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rex-rambles · 18 days ago

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➤ THE (OTHER) COSTUME | LANDO NORRIS

pairing: lando norris x single mom!reader

summary: after lando surprises your son for his birthday, you decide to surprise him by dressing up for silverstone, only this time, it's not spider-man: milo dresses up like lando himself.

wc: 7.6 k

warnings: none!

authors note: okay so the love 'the costume' has received has been wild?? y'all are fantastic

➤ MASTERLIST - part one

You wish orange were a more common colour for clothes. After all, it could be bright and colourful or muted and rusty, a nice warm tone to add to your everyday wardrobe.

It totally didn't have anything to do with the fact that you and Milo had nothing to wear to Lando's race next week.

Not remotely.

"You could dress like a car?" Milo says, running his hands along a display of dress pants, much to the disdain of the shopping attendant.

"We want to wear Lando's team colours, silly." Despite all the time you had spent with the driver, you had yet to have a real piece of McLaren merch, or Lando's, or anything even remotely F1 related. If Lando were currently in England, you fantasize about the idea that you could call him up and ask him to borrow something of his, a daydream of wearing something that he'd worn before.

It's the kind of thought that makes you blush in the middle of the store, the ridiculousness of it all getting to you. It's a childish thing, the sort of act a teen would blush over, but you couldn't help it. Lando had returned you to a youthful, bubbly sort of romance that you had thought you'd never get the chance to experience again. Well, you hope it's a romance, at least, and not just another doomed infatuation.

After all, it was hard to call something a romance when you hadn't seen the man in two weeks.

Lando hadn't been back to England since the birthday party, which was expected of someone like an F1 driver. A race in Austria, a movie premiere in New York. You, on the other hand, were a single mom halfway across the world. You had kissed him, sure, but that wasn't anything concrete. You knew how whirlwind romances could end, what those quick kisses could turn into.

The evidence of it was currently trying to sneak his way into a rack of coats. "Milo, I don't think we're finding anything in there." You hold out your hand, and he happily runs to grab it. "How about we try another store?"

"Won't Mr. Norris have things for us at the race?" He asks as you lead him out of the store, and it's a fair question. Lando certainly could surprise you with merch, but seeing as you have a week until the race, and that he's off travelling the world with far more important people, getting McLaren hats and shirts for you and Milo wouldn't be top of his list.

Well, perhaps not for you. After all, despite the connection you hoped to grow with the racer, it was obvious he already loved Milo. He'd come dressed as Spider-Man, got Milo gifts, babysat when he could, hell, he was paying for you to go to Silverstone!

Really, the fact that he kissed you almost takes a back burner to just how involved he is in Milo's life. So, who's to say he wouldn't be thoughtful enough to remember merch?

Then, just as soon as the thought arises, it leaves a strange feeling in your stomach. Lando was an unfathomably wealthy person, compared to your situation. How could you possibly want more?

Oh, you don't have something orange to wear to support him, so you need whatever ridiculously expensive merch he has?

You don't want him for his money, and more than anything, you don't want him to think you're ungrateful. Milo tugs at your hand, breaking you out of your thoughts, and he grins so wide that for a moment, you forget what you were thinking of entirely. "Mum, look!" He says, pointing to a charity shop. "A race suit!"

And, because maybe miracles do happen, or some parent was cleaning out their kids' clothes, there's an old Lightning-McQueen race suit costume slung over the back of a chair in the shop's display, with a five-pound note sticker attached to it.

All you need now, you think, is some black dye, some orange paint, and some white paint markers.

Lando makes it exactly three weeks before he cracks. Well, that's not exactly true. He sends you an Instagram reel on Wednesday night, questions about hotel preferences on Saturday morning, train times the following Tuesday.

However, he hadn't talked about the party, or the aftermath, or the fact that he kissed you at all, and it was sort of driving him mad. He was given a glimpse of the domestic life, of what his days could look like off the road and off the track, and it was eating him away inside.

How do you not fall in love like that?

Well, love might be a strong word, but Lando was feeling things for you he'd never felt this fully before, and he had no way of knowing if that was a pity kiss, or a kiss with no strings attached, or if maybe, just maybe, you did like him back, and Lando had to consider a lot of things about his future if you did.

However, none of that mattered right now, because Lando was slightly tipsy, and he just really, really wanted to see your face. FaceTime rings twice before you pick up, looking at him rather confused. "Lando? Everything alright?"

"M' perfect." He says, sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, loosening the tie around his neck. "You?"

"I'm doing alright," You say with a laugh, and as Lando squints down at his phone, he realizes you have a streak of orange paint near your chin. "Busy getting ready for the race this weekend."

"Is that Mr. Norris?" Lando hears faintly, and he perks up instantly.

"Milo! Can I say hi?" You pause, glancing down to where he imagines Milo stands by you, and something stutters in his chest. Did he do something wrong?

Do you not want him to see Milo?

He fully well could've overstepped some boundaries, tucking you both in like that, reading, invading your personal space. It had felt right for Lando to have been part of that equation, but it didn't mean-"You can, but you're not allowed to say anything. It's a surprise."

"A surprise? For me?" With a slowly easing heart, you pass off the phone, and Lando laughs so hard he has to fall back on the bed.

Milo is just covered in orange paint. It's on his hands, smudged on his face, splattered on an old t-shirt he's wearing. It was very obviously a surprise for the race, probably a sign, he thinks, and he takes screenshots as he stares at Milo grinning at him. "Hello, Mr. Norris!"

"Hey, you muppet. Did you get into some paint?" Milo nods, turning to show him something, and your hand covers the camera. "Aw, come on!"

"It's a surprise, sweetheart." Lando knows you're talking to Milo, not him, but god, does the name do things to his insides. "You can't show him yet."

"Oh," Milo says, as his face returns to the camera. "Mum says you can't see."

"I'll just have to wait. You excited for the race?" Milo nods excitedly, once again trying to show the camera something, but your hand covers it once more as you laugh, an unexpected sound.

"Milo, what did I just say?"

"I was just going to show how excited I am! Here." Milo steps back from the camera, and he spreads his arms super wide. Rather than focusing on the cute moment, however, Lando's gaze drifts to the background of Milo's bedroom. His McLaren Lego car box is proudly on display, however, all the Spider-Man decor is not. Or, at least some things were missing from when he tucked Milo and you in. Not that he memorized the room, or anything, but simply that he'd been replaying that memory in his head so often, it felt like he knew what the decorations should be.

"Wow, that's pretty exciting." He says, tuning back into the conversation. When you flip the camera around to show yourself, you immediately catch the furrow in Lando's brow.

He's sure it's just from you being attentive to your own child's needs, but something is telling in the way that, just from looking at him, you know what he's thinking. "Everything alright?"

"Where's all the Spider-Man stuff?" It couldn't have been long enough that Milo had changed interests. Sure, kids go through different interests, but Lando had got Milo web shooters, he had posters on his walls, comic books on the shelves. Now, it was oddly bare, and Lando's immediate first thought, his first fear, is that you could be moving, and he refuses to allow it to take root in his brain.

You would have a nice and simple and not scary explanation. You had to. "He's going through a bit of a phase, right now." You explain, turning the camera back to Milo, who is still grinning up at you, gap-toothed and all. "Milo, who's your favourite hero?"

And there, Milo says the one sentence that makes Lando wonder if he should abandon everything to fly home early just for you, and more importantly, just for Milo: "Mr. Norris!"

"Me?" Lando squawks out, words caught in his throat. "But I'm not a hero."

"Well, you are in this house." You'd just shot him in the heart, he thinks. He can't imagine an appropriate response, just staring at Milo, who keeps grinning. In this house, which means Milo and you. Lando was his favourite hero now, for reasons even Lando didn't quite understand. Sure, he was a F1 star, a celebrity, but he wasn't anything important. He wasn't a hero, by any means, but with Milo staring at him like that? He just might believe it. "He wants to do another birthday party Lando-themed."

"Can Milo hear me right now?" You shake your head, and Lando dramatically throws an arm over his face, trying to cover his growing blush and crack a joke, because if he doesn't, he might cry. "So I dressed up for nothing?"

"Lando!" You're laughing in unison now, and he wishes, above anything, that it wasn't just over the phone. Seeing you in person might ease the ache in his heart or the anxiety growing in his head. Honestly, it could just make it all ten times worse, but all Lando can think is that you had to like him back. Even if there were concerns of how Milo might fit into the equation, or his racing career, or your own past, you had to.

He was a hero in your household, anyway.

Which meant he might be a hero to you, and really, Lando would give anything to be that knight in shining armour, whisking you away to experience the finer things in life, to give you and Milo the happiness you deserve.

He just sort of has to get off of Facetime and into your life to make it happen.

"Mum," Milo whispers up to you, "Why are they taking our picture?"

The cameras flash around you as you enter the Silverstone track, however, even as your heart rate picks up, and the fear sets in of what Lando's world means, you know exactly why the cameras are flashing: because a little Lando Norris just walked in, decked out in a little McLaren racesuit, made as accurately as you could. "Because they love your costume, sweetheart."

"I made it myself." Milo then says up to one of the photographers as you pass. "Mum helped."

"I'm sure mum helped a lot!" The woman says with a laugh, and you offer her a warm smile. You're sure, if people knew you were here at Lando's request, after he dressed up as Spider-Man for Milo's birthday, they'd be acting much differently.

But, for now, you're fairly invisible, able to walk through the paddock with Milo and enjoy the morning for what it is. Lando had told you to message him when you arrived, but had so far been MIA. It was qualifying today, so he was probably just swamped with media, or training, or getting ready to race, or more important people.

Milo, however, very obviously notices Lando's disappearance. "Where's Mr. Norris?"

"I'm sure he's getting ready," You say, stopping under the shade of an umbrella. It was a ridiculously hot time for England, and coming in an all-black outfit wasn't the best decision, but it was the nicest thing you owned for this kind of event. "We'll see him later, sweetheart."

"I want to show him my suit." Milo says, tugging at your hand toward the bright orange McLaren hospitality. You were a guest of McLaren, technically, so if you were to be anywhere, you think this might be it. Milo, marching his way toward the building, draws the attention of even more cameras, and even more people. In your eyes, Milo truly was adorable, and deserved to be the centre of attention, but even this was a bit much.

"Look, it's a mini you." Someone says, and to your surprise, you look up to see the other McLaren racer standing by the doors.

"Oh, wow." Oscar says, offering a little wave to Milo, who, for some reason, immediately hides behind your leg. You squat down to his height, gently carding your hand through his curls, as you try to figure out how he'd become so shy so fast.

"Look who it is!" You say, as Oscar approaches with even more flashing cameras, and Milo stares up at him, wide-eyed. "Can you say hi to Mr. Piastri?"

Oscar crouches to also be Milo's height, which helps somewhat, but the boy is obviously wary. "Hello," Milo says shyly. "Mr. Pias-tri."

"Hi there," Oscar says, holding out a hand for a high five. Much to your horror, Milo leaves him hanging. "I like your race suit."

"It's for Mr. Norris." Milo says, pulling at the front of it. "We made it at home."

"You must be Milo," Oscar says, and for a moment, your heart stops. Lando spoke about Milo. And, probably not just Milo, but you, and you're not sure what to do with that information. "Lando told me you were coming today. Are you having fun?"

Milo nods, turning to look at you with a strange sort of look in his eye, and you still can't figure out why. Sure, it's not Lando, but Oscar is just as impressive! "It's okay, sweetheart. Mr. Piastri is also a pretty cool car driver."

"Lando and I are teammates," Oscar says, and Milo shoots him an unimpressed look. After all, considering the little racing fan Milo was turning out to be, he seemed to believe Oscar was underestimating him.

"I know." He says defensively, and Oscar cracks a smile. "I saw you on TV."

"Do you want a photo?" Someone says from above, and Oscar shifts to kneel beside Milo as you rise, giving the two of them space.

Milo finally seems to warm up to Oscar, offering a little smile, and without much thought to the action, Oscar takes off his hat and puts it on Milo's head. Milo gasps, grabbing the brim as he tries to look up at the hat, and ends up pulling it over his eyes. The small group laughs, including Oscar, who folds in on himself as he rises. "He's adorable," He says, reaching down to gently pat Milo's head. "I get why Lando loves him so much."

Loves.

I get why Lando loves him so much. "Oh, well, thank you," You manage to stutter out. "Milo, what do you say to Mr. Piastri?"

"Oscar," Oscar says, extending a hand. "You don't have to call me Mr. Piastri."

You shake his hand, and somewhere in the universe, you feel a change you can't describe, a cord unplugged from something too early. You turn to your right instinctively, where you find Lando a few steps away, out of breath and panting, staring you down, like a man who'd just spotted his lost love coming home from war.

At least, that's what you hope that expression means. "Mr. Norris!"

Lando's going to fucking die, and so far, there's at least like three potential reasons for it. He missed your text of your arrival, missed sending his attendant to gather you to bring you back to his drivers room and the paddock early, and then couldn't find you. He'd run around, probably looking a little mad, until he thought to stop by the McLaren hospitality, where he finally did find you.

However, you were looking at Oscar and blushing and stuttering out something before shaking his hand, and his heart turned into something he could only describe as shrivelled. You were supposed to look at him like that, like when he stopped to help you bring groceries in, or fix your wifi router, or when he held the door. That hand you were shaking, even if it was just Oscar, wasn't right. Oscar shouldn't have been the first person to greet you, it should've been him. Lando should've been here, for you, and he wasn't, and how did that show he was dependable? That he cared?

However, all of that sort of went out of the window when he heard Milo call his name, and then his shrivelled heart exploded, because all the orange paint made sense now.

It wasn't for a sign, it was for an outfit. Milo was stood in a perfect little replica race suit, running at him full tilt with his arms spread out, and Lando wasted no time bending down to scoop the boy up, happily holding him in his arms as he babbled on about something, but Lando was sort of too far gone to hear it.

You had made Lando's race suit. You got all the details right, even the little sponsor names, the little British flag and the name Norris on his hip, and for a moment, Lando has the realization that if, one day, you took his last name, Milo would too. Milo Norris, he thinks, is a perfect name for a perfect kid.

Then, Milo pulls the hat off his head, and Lando gets a glimpse of the number on it. "What! 81?" He says, taking the hat and happily tossing it at Oscar, who catches it with a laugh. "That's betrayal! That's-that's enemy territory, Milo. What number should it be?"

"Four!" Milo says as Lando reaches up to take his own hat off his head and place it on Milo's.

"Exactly. 81's for ass-" Well, that's certainly not a word you would approve of him saying in front of Milo. "Uh, Australians."

"Nice catch." You tease, coming to stand beside him, and there really must be something wrong with him, there's got to be. Because with you at his side, adjusting Milo's hat, smiling at him like that? All he can picture is this one day being his, and he's only kissed you once. "Did you just come from a work out?"

A work out?

Oh, him being out of breath and sweating.

"Yeah, getting ready before qualifying." Totally not because he ran here.

Not at all. "Can mum have the hat?" Milo asks, and Lando blinks a couple times before realizing he's never given you any merch, and for a moment, he just sort of hears ringing in his ears.

Because how could he have never given you merch? Both McLaren or his own? How could he have never seen you in his shirts, wearing his number, god, maybe even just some of his own worn clothes? It's all he can picture, of you curled up beside him, repping him, and he has to think about rather terrible things to keep his body from reacting. "You know what? Let's take a trip to my store."

"Lando, you don't have to-" Lando holds up a hand, cutting you off, and he then beckons you to follow.

"I hope you brought a bag," He says. "Cause you're getting everything."

Lando gets it, now.

Why the guys like having their partners at races. It's sweet to have anyone come to watch, to celebrate, but coming off third, a not-so great result, coming back to his drivers room, and coming back to you?

Oh, it takes so much restraint not to just kiss you senseless, because you're in his jersey, grinning at him with Milo in your arms, the image of perfection. Who cares about third when you have this?

Lando gets it, now, as you wrap an arm around him in a hug, squeezing Milo between the two of you as you laugh.

He gets why guys put everything on the line to come home to something like this.

McLaren having a partnership with Hilton is, you think, maybe one of the best perks Lando comes with. Sure, there are the fancy cars and free t-shirts, but a two-room hotel suite for you and Milo? At no cost at all?

Well, that's the sort of thing you could see yourself getting used to, and as you wrap yourself in one of the comfy, complimentary robes, the thought doesn't bring about giddiness of the future, or of Lando, but a strange unease. This was a whole new world, where things were just handed to you on a silver platter when before, you had to fight tooth and nail for the same kind of respect. You got the free merch, the complimentary food and drink, the beautiful hotel suite, and it was all because of Lando.

Lando was out there wearing watches more expensive than your apartment, and Milo was in a charity shop jumpsuit that you hand-painted. It was a very new world to step into, and one you're not sure exactly how to adjust to. There's a soft, tentative knock on the door, and you press your face to the peephole to spot Lando with a plastic bag in hand.

"I hope I didn't wake Milo?" He says as you open the door, gesturing to the bag. "Just wanted to drop off something."

"I just put him down," You say softly, letting him in. "Poor guy fell asleep on the way home."

It was also a stupid thing to get caught up on when you and Lando had only kissed once. He probably had made out with countless women and let them go in a single night. Doesn't mean you didn't value his presence, or that you didn't miss the absence he filled. The empty side of the bed, the empty plate at dinner. Lando had played that role only once, and yet it had just felt so right. It was delusion, probably. Having fallen so quickly, after a single day, but you can't forget how right it felt, how much you wanted it, how long you'd seen him with Milo before it finally tipped over the edge.

"You're something else, you know that?" Lando says, sitting down on the edge of your bed with a grin. "For dressing him up like that. Think it might've stopped my heart."

You come to stand between his open legs, and somehow not quite getting the message, Lando extends the plastic bag. "It was all his idea," You say, taking the bag. "He wanted to dress up like his hero, after all."

"Oh, you can't say that!" Lando covers his face and leans back on the bed as you crack open the bag. "I'm not a hero, I'm just-" He props himself up on his elbows when he hears the crinkling of the bag. "Oh, that's for you."

In hand is a worn McLaren sweater you're pretty sure you've seen Lando wear at least ten times, which isn't a lot, but considering how little you saw him? It was a staple piece of his wardrobe. You must turn bright red, because Lando turns a matching shade as he quickly gets up, leaving little space between you.

"It's just-I thought it might be a better everyday colour than the...the green." He tries to take it from your hand, and you pull it away from him, much like a child refusing to share. "If you don't want-"

"Oh, you're never getting this back now." He gave you.

