#Sky Sports Boxing

[eirianerisdar]

As grating as Danica's commentary is you have to admit it's hilarious to see how the rest of Sky are reacting

Crofty having to signpost his commentary direction by saying WHAT DO YOU THINK KARUN CHANDHOK and pulling Ted and Bernie into the convo from the pitlane more than usual just to make it less awkward

Danica saying she doesn't get why drivers want to hug the wall so much (*cough* racing line, which EVERY CASUAL WATCHER KNOWS) and just stunned silence in response from Karun

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

Ted Kravitz needs to keep Yuki Tsunoda's name out of his mouth -

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[gallusrostromegalus]

I was raised agnostic and tend to remain ambiguous on theological matters.

-but my house has a porch on the second story that affords me a terrific view of my neighborhood and the Colorado Front Range and I was partaking of some peace before the 4th Of July Finger-Loss Festivities begin, and I have had a

~*Spiritual Experience*~

I just watched my neighbor try to unload an actual wooden pallet that had to have been forklifted into the back of his insecurity pickup worth of fireworks.

Except that he does not have a forklift in his garage.

He does have so much sports memorabilia and cardboard boxes of unsold MLM Merchandise and patriotically themed camping gear and posters of women in bikinis and flags of suspect political organizations in his garage that there is only BARELY enough space for the fireworks and certainly none for his truck.

So he had to unload the individual boxes of recreational explosives from the back of his truck and stack them in the minimal space he had cleared by hand. This is a tedious and time-consuming process as this neighbor has purchased a wide variety of recreational and locally illegal explosives instead of many of just a few types, so the individual boxes are rather small.

He begins, and this is crucial to what happens next, by cutting apart the industrial-grade saran wrap his explosives dealer had so carefully wrapped his merchandise in, and discarded it unsecured on his lawn.

Where Outdoor Conditions sometimes happen.

His process for unloading the fireworks is to 1. Climb up through the gate into the bed of his pickup truck (a feat made unusually difficult due to the slope of his driveway, and this man's fascinating decision to wear the world's Siffest and least Flexible Denim Overalls. 2. Once in the pickup bed, he selects ONE (1) box from the pile He is apparently from a niche religious institution that doesn't believe in stacking things. 3. Carries it awkwardly around the palette that barely fits in the truck bed 4. His wife yells "Be careful!" when he nearly falls out of the pickup. 5. He Yells "SHADDUP!" back at her. 6. The Large German Shepherd barks from inside the house. 7. He yells "SHADDUP!" back at her too. 8. He sets the (1) box down on the gate 9. Slowly and awkwardly climbs out of the pickup bed 10. picks the box back up, and carries it into the garage.

Question: Aren't you going to help this poor man? Answer: Absolutely Not.

There's four military veterans, MANY dogs, and several people with dementia in this neighborhood, all of whom are terrified by this chicanery every year and many neighbors have repeatedly asked him to maybe do the fireworks somewhere else. (This is the Eighth Year Running he's held a major demolition event in his driveway, and for those of you who can do math, you may be able to guess the precipitating incident to this little ritual) Additionally, I live in Colorado, a state marginally less prone to spontaneous and catastrophic conflagrations than a rotting grain silo, but only marginally. Our recreational explosives laws are written accordingly.

I am in fact calling the Non Emergency line to report Fireworks violations, and reading off the brand labels to someone named Dorothy, who is gleefully totaling up a SPECTACULAR fine for my oblivious neighbor.

However, while I'm on the phone with Dorothy, I notice the wind begin to pick up. and by "Notice" I mean "The Industrial Saran Wrap he left on his Lawn earlier is suddenly swept up about 100 feet into the air by an updraft intense enough to make my ears pop" And by "Pick Up" I mean "I look up to see the sky has turned a fun and exciting shade of glass green, and the bottoms of the clouds are bumpy and rounded, and the overall effect is not unlike looking up through the bottom of the cup at God's Matcha Boba Tea."

For those of you who do not live in places with Inclement Weather, these conditions mean "You have about 30 seconds before a Major Meteorological Event Occurs."

I move under the eaves. "Hang on Dorothy." I say, nose filling with Petrichor. "The show is about to be cancelled." "Oh, that doesn't matter!" Dorothy cheerfully informs me. "It's illegal for him just to possess those, no matter if he actually gets to set them off or not." "Terrific, because he's gotten maybe five boxes out of a hundred inside."

Sometimes, the weather gods are Merciful and give you a verbal warning, typically in the kind of thunderclap that makes your ears ring.

The Gods were not merciful today.

It's not often that I am in the time, place, correct angle or in a properly observational frame of mind to see this, But I got to see it today. Huh. I thought. I've never seen a cloud just DIVE for the ground before. Oh. I realized as it got closer. That's RAIN.

Sometimes, a thunderstorm will form in such a way that the rain that would normally be distributed over an area of say, five to tent square miles, is instead concentrated into an area of say, my neighborhood exactly.

So today, I was granted the rare privilege of being able to actually see the literal wall of water descend from On High and DIRECTLY onto my porch, my street, and my neighbor's truck, and his pile of unwrapped fireworks.

The sheer impact force of the downpour immediately scatters the teetering pile of fireworks boxes in the back of the truck, like the wrath of God striking down the tower of Babel. Boxes tumble, then are washed out of the bed of the truck by the deluge. Smaller Boxes are carried down the road in a little line by the stream forming in the gutter, like little impotent explosive ducklings.

My neighbor was definitely yelling something, but I could not hear what over the DEAFENING noise several million gallons of water makes upon high-speed contact with the earth's surface, but there was a lot of arm-waving and faces turning red as he went looking for the saran wrap that had probably blown to Nebraska by now, while his wife started disassembling the complex three-dimensional puzzle of interlocking material goods in search of a tarp. They do not have a tarp. They have one of those wretched Thin Blue Line flags though, and my neighbor jogs out in a futile effort to cover what's left in the truck.

Which is when the hail begins.

"HELLO?" Yelled Dorothy. "HI!" I shouted. "WE'RE HAVING SOME WEATHER!" "OH GOOD!" she shouts back. "WE NEED THE MOISTURE!"

I watch for a minute longer, but the loss was immediate and catastrophic- the hail is the size of marbles and dense and cares not for your pitiful cardboard and cellophane, ripping the boxes asunder and punching holes in the few things covered in plastic. The colors on the Thin Blue Line Flag are seeping all over the remains of that it was supposed to protect in a particularly apt visual metaphor. Not even the few boxes that made it into the garage are spared, as the German Shepherd escapes from indoors, and in an attempt to assist her humans, jumps directly into the small stack of not-yet-ruined boxes, scattering them into the driveway and deluge. She even picks one up so her humans will chase her around the yard, before dropping it in the gutter to be swept away.

So. I was raised Agnostic -but even I can recognize when God slaps someone upside the head and shouts "NO!" at them.

---

(If you laughed, please consider supporting my Ko-fi or preordering my book of Strange Stories on Patreon)

[iptv-pro-imter]

aduire du texte avec votre appareil photo Khamza Khizarovich Chimaev[2][11][12] (Chechen: Khizar voa hamzat; Russian: Хамзат Хизарович Чимаев;[13] born May 1, 1994)[14] is a Russian fighter of Chechen ethnicity who competes in the weight class Average and weight Heavy in the UFC.[15] He previously participated in the Brave Combat Federation.[16] Shamaev is a three-time Swedish national champion.[17] She is ranked as of May 9, 2023, No. 4 in the final welterweight rankings.

The next fight on IPTV channels, do not miss the opportunity to subscribe, https://wa.me/33605726671 https://setiptvfrance.com/ https://franceiptv.com/

Turki Al-Sheikh, Chairman of the General Entertainment Authority, announced that the upcoming “UFC FIGHT NIGHT” fight will be held between champion Hamza Chimaev and former champion Robert Whittaker, in the main fight within the Integrated Martial Arts Championship, on Saturday, June 22, 2024. This event is the first of its kind in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, as the “UFC FIGHT NIGHT” fight is held for the first time on the Kingdom’s soil, which constitutes a milestone in the Saudi sports process and its support for combat sports.

The main fight will witness an exciting confrontation between Chimaev, nicknamed the “Chechen Wolf,” and Whittaker, the former middleweight champion, in a fight that is expected to be decisive in the careers of both of them. Chimaev is considered one of the UFC's brightest stars at the moment, while Whittaker has extensive experience in mixed martial arts.

