cracker crust. she tied her hair back into a tight knot, reaching over her head to take a bone china mug out of the kitchen cabinet.

"i really like him." her mom said, a knowing smile on her face as she hugged her daughter. "you did good, sweetie."

"he's really good with eliza." deb noted. "so, are there any wedding bells nearby in your futures?"

"aunt deb!" y/n whined. "we haven't even been together a year yet."

"look at alex and james. they were only together for six months."

because they wanted to fuck and the church said they couldn't do that unless they were married, she thought cynically.

"i really do like him. he was so scared to come here today. i think he thought you'd find him pretentious."

"we could never." her mom laughed, pulling her in for a hug. "go spend some time with lover boy. your father and your uncle are coming in from the barbecue with the turkey in a few minutes."

"thanks mom." she kissed her mom's cheek before she grabbed her mug of hot chocolate and rejoined the other young folk in the living room.

lando stood next to the tree, laughing gleefully as eliza ran circles around him, wrapping him in tinsel. alex was laughing to herself, filming the encounter on her iphone. y/n stood watching in the doorway. lando looked up and met her eyes, winking at her dramatically before attempting to blow her a kiss.

later that night, after barbecued turkey and honey potatoes, with a dessert of warm apple pie and vanilla ice cream, lanod joined his lover on the couch with two fresh mugs of hot chocolate. she curled into his arm, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. the fire was crackling, and everybody was gathered around the tree for the gift exchange.

"i love you, lando norris."

"and i love you, y/n y/l/n." he replied softly, a peice of silver tinsel falling out of his hair.

"and i can't wait to get you out of this ugly christmas sweater." she whispered, voice husky. my old room is up in the loft above the garage, and it's pretty soundproof."

"i like the way you think, angel girl."

[ham1lton]

what about a toto’s assistant yn…..walk with me now…..

SHUT UP AND DRIVE

summary: y/n hates her boss but she knows no one else is going to give her the benefits that he does. oh, and the salary is pretty good too!

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liked by yourbestie, georgerussell63 and 20,738 others

yourusername: back at it 🙂

view all comments

georgerussell63: lovely to see you again yn! 😃

*liked by yourusername*

user1: um girl why are u never happy 😭

— user2: serving face but never a smile.

— user3: she hates that man and she’s real for it.

user4: love seeing black queens living a soft life 💕

— user5: wym soft life that man stresses her out everyday. her melanin is the only reason why she doesn’t look haggard

user6: toto being yn’s boss is actually hilarious bc i just KNOW she has a burner account to drag him online

user7: she clocking in every day like it’s a prison sentence while he’s out here living his best life 😭

user8: toto wolff is her boss but let’s be real, she runs that man behind the scenes

— user10: saw them in real life and she was genuinely manhandling him to get him to the right place right time. she was on a MISSION.

user9: the way she always looks so FED UP every time mercedes fumbles the strategy 💀

user11: i bet he calls her into his office just to make her life difficult

user12: if i was yn and toto wolff was my boss i’d simply start a coup

user13: she’s holding this team together with sheer will and spite

user14: toto thinking he’s in charge while yn is the only reason the garage isn’t in flames every weekend

user15: she got promoted and now she has to deal with him every day… honestly she deserves a raise

user16: um i couldn’t do this job bc i’d be begging to (REDACTED) him every night…. i mean look at him. #NEEDTHAT

— user9: you’re so sick.

— user9: real asf though

user17: every time mercedes makes a bad call i KNOW yn is somewhere side-eyeing toto from across the garage

user18: “the salary is good” girl blink twice if you need help 😭

user19: you’re glowing babe!!!

— yourusername: new skincare routine 😊 thank you!

user20: she’s gorgeous!!! and he’s … there.

*liked by yourusername.*

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author’s note: don’t write for toto but eh. hope u enjoy xx

[l4ndowife]

omg, mini lando and mini max are girls??? this is so cute 🤧🤧

[multifandomgirl08]

The End of An Era [Mini Verstappen Series]

Dad!Max Verstappen x Mother!Reader (Established Relationship)

Summary: A chapter all about Max's retirement from Formula 1. The Article announcing his retirement. And the last race of his F1 career.