His sweater. "I thought it matched you more." Then, because saying you matched an old worn hoodie, more than you did brand new, expensive merch might not exactly be taken the best, you watch his face fall in real time. "Because you should be comfortable! And it's like, the most comfortable thing I own! I-"

"Lando." He immediately shuts his mouth, and sits back down on the bed, and you can't help but laugh, coming to sit beside him. So maybe you weren't alone, in how new this all was, the strange territory you toed the line on. "It's very sweet."

"You're laughing! I gave you my jumper and you're laughing." He lets out a low breath, but you can see the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting his own smile. "And to think I flew you out here."

"We took the train, actually." You correct, folding the sweater up and leaving it beside you. "Which I never got to thank you for. All this has been...so much." And as much as you hate to admit it, you need to start being honest at some point. "Maybe too much."

Lando pauses as he watches you, you fiddling with the tie of your robe as you wait for his response. Telling him this was too much, to his face, was probably an idiotic decision, but this was all so foreign. The glamour, the respect. People didn't just do these sorts of things for you, didn't do anything anywhere near as close.

But Lando? He came dressed as Spider-Man, and invited you to races, and for the first time in a long time, made you feel something in a heart normally reserved for Milo and Milo alone. "I couldn't tell you the last time I went on holiday." You finally say, just barely above a whisper. "Had someone pour me champagne, got more free, fancy things than I could ever name. And I'm so grateful for all of it. For you, Lando. I just..."

"It's a lot." Lando finishes for you, rubbing his hands together. "It's okay, if I'm too much too."

"You?" You turn to look at him, and Lando refuses to meet your eye, staring a hole into the carpet. "I don't think I could ever get enough of you, honestly."

"I just really want this to work, you know." Lando suddenly blurts, cheeks tinted pink from your comment. "And I don't know how to do that without just fucking going crazy. Like the Spider-Man suit, paying for you to come to a race? Who does that?" Lando Norris does, apparently. "I just...I want you, and I want that little guy at all of my races, in that little suit, cheering me on." It all sort of comes out in a tumble of a confession that just keeps going. "And not just at races. I want to come home to this, to the Spider-Man webs on the walls, reading him a bedtime story, and I want to come home to you. Wearing my jersey, or my jumper, being with me, kissing me over the backs of couches." Lando looms nearer, then, and in another life, you might grab his face and kiss him, if it weren't for that little, minuscule fear that held everything back. Your words, your future, your feelings. "I think I'm sort of going crazy about it, actually."

"Oh." You were supposed to be confessing your feelings of inadequacy to him, not him confessing actual feelings for you, but you truly don't mind the flip in conversation. However, he looks on the edge of something, a word that he just can't quite get out. "But?"

He drops his head into his hands, raking his fingers through his curls.

It's something he doesn't want to say, and it's something you've had to face for the past four years. "But having that is more than just races and little orange track suits." You fill in for him this time.

"It's a lot of travelling, and a lot of away days, but...other drivers do it?"

"With their own kids, Lando. That's a bit different." You break slowly, because it's the truth.

Lando adored Milo. It's one of the things that made the man so dear to you, but there was a difference between being good with kids and being good at raising kids, between being a babysitter and a potential father. "Milo's pretty much mine, if you want him to be." Lando admits quietly. "D'you see what number he was wearing? Whose name you put on that suit?"

There's a part of you that wants to yell at him to be realistic. His world is so far from yours, with so much more to offer. There must be models and actresses and others cut out for this, not you, not Milo. But when he says things like that? When he looks at you like that? It's a lot harder to make that argument believable. "Kids are a lot of responsibility, Lando. There's more than one heart at stake here. I need you to think about this seriously."

"Mum?" Both of you jolt at the sound of Milo's voice, somehow having gotten out of his room without either of you noticing. You have half a mind to put some distance between you and Lando, considering how close you're sitting, but Milo doesn't seem to care, scrambling up the other side of the bed to sit near you.

"Missing out?" Lando says, turning to sit cross legged on the bed, and letting Milo join the little huddle. It's an act that shouldn't be as heartstopping as it is, but it was Lando, and it was Milo.

It was the realization that you could have someone else to turn to on those sleepless nights, someone at your side who accepted Milo, not rejected him. It was someone in your corner, who wanted you, and it was the first time, in a long time, that anyone's made you feel so...whole. You'll cry about it later, you decide, when both your boys aren't present.

"You should be in bed, love." You whisper, gently pressing a kiss to Milo's forehead. "So should Mr. Norris."

"Sleepover?" Milo asks behind a yawn, and Lando laughs softly, shaking his head.

"We've got a big day tomorrow. We can't stay up." Lando pats the pillow at the head of the bed, and Milo crawls up to lie against it. "How's that?"

"I'm sure it's great, stealing my bed." You tease, coming to lie on one side of Milo, tickling his stomach as he cackles with laughter. Lando falls onto the bed on the other side of Milo and looks over at you with a grin.

As much as you would like to continue your conversation, some things in life are just more important. Seemingly tired of your presence, Milo rolls away from you, and plants his head on Lando's chest. Lando doesn't move, freezing immediately as the boy curls up into his side. "Picking favourites, are we?" You ask softly, and Milo yawns into Lando's ribs.

"I am a pretty good pillow." Lando says, shooting you a wink, and you move onto your side, your arm splayed over Milo and onto Lando's chest. Your palm flattens against him to feel his pounding heart, the movement quick enough to convince you that he'd just run a marathon, or maybe won a race, instead of lying next to you.

It would be a more intimate moment if Milo didn't wipe his drool on Lando's t-shirt, who luckily takes it in stride. "I should take him to races more often," You say absentmindedly, stuck between watching Milo and watching Lando. "He's pretty tuckered out."

"You can come to every race," Lando says softly, rolling his head to the side to look at you. "I'll pay for every one."

"Lando..." The thing is, when he said things like that, you knew he meant it. You knew that this could be your future, such an opportunity for both you and Milo, but it shouldn't be yours to take. At least, it shouldn't be yours to take, unless Lando considers all the little repercussions that come with dating you. "I just want you to think about this." You peek down at Milo, whose eyes are fluttering, still fighting sleep. You move your hand from Lando's chest to gently rub at his back, and in seconds, he's finally dozing. Only when you're sure he won't wake from your whispers do you continue. "You mean more to me than you know, so if we're doing this, I don't want...I just, I need you to know that I need all of you."

"You have all of me." Then, because he knows it's not a fair thing to say, "I'll think about it."

As gently as you can, you pull Milo back off Lando's chest and onto the bed. Lando's face falls at the loss, and you have to steel yourself to stop from confessing something catastrophic then and there. Despite all the doubts you have, the way Lando looks at Milo stirs something deep in your heart. "Don't worry about it at the race, either." You warn, knowing how he might stew over this long enough to hurt his performance tomorrow. "Just...when you know, tell me."

Lando leans over, and you expect him to say something, but instead, he presses a kiss to your cheek. "Trust me," He says, "You'll be the first to know. Goodnight." He then gently places his hand on Milo's head and whispers, "Goodnight, Mini-me."

So, maybe Lando's love confession didn't exactly go as planned last night. He had gotten the two-room suite for a reason: Milo goes to bed, you stay up, he confesses everything he's been dying to say, maybe you kiss him, it all works perfectly.

However, that sort of love confession wasn't realistic, and he'd ended up not beginning a relationship with you, but he did kiss you on the cheek, and got a reminder to think about the relationship, you, and Milo. Despite your warning, it's all he can think about the entire time he's in the car, which most certainly isn't helpful.

He wanted this.

He wanted you. And Milo.

And despite what those around him might think, it was realistic. It could be, anyway. He was young, he was well aware, but he had the energy to be a father. Other people had kids at his age! I mean, Milo wasn't exactly a teenage pregnancy, you were both in your twenties. You could handle this. He could handle this. Or, at least, he was pretty sure he could.

He had already cornered Max in the Red Bull Motorhome to annoy him with enough questions about being a step-dad that the man now refused to answer his texts. He had done the research. He'd seen Milo in that race suit. He knew how his own father raised him, the kind of kindness that he couldn't believe others never received.

That was enough. You were enough. And, as he overtakes Max, he hopes you know that. He hopes that you delaying this wasn't coming from your view of yourself, because he knew what the media could be like. You weren't what most people might expect from him, but that didn't make it wrong, didn't make you any less of a partner. Milo was a glorious part of this, not something for you to ever feel ashamed about.

He had meant it, when he said Milo was his. He might not know exactly how to be a dad, but he knows how to be himself, and everytime he is himself, around you, around Milo, it feels right. It feels like he belongs, like that kid was always supposed to be his, like you were always supposed to be his.

Mr and Mrs Norris, and Milo Norris.

As he pits, he wonders where you're watching from, if you'll get to the Parc Ferme in time, or get to the barrier. It's cocky to think of, halfway through a race, but he can't help it. It's his home race; he might die if he loses, especially now that you're here. His mind drifts, as he takes off, wondering if he'll get to kiss you.

Then, as Lando gets back out on the track, weaving his way back to first, he lets himself wonder, just once, if this is the right decision.

Because what if he did make a mistake? What if he screwed up? What if he messes up Milo? If he messes up what you have? He'd never forgive himself. A child is such a large commitment, and honestly, if he ignores Milo, a very hard task to do, you're a big commitment too. Lando's not sure what happened to you in the past, to leave you with Milo and no one else, but he couldn't fathom hurting you further, seeing you hurt at all.

God, if he fucked this up, he could never-

"Message for you, Lando." A voice cuts through his earphones as the worst of the thoughts spiral, giving him just enough of a branch to cling onto.

"Mr. Norris?" Milo says, "There's a-what is it? Oh, there's rain expected in ten minutes."

Lando has to suck in a breath to respond, his mind going blank. "Yeah?"

"If you win, will you give the trophy to mum?" And there, on the Silverstone track, Lando realizes he could never screw up.

Not with Milo or you on the line. Not with this. He might be young, and this might be new, but he knows he'd give everything up in a heartbeat to have this at every race.

To have someone to give his trophies to, to have someone to come home to, to have you, and Milo. To have a happily ever after that didn't depend on a race car, or winnings. One that simply depended on you saying yes in a white dress someday. And, long before that, of you meeting him at the barrier after this race. "Of course, you muppet."

When Lando wins, because of course Lando wins, Silverstone goes ballistic. It's the sort of celebration you'd never witnessed before, all the mechanics, all the orange staff, all the fans in the stands, they all erupt in cheers and hugs, a morphing, crushing mob that rushes towards Parc Ferme with a speed that forces you to pick up Milo to avoid him getting trampled.

"The trophy!" He says, smacking against your shoulders as you join the rush, jogging to keep up. "He promised you his trophy!"

"I think I'll keep it in the kitchen," You say with a soft laugh, taking off your earmuffs to let them hang around your neck, settling nicely against Lando's jumper. It might not be the prettiest of things to wear to an F1 race, but who else could say they were wearing Lando Norris's clothes when he won his home race? "We can serve pasta out of it."

"Or sweets!" Milo says, trying to get up out of your arms to see over the crowd as you approach. "Or apple juice!"

Lando stands on top of his car, and for a moment, you regret not keeping the earmuffs on, because the screams around you are deafening, your own included. It's the sweetest possible sound of victory, Lando jumping up on his car and shaking his fists in the air, a ball of energy that belonged there.

He makes his way around the crowd, throwing himself at mechanics and other staff, embracing family and friends, celebrating like he deserves to. As he takes off his helmet, you watch him pause, jumping up on the tips of his toes to try to scan over the crowd, and it's Milo who figures it out before you do.

"MR. NORRIS!" He screeches, startling the few people in front of you. They awkwardly shuffle to the sides to let you and Milo through, and Lando is instantly reaching for the boy, swinging him over the barrier and hoisting him on his shoulders.

It's the sort of view you don't think you could ever get tired of. In fact, it's the sort of memory you want burned into the back of your eyelids to see every time you blink, or sleep, or dream. It's Milo and Lando, matching suits and curls and grins, stretched from ear to ear. The crowd keeps chanting, hollering at the two of them, but all the noise sort of fades as you watch.

That, you think, is how you want Milo to look at a man, at someone who might be your partner. That's the kind of care you want your partner to have, holding Milo like his own, spinning around in circles as the cameras flash and the world applauds them. At least, you think, the world sees your boys as you do.

Absolutely perfect. Lando catches your stare as he ends his celebratory dance, stopping a few feet away as he watches you right back. And that smile, that ridiculous, contagious smile, only grows.

"I thought about it!" He has to shout, words barely heard as he approaches.

"What?" You ask, leaning against the railing to try and make out the meaning.

"I said," He repeats, ducking forward to hover just above you, "I thought about it."

His lips are on yours before you can even react. To some, it probably isn't the most pleasant kiss in the world, with the sweat and the heat and the crowd crushing in, but you find there's not a single thing you could ever complain about as your hands come up to cup his cheeks. It's Lando, in the clearest declaration you've ever seen, calling you his, in front of Silverstone, in front of everyone, in front of Milo, in front of you. It's not a soft thing over the back of the couch in a Spider-Man costume, but it's so much more real, heavy and yet somehow lightening all the weight on your shoulders, all the worries preying at the edge of your mind.

This is how it should feel when you kiss someone. This is how it feels when you know it'll last, when that love extends past you and into the boy resting on Lando's shoulders. It's how it feels when you know, and he knows, and there's nothing else to say about it. "You won!" You say against his lips with a smile, and he pulls back to practically cackle at you.

"I won!" Later, when you tell him there were tears in his eyes at this moment, he'll deny them, but you watch the way they shine, all that hard work and effort paid off. "I've got my good luck charms with me. Now you have to come to every race."

"Oh, we'll be there." Lando reaches over the railing to pull you somehow closer into him, bending his head to press a kiss to your cheek, and whisper something without the world to hear.

"Thank you," He says, almost choking on the words. "I'll make this work, I promise."

"I believe you, Lando." You say, and you'd say more, but the moment gets interrupted by a certain someone.

"Mr. Norris!" Milo says, pulling softly at Lando's hair. "You kissed my mum."

Lando freezes, realizing that, as much as you might be happy about this relationship, Milo might not be. "That okay?"

Milo thinks for a moment. "Can I get your trophy?"

"I'll give you all my trophies from now on," Lando says, letting the boy down and back into your arms. "Do we have a deal?"

"Deal." Lando laughs, a pure, bright thing, and heads back to do whatever it is he does after a race, and you let reality settle in. There are cameras, and people staring, and questions to be asked, but you find that they don't quite matter, because you can't stop grinning like an idiot.

This, you think, was how it should feel, being in love.

It's the way your heart calms, watching Lando get up on that podium, accept his award, knowing he deserves it all and more. It's you screaming until your lungs are raw in celebration, watching him spraying champagne, holding his trophy high, beaming down at you.

It's the Lego trophy that's in Milo's hands mere minutes after it's given to Lando, who, in his post-race celebration, hoists the boy back up on his shoulders, looking more proud of the boy above him than he was to win. They match, in their outfits, and their trophies, and their smiles, and their curls, and the way you're so utterly smitten for both of them.

It's the sort of joy you hope will never fade, and after it's all done, and the fans go home, and the energy wears off, you doubt it ever will, as you discover Milo and Lando passed out together in his little en-suite room. The man had insisted on coming over to read Milo a bedtime story, but it seems the two never got that far, the book still open in Lando's lap.

Without much thought to the action, you press a kiss to Lando's temple and Milo's forehead, close the book, and turn off the light.

It's this sort of love you hope to experience every day for the rest of your life.

a/n: i tried so hard to balance cute and realistic in this one, so i really hope i did them justice <3 (also i rewrote the ending eight times.)

#➤ rex works #➤ ln4 #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris fic #lando norris fluff #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 imagines #reader insert #f1 fluff #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #formula one fluff

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sleepyangelkami · 10 months ago

Note

more vi plss!! (and reader is a pillow princess)

SAY IT .vi

𝜗𝜚 WORD COUNT - 1.5K

VI (ARCANE) X FEM!READER

𝜗𝜚 SUMMARY - vi calls you exactly what you are, a pillow princess and in efforts to prove her wrong, you only end up proving her right. but that's fine, because that was all she wanted.

𝜗𝜚 WARNINGS - smut, dom!vi, sub!reader, pillow princess!reader, fingering (r.receiving), praise kink, dumbification, dirty talk, alternate universe, petnames, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷

it started off as a joke.

a simple joke that left your girlfriends lips. you'd been laying on your stomach across the sitting room sofa, words mindlessly falling from both your lips as you flipped through a magazine. she sat man-spreading across the arm chair, controller in hand. you always said she loved her video games more than you, but she'd always deny.

then you heard it, the joke spewing from her lips with a smirk on her face. "yeah, okay, pillow princess."

instantly, your head snapped up from your magazine. your glittery pen that you'd been circling clothing with dropped from your pretty fingers. "i'm not a pillow princess."

vi seemed to sense your distress. she set the controller down as the game conveniently ended. "well, i'm not saying there's anything wrong with it." she leaned back against the armchair, resting her hands behind her head. "i love that you're a pillow princess, believe me."

you wouldn't believe how many times she'd gotten off just by thinking about it. you were so good for her, so responsive. she hardly had to touch you and you were falling apart. sure, she loved watching your head between her thighs as you whimpered into her but there was nothing more she loved than watching you, hearing you. all of it.

you seemed butt hurt by the joke.

but vi swiftly changed the conversation, noticing the furrow of your brow.

vi knew how sensitive you were, how easily you took everything to heart and she didn't want you over thinking this. and her tactics proved right, by five minutes later you were showing her a pretty top you'd spotted on the coloured pages.

you didn't think much of it at first. in fact, for the next while, you didn't think of it at all.

perhaps you had too much in your head to contain so much information, you told vi that was why you talked so much.

it wasn't until vi had you pinned down against the bed, making out with you, that the moment popped into your head again.

you almost shut it out on accident, then it clicked. vi was kissing you deeply, her hands dragged at your hips, pulling and kneading the skin while you passed heavy breaths through your lips, kissing her back just as hard.

and suddenly, you had this urge to prove her wrong.

vi felt you shift, letting you take the lead.

she felt you turn you both over, you landed in her lap and suddenly, she was the one against the bed. her brows shifted in amusement. "what's this, baby?"

you shifted your hair to one side of your head so it didn't get in the way, you weren't really used to things like this. "jus' trying to prove something." you mumbled before reaching down and kissing her lips.

don't get me wrong, vi loved the feeling of you kissing her, whatever way you sat, laid or stood, on top or not. but she couldn't seem to shake the amusement as your mouth left hers, leaving a trail of kisses against her neck. "this have something to do with that joke i made before?"

your lips stopped momentarily at her neck, eyes gazing up. "'m not a pillow princess."

vi didn't understand why you were so adamant about it.

there was no shame in it. on the contrary, she adored it.