[jordandhallu]

WBA TITLE SHOT UP FOR GRABS AS DAN AZEEZ TAKES ON JOSHUA BUATSI AT WEMBLEY ARENA

This Saturday, Dan Azeez will look to set up a world light-heavyweight title shot with current WBA Champion, Dmitry Bivol as he looks to secure his 21st victory and retain his unbeaten record in a final eliminator for the world title.

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Billed as the “Battle of South London”, Lewisham born Azeez will have to defend his British and Commonwealth titles in an exciting ‘friend turned foe’ showdown with Croydon’s own, Joshua Buatsi.

Buatsi, who is 17-0 and ranked #1 in the WBA rankings ahead of #2 Azeez, also comes into this fight having never experienced defeat and will look to get one over someone he once called a “good friend”.

‘Super’ Dan Azeez goes into this fight having won his previous bout against Frenchman, Khalid Graidia in Italy. Four months prior to that, saw him win the EBU European light-heavyweight title against Thomas Faure, in his opponent's home country of France. Many applaud the 34-year-old for rising up the ranks the “old-fashioned way” by winning domestic and European titles before stepping up to world level and he has continued to grow his fanbase over the years for his humble personality and ‘Marvelous’ fight style, after his idol, Marvin Hagler.

Wembley arena is a location he is familiar with, having fought there twice previously in 2021 & 2022, winning both by TKO. Questions remain on if he can get the job done again against what will comfortably be his most testing fight of his career so far.

Buatsi is also coming off impressive victories over Ricards Bolotniks, Craig Richards and Pawel Stepien, winning the latter two fights by unanimous decision. Unlike his opponent, he is yet to fight at Wembley arena and was probably not expecting the contest to be there due to the cancellation of their previous date at the O2 Arena, where he would have fought for the 8th time in his professional career.

Originally scheduled for the 21st of October, this bout had to be cancelled and rescheduled due to an injury sustained in Dan Azeez’s back on fight week. It has been said by Dan that he knew about this injury before it was announced but Buatsi only found out days before the event was expected to take place. Conspiracies have circulated online, at how this could have been a ploy to allow Azeez more time to prepare, but he has since said that it is untrue.

Speaking to Sky Sports, Joshua Buatsi explained how despite his knowledge of Dan, he was sceptical about the conspiracies.

“What do I think about the whole thing? The truth is, I’m not sure. From what I know with Dan, I don’t think he’d come and say he’s injured if he’s not.

“Do I think Dan was injured? Maybe, who knows?”.

All this has done is create an unexpected tension between the two fighters who have confronted each other on a number of occasions on the lead up to Saturday.

Azeez and Buatsi know each other very well and have openly revealed that they have sparred many times in the past. They have also shared the same experience of holding the British title at different stages of their career, but it will be Buatsi who will be looking to reclaim the prize.

It’s evident that the mood has changed between the two men since the build up to their originally scheduled fight last year, now becoming more contempt with taking the other fighter’s ‘0’ in their undefeated record. Some have claimed that the newly found rivalry has come at the hands of the promotor after not being able to sell enough tickets, which is why they moved from the O2 Arena to a venue with a lower capacity. However, what is promised is that fans will be treated to an exciting dust up between two hard-working fighters that believe they should be world champions.

Regardless on their relationship with each other, it’s clear to see that they are keen to dispatch of their opponent on Saturday night and move on without any hard feelings.

The OVO arena in Wembley will also welcome rising star and EBU European Super-Lightweight Champion, Adam Azim as he attempts to defend his title for the first time against the experienced, Enock Poulson. Controversial Olympic silver medallist, Ben ‘The Surgeon’ Whittaker is another growingly familiar name that will grace North-West London as he aims to take his record to 6-0 since turning professional in 2022. Highly favoured to become the next best female fighter, ‘Sweet’ Caroline Dubois returns to the ring following her unanimous decision win over Magali Rodriguez as she defends her IBO lightweight title for the first time. Also making up the rest of the card for Saturday is Francesca Hennessy, daughter of former boxing promotor, Mick who will be looking to dance and dazzle her way to the third victory of her promising career as well as heavyweight, Jamie TKV who will try to bounce back from the first loss of his career in September 2023.

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[alpha-mag-media]

Fans hail Adam Smith as ‘voice of boxing’ as Sky Sports legend does live TV interview on DAZN after cancer fight | In Trend Today

Fans hail Adam Smith as ‘voice of boxing’ as Sky Sports legend does live TV interview on DAZN after cancer fight Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

[quirkycritters]

Game Night: CHAIN ATTACK!!!

i am,,, withering away but ITS DONE ITS DONE IM FREE FROM THE CURSE (<<< still haunted by wips) clocking in at 32+ hours, this sucker has been getting pushed around for 10 months-

while theres some things i would have done differently if i could redo this from scratch, i still had a BLAST cramming in as much detail as i could tolerate >:) some highlights / cut ideas / ramblings are below the cut, but please zoom for details! (if tumblr doesnt shred it to bits)

gonna be real i locked so hard onto drawing ripped jeans that i forgot i could have just shoved legend into a skirt and called it a day

SOCKS. SOCKS. the amount of Joy anytime i figured out how to personalize them with game references: legend (hibiscus), twilight (ordon goats), and four (force gems)

i WAS going to put time in a turtleneck, but had an epiphany and started digging for the most obnoxious hawaiian shirts i could find,,, ft. a sea flower (wind waker) and a saturation boosted plumm (twilight princess)!

yeah so warriors got the sweater instead of the skintight shirt, sorry gang

speaking of if i ever say im going to draw a cableknit sweater again, somebody PLEASE shake some sense into me- warriors sweater was a NIGHTMARE since my art program has an astonishing lack of good brushes (and yet here i am still using it)

MOST of the text has been modified using the twilight princess cipher because yeah. i was procrastinating shading. also the other ciphers were in japanese- times shirt is cropped, but reads "its 5 oclock somewhere"

winds lobster shirt :) that is all i just think its neat

wilds jacket :) link w(ild) 2017, aka the release year of botw

jewelry! sky has the fireshield earrings, and wild has the amber earrings~ could barely squeeze the bombos and quake medallions onto legend, and wind got the joy pendant

hyrule :D embroidery on his sweatpants because i was struck by whimsy- also i 100% thought his shield was purple tinted for weeks while drawing this because the page i used as reference was set at night, and i was originally basing his sweater on his shield- scrapped the cross pattern after several failed attempts but kept the color ^^

the chips are bbq because im biased (reads "crisps" in twilight princess cipher for no real reason except whimsy)

bless my dearest homie for game reccs because the og plan was to have them all be loz games! titles include wii sports resort, elebits, super mario party, smash bros ultimate, just dance 2016 (its box art is colorful ok), and myth makers orbs of doom (I HATE THIS GAME WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING, as i should, anyways i should play it again). four is suggesting orbs of doom, buddy aint even playing,,,

kinda was hoping to play around with hair colors and skin tones a bit more, but again, see the hour count- ill get em next time surely,,, also blue vs violet eyes for legend already had me in decision paralysis

the whole gang was gonna have friendship bracelets with color combos based on dynamics i found neat but oops! didnt finish the layer :')

thats a wrap! didnt yap about everything but im curious what yall catch onto- anyways surely ive learned something about biting off more than i can chew (<<< lying liar who lies)

[classyrbf]

DO I LOOK LIKE HIM! — MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

SYNOPSIS...all his life it was just him and his mother, his father nowhere to be seen or found, vanished, a ghost. No one ever spoke a word of him, he didn’t even know his name. But deep down he begs for answers as his mother always said that he looked just like ‘him’

INFO...megumi fushiguro x mom!reader, toji x fem!reader, angst angst angst, megs is 17, absent father, family trauma, young love, arguing, talks of pregnancy, talks of killing/assassination, not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

based on: like him by tyler the creator

“Alright move closer into the photo—yep! Perfect!” Your mom held the camera up to her eye, slightly bending down. “Alright, three…two…one!” She snapped the photo, smiling as she looked at you and Toji.

It was Megumi’s first birthday, friends and family surrounding to celebrate. Endless gifts and food, music playing over the speakers. Small children ran around the yard, infectious laughter filling the air. The sun shined brightly, not a cloud in the sky. You were happy. Toji held Megumi tight in arm, looking down at the baby with a full head of jet black hair.