Warning(s): N/A

A/N: Finished writing this during qualifying of Abu Dhabi 2024.

Words: 2.8k

Previous Part → Next Part Mini Verstappen Masterlist

October, 2029

It had been a quiet night in. Max had been unusually quiet during dinner. Nikita was asking Max questions about helping him put his train set back together since he had found out how to take it apart. Nico ended up changing the subject pulling Niki into talking about the model car sets that he had gotten for his 9th birthday. Nik was sitting in his high chair eating, and you were holding Nicole as she drank from her bottle after eating her way through a packet of rice crackers.

You had helped Max clear the table while Sophie had taken the kids into the family room downstairs to watch a movie. Max was cleaning the dishes, and putting everything into the dishwasher. You had put away the last of the leftovers, and looking back you saw how tense Max's shoulders were.

You walked up behind him, placing one of your hands at his side before pressing yourself up against his back, almost as if his broad shoulders were sheltering you from the outside world.

Max stopped scrubbing at the pan, gripping the sponge in his hand. You pressed your chin into the back of his left shoulder.

“You okay?” You asked.

Max gave what looked like half a nod back before you heard the sponge drop into the sink with an almost audible Splat. He moved to turn around, and moved back only slightly.

“I’ve been thinking about retiring.” He said leaning back against the marble counter. You widened your eyes at his words. You didn’t know that this was on Max’s mind. You knew that he had another year on his contract with Red Bull, you just thought that when Red Bull offered him a new contract you could talk about it then, not now.

“Do you want to retire?” The current season wasn’t over for another month. If he wanted he could call it quits this year, Red Bull would have to take the hit for his contract.

“Maybe after next year.” Max moved his hands down to your sides, pulling you into his chest. His hands, although wet, were warm against the loose shirt that you wore. “They are like family to me. I can’t do that to Christian, or anyone in that garage.”

You would never ask Max to retire. It wasn’t your place. He loved racing and you would never ask him to give it up. You know that Red Bull had become like a family to Max. Christian and Geri were like a second set of parents in a way. Not just when it came to Max, but they were also a set of grandparents to your kids.

“Always, I’ve wanted to do more than just Formula 1. But now, with the kids…” He started to say and then stopped himself dropping his eyes down to the floor. “I also want to be home and spend time with them. Maybe racing in a category with a shorter schedule would be for the best.”

“You could always take time off,” As the words left your mouth, you could see Max’s brows furrow in discontent, quickly lifting his head to meet your eyes. “Not now, but once you want to retire or you feel like you’re ready. Take six months off before jumping into anything new.”

You had to think back to when you had thought about no longer working and staying home with the kids full-time, but ultimately you loved your job and thought you would be setting a better example for your kids in the long run. It was about 4 months after Nik was born. You couldn’t bear the thought of having to leave your kids with a sitter all day even if you had been working from home. Your job still took time away from them. So, you took a few months of letting someone handle a few of your clients, and not long after you found out you were pregnant with Nicole. Sometimes it was hard working with both yours and Max’s schedule but you always managed to find a way to make it work.

“I will be out of shape if I choose to get back into racing after.” You could tell that Max was running the logistics over in his head, weighing the pros and cons of stopping for a while.

“You can always hire a trainer.” There were probably hundreds of trainers who would kill to work with Max to get him into racing shape for whatever he chose to do after Formula 1.

“I don’t know.” He said at first as if he was going to move to hang his head, dropping his chin to his chest. He pulled his head up quickly. “Them, you, mean everything to me.”

Max pulled you into his side, pressing a kiss to your temple. “It is a year away.” He muttered into your hair. “I will figure something out by then.”

“Whatever you want to do Max, we’ll be there.” You couldn’t help but run your fingers over the white gold band of the Rolex that you had gotten him just after Nikita was born. It no longer had three birthdays engraved on it but five now.