"yeah?" her brow cocked and she was looking at you this way that had you nodding, suddenly unable to speak. "y'sure, sweetheart? cause if i remember correctly..." suddenly, you were being flipped over again, beneath her all over again. "you quite like sitting there all pretty 'n taking it."

you could feel her hands trail down past your waist, kneading your thighs in her hands. "v-vi, 'm trying to―" you were cut off by the breath being caught in your throat.

vi's hand had trailed up your skirt, her fingers dancing over your panties. "you're trying to what, sweet girl?" you felt her fingers rub against your clothed clit. "c'mon, use your words f'me."

"vi!" you whined, feeling her fingers against you. she wasn't being fair, you were supposed to take charge but how could you think about anything when she was touching you like that?

a soft laugh left the girls lips as she pushed your panties aside, fingers gentle against your swollen bud. "love it when you whine like that."

you could only look up at her with your tinted hot cheeks.

she began to press gentle kisses against the nape of your neck, fingers trailing down to your hole, she rounded her fingers against you, collecting the trail of your slick across her digits. she made a fake gasp noise. "'n look how wet you are already." she couldn't help but smirk. "good girl."

two single words that set you off every time.

a gasp left your lips as she slipped her two fingers inside you at once. you suddenly moaned with pleasure.

vi was like a drug. every time she touched you, you found yourself addicted, begging and chasing for her to praise you. you'd do anything to please her but luckily for you, that meant just sitting there and taking it. you truly did wish you could be less 'responsive' but vi wouldn't take it any other way. her favourite thing to do was turn you dumb with her mere fingers, maybe even her strap.

your eyes fluttered shut in pleasure, feeling her fingers pound against your sopping cunt. "please, vi." you moaned out. "please don't stop."

"yeah? wanna be my good girl again, huh?" nudging your face with her nose, littering kisses on your cheek.

you could only whimper out with a nod. vi had this way of making you feel like you were high on magic. you couldn't help but want her in every way.

"then say it, angel." fingers pumping in and out, embarrassing squelching sounds bounced off each wall of the bedroom. "say you're my pillow princess."

she was met with a mere whine of dissatisfaction from you.

she feigned sympathy with a coo. "awh, i know, baby. my poor girl, jus' so mean, aren't I?" but the girl didn't care much for your whining and whimpering, she'd get you to say it before you came. "but you gotta say it, yeah? don't want me to stop do you?"

you pursed your lips closed. "mm-mm. please don't stop." you practically panted out, you could almost feel frustration build in your water line. "nnghh― please, vi!"

"four words." is all she whispered back, her palm grazed against your clit every time her fingers pounded into your entrance. "know you can say it, pretty girl. jus' need me to make you all dumb, don't you, baby?"

a whimper of her name was the only thing that left your lips, eyes screwing shut.

"close, sweetheart? 's now or never, baby. say it or i'll stop."

the feeling was knotting in your stomach, ready to unravel. you didn't want to but you knew better than to cum without following orders.

so you forced the damned sentence to pass your lips. "'m your pillow princess."

and a coo only fell from the magenta haired girl. "awh, know you are, sweet girl. see? my good girl always listens, doesn't she? huh?" vi tended to ask you questions while knuckles deep in your pussy, she knew you couldn't utter a single word. "you jus' need me to make your poor pussy feel all good, don't you?"

a breathless, "uh-huh." was her answer. "'m close!"

"yeah? gonna be good f'me 'n say please?" of course, vi had to make you beg for it.

"please!" you practically squeaked out as your back arched against the bed.

a chuckle left her lips. "you can do better than that."

and you really, definitely could. but vi had made you all dumb, exactly her plan. "please let me cum, vi. please, need it so bad. please." you repeated the word please in little whispers, unable to hold back the knot in your stomach.

"you're such a good girl, 'course you can cum, baby." she felt your spongy walls suddenly tighten around her fingers. "that's it, sweetheart, cum all over vi's fingers, 's a good girl."

vi pumped her fingers in and out of you, letting you ride out your high like she always did until you were squirming away from her.

she leaned against the bed with a self-loving smirk on her face, hardly glancing your way. you laid next to her, chest falling and rising as you panted out breaths. a beat of silence passed until you spoke up. "vi?" turning your head to her.

"yes, my pillow princess?" she teased.

instantly, a frown fell on your face as you crossed your arms over your chest. she wasn't being fair. "i was gonna say something, now i'm not speaking to you."

"oh, come on." she lifted your face by her thumb to make you look at her again. "no pouting or else i'll have to shut you up all over again."

an idea suddenly fell flat on your head.

your pout deepened.

vi only climbed over you with the smuggest of smirks on her face. "you dirty little slut."

main masterlist/vi's masterlist

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opt1mistic · 3 months ago

Text

TORMENT ME 𓋜 ft. mean bbf!ellie williams

cw. nsfw, kind of exhibitionism, slight dubcon, ellie isn’t really mean she’s just a tease, loser ellie implied bc i can’t help myself lol, reader has a brother bc duh, and is afab but gn. wc. 1.6k. based on this request

it was about 11 in the morning, you are in your kitchen getting breakfast, ‘the most important meal of the day’ they say. but you could care less about getting breakfast with this leech constantly hovering over you at a distance that should be considered too close.

ellie. where do i even start? she’s just like a stray cat, you feed her once, one time and she’s here again begging for more. but instead of feeding her once, you may have slept with her... it was one time and you were both drunk. you barely remember it. so why is she always here reminding you that she was knuckles deep inside of you?

your eyes drilling holes into the fridge, so many options, but none that fill your needs. you’re not even hungry, if you were to be honest. you just came down here to see her. as much as you hate to admit it you like ellie. you’ve always liked her. she’s been your brother's best friend since, like, forever, you can’t quite recall a moment where she wasn’t here. on the couch in your living room, your brother's room, or the kitchen, the fridge specifically.

you knew ellie liked you as well, she’s made that fact very obvious. she is constantly reminding you of it, but not in a desperate way, no, ellie isn’t desperate at all, well maybe a little, she’s just really persistent. she knows you like her so what is the problem with the two of you finally having something, at least?

your brother doesn’t even seem to care if the two of you date. because you how it’s always when you fall for your brother's best friend. the same: ‘uhhh no you can’t date my friends.’(pretend that was said with a very forced imitating voice). or something like ‘fuck no, my friends are off limits.’

but no, not with your brother. he could give less of a fuck about whatever it was going on between you and ellie.

you were the real problem here. so stubborn about admitting your feelings and so, so bratty every time ellie makes a pass at you that clearly has an effect on you.

and here she was again. you, still trying to find something to eat, mind coming up blank of mostly anything only being occupied by the toned biceps that you got a glimpse of when you walked into the kitchen. she was already there making breakfast for herself as your brother sat at the dining table with his back towards the kitchen and a pair of headphones plugged into his ears, eating what seemed to be the biggest breakfast you’ve ever seen.

you walked past her trying not to stare too hard at her arms as you made your way towards the fridge.

it’s been a good minute and a half of looking at some jar(that’s filled with something of a very strange colour…)in the fridge trying to think of what you should eat, so you decide on the same thing you have almost every morning; toast. everything you needed was already on the kitchen counter.

you whip around, fridge door slamming shut behind you. she’s still in the kitchen, you were hoping she would’ve left by the time you finished your staring contest with the insides of the fridge. and she’s got that damn lopsided smirk like she just won something. with her elbow perched up on the counter right next to the bread and butter.

“found what you were looking for in there?” ellie asks.

you roll your eyes “i wasn't looking for anything.”

it was a stupid question because she knows you weren’t pay attention to anything that laid upon the shelves of the fridge. she did, however, catch your attention on her arms. and ellie was really hoping that was what had you so distracted.

she laughs at your obviously annoyed answer. you walk over to grab a plate from the cabinet, setting it down on the counter right next to her. you reach for the bread, ellies eyes following your every movement, they have been since you entered the kitchen.

she shrugs. “could’ve fooled me. you were in there like it owed you money or something.” again with her dumb jokes, does she seriously think she’s funny?

you shoot her a sharp glance, but it only makes her grin widen.

“or maybe you were just buying time. needed a minute to cool off,” she adds, voice lower, more pointed. “you always get like that when i’m around?”

you continue trying to make your toast, putting the bread in the toaster pulling the small lever of it down watching the two pieces of bread disappear.

“bet it’s exhausting,” ellie continues. “pretending you’re not obsessed with me.”

“you’re delusional.”

“mm, probably.” you didn’t dare to look at her, to look at that grin of hers that makes you weak in the knees. “still doesn’t change the fact you’re thinking about that night every time you look at me.”

is she crazy? you slam your palms onto the counter very lightly though, afraid your brother might hear.

“what do you want, ellie?”

she leans in just a little moving behind you now, enough for you to feel her breath on your cheek and you could still see her from the corner of your eye, but still keeping your gaze on the toaster before you.

“you.”

you almost choke out a gasp, it wouldnt really sound like one anyway, more of a silent gag. you push it all down, can’t be feeding into her ego too much. and before you could respond you feel ellie’s hands grip your hips.

as soon as her palms make contact with you, your eyes fly up to look at your brother. what if he sees? is she serious right now?

her face peaking from the side of you shoulder, right next to your face. your butt is right in her crotch pressed firmly against her.

ellie leans in, her voice dropping to that stupid low whisper she knows gets under your skin.

“y’know, if you keep pressing back like that, i’m gonna start thinking you want something.”

how did i get here??????

you exhale sharply through your nose, refusing to flinch. “get your hands off me.”

“say please.”

you whip your head toward her, eyes narrowed, and for a second, she just watches you with that insufferable half-lidded gaze—like she’s already won, like she always wins.

“ellie. i’m serious.”

her grip tightens just a bit, thumbs rubbing slow circles against your hips. “so am i.”

the toaster pops.

“you’re lucky he’s got those headphones on,” you mutter, trying to pretend your hands aren’t shaking as you reach for your freshly toasted bread when you feel ellie’s hands move upward from your hips to your waist.

she snorts behind you.

“yeah?” she echoes, voice laced with something smug and hushed. “i’d be luckier if he wasn’t here at all.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, grab the toast with a little too much force to put it down on your plate. “and what? you’re still doing the same shit with him right if front is us.”

she hums, dragging her fingers just beneath the hem of your shirt, brushing the skin there. “you’re right.”

you stiffen. your breath catches.

“but i’d just be less discrete about it.”

her voice is low and honey-slick, curling against your ear like smoke. palm by palm creeping upward under your shirt more, brushing warm fingers over bare skin.

“ellie…” you warn, but it comes out breathless.

“mm,” she hums, all mock innocence, fingers dragging lightly over your ribs, “what? just warming you up. kitchen’s cold this mornin’.”

you hate how you don’t push her away. hate even more how your stomach flutters when her thumbs graze the curve of your under boobs.

you roll your eyes, lips curling in something like a smirk. “you’re so full of shit.” you almost whimper as you speak.

“maybe,” she murmurs, ducking in closer, lips brushing your jaw now, “but you’re letting me touch you.”

you scoff, but it’s weak. you’re trying not to arch into her palms when her fingertips press into your hardened nipples. and you also can’t bark anything back at her when her fingers start to play around with the buds of your nipples, pinching them, twisting them, trying to get a noise out of you.

and it works.

you moan in shame as your head looks the opposite way from ellie, who's now kissing down your neck. her palms go to grip your breasts, messaging them, needing them like dough.

“so soft…” she whispers out against your pulse.

ellie’s hands now start to make their way back down your body, feeling the hem of your bottoms dipping her thumbs under to feel the lining of your panties.

and before things could escalate any further your brother sneezes, causing you to flinch.

your body feels empty all of a sudden as ellie moves her hands off of you. you turn your face to look at her as she’s moving away from you and grabbing her plate of food and leaving you, but not before whispering “you gonna let me finish that later, or are you just gonna keep playing pretend?” into your ear.

all empty and unfulfilled. so hot and bothered, worked up, your face flushed with heat. how could she just do that and walk away like nothing happened?

but truth be told, ellie is freaking the fuck out right now. face red, mind going crazy. all she hopes for is that you let her finish later.

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clovermoters · 4 months ago

Text

anytime, anywhere - lando norris x childhood sweetheart!reader

summary - lando fell in love when he was ten years old, heres small moments of that love over the years.

warnings - kisses, panic attacks, small amount of violence & lando being a SAP

wc : 8k

some music - work song, hozier | my love mine all mine, mitski | love of my life, harry styles | pov, ariana grande | super rich kids, frank ocean.

authors note - hi! as always, enjoy! reblogs & likes are always hugely appreciated!! lots of love, clove!

ten - the meeting

The fluorescent lights of the afterschool program shined bright as you were sitting at the snack table, quietly picking away at the food your mom packed for you this morning. It was 5:30, most kids had been picked up by their parents or siblings. Leaving you and four other kids left, one was a curly haired boy who was sitting not far across from you. Working away at his homework.

You remembered he was in your class. Lando, you remember, was his name. He was quiet, and he sat far across the room from you, so you haven't spoken to him much since meeting him in september.

One of the coordinators for the program, Allie walks into the room, having left minutes prior to take a phone call, she looks at you with a sympathetic look on her face before sitting down next to you carefully.

You already know what she's going to say

“Hi sweetie, that was your mum” she began, taking a deep breath trying to keep her voice low. “Your parents are going to be a bit late today, your mum said dad will get here as quick as possible” she continued.

This wasn't the first time your parents have called, they were late most days, you tried to understand that they have unpredictable jobs, with both your mum and dad being doctors at one of the top hospitals in the country.

You huffed, nodding before pulling out a colouring book that was given to you by your teacher as homework, the same homework the brunette across the room was doing.

Down the table, the other three boys seemed to have heard your conversation with allie.

“Ooooohhh y/n’s parents abandoned her!” one of them taunts, the boys burst into giggles before Allie sends them a stern face. they don't let up.

“Isn't this like the third time this week? They must forget about you alot” they poke while their laughter grows louder

You see out of the corner of your eye, Lando looks up from his book, his eyes looking to you while your head stays down, trying to focus on your coloring.

Tears prick your eyes as Allie sends them to the hallway, probably to tell them off, some more. The sound of your sniffles fill the room and Lando watches you wipe your tears with your sleeve before he stands up and makes his way across the room and places himself right next to you.

“I like your colouring” he says shyly, like he isn't sure what to say. You turn to him, his green eyes looking into yours as he offers you a warm, genuine smile. You find yourself smiling softly back at him, like it was contagious.

“Thanks, yours is okay” you giggle mischievously, looking down to see his work. His colours were slightly different than yours, but you both had the same idea with shades and detail, his jaw dropped in faux offense.

“Hey! They look the same!” he says, you both break out into a fit of giggles, playfully chatting while you continue with your artwork.

When Allie returns, she finds you two in a very in depth conversation about the movie you watched in class today. Crayons scattered around the abandoned colouring books, she smiled softly at the two ten year olds as she watched a special bond form between them.

You chatted about everything, Lando told you about his newly found hobby in karting. How he wanted to try competing and was mostly excited to miss school for races. You told him small details about you, his attention never wavering as you spoke.

You both chatted until the rest of the kids had left, leaving just you two and Allie, who was sitting quietly in the corner playing some game on her phone.

“You should come to one of my races” he declares, “i'll let you drive my kart” you cringe slightly, frowning at the boy. the thought of operating the machinery scares you slightly. “When you win a race I'll go karting with you.” You say shaking your head at him,

The door opened and in walked a lady whose eyes found lando almost instantly, lando had his back to the door since he was fully immersed in his conversation with you.

“I think your mums here” you say as Lando whips his head around to see his mum. He smiled, getting up from his seat and hugging her tight. You felt your shoulders drop as you realized lando would now go home, leaving you alone.

“Hi sweetheart, ready to go home?” she asks her son, who hesitates before he answers. Lando made eye contact with you, the girl he’d found a new friend in and felt quite sad to leave her here, when he got to go home.

Looking at his mum, he shakes his head “no i wanna stay with y/n until her dad comes.”

His mum looked at you, shrinking into your chair with all eyes on you. She had a sparkle in her eye as she watched him make his way back to you. She could tell her son had grown fond of you by seeing how he continued your conversation as if his mum wasn't there.

“so, if I win a race, you will come karting with me. deal?” he holds his small hand out, you smile, showing him a toothy smile that made his ten eight year old brain stop in time. Wanting to freeze frame it and paste it onto his eyelids.

You shake his hand

“deal.”

Fifteen - the unofficial first date

You were anxiously scuffing your feet into the asphalt of your local karting track. Lando had won his first karting race long ago, he was actually set to win his first series this year. But you two had never gotten around to getting you into a kart and on track with him.

Since that day five years ago, you two had been inseparable. He took you to races on the weekend, and you had helped him catch up in school when he needed help.

You even started going home with him after school and your parents began to just pick you up at Landos.

Lando knew he liked you, he had known since he met you. Since your hand brushed against his when you both reached for the same crayon. Your smile was contagious and he swore you grew flowers wherever you walked.

What started as a small elementary crush– over the years had bloomed into something bigger, something Lando couldn't explain just yet.

Lando was so excited to show you karting, you could see it on his face. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet while he pulled you through the garage with his hand held in yours. You tried to ignore the butterflies that have made home in your stomach years ago when Lando started getting touchy like this with you. It started with his hand lightly brushing your shoulder in conversations, hugs that lasted longer than they should’ve while his head was tucked snugly in the crook of your neck.

he leads you to a small single seater that you assumed was yours for the afternoon, “this is what you’ll be driving, i'll be in my kart with you the whole time” he explains, showing you how to control it and the proper steering technique, while throwing in a couple tips. His hand is still laced with yours as he tells you about his own kart.

You loved seeing him in his element. Watching him race was your favourite thing. You admired his face as he spoke, the freckles you've grown to love topped with his curls that he was still learning to care for properly (after you had begged him too).