You and Toji had met in high school, falling for each other in an instant. You were captivated by his silent and mysterious presence and Toji was capture by your smile and the way your eyes shined in the light. But neither of you expected to end up with a baby boy just two years later after graduation. Not a single moment was regretted. You wouldn’t trade this for the world.

“Happy birthday, little man,” he scoffed, holding Megumi above his head. He babbled, giggling as he chewed on his chubby fingers, smiling at his father with love in his eyes.

“I can’t wait to frame this one. You guys look so cute.” Your mom pouted, walking back into the house to put the camera away.

A soft smile spread across your face, holding onto Toji’s arm. “Did you ever think you’d become a dad?” You suddenly asked, watching as your baby played with the fabric of his shirt.

Toji turned towards you, a confused look on his face. “No, but…I’m happy I did. You know I’d do anything for you two.” Toji pulled you in by your waist. “Did you ever think you’d become a mom?”

You shook your head, reaching a hand out to move hair out Megumi’s face. “It’s just weird. We were so young, you know? We still are. But, it feels right.” You rested your heard on his shoulder, letting out a small sigh. A small laugh erupted from your chest, “I carry him for nine months and he came out looking exactly like you.”

“What can I say? I got strong genes, baby.” He nudges you slightly, teasing.

“Oh, hush. I did all the work.” You roll your eyes at him.

“I’m only messing with you.” He plants a kiss on your forehead. “Go on, give mama a kiss, little man.” He holds Megumi towards you. As if on cue, he leans his head down and places his slobbery mouth on your forehead. “There you go! Good job!” He chuckles, smiling at his son. “I can’t wait until you’re older so I can teach you about all sorts of things.” Megumi grabs ahold of Toji’s finger in his small palm, squeezing it. “Gonna teach you all types of sports, how to fight so you can protect mommy. I bet you’ll be a good baseball player.” Megumi squeals at Toji. “Baseball? Yeah? Alright, baseball it is.” He kisses his cheek.

You stand there, admiring your two favorite boys. It’s like you see the future when you look at them. A happy life, a cozy home. Maybe even a sibling for Megumi. A ring on your finger, happily married. Thinking of the days when Megumi starts going to school and brings back all his little projects so you can put them in a box and keep them for the future. You already had so much planned at such a young age, but you were determined to fight for it. For him. For your son.

Megumi sits on the edge of his bed, deep in thought. The ceiling fan provides a low hum as it spins. He stares at the wilted paper in his hand, a handwritten note to him—one he’s never seen until now. His chest feels tight, tears welling in his eyes as he reads who it’s from over and over again.

—Your Dad

It feels like he can’t breathe, anger swirling through him. He thinks of all those times you dismissed his questions and conversations about his father—whoever his father was. And now, he was holding a note from him that was written fifteen years ago. A note of how sorry he is and nothing else. A man of few words. No explanation, nothing.

Growing up, Megumi learned from a young age that he looked just like ‘him’. His grandmother and grandfather always slipping up, staring at him like a ghost had just walked in the room. It only got worse as he grew older, starting growing into his features. You even began to stare at him, a look of sadness in your eyes. He never would say anything, always keeping his mouth shut like he didn’t notice. Not once, did you ever speak of his father. Hell, he didn’t even know his name or what he looked like, but from what he’s been told, he probably looks like an older version of him.

All those days, watching fathers bond with their sons, his friends dads coming to sports games, school events, he always felt like deep down something was missing. He felt different. Every Father’s Day, being tasked to make something special in school for their fathers, but how is a nine year old supposed to say he doesn’t have one? How is a thirteen year old supposed to participate in the father-son day at school when he doesn’t have one? How is a seventeen year old supposed to feel when he sees everyone posting their dads on social media, a heartfelt message written with each one, yet he doesn’t even have a photograph to remember him by?

Tears fall on the paper and the hurt that he held back is now manifesting. Why was so hard for you to say anything about him? Was he dead? Is that why it was so hard? Yet, there was no excuse. Whatever it was, he needed to know why he left. Why he was so sorry. It wasn’t until he heard the front door open, your calming voice calling out to him.

“Megs, I’m home!” You shut the door, placing your bag on the countertop.

The door to his bedroom swung open, fresh tears still on his cheeks, the wrinkled note gripped in his hand. He stomped towards you. “What is this?” His nostrils flared.

A crease between your brows formed, noticing the distressed look on his face before your eyes landed on what he was holding. You felt your heart drop, your mouth falling open to say something, anything, but nothing came out. “Meg—”

“What is this? Huh?! I found it in the back of your drawer! A note from my dad!” He slammed the paper down. “Who is he?! Why did he leave?!” He was screaming, his anger pouring out through his words. “You never talk about him! No one does!” He throws his hands up. “You kept…you fucking kept this from me! Fifteen years!” Hot tears spill from his eyes.

Your eyes widen, your lip quivering as you hold back tears. “I’m sorry.” Your voice breaks. “I’ve been wanting to tell you—”

“When? When, mom?! I don’t even know his fucking name! I don’t know what he looks like! There’s not a single picture in this house of him? Is he even alive?!” The look in his eyes makes you want to break down. You knew this day would come sooner or later, but you never expected it to turn out this way. The note. Of course it was the note. Almost like it was fate.

You inhaled deeply, licking your lips as tears fall. “I’m sorry, baby. I just…”

“Why can’t you tell me?” He speaks softly, voice wavering. “I see it in your face. Everyday when you look at me…you can see him. Who is my dad?” He clenches his jaw, letting out a shaky breath. “Why did he leave us? Why did he leave me?” He questions before fully breaking down into tears, sobbing.

“No,no,” you whisper, taking him in your arms. His tears soak through the fabric of your shirt, clinging onto you like his life depends on it. “It’s not your fault, baby? You hear me? It’s not his, not yours. It’s complicated.” As you stand there with him in your arms, flashbacks of that night Toji left flood your brain.

“Then where is he? Is he dead?” Megumi asks, raising his head to look at you. The question makes you freeze up, biting on your bottom lip so hard you’re sure to draw blood. “Is he dead, mom?” He stands up straight, wiping his tears.

“I…I don’t know,” you sniffle, shrugging your shoulders. You shake your head as you look at your son, feeling so ashamed and embarrassed. So hurt and disgusted. “He loved you so much, Megumi. I promise you.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? If he loved me, he wouldn’t have left!” He shouted in anger. “Who is he?! Just tell me!” He pleads through his cries.

“His name was Toji. Toji Fushiguro.” You stare at him. “Me and your father met young, back in high school. We had you two years after we graduated. We were so scared. Well, I was scared, but your father was ready. He was so excited,” you chuckle, remembering when you first told him you were pregnant. “He loved you, Megumi. And that’s the exact reason why he left,” you explain.

He shakes his head at you. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Your father did everything he could to provide for me and you. You were his everything. His little man. But, he got caught up with the wrong people trying to find ways to make quick money. He was young and desperate, we both were.” Your eyes flutter shut, letting out a sigh. “What your father did for money…you wouldn’t think he was a good man. He made enemies—”

“Mom, what are you saying?! I’m not a kid anymore! Just tell me—”

“He killed people, Megumi! Is that what you wanna hear! He fucking killed people just so he could put food on the table! Fuck!” You hurriedly stand to your feet, looking away from him.

“What…?” He nearly said in a whisper.

“I don’t want you to think he wasn’t a good man, Megs. I don’t want you think he hated you or me. He didn’t. But what he was doing put him and us in danger. He realized that and he left. He couldn’t put us in danger, especially you. That night he left he wrote you this.” You grabbed the note off the counter. “I begged him to stay, baby. I did. I tried. I tried everything.” Megumi sat on the edge of the couch, staring blankly ahead of his as he took all this information in. “He never stopped loving you, Megs. He never wanted to leave.”

He slowly turned to look at you, his chest heaving up and down. His eyes were red and glossy from crying. “Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know, baby. He never told me.” You shook your head. He sobbed softly, holding his head in his hands. You walked over, sitting beside him and pulled him into your arms. “Don’t hate him,” you whispered. “He’d be so proud of the man you became. Such a sweet, strong, and smart boy.”

“When did he leave?” Megumi asked.

“A week after your second birthday,” you spoke, biting at the skin on your lip. “He told me you were the best thing to ever happen to him.” You wipe away his tears as they continue to fall. “He’s not a bad guy, he’s just done bad things.”