NEWS

Eight-time champion Max Verstappen to retire from Formula 1 at the end of the 2030 season

F1 Corresponder & Journalist D'Angelo Markus

14th August, 2030

It was announced earlier today that after the end of the 2030 season, Max Verstappen would not be coming back in 2031 with a new contract from Red Bull.

The Dutchman, who made his debut with Scuderia AlphaTauri at the 2017 Australian Grand Prix. Verstappen was the youngest driver to ever make an F1 debut at the age of 17,  a record that he will now forever hold as the FIA had changed that particular rule because of him.

Verstappen won all eight of his championships with Red Bull, four from 2021-2024 and the remaining four from 2026-2029 and is first on the all-time list of Grand Prix winners with 115 victories.

WATCH: Max Verstappen’s 10 Best Overtakes

Verstappen had a few tough years when he was first called up to Red Bull resulting in various engine failures. With the regulation changes, Red Bull and Max were able to capitalize on them pulling out various championship wins with Max at the helm season after season.

Ahead of the Belgian Grand Prix, Verstappen - who races alongside Isack Hadjar - announced that this would be his 15th and final season in Formula 1.

“My championship runs were very different from one another. The first four were in no way easy despite what 2023 looked like. There were constant obstacles from not just outside people but the team as well.” Verstappen said. “The last four were very different as my family was growing as the championships were happening. The team always had my back and year after year were able to give me the best possible car to compete with.”

“I wish them all the best in for the coming season. Being able to work with Adrian [Newey] when he was here, Christian [Horner], Helmut [Marco] who believed in me when I was younger, and GP [Gianpiero Lambiase] who has been a great engineer to work with.”

READ MORE: ‘I have so much more to offer racing then just being a driver.’  - Read Verstappen’s retirement statement in full

When asked about why he was retiring he had this to say, “I’ve achieved so much during my time in Formula 1, but after having won eight championships and being able to achieve that. It’s time to focus on my family. I love this sport and I won’t ever stop racing in some way. But it’s time to watch my children grow and be there to support them in their chosen endeavors.”

On the cusp of winning his 7th world championship, Verstappen’s daughter Nicole was born on the Monday before Verstappen would head to Abu Dhabi for the last race of the season. She’s the youngest of the four children that he has, three of them with his wife Y/N Verstappen. At the time there was a rumor that Verstappen wouldn’t be in Abu Dhabi because of his wife giving birth.

“I thought when my daughter was born I wouldn’t win the championship that year. I wasn’t even sure if I would go to the race, but my wife said, ‘Go, it’s a few days she will be without you but when you come home, even if you don’t win. You will get to hold her and know that you did your best during the race because you were fighting to come back to us.’ She was right, I fought hard to come home to them and walked away with the championship as a result.”

The points race was close that year by a small margin compared to years past being very reminiscent of his first World Drivers Championship in 2021.

After winning and accepting the trophy, Verstappen was quick to leave the track and fly back home to be with his wife and the new addition to his family. The day after he had won the championship, he posted a picture with his family after he was back home in Belgium. His daughter in one of his arms with a glass of champagne in his other hand, in celebration of his recent win with his wife by his side. His three other children were absent from that particular picture.

“Another long season, another win to share with those I love most.” His caption read.

“It will be tough to say goodbye to the team that I have known for my whole career in the sport. I am still a part of the Red Bull family, I will just be racing in a different category in the coming months if everything goes well.”

“I feel like I have so much more to offer racing then just being a driver, I have my own team ‘Verstappen.com’ where sim drivers have the opportunity to go from racing online to being in a real car. It’s something that I’ve been passionate about for years and I’m very excited for this to further come to fruition now that I will have more time to focus on that.” Verstappen said when he was asked what he plans to do after Formula 1.

November 24, 2030

Max didn’t think this day would ever come. Y/N and the kids were in the paddock today for his last race in Formula 1. Nico had been hanging out with Christian for most of the morning on the pitwall, Niki and Nik were with GP in the garage, and Nicole was holding Y/N’s hands. His daughter who had just turned two a few days ago had slipped away into Max’s arms tugging at his race suit wanting to be picked up.