“You with me?” he nudges your arm, shaking you out of your daydream. You nod

“yeah, just zoned out a bit.” you reply,

When you walked out in fireproofs and a karting suit, Lando felt like time froze, the world around him spinning to a halt as his gaze found you. He thought you looked beautiful everyday, but seeing you in a race uniform made his mind go fuzzy.

His breath caught in his throat as he watched you walk over to him, holding a helmet and gloves. His green eyes sparkling at you, like you were the only girl in the world.

He helped you with your helmet, his fingers brushing under your chin as he clipped the chinstrap, sending shockwaves down your spine. When you were secured he gave you a light tap on the side of your head before you both got in your karts, starting your engines.

You were slowly getting the hang of the machinery, the kart vibrating underneath you as you took each corner with more confidence as you went, Lando staying steadily out in front of you. Turning his neck around to check in on you when you two would rush down the straights. You understood why he enjoyed this so much, the thrill of taking a corner slightly too fast, pushing the kart to its limit.

You almost enjoyed it too much.

The barrier came quickly, you hit a dead spot on the track, your kart skidding straight into the make-shift padded wall. When Lando watched the yellow flag fly out, he immediately felt his stomach drop, turning around to see you wobbling slightly in your kart.

Stopping his kart safely off the track, his feet hit the ground as he sprinted to you, dropping in front of you, flicking his and your visor up, his eyes scanning yours frantically as he watched tears brim your eyes.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, his concern evident in his voice as he checks you over. “Where does it hurt?” you groan as he moves your arm slightly, cringing as your muscles contract from the sudden shock.

“Im okay, just annoyed, im sorry” you huff, tears threatening to fall from your eyes, you knew how much lando wanted to take you karting and show you his world. And now you've ruined it by crashing.

“No, no none of that.” he soothes, helping you out of the kart and back to the garage. Sitting you down and helping you take your helmet off. You looked adorable when he saw your messy hair from the balaclava. Lando had never wanted to kiss anyone yet, but at this moment he was coming very close to kissing you.

It was like an itch that surged his whole body, the desire he felt to do all the things a couple does. He wanted to try them, with you. The hand holding while walking to classes, the nights spent wrapping in eachothers arms, he wanted all of you.

he wanted to learn what being in love was like, and he only saw himself learning with you.

“Are you sure you're okay?” he asks cautiously, concerned that your adrenaline hasn't allowed you to fully feel any pain you might be in.

“Yeah, i think i'll just be sore” you sigh, taking a sip from the water bottle he retrieved from the cooler for you, sitting himself on the floor in front of you. He's looking up to you like he's mesmerizing every inch of your face, studying every mole and freckle.

Lando chuckles, “oh yea, you're gonna hurt like hell tomorrow” he jokes, you kick him lightly as you break into a fit of giggles, your laughs filling the garage with a sense of joy.

The mechanics nearby smile at the two of you, infatuated with the way Lando acted in your presence. On a normal race weekend, he was focused, almost unable to see past the task at hand. With you, he was light, laughing, almost as if you showed him what happiness was.

Your laughs die down and you catch yourself staring at the way his nose crinkled as he smiled. How his curls sit perfectly even after being smushed in his helmet. Your cheeks go flush while you fidget with the hem of your fireproof.

Lando gaze locked onto you, he watches as your face focuses on your fingers, smiling softly before he stands up, offering his hand out to you.

“c’mon, lets make my dad get us ice cream”

You break out into a smile, linking your fingers with his before standing up, you two making your way to find Landos dad.

Even though karting didn't go how he had planned, Lando felt today was a successful day nonetheless. Because he got to spend his day with you, showing you his other world he loved, the world he was building and working towards, imagining what the future would be when he climbs his way to the top, and he knew he wanted you to be right there with him when he did.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue” you say playfully as you walk with him towards the car, he just smiles, his curls bouncing as he strolls beside you.

“Anytime, anywhere.”

Seventeen - bruise knuckles with a side of love

The lights were dimmed as you walked into the house of your friend's house, music was pumping through the speakers providing background noise to the conversations you could hear flowing throughout the room.

Your eyes scanned the room, looking for the familiar head of chocolate curls who you refused to admit was the whole reason you had come. Lando had been away karting for the past week and you haven't seen him, when you spot him, he has his back turned to you fully engrossed in a conversation with Max Fewtrell.

Max's eyes catch your from over landos shoulder, a small smirk creeping into his face as he announces your entrance.

“ayeee!! There she is!” he shouts, landos head whips around, slightly confused to who Max is referring to, when he spots you, his eyes light up. You two lock eyes and it's like the world falls away for a moment as you take each other in. He noticed you had straightened your hair differently, training a soft curl at the end of your hair, framing your face perfectly.

He's on his feet in seconds, making his way across the room to close what felt like a ravine between you. Mumbling a soft hey while engulfing you in a hug, it felt like coming home after a horrible day. His arms squeezing you softly as he tucks his head into your shoulder. You hug him back, closing your eyes as you both linger in the hug for a moment.

You don't realize that it's been long until Max is next to you, he clears his throat loudly, startling you guys apart. He smiles, greeting you with a brief hug that has Lando sending him a slight glare. You failed to notice the brunette pinching his friend's side afterwards, max letting out a small whine.

You told Lando how much he missed school, he shrugged it off with a laugh, you both knew he had given up on completing school. Joking that you were getting the degree for both of them. The three of you had always been close, going through schooling together since you were young. Though Max knew there was a bond between you and Lando that he would never be able to fully understand.

You two understood each other without even having to speak, if Lando was upset with a race, Max often would text you as they drove home, you’d be waiting for them on the porch with snacks and a movie. Lando falling into your embrace before you settled on your own end of the couch, one of his favorite films playing on the tv.

If Max looked over to you two, he’d see Lando absentmindedly playing with your fingers, he’d see you slowly running your hand through his curls, something you knew would calm him down

You always knew lando needed comfort after a bad result, but you failed to understand that all he ever really needed was you.

“I'm gonna go grab a drink, do you want anything?” you ask softly, pointing to the small mini bar that was set up in the corner, one of the guests dramatically pouring non-alcoholic drinks as if you were in a club.

“Monster pleasee” he drawls, smiling widely as if mimicking a little kid asking for candy. You roll your eyes with a smile before turning to Max, who shows you his already half drunk redbull.

You turn away, sauntering your way to grab the beverages, lando and max watch you as you make your way. Once you're out of earshot, Max drops his smile before turning to smack lando in the arm. The boy yelps in pain, grabbing his arm with an unamused look on his face

“Oww!” Lando groans as Maxs face stays serious.

“Why haven't you told her” he asked, leaving no room for bullshit. Lando and you had been dancing around the idea of a relationship for years, and he was tired of it. He was tired of seeing his two best friends hopelessly in love with each other and choosing to ignore it.

“It's just not the right time,” Lando argues, his voice small. He tried so many times to tell you, to blurt his feelings out like a case of word vomit, to just scream i love you in your face. But every time, the words died in his throat at the possibility of you not returning his feelings.

“Bullshit.” max counters “you two have been all heart eyes since we were what? twelve? I don't care whatever story you’ve run in your head, she loves you Lando and you both need to open your eyes and see it” he commands, sending a blow straight to Landos heart as he exhales with a sigh, his gaze fixed on you chatting with the boy handing out drinks.

“What if it doesn't work out? I'm never here anymore max, how is that fair to her?” Lando says, a sense of longing evident in his eyes while he looks at you.

Max’s offense crumbles slightly, but he didn't let up “she loves you enough to fight for it. She just needs to know you're willing to fight for it too.” he offers, you make your return, holding two cans of monster, the two boys staring slightly. Like they had just been caught doing something they shouldn't. You frown slightly, your hand rising to cover your face.

“Do I have something on my face?” you ask worried, your hand rubbing along your features as you search frantically. Lando chuckles, lightly grabbing your wrists to halt your movements

“No no,-” he breathes through a laugh, his touch sending sparks up your forearms “you look beautiful” he said lowly, like it was only for you to hear.

You exhale deeply with a small laugh, sending him a soft, genuine smile that had Lando seeing double.

This boy was done for.

–

The atmosphere had shifted since you arrived, the party was now in full swing as bodies filled the house, the base of the song vibrating underneath the floor. You and Lando were standing in a corner, your conversation light as you both nursed your drinks.

Lando was explaining the new video game he and max had started playing when he was– quite rudely�� interrupted by a boy approaching you, it was the same boy from the drink bar, whose name you learned was james

“hi y/n, i just wanted to say that i enjoyed our conversation earlier. It's always a pleasure chatting with you” he smiles, one of those smiles that has a cheshire cat behind it, one that makes you slightly stiff next to lando. James didn't acknowledge landos presence, acting as if you were standing next to a plant pot.

“Oh, thank you james.” you say, noticing lando’s eyes have turned to the black and neon can in his hand, fiddling with the pull tab. He's trying not to listen, but the way you shifted towards him slightly as James kept talking to you made him wary.

“–hey you wanna get outta here?” James offers.

Something in lando snaps when he sees the cocky smirk on his face.

“Woah,woah,woah, let's slow your roll here, mate.” he steps slightly in front of you, puffing his chest.

“Last time I checked I wasn't talking to you” James barks back. his voice became louder as you hid behind lando.

“she clearly doesn’t want to be talking with you” he argues, you could see Landos fists balling at his sides. the monster abandoned on the windowsill behind you. Landos neck grows red as the anger bubbles underneath his skin.

“Yk’what, why don't you let me and the lady have a conversation, yeah?” he says trying to push past Lando, his tone dripping with smugness.

Oh that had Lando seeing red.

His fist connects with James' jaw, then his nose. Sending him to the floor, you gasp as James groans, before getting up and raising his fist. He doesn't have the time to think before Lando sends another blow to his chest, knocking him down for good.

Two guests go to James, picking him up to place him on the couch as Max rushes over to you and Lando, his eyes falling to Landos hand.

“Shit mate–” he exhales, scanning the room for a way out “–c’mon let's go get some ice and fix that, you have to drive this weekend.”

He leads you upstairs to a somewhat secluded bathroom, shutting the door as Lando sits on the sink, the pain from his hand evident in his movements.

You haven't spoken since the fight, slightly shaken up from watching your best friend almost did beat the living daylights out of someone. You didn't want to think about what could've happened if James was able to land his own punches.

You press toilet paper to his bleeding knuckles, and Lando hisses from the pain of you pressing on the inflamed flesh. Dropping his head onto your shoulder as max ruffles through the cabinet.

“score!” he exclaims, holding up a bright red first aid kit. He pulls out the alcohol wipes and hands them off to you.

“m’sorry, this is gonna hurt” you say quietly before you clean the wounds, lando squeezes his eyes shut at the sting, his uninjured hand finds your waist, using it as a lifeline.

Once the wounds are clean you begin to wrap his hand, your touch light as max hands you gauze, but nothing to secure it with.

“Max, I need tape or something–” you mumble, focused on the task at hand. Lando watches as your tongue pokes out of your mouth while your eyes –which he's just noticing are slightly glossed over– are focused on carefully covering the wounds.

Once Max makes his way to find you tape, you and Lando are left in silence, spare from the muffled sound of music still coming from downstairs. You were mumbling soft swears as the gauze would slip in your hold.

“um- i'm really sorry–” lando breaks the silence, you look to him but he won't meet your eyes, “–i didn't like where he was going with that, but if you–uh..wanted him though, i understand” he says low, his eyes fixed on his lap while you look at him slightly shell shocked.

You scoff, almost like a laugh “you’re an idiot” he looks up, green eyes pouring into yours, hyper aware of the hold you had on his hand and his on your hip.

“Wh-what?” he breathes, confused. You send him a small are you stupid? look before saying what you’ve been trying to build the courage to say for years.

“I don't want him, god did you see his greasy hair?-” you roll your eyes, lando chuckles softly before you continue “i want you, you muppet”

Lando froze, he stared at you with nothing but admiration, you stood in front of him with a smile on your face, he swore he could’ve died right there. He exhaled deeply as a smile grew wide on his face, reaching both ears as he pulled you closer.

“Thank god because i'm not sure what i would've done if you didn't” he whispers, his eyes flicking to your lips, tilting his head down slightly. You leaned in slightly, his breath fanning across your face before he locked his lips onto yours.

The kiss was slow, but hard, like the crescendo of a musical piece. Years of longing being poured into it, your lips slotting together perfectly. Moving in sync as your free hand cups his jaw. He pulls you closer by his hold on your waist, humming slightly when you bite his bottom lip.

The world seemed to have faded away as he deepened the kiss. His tongue swiping across your bottom lip, asking for access you happily granted. You kissed him until you were breathless, smiling against each other's lips, you swore you could see sparkles in landos eyes.

“ten year old me is so happy right now” he mumbled against your lips, smiling so wide as you giggled. You kissed him again, softer this time, drinking in the kiss that you had dreamt about for years.

You kissed him multiple times in that bathroom, the pain in his hand forgotten as his focus was solely on you.

That was, until the doorknob jingled before Max opened the door, holding tape and a bag of ice. You step back quickly as Max halts his movement, it didn't take an idiot to put two and two together. Your puffy lips, landos slightly messy hair, and his poorly wrapped hand that had been perfectly wrapped when he left moments ago.

All he did was smile, before handing lando the ice to hold to his hand. He hands you the tape before moving back to the door, lingering in it before he leaves.

“I am so, so, fucking happy for you both.” is all he says before shutting the door, leaving you alone once again.

You turned to each other slowly, staring for a moment before you broke out into giggles. Once you both quiet down, you rewrap his hand, maybe stealing a kiss or two (or three) while you work, making up for all the time you could’ve been kissing him over the years.

Lando watched you lovingly, thinking to the future. Yes he was scared, he was scared of what this meant with you in school and him racing. But he could see that you wanted this, you wanted him. if he had to die fighting to make you two work, he was gonna sure as hell try.

Nineteen - through the storm

The crisp autumn air turned your nose red as you walked through the streets of London towards Max and his girlfriend, Pietras’ flat. It was Saturday afternoon and Lando was in Italy, it was Lando’s first year in F1, you two had been dating for two years now, and had your own flat in London you called home.

Every race weekend, it became a tradition for you to watch qualifying and the race with Max and Pietra. Ordering pizza while you shout at the tv against anyone who dares to overtake your boyfriend.

Opening the door you waltz in, announcing your arrival before shrugging your shoes off, placing your coat and bag in the mudroom. Your sock clad feet pad across the floor into the living room where Max had set up the broadcast.

“How's he doing?” you ask, grabbing a blanket and snuggling into the couch. “He's doin’ fine but I'm not sure we're getting out of Q2” he answers, a sigh escaping his lips as you frown. Lando had told you the struggles he's been having recently with the car, not being able to find that balance he needs.

The media knew it too, it felt like every time you checked your phone, someone had something horrible to say about the man you loved. You knew it was getting to him despite the brave face he put on.

Your boyfriend was the type of person who wanted everyone to love him, the amount of scrutiny was eating at him while all he did was try his best in the car he was given.

It wasn't his fault the car he was given was a tractor.

You watched anxiously as the timer ticked down, a minute left in Q2. Lando was setting his final lap, nibbling on your fingernails as he rounded the final sector, crossing the line to land in P14. his teammate Carlos sainz, landing in P7.

You deflate, knowing lando wouldn’t be happy with himself, you knew him too well. After years of watching him in F3 and F2, you know what was running through his head and it killed you that you couldn’t be there with him.

When he was home earlier in the month he told you one night how the one thing that scared him was people thinking he didn’t deserve his seat, this result certainly didn't help him with his self doubt.

“He's going to be so upset” you mumble, turning your ringer on while you wait for his call. Another small tradition you had was if you weren't in attendance, the minute he had a moment alone, he was on the phone with you.

Max nods silently, Pietra sighing as she makes her way to the kitchen to order pizza for you all, silence stretching throughout the apartment as you watch the final moments of qualifying.

As the commentators congratulated the pole sitter, raving on about the final laps that had been revolutionary all you could think about was Lando and how he was beating himself up over this.

You could see the tweets now, the hate, the scrutiny that was going to flood your socials the second you looked, just as you went to pick up your phone, it vibrated from lando calling you, the goofy smile of his contact photo smiling back at you as you answered the call.

“heyy baby!” you say, walking into the guest room for some privacy, sitting down on the foot of the bed. The line was quiet for a moment before Lando responded with a soft “hey” his voice wobbled as he spoke.

“You drove really well lando.. don't beat yourself up over one bad quali” you say softly, keeping your tone light. Soft sniffles came from Landos end of the line, your heart squeezes as you hear him cry softly. Lando wasn’t a crier, so when he did, you knew he was close to his breaking point.

“I can't do this anymore,” he sniffles. “I don't even want to know what they're saying right now.” he cries. You listen to his broken sobs as tears escape your own eyes. You hated being so far away from him while he was hurting like this, he was alone and vulnerable and that made you want to scream. Wishing you could crawl through the phone and get to him.

You debated telling his trainer, getting someone else in the room with him to make sure he was safe, but you knew he needed to let it out first. You’d tell Jon later, right now you needed to be there for lando.

Landos breathing starts to become ragged as his sentences come out in short breaths, you hear the panic attack coming before it fully hits him, his voice was shaky as it grew quieter. His words dying in his throat before he could say them, you could hear his breathing becoming more frantic.

“Lan, baby i need you to breathe for me” He was sending himself deeper into a panic and it only worried you more. You felt useless just listening while he struggled to find a breath.

“I ca- i cant” he chokes out, his sobs echoing through the phone as you begin to frantically text Jon. Your fingers shaking as you message the man, tears flowing down your face.

You: 911!

You: get to landdo now he's habvin a panic attack on the phone wit me

You: please jon im panicjking myself listning to him

Jon: On it.

You keep assuring him through the phone, trying to say something– anything that will calm him down. Telling him to unzip his race suit, asking him what he can smell, see, hear, or taste. None of it worked, the boy was breaking down in your ears and you felt helpless while waiting for Jon to find him.

You hear the door open on the other end, the phone falls to the floor as the murmurs of Jons voice filter down the phone. You don't hear much for a few moments, taking the time to compose yourself, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your landos hoodie.

“hey y/n, he's all good now, i'll have you call him back in a bit. Are you okay?” Jons voice crackles through the phone after a while, you exhale a sigh of relief, clutching a hand to your chest.

“Yeah… sounds good, thank you jon.” you say softly, hanging up the call.

You splash some water on your face before returning to max and pietra. The two noticed something was off with you immediately.