Now knowing what happened to his father, Megumi felt like his whole world came crashing down. What his father did, who he was. How he came to be. And as much resentment as he holds, he can’t bring himself to hate him. In a way, he understands, but at the same time he doesn’t. He wonders how different things would be if he was here. What life would be Ike. “I’m sorry, mom,” he cried.

“Don’t be, baby. I’m sorry for keeping from you for so long. I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to think he was a bad man. I was scared.” You continue to hold him in your arms, consoling him.

“What does he look like?” He asks.

You smile, looking down at him. “You guys are damn near twins.”

Megumi chuckles a little, “I figured.”

“Wait there a moment.” He watches as slip into your bedroom, a few second passing by before you walk out with something in your hands. “Here.”

Megumi looks down, seeing the array of photos you hold on your hands and hesitates on taking them from you. You sit beside him as he grabs them and looks at the first one. “Is that him and you?” He asks, never taking his eyes off the photo.

“Back in high school.” It was one of the first few photos you and Toji ever took together. A picture at the homecoming dance, a plain look on his face while you had a wide smile on your face. “Your father barely ever smiled. But when you came around, he couldn’t stop.”

Megumi was struck. He really did look like him. From the hair, to the eyes, to the nose. Everything. He looked at the next photo. You were pregnant, Toji holding your belly while kissing your cheek. “You guys looked really happy,” he says.

“Of course we were. Me and your dad loved each other very much. I still love him.” Megumi looks over at you as you say those last words. You still hold so much hope and love in your heart and that tells him maybe he should let this resentment for his father go. Maybe it was time to move on.

“Was this my birthday?” He questions, looking at the family photo your mother took of you three that day. He could see a faint smile on his father’s face, looking at the way Toji held him so close in his arms.

“Your very first birthday. So many good memories. Despite the fact you threw up on your dad’s shirt,” you laughed.

“Really?!” Megumi smiles. You nod, still giggling. “Yikes, he must’ve been pissed.”

“At first he was mad, but then saw you started crying after and felt horrible. I remember his exact words, ‘Stop crying, little man. You can throw up on this shirt a thousand times if you want to.’ He could never stay mad at you.” You brush his cheek, watching his smile get wider and wider.

He finally gets to the last picture. One you took of Toji asleep with Megumi on his chest. “I took that picture after it took him three hours to get you to sleep. You didn’t want to sleep in your crib, kept crying and crying and finally your father just fell asleep with you on his chest.” You watch as he runs his thumb over the picture, observing it more than he did the other ones. “You can keep it if you want.”

“Really?” He glanced at you, a desperate look in his eye.

“Of course.” You kissed his cheek. “I have more we can look at later.”

Megumi nods. There’s a moment of silence as he sits and goes through the pictures again, almost like he’s reliving memories he had no recollection of. “So, you really don’t know if he’s alive or not?”

You shake your head. “Like I said, what your father did caused him to get caught up with the wrong people, making enemies out of anyone. He was never scared of them, of course. But he knew if they ever found out about you or me, it wouldn’t end well.,” you explained. “I wish I knew.”

“Is it weird that I miss him?” He turned towards you, confused. “How can I miss someone I don’t even remember?” His eyes became teary.

“Oh, Megs.” You wiped his tears. “It’s not weird at all, sweetheart. I’m sure he misses you too. A whole lot.” You give him a sad smile.

He sniffles, looking down at the pictures. It was like he finally felt this weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. After years of this gut wrenching feeling, he finally knows the truth. His father did love you. Love him. He no longer felt casted aside. And that feeling gave him hope that maybe he’s still out there, still alive.

[takumiraine]

So I’ve fallen into the DPxDC thing. Not sure how, and I only have fandom characterizations and wiki knowledge but. I have a thing.

<next>

Once upon a time there was a boy, no older than fourteen, with hair darker than night and eyes bluer than the summer sky. Once upon a time, there was a budding scientist with a caring sister and two lovably scattered scientist parents. Once upon a time, there was a terrible accident. Once upon a time there was a boy, no older than fourteen, with hair whiter than snow, skin paler than death, eyes greener than toxic waste. Once upon a time, the boy needed help as more and more potentially world ending events descended on his town. Once upon a time, nobody but the government came. Once upon a time, the boy, his sister, and his friends escaped.

This is what happened next.

When they split up, Danny had drawn Gotham. Gotham with its so called “vigilante family”. Gotham whose so called “protectors” had been asked multiple times through the so called “Justice League” for help. But just like true justice, they were blind to his requests. His pleas. Both he and Amity Park were left to rot. It had been five years now but Danny was still mad. When he and his friends escaped the three of them each went to a different League infested city. They weren’t strong enough to do more than gather intel but…. Intel would lead to openings.

It took a bit of Tucker’s help in re-establishing his identity and giving him a realistic transcript for what his trajectory would have been if he wasn’t constantly fighting ghosts (mid to high Cs with a couple Bs instead of mid to low Ds with a couple Cs). But he managed a halfway decent scholarship to Gotham U. It covered tuition, books, and just enough for some food.

Sure Danny was technically homeless, but he’s lived through worse. Besides, the shitty parts of town had plenty of empty apartments. Careful use of his ghost powers made acquisition of an apartment a breeze. By the time the semester started, Danny had found himself a place. Tucker had slipped into the network and made sure the landlord wouldn’t be renting it - a coincidental shift of the management had been really helpful, Danny wouldn’t lie - as it looked as if it had been permanently bought. Danny did some within-wall plumbing to get himself water access, then rewired the electrical box outside to grant him access to the grid. Though it was all illegal and would crumble if people talked to each other about it, he counted his blessings for the moment. Illegal meant fewer ways to be tracked after all.

Ridiculous that a nineteen year old had to think about avoiding being tracked, but here he was. Every time he saw the bat signal in the distance his core writhed, and the nearby ghosts scattered. Crime Alley had its own masked vigilante, who didn’t seem to be always on good terms with the Bats, which was fine by him. The less chance of running into them the less chance he had of blowing his “Normal Human Dan Nightingale” life to pieces. Danny hadn’t seen this Red Hood person face to face yet, but he had heard stories.

Gotham had enough ambient ecto to sustain him without his ghost form and trips to the Realms, which was good because the more he used his powers, the more likely he was to get picked up by the Government’s sensors. The GIW had been sent by The League after all. They were trouble enough on their own. He didn’t want them to have backup while his own was spread across the country. He missed flying and seeing the stars, but Danny had to admit that he was a huge fan of the not getting hunted for sport thing.

It made times like these difficult though. Currently Danny was being mugged. Or… the guy was attempting to mug him. “For the fifth time dude, I live in this part of town. I don’t have any money.” Danny was trying to explain to the guy holding a knife to his midsection.

In another life he would have kicked the guy’s ass. Instead he had his hands up as he was pressed back to the crumbling brick and boarded up window of what used to be a shop front.

“Don’t play games with me kid! You’re going to college. You have money.” The guy pressed the knife point harder into his stomach, the knife tip barely a pound of pressure away from puncturing his skin. As it was he’d have to mend his shirt.

“Yeah, on a shitty scholarship. I can’t even afford dinner every night.” Thank god for ambient ecto. “Here I’m going to reach into my pocket and get my wallet.” Slowly Danny lowered one of his hands and slid two fingers into his pocket, coming back out with a thin, worn leather wallet. He raised it back up and unfolded it “no credit cards.” He slid his fingers into where he kept the two dollars he had left this month and turned them invisible. Then he tilted it so the would be mugger could see. “See? Nothing. Can I go home now? I’ve got the rest of an essay to write before the library opens tomorrow. I don’t even have a computer to type it on myself.”

“You’re lying! You’ve gotta have something!” The guy was getting more and more frantic. Probably jonesing for a fix of whatever drug flooded this place.

“If I had it I would have given it to you.” Danny explained patiently, “I have more sense than to get stabbed over some cash. But I don’t have it.”

“Liar!” The man yelled, jabbing the knife into him. Danny grunted in pain, not a shout, pain didn’t make him shout anymore, as the heavy thud of boots hit the ground. The guy was suddenly removed from in front of him. Danny swore loudly, careful to press his hands around the knife as his core demanded he do something. Instead all he did was breathe. When he got enough of a handle on the pain-fight response to know his eyes weren’t changing, Danny looked up.