“Papa,” She whined, with a tug of his sleeve. Max lifted her up and placed her on the table in front of all of the screens. Nicole pressed her face into his shoulder while he was talking with Jonathan. He tried to keep one of his hands on Nicole’s back while he was trying to explain something with his hands that had happened during qualifying the day before.

About 20 minutes later, Y/N and the kids were behind the viewing area in the garage. He fist bumped the boys, kissed Nicole on her forehead, and quickly kissed Y/N on the lips while running his finger over her chin. He pulled away from them putting his balaclava on, then slipped on his helmet before climbing into the car.

Getting through the race would easy. He was starting on Pole.

“Radio check for the last time Max.” He heard GP say.

“Loud and clear, GP.” He said. GP told him that it would start in a minute, and he could see the other mechanics pull the tire covers away from the car and some leaving to go back behind the pitwall and the others back to the garage. He was given the all clear for the formation lap, drove around the track before he was back before the start line. Another minute and it would be lights out and away we go for the last time when it came to racing in Formula 1.

Max kept his eyes on the track, taking in GP as he told him about engine settings during the race. He called for a pit stop for new tires, and Max finished off that lap before coming in. He had sat in the car, watching the mechanics work before he was off again out of the pit lane and onto the track again.

He overtook a few of the younger drivers on the grid, Doohan, Bearman, Piastri… Pink, Red, Orange…

“Max, strat 7, strat 7.” He heard GP over the radio. He immediately pressed the needed button on his steering wheel and made the adjustment that GP gave him.

A few laps later there was a yellow flag called, debris needed to be cleared off the track after a collision between Williams and Audi. Then before Max knew it GP was in his ear again, “Okay Max it’s up to you. You can come in for fresh tires and go for a fast lap or just ride it out till the end.”

Max knew what that meant. One last lap. He didn’t even have to think, “I’ll box for softs.”

“Box then.” GP replied.

Max kept driving before he made it to the pitlane and then drove through for a set of fresh softs. He met the mechanics, felt the car go up for a moment, the used mediums being taken off the car and the new set of softs be bolted on before the car was placed back down. It took him half a second to start driving to exit out of the pitlane. He exited the pitlane, and then did everything that he could to push for one last fastest lap. Max knew that he was pushing the car as much as it would let him, but he couldn’t help but feel that everything was slowing down as he got to the start of the long straight of the track.

The track was clear ahead of him. He kept on until he knew that he had made it across the line and the checkered flag had been waved.

“Max,” He heard Christian in his ears. “Thank you for everything you’ve done over the years mate. What a way to finish off your last race in F1, Pole, top step of the podium, and a fastest lap. It’s been a pleasure.”

Max knew that Christian was just saying this for the radio message. He would be seeing Christian in about a week for Niki’s birthday, and then again for the FIA Prize Giving.

“Yeah, thank you Christian. It’s been a ride. I said that I wanted to do this for 10 to 15 years more, so these years with the team have meant so much. Sending my best to the team, I’ll miss seeing them.”

Max kept driving before he finally heard GP chime in. “Well done, Max. It’s been special working with you.”

“Yeah, I’ll miss working with you too GP, racing won’t be the same.”

Max managed to pull his car up and then to a stop behind where the number 1 plaque was. He went to remove the steering wheel and then carefully got out of the car, placed the wheel back and then stood on top of it with his arms up in triumph.

He stepped off the car and ran towards the mechanics for the last time into their waiting arms. He got head pats before being placed down, moved to take off his helmet and then got weighed before leaving it on the stand. He looked out further to see Y/N and the kids around her, Nicole in her arms, Nico ever present at his mother’s side, with Niki and Nik doing their best to lean over the barricade.

He walked towards them, embracing his wife as soon as she was in arms reach. He had pulled away, only for Nicole to hug him and yell, “Papa!” into his ear, he had squeezed her to his chest for a moment before letting go. Then the boys all tried to hug him at one time awkwardly piling on top of each other, and it almost felt like he was being embraced by all of the mechanics again even though they were his own sons.