“You okay? How is he?” Max asks slowly, you didn't say anything. He could tell something was wrong when tears flooded your eyes. Closing the distance, he pulls you into a hug as a sob escapes your lips, you clutch onto him while you cry. Tears pour down your face as you explain what just happened, Max listens with sympathy written all over his face.

Hes silent for a moment, before an idea pops into his head “Let's get you to italy.” he says, determination in his voice as he grabs his phone, immediately googling flights.

“what- but i don't have anything packed- what if there's no flights” you ramble, slightly shocked he was so set on this idea, he shakes his head, finalized in his decision that you needed to get on a flight as soon as possible and he didn't care how.

“Go home and pack, you don't need much it's only a night- SCORE” he turns the phone around, showing you a flight to Italy “leaves in four hours, if we hurry.. we can get you there” he says. You two lock eyes, a new sense of determination blooming inside you. You needed to be there for Lando, and you were going to get there.

It all happened so fast, one minute you were packing clothes into a duffle bag, and now you had landed in Italy, the flight was quick, two hours from London to Milan. You sat in the cab, the streetlights fading by as you made your way to landos hotel.

The hotel was beautiful, wishing you could've come on better circumstances, thinking back to all the times you and Lando would be talking late at night, hushed whispers about what it was going to be like once he reached F1, all the places you’d go together.

You never expected what reality would end up being.

You stood in front of landos hotel room, Jon was standing next to you. Since the phone call, you had asked Jon to stay with lando. Explaining to him why incase of an emergency, you wouldn't be available for lando. He immediately agreed and also offered to walk you up to the room upon your arrival.

Once the door opened, and you saw him. His eyes looked drained, his hair was messy from him running his hands through it. When he locked eyes with you, they widened so big they could’ve popped out of their sockets.

He stared at you for a moment, trying to decipher whether or not you were really here, actually in front of him at his hotel in Monza. Once he felt you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace, it hit him.

It hit him hard.

“Oh my god” he breathed as he melted into your arms, his emotions bubbling over again as tears escaped his eyes. He had never felt so relieved to be in your arms, not since that moment in a bathroom years ago, it was like you were an angel sent straight for him.

He pulled away to get a good look at you, you were wiping his cheeks softly. He still couldn't believe you flew to him.

“Are you actually here, or am I dreaming?” he asks, a wet chuckle escapes you both as you realize you're also crying.

“Im here, i'm real” you smile, pulling him back into a hug as you smooth the hair on the back of his neck. “I couldn’t stay in London when you were here in this state. It would’ve killed me.” you sniffled. His hands wrap around you, holding on like if he’d let go, you'd disappear, and he'd wake up from this nightmare with you still in london.

He pulled back, placing a soft kiss to your lips before mumbling many “i love yous” into your mouth as you kissed him back, soft and slow. Forgetting about Jon standing a few feet away from you two. He turns away slightly, letting you have your moment.

You pull away echoing a soft “sorry” to Jon who just smiles softly, shaking his head in dismissal as Lando wraps his arms around your waist, activating his clingy-ness.

You say goodnight to Jon as you and Lando head into bed, the events of the day taking their effect. Lando immediately wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling his face into your shoulder, placing soft kisses on the exposed skin before resting his head on your chest.

“Thank you, for understanding me more than I do myself” he mumbles sleepily, his breaths even out as he finally looks at peace with his mind. Your smile is warm as you place a light kiss to his forehead before finally resting your eyes, having your boy in your arms.

And when you wake up to a text message from Jon, attached is a video of you and landos reunion he recorded secretly, you smile, cropping the video properly to post on your instagram story.

Posted is a small 10 second clip of Lando realizing you were standing in front of him, then showing the hug you two shared. Rocking back and forth as intelligible murmurs are exchanged between you two.

captioned for you, anywhere, anytime.

Twenty two - a handprint on her heart

The sun was shining down on your face as you perched yourself on a lounge chair on the exquisite yacht you get to call home for the summer break. You sported a bright orange bikini as you read your book while you listened to the waves below you.

It was peaceful, until you heard the stomps of two smaller people, followed by the stomps of a bigger person. You looked to the door to see Mila and Athena squealing as they ran around the deck, followed by none other than your boyfriend, who was chasing them, pretending he was a sea monster.

“Look! There's auntie, she’ll save us," Mila shouts as the two girls make a beeline for you. You quickly place your book down so the girls can climb on top of you, hiding from their overly enthusiastic uncle.

“Ohh auntie can't save you now! She's on my side” he says playfully while you begin to tighten your grip around the girls, not strong enough to hurt them, but tight enough to where they would struggle to break free.

The girls giggle as Lando ‘rounds the couch, the girls wiggling in your arms, sounding cries of betrayal while you laugh at the trio's antics. He makes it to your pile of laughter and starts tickling the two girls until they are breathless.

Once he ceases the tickles attack, you let the girls free. They hop to the ground, their baby feet bouncing off the deck as they make their escape from the tickle monster, but to you he's just lando.

Lando lets out a sigh as he sets himself down on the couch next to you, placing his arms around your shoulder. You had been on this yacht for a week and he had already worked up a tan, he looked divine, the sun hitting his face perfectly as he turned to look at you before placing a kiss on your temple.

“y’know, it’ll be nice when we have our own munchkins running around a yacht one day” he says, far too casually, as his hand traces your shoulder. You both knew you wanted kids, but also knew being twenty two, in the height of landos career was not the right time for either of you to even think about creating your own bundle of love.

Before you could respond to him, Max waltz’s his way onto the deck, sunglasses propped on his face as he spots you two. “Don't you two look cozy” he jokes, acting like you two haven't been head over heels for each other since you were small. It was a running joke for years, Max loves to tease you two about anything and everything.

Today was no different

“oi! LN,” he says, lightly smacking landos sunburnt shoulder, causing the brunette to wince. “When are you proposing, I've got bets placed man!” he says with a faux serious tone.

You giggle at him, you had discussed this before, you had an list of milestones that you and lando wanted to complete in a specific order

Championship

Marriage

Kids

“You act like we haven’t basically been married for years max” you say, playfulness evident in your tone as Lando pulls you closer by the shoulder. Lando knew Max was just joking, but deep down part of him did want to forgo the list years ago and just make you his wife.

He's known since before you were officially dating that he’d marry you, it was obvious to him, you were the only option. The only person he saw his future with, the woman he goes home to, the mother of his children, you checked all the boxes of perfection and he was anxious to put a rock on your finger to solidify it for eternity. Devoting himself to you completely.

Lando observes as you and Max move onto a different topic, he observes every detail about you, the way your nose crinkles when you smile, how your freckles pop when you spend more time in the sun, the way you always manage to speak with a heartwarming smile etched onto your face. It made him dizzy the way he knew you better than he knew himself. You were his everything, there is no lando without you.

“Lan baby, you with us?” you ask, noticing he spaced out slightly. Nodding he smiles, placing a kiss on your hand, interlaced with his.

“Yeah, just thinkin’” he says simply, thinking for a moment before he taps your shoulder,

“Wanna go for a walk?”

–

You walked down the side of the boat, your fingers interlocked as the sun casted a golden light on your skin. Lando rubbed his thumb over your knuckles as you walked to the edge of the boat, overseeing the mediterranean behind you.

Lando is quiet for a moment, his eyes following the horizon while he thinks. You can see in his eyes he's piecing his sentencing together but struggling– after a while, he speaks up.

“Max got me thinking,” he pauses, taking a deep breath “I wanna change the list.”

Your heart stops, looking up at him to find anything on his face that says he's joking, you meet his eyes already looking at you,

“Are you serious?”

He chuckles, running a nervous hand through his hair, “I've never been more serious about anything in my life baby,” you feel tears welling up in your waterline. “I've known my whole life that I wanted to marry you, I don't want to let a championship decide when.”

He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, your bottom lip trembling while he continues.

“You're it for me baby, I can’t remember what my life was like without you in it and I don't want to have to learn. You know me better than I know myself, I am hopelessly in love with you and there's nothing that will ever change that,” you were full on crying now, he takes a moment to collect his thoughts,

“–loving you is my greatest achievement, no championship could ever come close to how i feel about you,” Lando feels a lump form in his throat as he tries to finish his mini speech before he becomes emotional.

“Let's get married”

You cry softly before you cry out a yes and Lando feels a surge of love flow through him.

“Yeah?” he smiles so wide as you nod, tears freely flowing down both your faces as he pulls you into an earth shattering kiss.

He kisses you like you’re his last breath of fresh air— soft and sensual, holding your face with such gentle care like you’d break if he let go.

You pull away for air, giggling into each other's lips, stealing more kisses as the sun begins to set over the sea. The air felt warmer as you kissed your fiancè, you kissed him again, and again, you kissed him so many times you forgot where you were.

That was until Lando pulled away sharply with a gasp. “Wait here” he mumbles before he takes off running back into the yacht, you take a seat while you wait for him to return, slightly confused to where he ran off to.

Moments later he comes back, hands held behind his back as he makes his way over to you, a cheeky smile spread across his tanned face.

“I'm sorry, your actual ring is at home.” you choose to ignore that fact for the time being. “But I do have this,” he chuckles as he pulls a small ring pop from behind his back.

You laugh at the small candy as he opens it, placing it on your left ring finger, placing another kiss to your lips, you throw yourself into his arms, returning the kiss in full force.

“It's perfect, thank you.” you mumble into his mouth.

He rests his forehead against yours, his green eyes pouring into yours— a window to his soul showing nothing but love for you as he pulls you closer, his smile giddy. “We're getting married!!” he exclaims, you both giggle as you revel in being newly engaged.

You think back to when you were kids, before the fancy cars and extravagant races, you loved him before he made a name for himself, before the outside voices. When it was just you two on a karting track, nobody watching to see where he goes next.

you will continue to love him in the highs and lows of his career, as he shows the world what he's truly made of. You will forever be there, holding his hand, being his first phone call. Continuing to support him throughout it all, believing in his dreams as they’ve now become yours.

You will love him when it's over, when it's just you two in the quiet mornings, for when you have nowhere to be. When you're old and grey living in the countryside in London, hand in hand on the porch side of your family home, grandkids running around in the yard.

Like a handprint over your heart, Lando had plastered himself over every inch of your existence. His love hidden in plain sight of places you’ve yet to even realize. you loved this boy with every fiber of your being, and you would love him in every universe, in every past life and through the next.

You will love him anywhere, anytime.

i hope u enjoyed, thank u so much for reading <3

#lando norris fanfic #ln4 #formula 1 #lando x reader #f1 fanfic #lando norris #f1 x reader #lando fluff #lando norris fic #lando norris fluff #lando imagine #lando norris imagine

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kenyummy · 4 months ago

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✰ 04. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 04. fantastic four.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: had to wrack my brain to remember what math i was learning in seventh grade LMAO . sometimes i forget damian is just a little guy in like seventh to eighth grade. crazy. and please let me know if there's any mistakes with pronouns/gender!!! i want to keep this open to everybody so im always trying my best ❤️

also ive realised how chopped harry is in the comics after taking my rose coloured lenses off. basically he and mj have their look in the ultimate spiderman TV show (in my eyes anyway, i kind of just described their appearance based off tgat lmaooo)

prev. ✰ masterlist ✰ next.

School has never felt so bland for you. Sure, it was never your favourite thing in the world—except for maybe biology—but you'd think that discovering a whole new world in your last year would make it a little more interesting.

It didn't.

It's been three weeks since you crash landed here in Gotham. The most you'd gotten from your family was an awkward "how are you" occasionally, and a lot of staring.

You'd only shown yourself as Spidey a few times to the public, but never stayed for those pesky news reporters shoving their microphones into your face. You'd never liked interviews, anyway.

The only highlight of your long days were MJ and Harry. You'd gotten over the initial shock of Harry being in love with you—convincing yourself that it really wasn't you he liked; it was this world's original you. (Though—that fact still lingers in the back of your mind whenever you talk).

Apart from that, school truly was uneventful. Your kooky art teacher was the only one of whom you actually liked, and it seemed the education here was rather lax. Uncaring. Not good for your future, surely—but you wouldn't have a future here, and you're sure this [name] Wayne will be just fine.

Speaking of schooling—the people here really seemed to hate the Gotham Prep kids. More than what a petty rivalry should be—it was pure malice.

Harry was especially adamant about this.

"They're all dumb, entitled rich kids who use daddy's money to get whatever they want, you know." He stabs his fork into a dry cut of chicken violently. Then points, accusatory, at MJ—who already presents a sneer to him. "And don't you start lumping me in with them—you know I'm not like that."

Her face twists, but soon she grins cheekily. "Okay, fine. Yeah, you're totally not, otherwise nobody here would like you one bit. And who doesn't love Harry, huh?"

"Oh, be quiet," But still, he smiles—damn his head is big. He glances over at you. You're picking around at your soggy broccoli with a frown. "Hey, [name]. Don't two of your brothers go to Gotham Prep?"

You look up at your ginger friend, head tilted to the side before it clicked. Oh, right. Tim and that young boy—Damian, if you remember correctly. Tim barely ever went to school if your diary was still accurate, and Damian had little choice but to.

(Doesn't seem like he'd be the social butterfly type, though.)

"Yeah, they do." You nod, still fiddling around with that vegetable.

"Not that I'm not glad that you're here—but why don't you go to school with them?" MJ leans forward in her seat. "I mean, isn't it easier for siblings to go to the same school?"

Your eyes widen for a second.

There's a few ways you can go about this.

One—you tell them everything you know about your other self. About how you never felt included enough to ask. How you never spent time with them. How it always felt like everything and everyone else was more important than you. How you suffered silently—begging for their attention for years like a house pet becoming a stray.

Two—you could tell them you have absolutely no idea because you have none of your memories of anything from the past years of this life—how you don't even remember all your siblings names half the time.

Or three, and your personal favourite—you can just lie.

It doesn't take a serial genius to figure out which one you chose.

"I guess I just didn't like the rich private school vibe they had going on." A smile falls over your lips. "Plus—you guys were coming here, so it gave me even more of a reason to attend, you know?"

You're not entirely sure that's true. But—if these two were anything like the Harry and MJ you know—then this would probably be right.

Judging from their smiles, your detective skills haven't failed you yet.

"Man!" MJ lolls her head back, groaning. "Can't believe I'm friends with two rich kids who get to choose which school they want—the beat down public or sleek rich private."

"Don't go dissing this school just because you're jealous of their uniforms," Harry snickers, pressing his index finger into MJ's cheek. She huffs and slaps him away.

"Silence, nepo baby. Your dad is basically Lex Luthor if he wasn't bald."

Harry looks more confused than offended at her comment, "Okay, but my dad isn't an evil mastermind plotting against a red and blue suited superhero."

You press your lips together thinly and look to the side, eyes focused on anything but him. Oh, Harry—if only you knew.

Damian Wayne had never truly seen the point of highschool.

Raised by assassains all his life—he had little room, time, and desire to learn about all this nonsense. While he enjoyed arts and fine literature—he couldn't find it within himself to care about the American Revolution, or whatever other ridiculous thing happened in history.

His maths teacher was absolutely, indubitably pathetic. Always on his phone as he assigns mountains of homework (because he never bothers to explain the complex materials they're given) on the latest subject—whether it be those blasted simultaneous equations, or to factorise useless monic trinomials. Even calculating tax and interest on the stupidest of cases.

Damian found himself sitting in the corner of his class in silence, staring down, bored, at the book in front of him. He truly hated math. There's so much real work to be done—crime to fight, plotting organisations to take down.

But his father, as always, is unmoving in his conviction that school is important. For Damian especially, anyway; Drake can skip as often as he likes because he's a senior already. Truly, ridiculous.

For Damian, and—oh.

You.

Bruce always seemed especially insistent on you two going to school. Even when everyone but him knew you skipped every few days and simply come home to wait.

Wait for what? For them?

His brows furrow. Suddenly, the black and white equations on the sheet blur and he zones out. Thinking.

You always did. From the day he'd walked into the manor, you were always there. Unconsciously, he'd notice it. A trait of a good assassin is that they can spot everyone in the room.

A trait of a great assassin is that they can spot everyone inside and watching.

Always, you were watching. Those pitiful stares. Desperate like a unloved pet. If he cared a little more (if any at all), he would've felt sorrow for your state.

Always wanting, but never asking. Never taking. Simply waiting for it all to come to you. He would never understand it. He would never understand you.

He would never understand how somebody could allow themselves to be so weak.

Like everybody else—when he first entered the manor, he proposed to fight you. Assuming—being the child of his father, like he was—you were worthy. That you were strong.

He doesn't know how he could've been so wrong. You immediantly reacted, gasping and clutching your face. He'd nicked it with the edge of his blade after he unsheathed it. You looked at the blood dotting your fingertips, then back at him, eyes wide.

Immediantly, Bruce rushed to his side and pushed him behind his larger, imposing figure—telling you to not interact with him because he's different to regular people. Different to you.

He watched you storm off from behind his father's legs; anger practically blaring off your figure.

Later—he happened to overhear you and Grayson talking quietly. Telling you to not be too hard on Damian, because he's troubled. That he's had a difficult life. At first—he was a tad offended—but that offence could not compare to the absolute fury burning in your eyes.

Though, it all melted away when Grayson's hand ruffled your hair. Like a little kid, you stared up at him, soft and starry-eyed as you unconsciously murmured you'd forgive your new little brother.

Damian dry-heaved. You were so goddamn weak.

So weak, and so normal. Everything you did was completely regular. You were on the same wavelength as the civilians he saved from burning rubble. The same as people who walked down the street, talking about their favourite Justice League member. Who cowered in fear in front of villains—to be saved by those heroes. By him.

You were nothing, and yet everything he could never have been.

(What child does not long for normalcy?)

Damian always thought you were rather helpless, regardless of how regular you were—and seeing you with that bullet lodged in your shoulder—he was right. Not being able to dodge something like a bullet—there was no wonder you never become a vigilante. There was no wonder you needed to be protected.

... Though—he began to think back.

Who did? Protect you; that is.

Whoever it was, they did a pretty awful job at it.

Damian strums his fingers against the hardwood table rhythmically. Face blank but mind running rapidly.

It couldn't have been Todd. No—he seemed to be in a frazzled state of mania when carrying your bleeding body in your arms. Perhaps he too, believed you were safe with the rest of his family.

(Oh how wrong Todd was—he looked livid.)

... Grayson?

No. When he's not in Blüdhaven, he is almost always with the other vigilantes within the family. Not here nor there, and certainly not close enough to protect you.