The first thing he noticed was a red bat logo on the man’s chest. “Oh no not you.” He groaned half to himself.

The man slammed his mugger into the wall with a sick crack, and let him slump to the ground beside where Danny was bent over. “Excuse me?” The man asked, voice modulator seeming to glitch slightly, coming out more robotic. That was probably Danny’s fault. He needed a tighter control of his aura. But he didn’t have it right now.

“I don’t need your help.” He ground out through grit teeth.

“You’ve been stabbed.” The man explained, as if Danny was someone in shock. Which, fair. He might be.

“You’re one of those Bat fucks. I don’t need help from a Bat.” He grit out in reply, voice barely held together under his growl.

“I am not with the Bats.” Danny snorted, then groaned as that was the absolute wrong choice. Instead he just reached up with one bloody hand, which he couldn’t keep the slight tremor out of, and swiped his blood across the red bat symbol on his “hero’s” chest. “Oh. That. We…. Had a falling out.”

“Right. Well. I’ll leave you to it. Next time, let me get mugged.” Danny took another fortifying breath, trying to settle his core. It screamed pain-revenge-fight at him, but now was not the time. He needed to get back to his apartment and get this knife out of him. Then check in with Sam and Tucker. Maybe Jazz. Though she was at one of the Ivy League schools and he really should leave her be. Let someone have a future.

The man with the red bat logo said something after him as Danny shouldered past and shuffled down the street, but Danny ignored it.

Fucking Bats. Fucking Gotham. Just…. Fuck.

[sebsbarnes]

co-workers || tangerine

tangerine x female reader (assassin)

summary: "if it took you getting shot for you two to finally, maybe, realize you like each other i would've used you as target practice a long time ago."

warnings: language, violence, fighting, injuries, blood, weapons

word count: 3.4k ; angst, fluff

tangerine masterlist

rocking back and forth on your heels you patiently wait for the bullet train to zip into the shinagawa station. the platform was moderately busy, people dressed for various occasions. some in sophisticated work uniforms, kids bopping along with their school bags, and some dressed for a night out. you, however, were not.

sporting a black jacket, long sleeve turtleneck, leggings, sneakers, and a black bag you could've faded into the growing dark sky but here you are illuminated by the neon lights of the platform begrudgingly watching the bullet train's head lights fly past as it rolled into the station.

you were ordered to be here by your employer at the request of the white death. something about his son and a briefcase of money that needed some extra eyes watching over. apparently, the white death had some gut intuition about the two unnamed men he had hired for the job and wanted your skills onboard. your employer gave you very little detail about what to expect, no description of the briefcase, a grainy photo sent via email of the white death's son who had horrid face tattoos in your personal opinion, and when asked about the men already tasked to the mission your employer replied, 'eh two guys both kind of weird' and left it at that.

you boarded the train and stood near the doors, tight lipped smiling at those who walked by, waiting for the entryway to be clear. kneeling you pulled a small revolver out of a false bottom in the bag and slipped it into an inside pocket of your jacket, next pulling extra rounds and stuffing them into the other available pocket. you fumbled with a small piece of crumbled paper telling you to go to car three and a seat number that the son should be at.

quietly making your way to car three you re-patted your now stuffed pockets, adjusting your jacket and hair to relieve any sort of budding nerves. that is until you noticed the two kind of weird guys your employer told you about.

"well, can spot that fitted suit from a fuckin' city away" the two men stood in front of you who were deep in conversation snapped their necks towards you.

"well darling, and i'd spot that shit box dyed hair from the other side of the fuckin' earth" you couldn't help your arm raising to touch your long, and well dyed hair, at tangerine's rebuttal.

you tried to hide the laugh that threatened to break through as the three of you stood quiet for a few seconds following his comment. lemon broke first pushing past his brother to embrace you in a hug, "haven't see you in a minute, was beginning to get worried."

the three of you knew each other quite well, hell, the three of you lived together for a while. you had been under tangerine and lemon's employer for a long time but shit happens and it was best you found a new employer. lemon was more talkative and affectionate of the two, constantly talking your ear off and giving you hugs whenever he saw you, strictly friends though. tangerine, well, not affectionate and not talkative. it took a while for tangerine to mutter more than five words to you for the longest time. being outright friendly just isn't his nature and you can't fault him for that. the twins cared about you deeply, you knew lemon did within a week. tangerine took more time. it wasn't at the flip of a switch, it was gradual, perhaps may be even more natural.

it was a culmination of things that made you realize the rough man cared and appreciated you. like how after a job the three of you would go eat, you would jokingly (but also quite seriously) say how you were still starving. tangerine would slip you some of his food, 'not that hungry' he'd shrug. or how on missions he unconsciously used himself as a shield for your protection. or when he would come back from being out, holding a plastic bag in hand. 'saw these figured you might need 'em' plopping the bag in front of your seated position at the kitchen table and continued walking before you could comment on the new clothes that replaced the ones recently destroyed on a job.

or how days before you left the previous employer, you, tangerine, lemon, and an additional guy were assigned to a job that did not go so smoothly. it really was no one's fault, no one could've predicted how many men were hiding in the warehouse. each of you sported numerous injuries and lost many weapons but still completed the job. you and the other assassin were alone sitting on the floor when he suddenly started berating you. saying how shit you were as an assassin, spewing hatred and profanities amongst other vile things. you had no energy to fight back, 'maybe you're right' is all you could muster before getting up and searching for a secluded place to sleep for the night. you had awoken from your sleep hours later to the sound of a gunshot, wandering until you found someone.

'tangerine, what was that? i heard a gunshot' you asked the man who was promptly walking away from scaffolding towers.

he looked at you quizzically wiping his hands on his trousers, 'i think you might have been dreaming darlin'' all you could do was rub your head in confusion, 'let's get you back to bed, love.' the next morning only three of you returned from the mission.

"i've missed you, lemon," you smiled pulling away, holding his shoulders to look at him.

you and tangerine exchanged small nods, a hint of a smile ghosting his lips. you turned towards the figure seated beside the men stepping to stand in front of who you assume to be the white death's son. to say something seemed off was an understatement. you gently grabbed the ends of his open jacket bobbing his head back.

"what the fuck?!" you jerked back dropping your grip as his body slumped forward. an older woman a few seats up shushed you.

"what the fuck?!" you whispered harshly at the twins, bug-eyed gesturing rapidly at the dead body in front of you.

"ask fuckin' percy over here," tangerine pointed to lemon.

"i'm not percy?! okay yeah i lost the case but i didn't kill the kid."

"well lemon, if you didn't have the brilliant fucking idea to stash the case, we would've been sat our squeaky fuckin' asses down in the seat not havin' to get up. young. sweet. not all there." tangerine hissed back, poking at lemon's forehead to emphasize.

mildly entertained by the twins infamous banter you sat down watching the two go back and forth before tangerine swiveled towards you both hands flat, palms up, pointing at you, "and no disrespect love, but why the hell are you here?"

"to babysit essentially. i'm here to make sure you two do your job and by the looks of it you done fucked that up. what an honor it will be to be ripped limb by limb by the white death with you idiots."

the three of you sat deliberating what the hell to do next and tried figuring out who else is on this train taking interest in the briefcase and the son. tangerine cleaned up the boy's face with his handkerchief and adorned his face with momonga glasses to hide the fact that he's well...dead.

the twins decided it would be effective splitting up and checking the train cars for the briefcase.

"ill stay here," you spoke as the two men grabbed their things to investigate the train.

"what?" tangerine asked eyebrows knotting together.

"i'll stay here. i'll see if anyone comes back for him," gesturing towards the limp body, "besides, my mission is a bit different. i'm not supposed to be seeking danger. if it comes my way then i can step in."

tangerine smooth out his moustache inhaling deeply seeming to oppose you being here by yourself.

"okay well, right then." lemon nodded stalking off down the train.

tangerine hesitated looking down at you in the seat.

"i'll be okay."

that is until ten minutes later a man sat across from you, "hi. there's a gun under this table."

"shhh," you hissed, "this is the quiet car babes."

the man in the hat and glasses took a moment to look over your shoulder at the sign, you took this opportunity to grab his hand, that held no gun, underneath the table yanking his body forward, table smashing into his shoulder.

"who the hell are you." you questioned, still holding onto his hand.

"ladybug. johannesburg, remember? your buddy shot me after you baited me to the parking garage?"

"so you're after the twins?" you asked ignoring what he said.