He had walked back over to where the other drivers were, exchanging handshakes and congratulations, some even saying goodbye as if they would never see him again. He looked out to the Abu Dhabi circuit one last time, and then turned to Will Buxton, who was waiting to ask him questions.

He had walked over getting ready for what Will threw at him because after today he would no longer be a F1 driver. His time in Formula 1 had officially come to an end.

Mini Verstappen taglist: @karmabyfernando, @barcagirly, @sachaa-ff, @iamahallucinationnn, @glow-ish, @nonsensical-nonsence, @champomiel, @gothicwidowsworld, @lighttsoutlewis, @itsalwaysgay, @mynameisangeloflife, @ursforever129, @aundercover, @bborra, @mindless-rock, @cixrosie, @barcelonaloverf1life, @konsti081, @mellowarcadefun, @brekkers-whore, @thedecalcomania-blog, @xoscar03, @em-gvf01, @haikyuen, @shelbyteller , @geniusalpaca, @princessria127, @mysticalnightenthusiast, @green-thots, @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp, @ellelabelle, @lilypat, @dreamercrowd

[chilling-seavey]

TWIG idea here about that one where George forgot to pick up his little girl from the daycare and she’s giving him a cold shoulder… house silent at night, everyone sleeping apart George who’s fully awake staring at the ceiling and his little princess quietly sneaking into the bedroom with sad eyes, clutching on her stuffed animal longing for the cuddle from daddy, because she misses him and can’t fall asleep 🥺

This is the cutest fucking thing ever and really, truly, just what I needed to write tonight. Ily <3 Continuation of this

The house was dark and quiet; that kind of quiet that feels loud. George could feel the silence echoing in his head, the airtime filled with nothing but the parental guilt of forgetting to pick up his little girl from nursery already two days ago. Two days of his four-year-old daughter virtually ignoring his existence. That little girl could seriously hold a grudge. Somewhere in his sleep deprived mind, he wondered if he should enroll her in karting due to that fact. His mind was truly everywhere. 

Beside him, you slept soundly, four months pregnant and already cuddling your pregnancy pillow more than him. It was fine, you ran hot when pregnant, like a full on personal furnace, so he didn’t mind the extra space. Besides, he was tossing and turning enough that if you had been trying to snuggle, you definitely would have been woken up by then. 

George sighed and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing them until he saw those floaty shapes for a second, and then he dropped his arms back down on the bed. The sound of your steady breathing was almost soothing and almost infuriating, reminding him that he, too, should have been fast asleep.

Before he could silently berate himself for not being able to sleep when the entirety of Europe was probably able to, the sound of the bedroom door opening piqued his attention. Call it paternal instincts but right away, his entire attention snapped to the soft patting of footsteps across the hardwood and then, the shadowy figure of the aforementioned four-year-old appeared around the corner. 

She stood there in the pitch black room with her favourite stuffed bunny in her arms and even through the dark, George could see her pout. He lowered a hand off the side of the bed to call her over and she came scurrying over and her little hand wrapped around his fingers.

“Hey, jellybean,” he whispered so as to not wake you, giving your daughter his full attention and a caress of her tiny hand, “why are you up?”

“No sleep,” she mumbled.

“Can’t sleep?” he repeated softly, “Daddy can’t sleep either.”

She had the sweetest, saddest look on her face and he couldn’t help but reach out to stroke her cheek, still a little pudgy with lingering baby fat. His heart skipped a beat at merely the sight of her, like it always did. 

Her hands reached up to him at the side of the bed, “Daddy cuddle?”

George glanced back at you still soundly asleep across the spacious bed and then he looked back to his little girl with his very same pleading eyes. He carefully pushed the covers down and swung his legs off the side of the bed and he picked her up by the armpits as he stood up. Right away, she snuggled into his chest as he held her in his arms, like nothing had been wrong. 

“Maybe we need a midnight snack and then some cuddles,” George whispered to her as he carried her out of the primary bedroom and into the hallway. 