Not Drake. He never cared enough, despite everything. Not Cain, either. Though the silent protector type—she had too much on her plate to worry about you as well.

Gordon and Brown had their own families to worry about.

And his—your father? The Batman? There was no time for a regular child like you in the Batman's life of vigilantism. Whom he sworn to protect in his crusade now lay bleeding out in his great failure's arms.

...

Did you truly have nobody?

...

Damian couldn't really imagine it. He'd always assumed you had many friends to fill the void that yoir family left with their civilian clothes. ... Perhaps you did. He wouldn't know.

You are his only half sibling. In this world, only he is truly your brother, and you are his only older sibling. Does that not give him the slightest of responsibility?

He'd always been taught to keep everybody at arms length—even his own family. The whole world is out to get the Demon's grandson, then he must fight it. But his father taught him differently.

To protect those who cannot protect themselves—to keep those he cares about safe at any cost.

What of you? He does not care for you in the way an ordinary sibling should. Seeing you so weak, defenceless against him—must mean you trust him in some way.

(It's hard for him to fathom being able to feel so unprotected in a world he was taught was trying to extinguish him at every turn).

Regardless of how you don't belong—or how frosty you act toward your youngest brother—he has a duty.

No matter how hard you try—you can never sever the blood you two share. The others do not have this duty—but he does, because in the end, you are his. None of the others bothered, so Damian must.

You are everything he could never be, he has realised. But in the end, you are blood. It runs thicker in the veins than any water, and that is one of the most important things to Damian.

Seeing that same blood—his blood—spill out of you carelessly—that is a sight he will never bear witness to again.

Damian was the first one out the door as soon as the bell chimed in his ear. His bag slung tightly around his shoulders and textbook under his arm; he rushed into the familiar sight of a sleek, large car.

He shuts the door as he climbs into the backseat (Bruce said he was still too short to sit in the front, much to his son's displeasure). "Hello, Pennyworth."

Alfred glances back at him through the rear view mirror. "Good afternoon, Master Damian. How was school?"

"Same as usual. A waste of time." He clicks his seatbelt shut as the car begins to move. Alfred only hums, keeping his eyes trained on the road.

"I'm unsurprised to hear you say so. I do hope you understand why exactly, you are enrolled in school, however. And why Master Bruce is so adamant about your attendance."

Damian knows. He's always known, because it has been drilled into his head like a mantra. Talia and Ra's Al Ghul weren't math teachers—and most of his time really was spent training and sparring to be the best he could be.

He was not illiterate, nor stupid. Rather smart, actually. However, he didn't exactly learn algebra and chemistry with the League of Assassins.

He grumbles. "I know, Pennyworth. Father cannot seem to stop reminding me that all these things are far more important than stopping the endless wave of crime in Gotham."

If he weren't on the road—Alfred surely would've given him a nasty look. "Master Damian, please—your sincerity is positively slaughtering me."

Damian rolls his eyes, opting to stop this fruitless conversation and look outside the windows instead. At the outside world—the sky already paling to deep auburn shades as they drive through the endless roads.

He watched all the cars moving past; hurrying to get to their destination. Each with their own story and reason for being there. Every single one with their own thoughts and worries. Some with children, others with pets, and some with piles of groceries.

All with their own, individual lives. Including him.

A bus, too. It stops for a moment at a sheltered space, then drives away, leaving a few people standing under the shade.

An elderly lady with a man, presumably her son, walking away with her. A woman with frizzy red hair and freckles dotted over her nose. A few schoolkids—some his age, some older. Clearly from the public school on the other side of Gotham, if only to judge from the scantily clad clothes some of the older students wore—

Wait, is that you?

He sits up—the car slowly coming to a stop at a red light. His eyes don't leave your figure as he presses his nose against the window; observing.

You look around at the people that pass by you—gripping your bag close to your side and rushing into the nearest alleyway.

He waits for a few moments. This red light feels rather long—but what feels longer is watching and waiting for you to come out of that alleyway.

You never do.

Even as the car begins to move once more, driving past the intersection, he crawls as far back as possible to even get a glimpse—but you never show.

Just today, he had decided to be the one to take up the mantle and protect you. Just today, during a boring math class, he has decided that since you are his blood, he must keep a helpless civilian like you safe.

And now you're gone. Are you dead, or something?

(Deep down, his stomach twists at the thought.)

"Pennyworth, pull over." Hid voice is more taut than he had imagined. "Now."

Alfred looks back, glancing at the streets around. He doesn't question the young boy, simply doing as he is asked and pulling over to a deserted parking area.

When he has parked the car, he turns around and sees Damian slipping his Robin mask on—somehow already fully suited up.

His eyes widen, "Master Damian, what—"

"I have something to do. Let Father know I will be back home late."

Opening the door, Damian rushes out and pulls out his grappling hook, swinging onto the nearest building's roof and looking around.

He spots the alleyway you'd run into. It is still. Absolutely no movement nor any looks from passer-bys. He rushes across the roves towards where the dark side seeped into the crack of the buildings.

Maybe you'd taken another way out?

But looking at the alleyway now, it's more like a dip between the buildings to stand in more than anything. It was blocked off on the other side.

So where...???

He drops down, landing on his soles and squinting as he stares around into the dark. There's nothing.

No people, nor bodies, and certainly not anything to indicate anybody was ever here.

Except...

He glances at the wall. Theres a white cocoon-esque oval webbed to the wall. Those same webs he'd seen all that time ago—from that spider. That would show up then leave immediantly. Never staying for longer than they had to.

Dodging all of his and Batman's attempts at asking who you were, and what you were doing in Gotham. Always swinging away into the distance before they could be subdued.

Now, he stares at their ball of webbing and wonders if it truly is an arachnid he's dealing with.

He pokes it, looking it up and down. Then, he sees it. Through the small holes in the webs and the translucent, silk-like material—he finally sees it.

Your bag.

He tears off the webbing faster than he can think, getting the sticky substance stuck to his gloves and clothes; he barely even notices it. He grabs your bag and stares it, swallowing hard.

His mind buzzes with an unfamiliar staticky feeling and he suddenly feels sick to his stomach. Despite all the noise in his ear—his brain is able to comprehend one singular question.

... What did that arachnid do to you?

Clothed fingers digging deep into the leather fabric of the bag—clearly worn down and fading. Old. He would get Father to purchase you another. ... When he sees you next. Because he will.

His jaw clenches hard.

Damian throws the bag over his shoulder and grapples up—swinging onto a building roof and running across.

Running for what, he isn't sure. But what he is sure of, is that once he gets his hands on that arachnid, it will not be kind.

To find out what happened to you—that is his duty as your blood sibling.

He decides that in this life, he will be your protector. In the next, if he is ever given a chance to be normal like you—he will become a doctor. Or perhaps a painter. Or a poet. Maybe he will ask you to help him decide when he finds you and that arachnid.

... Yes, that sounds good.

You cut through the cool wind as you swing through the city. Grinning widely underneath your mask—you don't think you've ever been so happy since you landed here.

You're sure nobody will take your stuff. Even if they do, you could always just get whatever else you needed again. You were far too excited to dwell on the small stuff right about now.

Landing on a rooftop, crouched—you walk down the wall of the apartment complex, and look around for civilians. As he told you—the streets around the back of the building were practically deserted.

You count the amount of rooms from the side, up and down.

"Row 5, Apartment block... 2..." You hum, and nod to yourself.

You tap your necklace and the nanobots all crawl off your body, leaving you in your regular clothes. You land safely on the balcony of the room you were given.

You smooth out your flared jeans and take in a deep breath. Then, you bring up your knuckles, and knock.

The glass screen door opens before you can say fantastic.

A small pair of arms wrap around your torso and knock you backwards—you fall on your ass and let out a loud laugh.

"Spidey!!! [name]!!!"

"Is that who I think it is?!" You tease, eyes squinted upwards and the young kid buries into your stomach. His giggles are muffled by the fabric and he squeezes you so tight you'd be inclined to choke—if it wasn't you. "Frankie!! How's my favourite Richard?"

"I can't believe you'd say that, [name]. That hurts." A familiarly sweet voice speaks.

"Sue!" You grin, taking in the sight of the blonde and her husband by her side. You get up—Franklin stumbles behind you—and crash into her arms.

She chuckles, patting your back and smiling down at you, "I missed you too, [name]. You always manage to find yourself in the strangest situations, don't you?"

Reed cradles his chin, "Well, we were technically the cause of this distortion in reality, Susan—"

But seeing the expression on both your and his wife's face; he stops himself. Only smiling sheepishly. "My apologies. It's great to see you again, [name]. I didn't think we'd find another familiar face in a different universe."

"You're getting better at this, Reed." You lift yourself from Sue's comforting cradle and grin brightly up at him. "I didn't think I'd see all of you guys again, either. When you all disappeared for so long—I was wondering if something bad happened."

"Hah! Ta us? You kiddin'? Ya more bug-brained 'den that spider that bit ya!"

"Ben!!!" You go flying toward the rock-encased man and wrap your arms around his comfortingly tough neck. He spins you around and lets you down with a loud laugh.

"'Ey kid, how're ya? Heard ya tackled ol' matchstick 'ere outta the sky!" He slaps his rocky chest laughing—in the corner of your eye, Johnny stands behind him, unimpressed.

He walks up beside you, swinging an arm around your neck and snarks, "Yeah—well, Spidey's always been known for catching people off guard, huh? Creepin' up when you least expect it."

"You're making [name] sound like a villain, Unc!" Frankin, who had found himself attached to the side of your shirt, sticks out his tongue.

Johnny recoils, face falling in pure horror as he dramatically points at the young boy, "UNC??!! I... I'm an Unc now...??? I'm not even 19! I can't be an Unc!!!"

You burst out into laughter at the genuineness of Johnny's expression, watching as he freaks out about being "old". Sue and Reed roll their eyes—while Ben is there with you, laughing his ass off like he'd just gotten a home run on Yancy Street.

Franklin looks at your laughing expression and starts giggling along—jumping up and down beside you with sparkling eyes.

"Stop laughing, [name]! We're the same age!" Johnny points, accusatory. "If I'm an Unc, you're a...!"

"Doesn't matter. I'm cooler than Uncle Johnny anyways, right Frankie?" You grin, picking up Franklin as he cuddles into your neck.

"Mhm!" He nods eagerly.

Johnny sends you a blazing glare, lips pouted out. "You and me. We're—" He gestures to the two of you. "—gonna have some issues, here. Okay. Everyone knows I'm the cool Uncle."

"No, that's Benny!" Franklin points to Ben.

The look on Johnny's face shifts into utter disbelief—Ben falls out of his chair laughing wildly.

"Gosh, I missed you so much, kid." You pull at one of Franklin's cheeks and chuckle. He stares at you in awe for a few seconds, before hugging the side of your head and giggling.

"I missed you too!"

That same warmth fills each crevice and pore of your body, as you huddle close to your dear friends and let yourself feel at home for this small moment.

Meanwhile, in the dark of night, a pair of azure eyes watches, sharp and unnerving in the back of your skull.

You notice it. Of course you do. Your mind is tingling with that buzz—but you want to enjoy this night of nothing but home, even if only once.

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tsglist is closed, sorry! but do try and keep up with updates thank you!!!

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letteremi · 16 days ago

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bite-sized revenge

gojo satoru x fem!reader — it's in his DNA to be a menace, so can Gojo really be mad that his toddler inherited that from him?

warnings/tags: established relationship, domestic fluff, gojo and his baby girl, just fluffyyyyyy (not proofread, sorry if there are any typos or etc xx)

Gojo Satoru is fatally, insanely, completely head over heels for you.

To this day, he maintains that. He’ll tell everybody of the joys of knowing you — and no, he’s not being sarcastic when he says that.

Though, if there was one thing he could almost cry about, it would be this.

See, if there’s one thing Gojo Satoru loves to do, it’s to tease his two girls. And that’s exactly what he’s doing to the tinier one, the mini you x him, this morning.

“Here comes the choo choo train.” Satoru guides the sweet potato closer, and her cute little babbles fill the air. It seems like his little munchkin inherited his sweet tooth. And just as the delightful dollop reaches his sweet girl, he pulls the spoon back with a grin.

“Dada!” She crosses her chubby arms (and briefly, he thinks she looks like the Michelin man, and his grin grows bigger), eye twitching and face in a pout that screams ‘i’ll remember this betrayal’.

“Satoru,” you chide, and he turns to face you. You’re leaning on the kitchen counter, arms crossed just like your daughter. Sunlight streams in through the adjacent open window, lighting the edges of your hair with that ethereal glow that makes his head explode and his heart ache. “That choo choo train is going to derail.”

“I’m an excellent driver, thank you,” he replies, readjusting his grip on the spoon like it’ll prove his point, and if you ask him, it does. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, here…” Satoru glides the spoon through the air again, and just like that, your daughter is giggling and clapping her hands again.

So sweet, so trusting, that Satoru almost regrets his next move.

At the last second, he yanks the spoon away again, and this time, he’s dodging tiny fists like his life depends on it.

He can’t help it, he only laughs louder — loud, belly-aching, cheek-pulling, laughter that infects you too, as you giggle behind your hand.

When he takes a peek at your darling daughter once again, it’s like rage is bubbling through her — well, all the rage someone of her size can muster.

“Satoru.”

But his name didn’t come from you. It’s grumbled out by the tiny cherub in front of him, and the colour drains from his face as Satoru’s heart falls to the floor.

His laughter cuts off — replaced by frantic attempts to placate his rascal, arms held up like in surrender — but yours only grows. And it seems like your approval, and his dismay, fuels the little gremlin, because she opens her mouth again — no doubt to spout that horrific name again.

“No, no,” he coos, desperate now. “Sweetheart, I’m dada. Dad. Papa. Father.” He wrinkles his nose at the last one. “Actually angel, don’t say father. It’s too serious.”

Your baby girl turns her nose up at him, clearly not amused, and Satoru busies himself with scooping a heapful on the spoon — his apology. “Here, for real this time, eat up..”

She turns her cheek again — because fool me once, shame on you, but fool me twice… — and the mashed sweet potato smears all over her cheek like an accidental streak of paint.

And for the second time this morning, Satoru has to stifle his laughter, slapping a hand over his mouth as laughter threatens to escape. But your daughter, oh your sweet daughter, she’s glaring at him with an anger strong enough to buckle his knees.

“Gojo.” It’s like the last name comes out in slow motion — choppy, lower, said with defiance and with the intention to reprimand her dad so badly he will never try her again.

And worse yet, she’s not just angry, she’s disappointed. Those big blue eyes (and for the thousandth time this week, Satoru understands how others feel when he looks at them), shining with gleeful revenge. “Oh, Gojo.” She shakes her head side to side with a pout that could bring nations crumbling down with the sheer disapproval.

Gojo?

“You’re Gojo too!” And now he’s the one pouting, caught up in a fight with a toddler that both of them know that she’ll win. Satoru whips his head in your direction — you’re in hysterics now — accusation in his stare, and a silent plea for help.

And you know him, you know him, so he knows that you’re ignoring his cries for assistance in favour of holding yourself up by the bench.

Betrayed by his two favourite people in one day.

Satoru lets out a dramatic sigh, slumping in his chair at being struck by this final blow. Your daughter huffs, victorious, her tiny fists pumping into the air in her high chair, like a tiny general who’s just conquered an empire. And Satoru doesn’t even have time to claim the triumph that she picked up that emote from him.

And suddenly, you swoop in like an angel from the sidelines, finally having caught your breath on the sidelines. Stepping forward, you take the spoon from his limp hand and gently scoop up the sweet potato.

“Here, sweetheart,” you coo, smelling something sweet that he can’t name (maybe it’s just you), that he wants to eat up all the same.

Your dear daughter accepts the spoonful without hesitation, though, she makes a point to side eye her defeated dad when she does. And then, her little pout melts into a satisfied smile, as she munches happily.

Satoru watches her eat, deflated but completely smitten, and when he turns to you again, he finds you already looking at him — soft hair framing your face like the beautiful work of art he knows you are — with that knowing, star-filled gaze that always undoes him.

“You’ll pay for this,” he warns weakly, pointing at you with an exaggerated menace.

You just laugh again, and lean down to press a small, soft kiss to his forehead — and just like that, he’s forgiven you. “Good luck, Gojo.”

“You’re Gojo too,” he groans, though, his arms wrap about your waist, pulling you closer despite his wounded pride.

And in that warm kitchen, sunlight pooling around all three of you, he realises he wouldn’t trade this — the chaos, the tiny betrayals, the teasing that only comes from unconditional love — for anything in the world.

Not now. Not ever.