"the twins have a briefcase i need. i'm really not looking for trouble here miss, i just want to get the hell off this train and go meditate." he sighed taking his free hand through his longer hair.

"so you took the damn briefcase." you released his hand and brought your foot up to kick him in the groin. while he was hunched over in pain you stood up launching towards him to put him in a headlock, "where's the case."

"look lady," he sputtered, "i really don't want to hurt you."

ladybug punched your forearms to loosen your grip and when you didn't budge, he turned his head to bite your wrist.

"what the fuck!" you yelped springing back. he took this moment to sweep your legs out from underneath you. you hit the floor with a loud thud, the ache in your shoulder radiating down your arm. he leaned over your body giving you a weak smile and in return you kicked him in the face, blood instantly pouring out of his nose.

"shit balls!" he exclaimed. you clamored to your feet and started running throughout the bullet train. ladybug's steps got closer and closer and that's when you felt a burning hot sensation on the back of your shoulder. your movement immediately stopped, groaning as you reached for the knife in your back pulling it out.

"prick." you hissed turning around to face the man. your arm swiped in front of his face, the blade making a whooshing noise in the air. you managed to clip the side of his cheek.

thankfully the car the two of you were now fighting in was not occupied. he gripped your arm throwing you against the wall and stalked towards you. you stashed the blade in your pocket, shrugging your jacket to the ground, opting to fight him with your fists. you dodged the first hit and returned him a hit in the jaw. he staggered and taking advantage of his lower stance punched you in the stomach.

"i don't like hurting women." ladybug exasperated as the two of you continued fighting, punches being thrown, skin being split, bodies flying across the car.

"seems like you're in the wrong line of work, dumbass," you gripped the back of his head slamming his face into the top of one of the seats. the crack you heard made you wince. ladybug's forehead was split, blood running down his face into his eye.

it was obvious his physical state was weakening. he swallowed deeply, eyes flickering to a spot beyond you. before you realized what was happening, ladybug was running towards your jacket where the knife was. he managed to grab it and came barreling towards you. once again the battle was back on. the knife dancing between you two as its ownership changed frequently. you and ladybug were a panting mess with new cuts decorating your bodies. this old piece of shit wouldn't let up. you were becoming exhausted and you needed this to end somehow. the two of you were both on the floor, the blade in your hand. you knew you didn't have enough stamina for another round of fighting, the cuts scattering your body were aching, the large stab wound to your shoulder was now numb. instead, you sliced the closest things to you that would cause the most damage.

his achilles.

ladybug screamed out in pain, shaking hands wrapping themselves around his ankles in some attempt to soothe the sheering pain. you stood, looking over the man, the blood from the knife dripping onto your shoe. you stepped around his cradled body, making your way up the train. tangerine hasn't come past yet meaning he is still ahead. the door swished open but you'd only make it one step in before crumbling to the ground.

immediately you started hyperventilating from the intense pain that seemed to hit every nerve in your body. blinking rapidly as you scooted yourself against the wall. then you felt it. a warm sensation running down your skin, your clothes feeling wet. blood. your body was shaking, open lips huffed out puffs of breath. slowly and carefully, you looked back at ladybug.

your gun in his hands.

he must have grabbed it when he retrieved the knife in your abandoned jacket. fucking stupid.

ahead in the train tangerine heard a faint noise, but nonetheless he knew it was a gunshot. he slicked back his hair and removed his gun from his waistband. he carefully entered each train car, observing anything out of the ordinary. the door in front of him opened and his step faltered when he saw a black sneaker, and then a leg, and then the body as his eyes raked up the slumped figure.

he dropped to his knees, gun now on the floor, "hey tan," you croaked.

"bloody hell," he sighed, his eyes darting across your entire body.

"stop checking me out i don't look my best," you tried joking. tangerine didn't seem amused as he noticed your torn clothes, bloody face, your hair matted with blood.

"that old bag of bones can really fight. but he took a cheap shot when my back was to him," you finally answered. you lifted the hem of your shirt to show tangerine the bullet hole in your lower stomach above your hip.

"jesus," he muttered swallowing thickly. he seemed stunned to see you in this condition. he also seemed lost on what to do. his eyes wouldn't stop looking you over, his hands unconsciously went to your face brushing your hair out of your eyes.

"tangerine stop fucking staring at her we need to help her," lemon had found the two of you. his voice booming causing tangerine to snap out of his daze.

lemon pushed him to the side, immediately coming to your aid. he worked with what he could find. your shallow cuts weren't important. the wound to your shoulder would need stitches later on. the entrance and exit wound of the bullet was causing the biggest issue as you had lost a decent amount of blood from it. lemon continued to do his best as you sat there eyelids half open.

tangerine was silent, more silent than ever before, as if he were stuck in a trance. you slowly moved your fingers towards his hand that was resting on the floor. two of your fingers wrapped around his pinky jerking him out of his trance. this somehow sparked something in him as he shot up from the floor, grabbing his gun making sure it was loaded and set off on a mission you could only assume to be to find ladybug.

your lips pulled down in a frown as he left. you wanted him here. his presence, his touch, his whatever. any semblance of that cocky man you wanted next to you for comfort. you knew you were going to be okay, you were weak right now but the thought of him beside you somehow made you believe you would feel stronger.

lemon let out a soft chuckle as he finished securing cloth to your wound, "if it took you getting shot for you two to finally, maybe, realize you like each other i would've used you as target practice a long time ago."

you slapped his arm, "fuck off."

lemon and you agreed you need to rest, he helped you to sit in an empty seat, propping you against the window.

"alright, now, if anything serious happens i will text you alright. in the meantime, sit here and wait till we come get you, you hear me?" lemon demanded.

sometime had passed and you noticed less and less people on the platforms boarding the train. it was too quiet. your stomach was telling you something was off. you winced in pain as you gripped the armrest to stand up. a bit wobbly but you managed to put one foot in front of the other. as you continued you heard voices close by. the doors to one of the cars was open by bags tripping the sensors. you saw a young girl in pink standing looking scared and him. the greasy haired prick who shot you. he still had your gun in his hand pointed at someone.

tangerine.

"fuck." thankfully you held onto the knife and before he could notice you moving towards their train car you brought your arm over your head, swinging forward, releasing the knife. it lodged itself below ladybug's collarbone. he yelped out in pain stumbling a bit and that's when his finger hit the trigger.

"you bastard," tangerine hissed as the bullet hit his leg.

you took this opportunity while the men were distracted and ran towards ladybug. you propelled yourself onto him, spinning and wrapping your legs around his neck, you removed the blade from his chest and stuck it in the base of his neck.

"you don't touch him," you spit at the man as he crumbled to the ground.

the girl was long gone. now facing tangerine you noticed all the bruises and blood on him, drenched in sweat. his curly hair now laying across his forehead. his jacket long gone leaving him in a white button down that was criminally low on his chest and a vest. you couldn't help but check him out.

he started to say your name but you cut him off, hugging him tightly around his neck, knocking the wind out of him. he hesitated a moment before firming wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his head into your hair. after a few minutes he pulled back, sliding his hands to your waist to look at you. you held onto tangerine's elbows as his eyes wandered your face.

"darlin'," he started, "i'm- i'm sorry i didn't do anything when i found ya."

you chuckled through your nose, "tan. i'm fine."

"you're injured n' i didn't do anything except fuckin' look at you." he shook his head in disgust.

"tangerine," you said firmly placing your hands on his chest, "stop. i am fine. i am okay. we all react differently to seeing our friends hurt."

"friends, " he half laughed, "you realize i don't see you as a friend."

you paused, hands loosening their grip on his arms. god, you were dumb to think you were even friends. you're coworkers, hell at this point maybe even acquaintances, its been five months since you lived with them. all you could mutter was a shaky 'oh.'

tangerine laughed, "you know love, you can really be dense sometimes."

your mouth formed an 'o' trying to figure out what to say next, "dense?"

"love, i've wanted you the moment you almost sniped my head off in vienna." tangerine chuckled, moving hair out of your face. you couldn't look at him instead you toyed with his open shirt, fingers brushing against his hot skin.

"i guess i am kinda dumb right? should've put the pieces together when you killed anyone who was mean to me." you smiled.

he leaned down gently placing a kiss on your lips. you immediately kissed back, tasting the metallic flavor of the blood that was on his lower lip. your nails ran across his scalp sending a shiver down his spine. tangerine gripped your lower back harder, minding the wound, to bring you in as close as physically possible.

tangerine pulled away from the kiss, bringing his mouth to your ear, "by the way darlin', you spinning around on his neck and what you said was really hot."