Completely entrusting of her father, the toddler held onto him as he took her downstairs and into the kitchen. It was well past midnight and the silent house was bathed in the moonlight, your spacious property in the English countryside allowing for limited light pollution from the surrounding neighbourhoods. That made nights like this easier, allowing only the illumination of the moon to guide them through the house and into the kitchen, no need for bright lights to be turned on. 

George sat your daughter on the kitchen counter and the peace of the darkened house was interrupted momentarily by the light of the fridge as he opened it and took out the carton of milk. The little girl squinted and blinked at the sudden brightness but he shut the fridge just as quickly and poured them each a glass—a proper glass for him and a pink plastic cup for her—and microwaved them until they were comfortably warm. She watched him closely as he worked, always in awe of everything her father did. 

When the microwave beeped, he took out the cups of warm milk and passed hers to her before taking his spot in front of her. He held his glass out with a soft, “Cheers.”

She carefully bumped her cup against his and then they both took a sip. It had always been something from childhood that he remembered on nights when he couldn’t sleep, how his mum would warm him up a glass of milk and it would do the trick in calming him back to dreamland. It was one of the best parts of parenthood, he found, continuing those traditions and memories with his own little ones. 

“Yummy?” he asked her softly. 

The little girl pulled her cup from her mouth, the moonlight catching on the stripe of milk left behind along her upper lip, and she nodded, “Yummy.”

George smiled and leaned down to kiss her forehead. He bent down a little more to get a bit closer to eye level to her, taking a bit more of a serious yet warm tone, “You are one of my favourite people in the whole world, you know that? And I’m really sorry for missing your pick up time the other day.”

She stared at him over the rim of her plastic cup as she drank her milk as if hearing him out. 

“Sometimes grownups forget to check the time but I can’t ever forget you. Never ever. You’re daddy’s most special girl.”

She took her cup from her lips and nodded with a small sigh, holding it out to him to take, indicating she was done. Done her milk, done with her grudge…perhaps both. George kissed her forehead and then took her empty cup from her and set it in the sink with his own half-finished glass. He wiped her mouth with the pad of his thumb and when she lifted up her arms again, her bunny’s ears clutched in one hand, he scooped her back up. 

He walked slowly back upstairs, rocking her a little more than usual with each step, one arm under her bum and the other rubbing his hand over her back in soothing motions. She grew heavier in his arms as she fought against sleep, her face smushed against his shoulder and arms limp around his neck. 

In her bedroom down the hall, her princess castle night light was still on, casting pink-hued dots and stars across her bedroom ceiling. Her bedsheets were pushed back from where she had climbed out earlier to find him and George carefully supported her head as he bent over and laid her down again. She shifted to get comfortable before melting into her pillow, almost dwarfed by the full adult size double bed, heavy eyes blinking up at him. 

George pet a hand over her head and leaned down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead.

She held up her stuffed bunny to him, “Bunny too.”

Of course, George also gave the bunny a kiss on the forehead. The little girl smiled sleepily and snuggled the toy to her chest, blinking up at him. 

“Cuddles, Daddy,” she demanded sleepily, her little accent thick with tiredness. 

“Of course, jellybean,” he chuckled warmly, “Scoot over.”

She shifted over a little more to give him room to join her in her bed and he pulled the pink gingham duvet over the both of them. He held his arm out and she snuggled right up against him, having done so for her whole entire life. She was a sweet little girl but she only felt bigger and bigger every time George held her; she was growing up far too fast. Where was his tiny newborn baby who barely fit in the crook of his arm?

His fingers danced in gentle twirling shapes over her back, soothing her to sleep like he so often did. She was out in no time, snoring lightly against his chest in the cutest snores he had ever heard, and he laid there in her princess room and just watched her sleep, completely entranced by her. Sometimes, looking at his children like that, George could feel like his heart might have burst right out of his chest. 

He leaned in, careful not to jostle her, and pressed another soft kiss to the top of her head, whispering a quiet and raw, “I love you.” before he, too, joined her in dreamland.

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