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toruforuu · 4 months ago

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(slightly nsfw!)

nerd!jo who goes to the same uni as you and ever since he caught onto you, you’ve been on his mind. leaving him utterly captivated since your first semester, when he saw you on campus

nerd!jo who quickly realises you’re the kind of person who’s known around the facility. you belong to countless of clubs, take parts in multiple projects and you’re always surrounded by your friends. you’re popular. the complete opposite of him as he prefers to keep to himself and stay quiet

nerd!jo who later finds out you’re sharing a class with his best friend geto and who’s instantly met with a wave of mixed feelings. he keeps his little crush on you a secret. even from his best friend

nerd!jo who stumbles upon you talking to geto in the hallway and who’s pulled into the conversation by his friend, offered as a helping hand for your project’s calculations

nerd!jo who does indeed agree to help, however, he doesn’t know how to act so close to you. which paints him out to be pretty nonchalant

nerd!jo who starts to wear a certain colour more often after you compliment his sweater, telling him it makes his eyes stand out

nerd!jo who warms up to you over the time due to him helping you with the project and you popping by to greet him and his best friend, chatting them both up

nerd!jo who is soon falling head over heels for you. without even realising

nerd!jo who’s confused when you join his calculus class next semester, because he remembers you saying it wasn’t something you were keen to. and who’s shocked even further, when you claim the seat next to him

nerd!jo whose blood runs cold, when some other dude walks up to you after your shared calculus class and interrupts you two talking. only to ask you if you wanna get out and grab a coffee. he stood frozen still as his heart roared in his chest, knowing it wouldn’t be right to interfere

nerd!jo who nearly lets out a sigh of relief when you reject the offer. and who’s irritation skyrockets the moment the guy won’t take no as an answer

nerd!jo who steps in automatically without thinking, telling him you and him have a thing going on later in the evening. your eyes narrowed in surprise. truthfully, he surprised himself too

nerd!jo who keeps pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose whenever he’s around you. the nervous gesture not going unnoticed by you

nerd!jo who grows sad, when you begin to tag along with him and geto, assuming it was his best friend you were after as it was usually that way. not him

nerd!jo who’s taken back when you pull out a box filled with baked goods and offer him to try some before a lesson. and he wondered if you had remembered his sweet tooth

nerd!jo who is so painfully oblivious to your shameless attempts at flirting, thinking you’re just being nice

nerd!jo who thinks about jerking off to your instagram picture he’s so fond of, but never ends up doing cause it’s laud. but he thinks about it, way more than he should

nerd!jo who gets flustered and awkward whenever his best friend mentions you or anything concerning you two together

nerd!jo who overhears you talking about your crush to your friends. a crush. his heart breaks

nerd!jo who notices the way your eyes linger on his lips as he speaks about the equation you asked him to explain, nonetheless, he tells himself it’s nothing and he’s probably seeing things

nerd!jo who then proceeds to go completely still when he registers the feeling of your lips on his mid sentence

nerd!jo who blinks to adjust his vision after you pull away few seconds later and then fixes his glasses. only to be the one who crashes his lips onto yours this time

nerd!jo who leaves the library with a raging boner after you spent the entire time desperately making out and being handsy with each other instead of studying

nerd!jo whose heart almost gives out, when you confess you had your sights on him from the beginning as well, but you were too shy to approach since he looked so intimidating

nerd!jo who ends up being your boyfriend by the end of the same day

nerd!jo who can’t help but feel a course of confidence seizing him as he walks through the campus with you, hands interlocked

a/n: couldn’t and can’t stop thinking about nerdjo so thought i would share couple of my ideas;)

credits for dividers: [ @cafekitsune ]

#jjk #jjk x reader #nerdjo #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #satoru jjk #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru #drabble #jjk gojo #jjk x y/n #satoru x you #gojo x y/n #jjk satoru #gojou satoru x reader

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gyuswhore · 7 months ago

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Cherry Picker [1]

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

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

Part 1: 19k | Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“CAN I HELP YOU?”

“I’m sorry,” you gravel out.

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

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

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

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

“Illegal truck, I guess.”

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

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

“Fine. Change.”

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

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

She has also mastered the art of impeccable dressing downs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um, did you—”

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

“And that means…?”

“We have the rink reserved.”

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

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

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

“That means—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t afford getting rusty.”

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

“What?”

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

“Lorry!”

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

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

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

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

“Lorelai!”

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

“You’re impossible.”

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

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

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

“Why would I try pleasing that woman?”

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

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

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

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

“Carroll is not that bad!”

“God, you become more like Marina everyday.”

You frown, “What does that mean?”

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

“Ew.”

Lorelai smirks. “Bite me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry. Really.”

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

“Only a few months.”

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

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

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

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

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

Why did you bring me here?

Six weeks.

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

Six weeks.

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

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

Six weeks.

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

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

Six weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No?”

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

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

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

“…you realise Hansol has security cameras right?”

“Are you planning on robbing my laptop?”

“No. Although it does have nice specs.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just play the track,” you grumble.

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

“Lorry!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Impossibly, your blood runs cold.

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

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

“Lorelai!” she yells it for no reason.

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

“I’m worse,” she states.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said 4:30. It is not 4:30 yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“8 point 5! Nice!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I ask for your autograph?”

“He’s not special.”

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

“Why are you so hellbent on liking him?”

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

“He was wearing the same stupid jacket—”

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

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

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

“Good for him.”

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

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

“God, you’re so negative,” she huffs.

“They’re hogging my rink!”

“It is not your rink.”

“It’s as good as!”

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

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

Lorelai jumps. “What?”

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

“It’s still hurting, isn’t it?”

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

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

You snort, “Why would I do that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does that have to come from me too?”

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

“I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She leaves before you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol saunters into the hallway, leading the pack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The hockey team’s done. It’s two.”

“I wanna book a slot.”

“The rink’s empty you don’t—”

“Let me book the slot, Hansol.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ice is booked.”

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

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

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

“And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything stops.

!HOT TOPIC!

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

!HOT TOPIC!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lorry,” you sigh.

“Listen, I wanna win too but—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Too late.”

“Lorry! Lorelai!”

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

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

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

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

“She only meant it as a reminder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I only came third.”

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

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

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

Seungcheol leaves without a response from his friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi, stop fucking fighting.

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

A plea deal, perhaps?

Choi, what is it going to take?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They wanna drop you.”

“What?”

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

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

“You’re temperament—”

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

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

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

“In most cases.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Just—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

conditional.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeonghan would’ve gotten away with it anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

!HOT TOPIC!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, you’d like to see her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEUNGCHEOL CAN'T SLEEP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SVT, he reads on their jerseys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m at the rink.”

“Why is your angry voice on?”

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

“Do I need to sing?”

“No, you do not have to sing—”

“Everything is honey—”

“Jeonghan, stop!”

“—everywhere I see—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And yet the ghost loiters.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He watches as you take a small step back.

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

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

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

He isn’t afraid to admit that he stumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hold.

“What?” you snap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You followed him?”

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

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

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

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

And then worst of all.

Are they dating?

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

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

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

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

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

“Talk.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And you said yes?”

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

“So you’re dating?” you ask sharply.

“I don’t know.”

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

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

“Fuck no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Friends with the coach?”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t look at the ice,” she blurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is happening?” you whisper to yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol had spat his mouth guard into his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s sickening. Sickening.

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lorelai.”

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

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

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

!HOT TOPIC!

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

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

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

Or perhaps she’s simply lost her spark?

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

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

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

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

2K notes · View notes

astonmartinii · 6 months ago

Text

other side of the moon - chapter five | formula one imagine

chapter five: enter stage left

pairing: fem retired formula one driver reader x ??? fem retired formula one driver reader x platonic!kimi antonelli

one big car launch with every driver in attendance - what can go wrong?

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR | SERIES MASTERLIST

whatever bright spark decided that formula one needed one big, fancy car launch must want y/n dead. here she stood in one of the many green rooms in a black dress that’s a little too tight and an absolute pain to sit down in.

on one side of the room george sits in his dressing gown being doted on five different people while he talks down the phone in a tone too loud for the crowded room. kimi, on the other hand, sits on the couch on the other side, having waved off all of the people trying to smear yet another cream on his face.

“are you just going to be haunting me all season?” george said as he hung up the phone. glaring at y/n through the mirror.

“if i’m haunting you, does that mean you did something wrong?” y/n gasps, “am i the skeleton in your closet, georgie?”

the mercedes personnel in the green room were still, almost waiting for it to hit boiling point and all spill over. george and y/n stared each other down, waiting for someone to make the next move. george steadily looked y/n up and down, not being subtle at all. y/n raised her eyebrow at the brit.

“i could get used to you in my colours,” george said with a smirk.

“bore off russell, i don’t wear anything for you. these will be seen as kimi’s colours before you know it.”

a knock on the door signalled the start of the show. george stood up and took off his robe, revealing the new mercedes racesuit for the season. the brit made his way to the door but before he left, he turned to y/n and said, “don’t get too comfortable, i have my eye on you”

“oh georgie, you always have,” y/n flirted before schooling her face, “and how has that worked out for you?”

the brit pointed to his racesuit, “better than it has for you.”

that was a low blow, but y/n was prepared to play it that way if that was the game for the season. george looked at her again, as if to challenge her, but y/n stayed silent though her stare was unwavering. she had said a lot worse about herself to herself after the crash.

with that george turned and left, calling out to alex down the corridor.

“i really don’t understand him,” kimi said, “it was only like a week or two ago he was cussing you out in monaco, then today he checks you out but then threatens you like two seconds later?”

“first lesson of the year, kimi. do not trust a word that man says to you.”

the pair linked arms and made their way out of the green room. there was a gaggle of drivers at the end of the corridor, all decked out in their racesuits except the ferrari boys who were in normal suits. the group fell silent as they all turned to see the new arrivals.

“i didn’t know it was bring your mum to work day?” alex called out as they neared the group, smiling as he came to hug her.

a french-accented voice hollered a ‘milf’ from the back of the group, y/n suspected it was pierre, but paid no mind. an offended squeak followed as y/n looked up to see max delivering a slap to the back of his head.

“i’m just dropping him off, i gotta get to my seat before i’m roped into an interview. i had to sneak in this afternoon, i swear sky sports are like stalking me!”

the group watched along as y/n leaned in to whisper into kimi’s ear, “remember what i told you. smile, be likeable and tell jokes. these people are underestimating you, let them. we’ll do our real talking in the car. good luck and try and have some fun.”

the pair did their ‘handshake’, which really was just a pinky promise, and broke apart. y/n looks back at the group one more time, smiles at max and takes her leave. just a couple paces down the corridor, a voice called out her name.

“y/n, hey!” lewis called, catching up to her quickly, “i didn’t think i’d see you back here tonight.”

“i wasn’t planning on it, to be fair. kimi is technically an adult now, but i still didn’t want to leave him on his own here of all places.”

lewis laughed as the pair looked back at the group. kimi had nestled himself next to ollie, quietly talking to each other with esteban looking over both of them. y/n caught the gaze of esteban and the frenchman gave her a quick nod before inserting himself into the conversation. the height difference between kimi and esteban was comical, but y/n was happy knowing esteban would look out for him in places she couldn’t be.

“i didn’t think you would like the whole mentor role, being so young and everything, but you seem to be doing a good job.”

“thank you lewis, but honestly he makes it very easy,” y/n looked at the group again with a fond look on her face.

lewis brought his hand to her face and made her look at him, “i thought i’d never see that look on your face again.”

y/n looked down and blushed, shaking lewis’ hand off. “i am happy. a lot happier than i expected to be, anyway.”

“i’m happy that you’re happy. i’m happy you’re back, i won’t keep my distance this time, even if you’re in the home of the enemy now.”

y/n laughed, “well i thought it was bad going back to your ex, and look at me now. so maybe they’re not as much as an enemy as you think.”

an announcement from further down the corridor cute the conversation there, lewis tries not to look bothered, but y/n can still tell.

“looks like you’re needed elsewhere, superstar,” y/n said with a wink, “try not to let charles outshine you too much.”

“he wishes.”

y/n watched him walk away and was confused. lewis had never expressed interest in her before, platonic or romantic. even when she was a young rookie with stars in her eyes, she was never on his radar. was she now? the visit in london had been weird and the way his eyes had been fixed on her since she arrived today was even weirder.

y/n didn’t really have the time to be grappling with that struggle today, not with everything else going on. the audience seemed like enough distance between her and lando, but after monaco, there was no real knowing what could happen. george was just as confusing as his compatriot, with harsh words but also a glimmer of something else too.

she needed a glass of champagne pronto.

max watched the interaction between y/n and lewis like a hawk, so focused that he didn’t realise that he had formed quite an audience. nico hulkenberg, kimi, ollie and esteban watched him try and conceal his feelings, but his face showed every thought.

“you want to make it any more obvious that you’re jealous?” nico said, nudging max to break him out of his daze.

“i’m not jealous, i just wonder what they actually have to talk about…”

“you’re not jealous you say? you didn’t even glare at him this much during 2021.” esteban chimed in.

max furrowed his brows and forced himself to look away. he already felt guilty for harbouring these feelings for y/n and now he’s faced with a curious look from kimi, making him feel even worse. he did not want to make the same mistake as lando and george had in the past. he meant it when he said he just wanted to exist with her.

“kimi, how would you feel about having max as your dad?” ollie said, hiding slightly behind esteban.

“he’s very good with the cats?”

“thanks, that’s such a glowing recommendation, kimi, thanks!”

kimi held up his hands in surrender but max couldn’t be angry at the italian - plus he did take very good care of his cats and brando. in fact, he had nearly thrown his back out, much to red bull’s chagrin, building a new cat tower so brando could watch the birds from his preferred spot. the cat had settled in well in his place in monaco while y/n had been staying, the dutchman didn’t want to think too much about what it could mean, but it was on his mind.

“i just mean i caught you googling how to make sure your cat is getting enough vitamin d because you were worried about how cloudy it’s been in monaco?”

kimi tried to backpedal, but his anecdote was overheard by more drivers, bringing them into the conversation.

“are you being for real? vitamins are just pseudoscience dude,” pierre said but isack popped his head into the circle to say, “vitamins are real? and vitamin d deficiency is actually a really huge problem.”

“thank you isack!”

“as if i’m taking health advice from a rookie,” pierre laughed. yuki took his turn to pipe up next, “i saw you eat a whole jar of peanut butter in one sitting last winter break? what do you know about health?”

“why is it gang up on pierre hour? why aren’t we focusing on the real issue here? like how pathetic max is about y/n?”

max sputtered as even more drivers joined the conversation.

“i am not pathetic. brando is practically my son. kimi back me up, doesn’t he love me?”

“he does -” kimi started defending max before charles butted in with a: “calling for help from the other son? we see how it is verstappen.”

this was a losing battle. max just hoped it stayed this light hearted but he saw lando and george approaching the group.

“max is not my dad, but i wouldn’t mind. he drove all the way to nice to pick up my parcel because i didn’t understand monaco postal charges!”

poor kimi was trying to help, but he was just making it inadvertently worse.

“this is making your pseudoadoption last year look like child’s play, oscar,” alex said, earning him a whack from charles.

“kimi is not my son, but that doesn’t mean i won’t look out for him. this is a horrible place to come when you’re already disliked. some people, not naming names, have made it clear they have a problem with him and y/n, so it’s simply my moral duty to look out for him.”

the group quietened down, looking amongst each other.

“why am i so out of the loop, who is bullying this literal child?” nico said, pulling kimi into his chest, the italian letting out a squeak as the german petted him. “so? do tell.”

for two people who were very eager to call y/n and kimi every name under the sun just a week ago, they were very silent in that moment.

“oh! we’re talking about the lovely cocktail party i threw that was ruined by lando and george!” charles blurted out, he grabbed fernando’s hand, “it was so nice, i even brought olives, but they came in spouting all this shit about y/n and kimi and seduction and older women?”

both brits scratched the backs of their necks. the cocktail party drama was not a good move from them, especially so close to the start of the season.

“it wasn’t quite like that?” george hurried out.

“you accused y/n of trying to sleep with me?” oscar said.

“you said that i was going the max verstappen route of getting with an older ‘problematic’ woman?” kimi added from nico’s side.

“you also kinda implicated yourself in y/n’s crash?” alex heaped on for good measure.

“alex!?” george and lando shouted, “whose side are you meant to be on?”

“i’m not on a “side” because i’m not fucking five, but i will point out hypocrisy and stupidity and that’s both of you. come on, it’s 2025 and you guys are still stuck in like 2017.”

“right, i feel really stupid because what the fuck are you people talking about and why wasn’t i invited to this party?” fernando said, a confused look on his face.

“lando and george are still hung up on y/n years later even though she never actually expressed interest in them, max has the best odds on actually sealing the deal and i don’t know, kimi is getting shit because he brought her back and none of them can actually regulate their emotions!” charles said, exasperated, “keep up grandpa, you’ve been here the whole time!”

“i do not have the ‘best odds’ because y/n isn’t a horse, you don’t bet on women?” max bit back.

“actually i bet on women all the time,” yuki said but when he saw how the group were looking at him he added, “ufc, duh!”

even as they were herded towards the backstage, the group continued bickering like children.

“all i’m saying is that your crush is super obvious and you need to be careful! y/n will know and will use it against you, just look at what happened with me and george!” lando hissed at max.

the dutchman glared at the brit, this really had gone too far. “can you like actually give me an example of where she ‘led you on’ i am genuinely curious,” max snipped, “quickly.”

lando immediately looked at the floor and bit his lip. max began tapping his foot with an impatient look.

“well she would be super flirty with me in the videos the team would make us film?” lando didn’t sound convinced, and max didn’t buy a single second of it.

“if that’s what you think flirting is i feel sorry for all of your ex girlfriends, you must be a horrible boyfriend - ouch!” charles was cut off by a shove from george.

“stay out of this charles!”

“i won’t stay out of this, y/n is actually a friend of mine. yeah that’s right she doesn’t hate me because i don’t assume that any girl who is fractionally nice to me is in love with me.”

“lando you basically tortured that girl her entire formula one career, do you need to do it now as well?” max said, “i think this season will be a lot easier for you if you drop this now.”

“is that a threat?”

“it’s a promise.”

all the bickering surrounding the pair ceased, tension rising in the air. the call for the mclaren boys drew lando out of his stare down with max. the brit joined oscar at the front of the queue and painted on his PR smile.

y/n had found her way to her seat, flanked by natalie pinkham on one side and jenson button on the other. there goes her plans for a quiet evening.

“so the rumours are true,” jenson said before jumping up to give her a hug, “i’ve missed you, rocky”

y/n flushed at the nickname. since her first ever race in formula one, jenson had crowned her his ‘pocket rocket’ which had eventually been worn down to just rocky. she hadn’t heard it in so long, jenson’s appearances being relegated to messages via sara or flowers that only gave away his identity with the use of rocky.

“did sky set up this seating arrangement? are you going to ambush me for an interview?”

“i can’t believe you’d think so low of me,” jenson clutched at his imaginary pearls, “and as if you can say no to me anyway.”

the pair took their seats as the show started. natalie handed her a glass of champagne and whispered in her ear, “you might need this.” well that doesn’t bode well.

the two mclaren drivers made their way out onto stage, joined by zak and andrea. y/n leaned into jenson, “i don’t understand why he insists on being everywhere, have we not suffered enough?”

jenson tried to stifle his laugh, “are you sure you don’t want to work in commentary?”

“i think it’s best i keep my opinion on these men to myself.”

the mclaren spiel followed the closely the same scripts they used when y/n still raced for them, though a healthy dose of constructors champions boasting had been added. a second questionable decision from formula one reared it’s head when nico rosberg asked his first unscripted question:

“so boys, how do you feel about the return of former mclaren driver y/n y/ln to the paddock? excited to see her?”

y/n swore she could see lando’s eye twitch from her front row seat. there was an awkward pause and y/n could feel the rest of the audience tense. even though the general public didn’t know the ins and outs of the fall out, there was definitely rising suspicion.

nico found y/n in the audience and gave her such a shit-eating grin that she almost didn’t care about the situation he just put her in.

“we’re of course over the moon to see her back in the paddock. i know i’ve harboured a lot of guilt as to how i ended up with my seat, so i’m happy that y/n can see me in action and hopefully i can continue to make her proud!” oscar said with a genuine smile, the only convincing one from the men clad in orange.