"then i suggest we get the fuck off this train soon and i'll show you the move personally."

[leaawrites]

Bad Luck

Isack Hadjar x fem!reader

Summary: after his crash in Australia, she's there to console him and cheer him up again.

Warnings: mentions of Helmut Marko, angst, fluff, mentions of car crashes, swearing, friends to lovers, I feel so sorry for him

Wordcount: 2.3k

Masterlist

The rain was slowly falling from the sky. Little drops were hitting the roof every now and then, but no major storm had been announced yet. It couldn’t even be classified as class 1 rain.

The track was wet though, no racing line developing yet as all twenty cars were lined up in their starting grid, waiting for the formation lap to start.

Standing in the middle of the VCARB garage, Y/n had her hands clasped together in front of her mouth, watching the screen as the lights turned on and Lando Norris began slowly driving in front, leading the field. Her eyes were focused on another car though. A white car standing in the box for P11. Inching forward, ready to start.

The camera switched, showing the front, Lando warming up his tires and Oscar following suit. Her eyes were frantically searching the screen, trying to find his car, making sure he was okay. Until he was directly in the middle of the screen. The back of the car in the pit wall.

Letting out a breathless gasp, she focused entirely on him. Isack was still sat in the car as the Marshals came running towards him, all of the other drivers slowly getting back into position.

“Shit,” she mumbled as she watched the montage of footage playing in front of her. His car on the track, doing good, then his wheels hit the white stripe and he looses control of his car, crashing into the barriers.

Different angles were shown, all indicating the same: this wasn’t all his fault. The track was slippery, this was his first race, his first time on inters. It was bound to happen, it wasn’t ideal but foreseeable. Still it made him feel miserable.

Standing at the side, surrounded by Marshals, watching his car being towed and the track being cleared, his head hung low the whole time. Hand on his helmet, his visor up enough so he could see properly. But she couldn’t see him. She saw his emotions in his posture, his shoulders slumped down, heavy breaths falling in and out of his lungs. But she couldn’t see him.

Taking the headphones from her head, she didn’t wait for more information from him over the radio or from Pierre, his race engineer before she made her way out of the garage and towards the paddock. Trying to catch a glimpse of him walking towards the motor home.

Soon enough, she caught sight of cameras focused on someone walking. Taking pictures and videos of the scene unfolding. Stalking towards him, she tried reaching his side as quickly as possible, though someone was faster. Anthony Hamilton walked by his side, patting his back, hugging him, telling him that it was alright, that he was better than that. He knew what it was like for drivers to fail, having to console his son more than once under the immense pressure of the sport.

His hand still holding onto his eyeport, shoulders sinking with every step he took further away from the track. He wasn’t alright at all.

She knew how much he loved Lewis as a driver, this was as special to him as it hurt that it happened like that. His endless talks about being able to drive with his idols over the summer break seemed unnecessary now. All his animated words tasted bitter sweet all of a sudden.

Following him suit into the motorhome, she tried stopping his fast step by calling out to him. But he was basically running away from her. Walking faster every time he could hear her voice calling out for him to slow down so she could catch up to him. She couldn’t see him like this. Not after he told her he would get points for her today.

Shutting the door to his driver room behind him, Isack leaned against it, closing his eyes, taking a deep breath in. Finally taking off his helmet and letting himself fall to the bottom of his emotions. Tears falling from his eyes with him.

“So, so stupid,” he mumbled under his breath. Squeezing his eyes to stop them from tearing up, but nothing made the tears stop falling. Especially not her voice on the other side of the door.

Softly trying to get him to open the door and let her in. Let her console him like she’d done countless times over the years after a bad race in F2 or F3. Though this was different. This was F1. This was where he was supposed to show the world that he deserved the seat he was given and not someone else. He knew how quickly it could be over, he’d seen it countless times before. This sport wasn’t easy, it wasn’t forgiving.

“Isack, please,” her voice rang through.

He could see her behind his closed eyelids, forehead leaning against the door, trying to get her own tears from staying inside, hand pressed against the door as if she could push it open, but she couldn’t.

His hand searched for the lock, fingers straying over it. He could make her understand that he didn’t want her there so easily, that he was fine on his own and didn’t need her soft tone as she held him. But he knew that wasn’t as easy, because he wanted her. Over their years of friendship, it was her who calmed him down the best. It was her who made him feel secure in himself and his abilities. It was her who got him through every set back.

Standing in front of the door for a few more seconds, she waited for the click of the lock falling on her ears. But it didn’t come, and when he didn’t try getting her to go away as well, she slowly pushed down the door handle, peeking inside to see if he was still leaning against the wall.

Her eyes found his body slumped over itself on the small seating area. He didn’t look up at her as she closed the door and sat next to him. Her hand falling on his back, rubbing slow circles over his fireproof. Laying her head on his shoulder and leaving a kiss on his back, she tried settling his breath by breathing with him.

“It was so stupid,” he broke the silence between them, finally lifting his head to look at her. His eyes were red and puffy. Rimmed with sadness and disappointment.

“It was your first time out in the rain in an F1 car, Isack. You’re not the first one it happened to. Even Stroll crashed in the formation lap and he’s been here way longer than you,” she tried reasoning with him. “Nobody blames you for anything.”

“Are you serious? Have you not seen the pictures? I was totally shit out there, I don’t even know why I’m still here,” he said, looking at her with angry eyes.

She knew how he could get, how his anger got the best of him when he was under stress and frustrated. It wasn’t meant harmful, it was a fight or flight reaction.

“C’était tellement stupide,” he muttered, standing up and pacing around the small room. “How can anyone be so stupid and crash in the formation lap? It’s the easiest part of the race.”

“I was 11th, do you understand that? I qualified the best as a Rookie and people were expecting something good from me and I completely destroy everything.”

“I couldn’t even get the points I promised you,” he mumbled, his voice growing smaller as he looked her way. Seeing her own gaze laced with tears.

“That doesn’t matter, Isack.” Standing up, she walked over to him, holding his shoulders before pulling him into a hug. “All that matters is that you’re alright.”

Feeling his arms tighten around her waist, she held him closer, letting him decide when he was ready to let go. They stood close like that for a few minutes before he lifted his head to look at her, still holding her close though.

��You’ll do better next week,” she whispered, wiping away a tear that escaped his eye. Holding his cheek, she couldn’t help the rapid beating of her heart as they were so close, neither giving a sign of wanting to move away.

“What if I won’t?” He asked in the same hushed tone.

“You will. You’re too talented not to.”

A small smile creped on his face at her words, a blush rising up his neck as her fingertips slipped into his hair, slowly brushing through it in comfort.

“What about you changed out of your race suit and we go back to the garage?” she asked, stepping back. Leaving a hollow ache in both their chest at the loss of contact.

“Alright.” Isack nodded his head as he watched her retreat from the room. Letting out a deep breath that collected itself in his lungs over the last couple minutes.

He looked better as he came out of his driver’s room, seeing her already waiting with her back leaned against the back of the wall.

“You ready to go back?” she asked, putting her phone away and standing up straight.

As they were on their way out, walking side by side, his manager stopped the two of them.

“I know it’s shit right now, but you still need to go to the media pen for interviews,” he told them, two umbrellas in his hand, making Isack nod.

“Can she come with me?” he asked as they made their way outside, the rain still falling steadily, falling down on the fabric of the umbrella. Him and her were sharing one while his manager walked beside them under his own.

“Of course,” he answered, smiling at her.

Isack wasn’t one of the big guys, so not every journalist tried getting a word out of him as they entered the media pen, but he was the main attraction for interviews at the moment, so a good amount was already waiting for him. He was answering every question as calmly as he could, glancing to his left every now and then to make sure she was still waiting for him.

‘This isn’t the time to cry again,’ he tried telling himself as he felt the emotions coming back up his chest.

Finishing up his media duties, he walked to her side again, feeling her hand taking his own in comfort. She could identify his thoughts without having to look at him. She knew him good enough that this would still haunt him as long as he didn’t do better.

The rest of the grand prix was quiet for them. Shortly after the restart, Jack and Carlos crashed and after the rain came back heavier towards the end, chaos broke lose on track. They watched it all happen from the garage, his arm draped over her shoulders to hold her close, even as he talked with his race engineer he made her stand close enough so he could hold her fingertips in his.