“continue to?” nico asked, “have you had confirmation of this?”

y/n’s eyes snapped to oscar who despite receiving glares from his boss, continued on.

“we spoke at charles’ cocktail party. i’ve always been a fan of hers and it was great to finally set the record straight. she was a lot more graceful than i would’ve been in her position. to be honest i was a bit of a weepy mess, but she was very supportive. i’m only slightly jealous of kimi…”

“very nice. did you get any insight on her opinion on hungary?” nico pushed, only to be cut off by zak.

“if you so desperately want her opinion on everything, you can wait until you’re on sky’s dime. this is a car launch, no? we’re confident in our car for this season and intend on winning both championships. and do you know how we’re going to do that? with the two drivers on stage right now, not one who was a flash in the pan four years ago.”

you could hear a pin drop in the venue. even lando had a shocked look on his face as he and oscar exchanged a look.

“that’s fighting talk from the man who ended her career, but what do i know?” nico said sharply but then turned to the audience, “ladies and gentlemen, mclaren!”

there was tentative applause from crowd and when y/n and oscar made eye contact she gave him a small smile. this was only the first team…

nico looked for y/n in the front row and gave her a thumbs up to which she shook her head violently. jenson burst out laughing, “well, i don’t think we’ll be having this as the car launch format again.”

“i don’t know about you but i’m throughly entertained,” natalie said, “if nico was like that with mclaren, i can’t wait for ferrari!”

the next few teams were decidedly less dramatic. y/n could see kimi and george lining up next to come on stage and she hoped the italian remembered her advice.

george walked on stage with confident strides, followed by toto and finally kimi. the italian looked out at the audience, squinting from the harsh lights but calming his features when he saw y/n. she gave him a thumbs up and got a smile in return.

“you’re loving this mum role aren’t you?” jenson said.

“you’re making me feel old, stop. but yes i would kill myself if anything happened to him, so i guess so.”

back on stage, nico had started his interview. first toto was being grilled about the hopes for the season and how life at mercedes would be without lewis hamilton. the german was clearly trying to bait his former boss into giving him a juicy soundbite.

“kimi, let’s come to you now. you’re first season in formula one and you’ve already brought in the big guns? y/n y/ln as your mentor, that’s a big statement.”

kimi looked startled and his eyes snapped to meet y/n’s. she nodded to him, urging him to answer.

“why wouldn’t i want a legend of the sport like her as my mentor? she still knows what she’s doing, and if it ruffles some feathers in the paddock at the same time, what’s the harm?”

she was so proud of her protégé. jenson choked on his champagne at kimi’s answer, “kids got balls.”

“well, well, well. you’re not beating around the bush are you? but do tell me, kimi, what’s so special about you that y/n would come out of retirement?”

“i’ll save that answer for australia, nico,” kimi said, surprised by the laughs from the audience, “but maybe i’ve just got a charm the rest of the grid doesn’t?”

“holy shit,” natalie said, “was this the strategy, y/n?”

“i told him to make them like him? are you not entertained?”

nico, for once, was speechless on stage. george huffed next to toto, waiting for his turn to talk. the german clocked onto this and a devilish smile broke out on his face.

“so george, you and y/n grew up together… do you not have charm? as far as we can tell, you haven’t spoken to y/n in years?”

y/n’s mouth dropped open. jenson was right, there’s no way this format, at least with nico hosting, was ever happening again.

“i have more than enough charm, thank you nico. are you going to ask us anymore questions about the season or is it all just tabloid questions from you tonight?”

“tabloid?! well, now that makes me think you’ve got something to hide… but as for your 2025 season, are you afraid that you might lose to an 18-year-old rookie?”

george sputtered in response, “i have no fear of losing, i just beat a seven time world champion, a rookie, no offence, has no bearing on my season.”

“that’s a big claim, george. you better hope you stick to it. it’ll be your sixth season in formula one, do you think you’ll finally be able to claim the number one driver role?”

george’s face was getting redder and redder as he tried to remain calm. he made eye contact with y/n briefly, giving her the subtlest glare he could.

“i think i made a very good case for myself for the last two seasons and toto has faith in me to lead this team back to where they should be.”

nico had a wolfish grin on his face, he was enjoying this psychological torture a little too much.

“you don’t think toto has more faith in kimi, a driver he allowed to skip an entire step on the junior ladder and is giving his formula one debut at just 18? and straight into a mercedes rather than say… a williams?”

george’s shiny mask was starting to slip. this was meant to be a fun event for fans but had descended into a nico rosberg masterclass of making everyone suffer - and for once y/n was enjoying it.

“classy as always, nico,” george said.

“it’s what i do best,” nico laughed to himself, “back to you kimi, are you intimidated at all by your senior teammate? do you think you can make a case for yourself as the number one driver?”

the italian paused for a moment, thinking to y/n’s advice - he needed people to like him.

“i’m more than happy to play a team game to bring mercedes back to the top,” he smiled to toto, “but make no mistake i’m here to win and i won’t just step aside without good reason.”

“well, this is a duo i’ll be watching closely this season. mercedes!”

the trio shuffled off of stage and y/n let out a sigh of relief, she could throw back as much champagne as she wanted now.

another couple of teams made their way past nico’s questioning, but as nico hulkenberg and gabriel bortoleto made their way off of the stage the audience held their breath. next was ferrari.

charles, lewis and fred vasseur made their way on stage, and as has become classic fashion, lewis situated himself as far from nico as possible.

“welcome, welcome. a different line up this year and much to think about, do you think you can finally bring the championship back to italy?”

fred started on what was likely a pre-written script and y/n tuned out for a second. the ferrari boys looked nothing short of glamorous in their tailored black suits with the yellow of the ferrari logo popping on the left breast. both men looked assured, no nerves, just pure confidence - the type of confidence that draws you to a person.

y/n caught lewis’ eye and he gave her a quick wink, something that did not go unnoticed by jenson beside her.

“what was that all about, rocky?” jenson whispered. y/n kept looking forward, ignoring jenson’s stare burning into the side of her head. the brit kept poking her, “i’m not going to stop until you answer me!”

y/n batted his hand away, “i don’t know what you’re talking about old man, leave me alone!”

“i saw that, hell, the whole place saw that! you are aware that is a man 14 years your senior!”

y/n downed her champagne and whispered to jenson, “listen, i don’t know what the fuck is happening! he came to my apartment and he’s being really nice? i don’t know?!”

jenson looked between the two and grabbed his own champagne. “i was teammates with that guy! you might be a grown up now but he’s really old!”

y/n slapped a hand over her mouth to stop her laughing out loud. jenson did have a point. was lewis actually flirting with her or was he just being nice? was she falling into the same headspace that lando and george were in with her?

“i am not going to get with lewis, jens. he’s just being nice, that’s all. now shut up i want to see if nico makes the brocedes breakup all of our problem.”

nico had finished his interrogation of charles and set his sights on his former teammate. y/n grabbed jenson’s hand in anticipation.

“so lewis, new team, new you? how do you feel coming into a team where charles has dominated for the last five years?”

lewis gives nico a forced smile, “i am excited for the challenge. there’s a lot of changes coming into this season, people leaving and new faces. it’s best to face a challenge head on rather than running.”

“you didn’t run from mercedes? you didn’t want to stick it out and retire with the team that gave you so much success?”

“you’d know all about running wouldn’t you nico?”

y/n dropped her glass of champagne and the rest of the audience gasped but nico did not look phased at all.

“i am happy with my decision, time will tell if you’ll be happy with yours. charles dealt with sebastian, don’t think he’ll roll over for you.”

charles looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but on stage and fred’s face would tell you he’s at the gallows rather than a car launch.

“was in your brief today to make the vibes in here as rancid as possible? as i said i am excited for the season ahead and nothing you can say today will change that.”

lewis took the lead and left the stage, leaving nico alone with a pleased look on his face. the german found y/n’s gaze again and wiggled his eyebrows. if there was ever a man you need to take the heat off of you, he was the one.

there was one final team to go and this entire nightmare of a night would be over. the final team was none other than red bull - nothing could possibly go wrong here could they?

christian, like the other team principals, started with a long-winded spiel that said a whole lot of nothing. y/n smiled widely when she caught max’s eye and he responded with an eye roll directed at christian’s rambling. the dutchman, for a second, had forgotten he was in fact on stage in front of thousands. the pair stare at each other and bite their lips to keep the laughs in.

jenson leaned in again, “not to keep questioning you, but what is happening here? and don’t lie, i know he’s the only one you kept in contact with and who you have been staying with in monaco.”

“it’s nothing! it’s something? i don’t know what it is? we’re just existing together. i think romance in the paddock is the worst thing for me right now. i need to be fully focused on kimi.”

“first of all - we’re exisiting together? that’s so fucking gross. and two - you’re still allowed to have fun?” jenson wiggled his eyebrows.

“not everyone can be the playboy of formula one, stud.”

“true. i’m not sure you have the devilishly good looks to be a playboy - hey”

y/n snatched his glass of champagne and turned back towards the stage just as max took to the microphone.

“so max, do you think there’s a chance of a fifth title in a row?”

max laughed in his signature way, “here i thought you’d gotten all of your aggression out with lewis. we’ll have to see how we line up against the other teams, but you always have to believe you can win every single race, so that’s what i’ll continue to do.”

a quick glance from nico told y/n that her peaceful night hadn’t started just yet.

“you’ll finally have your best friend back in the paddock, are you still excited even though she’ll be in mercedes uniform?”

“i think toto has another thing coming if he thinks she’ll be wearing that ugly uniform,” max said, “but it makes no difference to me what garage y/n is in, we’re like magnets, you can’t keep us a part for long.”

nico hummed, “is that why you were the only one she kept in contact with after the crash?”

“yes? it’s mostly because we’re best friends but also because i’m a decent human being.”

oh fuck.

“how do you mean, max?”

christian tried to butt in, “i don’t think we need to go into that here.”

“oh i’m more than happy to, and nico has been stirring all night, what’s just a little more to add to the pot?”

you could almost hear the audience shuffling to the edge of their seats and for the first time that evening, y/n felt some of the cameras on her. she gave them a small wave and hoped they would pan back to the actual action.

“all i’m saying is that there are a lot of victim complexes in the paddock, it’s full of people who would rather say ‘i don’t know why she doesn’t talk to me?’ rather than do some actual introspection. y/n will talk to you if you’re not an asshole, just as kimi.”

“so you’re saying there’s a truth to the rumours?”

“which rumours? you know, since your employers like to report on so many?”

nico chuckled, “well, the rumours that perhaps the brits in the paddock didn’t get on as well as we were led to believe?”

max smiled, “well, that’s not my story to tell, but i’ve found that if you ask them, they’re more than happy to give you the scoop.”

for a moment, y/n’s heart stopped, fearing that nico would take this as the chance to bring her into the fray. max seemed to sense this as well and added, “but as for me, i’m just happy she’s back in any capacity. i’ve missed my partner in crime.”

“have you spoken about formula one in her break at all? you won all four of your titles in that time?”

“i know she watched it, but we haven’t spoken about it. i respected her boundaries at the time, but i knew she was watching based on some suspiciously timed texts.”

nico laughed, “i’m not sure we can ever stay away from this sport for long.”

“i’m glad that is the case,” max said, more to himself than anyone else.

the red bull boys were ushered off of the stage as nico delivered his closing remarks and announced the musical guests.

“he’s glad that’s the case? oh he’s in deep,” jenson gasped, “you can’t tell me that’s nothing, i rebuke it right this second.”

y/n sighed, standing and heading to the backstage bar. “i really don’t want to think about it jenson.”

“but you’re staying at his house, he’s building shit for your cat and gushing about you on stage!”

“i am well aware, but i don’t really know what you want me to do about that?”

“i want you to get your man and let him treat you how you’re supposed to be!”

y/n picked up another glass of champagne, talking the biggest sip before replying to jenson.

“you’re just as bad as the girls on twitter sometimes.”

kimi bursts through the doors, back in his comfy clothes, and rushes over to y/n. she wraps the italian into a hug.

“i’m so proud of you!”

kimi blushes, rocking back and forth on his feet, “thank you, y/n! i’m so glad we’ve got this out of the way i’m ready to race now!”

jenson laughed along side them, “an eager one, this one. i remember when i had that much energy.”

the rest of the drivers flooded into the room, grabbing drinks or just taking a seat. max, much like kimi, made his way straight to y/n, also pulling her into his chest. he whispered in her ear, “i’m sorry i got carried away talking about you, i just can’t help myself.”

y/n can’t help but feel the butterflies in her stomach at the confession. she was really trying to keep her feelings out of her return to formula one, but seeing max like this was putting a real spanner in the works. the dutchman’s protective nature along side his intense respect for her made her feel special for the first time since the crash.

“i take no offence, maxy. i’ll never say no to a compliment, especially from you.”

the group moves away from the bar and as they settle into their seats backstage, max’s arm wraps around her waist. y/n knew she shouldn’t do it, not here in front of everyone but that’s what her heart wanted. the first few weeks into her return and all the drama was wearing on her and they hadn’t even made it to the paddock yet. she snuggled into max’s side, letting the dutchman brush her hair out of her face.

“y/n?” kimi said from the other side of her, “i’m really happy you’re here, and i hope you’ll let yourself have this,” kimi motioned to max, who was deep in conversation with jenson.

“don’t you worry about that, kimi.”

“you’ve punished yourself for years, please don’t keep telling yourself that you’re not allowed this. also don’t wait up for me, i’m going to crash at ollie’s”

kimi said as his departing gift as he went to catch up with ollie and watch some of the music. y/n let herself relax back into max’s hold and her eyes close, all of the pent up stress of the evening rushing out.

“are we really that boring?” jenson asked.

“do you want to get out of here, y/n?” max asked, when y/n flopped further onto him, he took that as his answer.

grabbing her bag, max took y/n’s hand in his and pulled her from the seat. the pair exchanged hugs with jenson and made a quiet exit from backstage. they tried to be as subtle as possible, but nothing is ever secret in formula one.

jenson slid in beside lewis at the bar.

“you want to tell me what your plan is with her?”

lewis looked at his former teammate in confusion.

“i saw that wink and i know you were flirting with her when you went to her apartment. what’s the plan, you’re 14 years older than her?”

“i don’t have a plan? i felt bad about how i was when she was in formula one, i’m just trying to make her feel welcome again.”

“and winking at her at a televised event is definitely going to help?”

lewis scoffed, “i don’t really like what you’re implying.”

“i’m implying that you need to watch your step, seriously. the vultures are just waiting for her to make one wrong step, don’t give them an excuse to call her a gold digger or anything along those lines.”

“and what if i said i did like her?”

“i’d ask you if you actually know her? you didn’t speak to her after the crash, you didn’t speak to her when she was in the sport so i’m confused to where this would have come from?”

“you can drop the dad act jenson, i’m just being friendly. it looks like max got in there first anyway.”

jenson hummed, “not everything is a competition.”

y/n and max climbed into max’s hire car for the weekend and finally let themselves breathe.

“that was a lot,” y/n said, slipping off her heels, “nico really was out for blood.”

“i found it entertaining, but that usually is a death wish for anything in formula one.”

the pair laughed, and as max turned the ignition, y/n’s taylor swift playlist crackled into life.

“are you heading back to your hotel or do you want to crash at mine?” y/n asked as she put her address into the gps, despite max knowing nearly every route across london to her apartment.

“a chance to avoid team duties for as long as possible? count me in!”

“so you don’t want to spend more time with me? just want to avoid your team?”

max placed his hand on her thigh, “you know i always want to spend more time with you.”

the streets were relatively clear at this time with the event still in swing. max weaved through traffic as they entered west london. the dutchman nestled his car in y/n’s spot for her pink cadillac that was still in monaco. y/n started to fiddle with her heels to put them back on, but max stopped her.

he walked round to her side of the car and picked up her up bridal style. y/n giggled and wrapped her arms around max’s neck. the pair made their way up to her apartment as fast as possible, but made sure to say hi to frank who not so subtlety gave y/n a thumbs up and a wink.

the apartment was quiet without the meows of brando who was also back in monaco with jimmy and sassy. max stopped in the kitchen to pour two glasses of water but y/n went ahead to the bathroom to wash off the grime of the event.

she slipped into bed dressed in her pjamas that consisted of some old gym shorts and one of max’s toro rosso shirts. the dutchman knocked on her door.

“come in, maxy.”

max made his way into the room, placing the glass of water on her beside table. he sat on the edge of the bed, “good night, try not to dream of me too much.” the dutchman leaned down to give her a kiss on the forehead before moving back towards the door.

“max?”

“yes?”

“will you stay with me?”

“always.”

max got under the covers and tentatively reached out to her. sensing the apprehension, y/n turned over and tucked herself under max’s chin. his arms snuck around her waist and for the first time in three years, y/n finally slept peacefully without the images of her crash.

fin.

note: sorry this took so long, i've been a bit of a writing rut but i'm back!

taglist: @folkloresreputation @hc-dutch @shimmermotorsport @96mcobo @eclipsedcherry @formulaal @czennieszn @gothicwidowsworld @emily-b @suns3treading @henna006 @kazgirl20 @anotherapollokid @littlegrapejuice @daemyratwst @annimausi @yawn-zi @lulu-1998 @xsilkesworld @justaf1girl @daddyslittlevillain @evans-dejong @abq654 @elizamoe133 @wierdflowerpower @t1nkerbel1 @okcurran @raizelchrysanderoctavius @skepvids @multilovebot @fernandoalonso14 @jules-kup-172 @m4xgirlie @rorabelle15 @minkyungseokie @formula1-motogpfan @peterholland04 @miureiz @freyathehuntress @lighttsoutlewis @aleatorio1234 @chaosandevelyn@blueberry648579@dog-and-cat-person230@fastandcurious16@obxstiles@cosmicwintr@becca388510@savagittariuspy@tibadi @thisbitxhs-blog @finn-dot-com @scenesofobx @moofilms @alilstressyandlotdepressy @nana-love-bugzzz @mayax2o07 @obsessed-fan-alert @1-queenofpotatoes-1 @jajouska @poppysrin @mimimarvelingmarvel @jiyumie @heeseungthel0ml

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 x you #f1 #f1 social media au #max verstappen #charles leclerc #kimi antonelli #ollie bearman #jenson button #lewis hamilton #george russell #alex albon #pierre gasly #yuki tsunoda #nico rosberg

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