Yuki finished just out of the points at the end of the race, but the team was still proud of the progress they made over the off season. They were confident they were going to get a good amount of points this season.

Walking out of the paddock, on their way back to the hotel, Isack was stopped by a few fans and even a journalist or two, but one took a bit too far in her opinion with his question.

“What are your thoughts on Helmut Marko saying, that he finds it embarrassing for you to cry after the crash?” One of them asked, holding the mic directly in his face.

She could see the hesitation in his reaction as Isack took the words in.

Cutting into the space between the mic and Isack, she answered, “He’s a pussy for being afraid to cry, or saying that it’s embarrassing to cry. Also sexist in that sense, he wouldn’t say the same about a woman I bet,” before pulling him away from the crowd. Holding his hand in her own and tracking him towards a quieter part outside the paddock, away from all the prying eyes and hungry journalists.

“Thanks,” Isack mumbled, looking down at his shoes, his gaze flickering over to their hands still intertwined, not moving an inch to keep her by his side like this.

It wasn’t a secret in his close circle that he had been feeling more than friendship and with his clinginess throughout the race, everyone at VCARB was already suspecting that things would change between them sooner or later.

“Don’t worry about that,” she said, swinging their hands back and forth. “I meant what I said earlier, you’re too talented to let this get you down. It’s also not your first set back and see where you are now. A proper F1 driver.”

“A F1 driver without a proper start though,” he chuckled dryly.

“Who cares about starts anyway? Nobody will remember that by at least the end of the season.”

“You’re too nice to me,” he mumbled. “I just yelled at you two hours ago.”

“I know that you don’t mean it that way. I know you too good,” she mused.

“I’m glad you do. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Probably have a hundred breakdowns a day.”

“Probably.”

Looking at her, his voice was quieter even with the laugh escaping his mouth after her answer. Her eyes never straying far from his own gaze until they flickered lower, settling on his lips for a short second before flying up again. Swallowing hard as she saw the small smile form on his lips in the corner of her eyes. He’d caught her slipping up.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you too,” she whispered, before leaning up towards him. Connecting their lips and making him forget all about the events that took place a few hours ago.

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[p0orbaby]

No Earth Just Sky

summary: your worlds collide, and so does your head with a fist

warnings: injury, loss of consciousness

a/n: thank you for the request !

word count: 1.5k

-

The corner comes in like a missile, curving dangerously towards the cluster of players jostling for position in the box. You’ve been eyeing it since the moment it left the Mapi’s boot, every fiber of your being focused on that one moment when it’ll be yours.

It’s a Champions League night, the kind where legends are made, and you’ve decided, in a split second of pure adrenaline-fueled brilliance—or idiocy, depending on who you ask—that you’re going to be the hero. You’re going to be the one who gets on the end of that cross, who heads it into the back of the net, and who sends Barca to victory.

But football is a cruel sport, and tonight, it decides to teach you a lesson the hard way.

You charge forward, eyes locked on the ball, and leap into the air. Everything around you fades, the roar of the crowd, the shouts from your teammates, even the blood pounding in your ears. It’s just you, the ball, and the goal.

And then, out of nowhere, everything goes wrong.

There’s a flash of red and white, a blur of motion as Arsenal’s keeper barrels towards you, fists outstretched. You don’t even have time to react, to dodge, to protect yourself. The collision happens in a heartbeat, in a single, devastating instant.

Her fist connects with the side of your head with a force that feels like a sledgehammer. The world around you shatters into a million pieces. The sound is a sickening crack that reverberates through your skull, and then there’s nothing but pain—blinding, searing pain that explodes behind your eyes and radiates down your spine.

You’re out before you even hit the ground.

When you come to, it’s like trying to claw your way up from the bottom of a deep, dark pit. The pain is still there, a dull throb that pulses in time with your heartbeat, but it’s distant, like it’s happening to someone else. You can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything but lie there as the chaos unfolds around you.

You can hear voices, muffled and distorted, like you’re underwater. Someone is screaming—high-pitched, furious, and so full of raw emotion that it sends a shiver down your spine. It takes a moment to realise it’s Alexia.

You manage to open your eyes, just a sliver, just enough to see her, and it’s like looking at a completely different person. Her face is twisted in a mask of rage, her eyes blazing with a fire you’ve never seen before. She’s in the ref’s face, screaming in rapid-fire Spanish that you can’t make out, her hands shaking with the force of her fury.

Leah is there too, trying to hold her back, her arms around Alexia’s shoulders, but even Leah, strong, unflappable Leah, is struggling to contain her. Alexia is out of control, like a storm that’s broken loose and is tearing through everything in its path. And you realise, with a cold, sinking feeling, that she’s not just angry. She’s terrified.

The medics are on you now, hands probing gently at your head, voices whispering words meant to soothe, to reassure. You can’t focus on them, though, because everything hurts too much, and you’re still half-lost in the darkness that’s threatening to pull you under again.

You try to move, to sit up, to tell Alexia and Leah that you’re okay, that they don’t need to worry, but your body won’t cooperate. It’s like you’re made of lead, every limb too heavy to lift, every breath a struggle. And the pain—God, the pain—is overwhelming, a sharp, relentless agony that turns your vision red at the edges.

“Stay still,” one of the medics says, her voice firm but gentle. Like a mother telling their child they need to wash their hands before dinner. “We need to get you stabilised”

You want to argue, to tell them that you’re fine, that you can walk off the pitch like you always do, but you can’t. You can’t do anything but lie there, helpless, as the reality of what’s happened starts to sink in.

The game has stopped. The crowd is silent, a tense, expectant hush that feels like the entire world is holding its breath. You can see your teammates, their faces pale and worried, hovering at the edge of the scene like they’re too afraid to come closer.

But it’s Alexia that you keep coming back to. Alexia, who is still shouting, still fighting, who looks like she’s ready to tear the ref apart with her bare hands. Leah is pleading with her now, her voice urgent, her grip on Alexia tightening, but it’s like she’s not even there. All Alexia can see is red.

You’ve seen Alexia angry before. You’ve seen her fired up in matches, seen her argue with refs, seen her defend her teammates with a ferocity that borders on the terrifying. But this—this is different. This is personal.

And it’s because of you.

Finally, Leah manages to pull Alexia back, away from the ref, away from the Arsenal players who are now looking on in stunned silence. Alexia stumbles, her hands dropping to her sides, her chest heaving with the effort of trying to hold herself together. She looks over at you, and the rage melts away, replaced by something much worse—fear.

“Get her off the pitch,” Leah orders, her voice shaking. “Get her out of here”

The stretcher arrives, and they lift you onto it with the kind of care you’ve only ever seen in hospitals. You’re drifting in and out now, the pain ebbing and flowing like a tide, and it’s all you can do to keep your eyes open.

You catch one last glimpse of Alexia as they wheel you away, and the look on her face is one you’ll never forget. It’s broken, shattered, like the strongest person you know is crumbling right before your eyes.

“Alexia…” you try to say, but it comes out as a whisper, lost in the noise around you.

Leah is still holding her back, her eyes glistening with tears she’s trying desperately to hide. She’s saying something to Alexia, something you can’t hear, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing they say will change what’s happened. Nothing will make this okay.

As the tunnel swallows you up, the lights above blurring into streaks of white, the darkness comes rushing back, and this time, you can’t fight it. You let it take you, because what else can you do?

-

When you wake up, you’re in a hospital bed, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling your nose, the steady beep of a heart monitor the only sound in the room. Your head is wrapped in bandages, and every part of you feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder.

It takes a moment for you to remember where you are, to remember what happened. And when you do, the first thing you feel isn’t pain or fear. It’s guilt.

Guilt because you know Alexia’s probably blaming herself. Guilt because Leah’s probably worrying herself sick. Guilt because your team needed you, and you let them down.

You close your eyes, trying to push it all away, but it’s no use. The memory of that moment—the collision, the pain, the sound of Alexia’s screams—is burned into your mind, and you know it’ll be a long time before it fades.

The door to your room creaks open, and you hear soft footsteps approaching. You open your eyes, and there they are—Alexia and Leah, both looking like they haven’t slept in days. Alexia’s eyes are red-rimmed, her hair a mess, and Leah… Leah just looks lost.

They don’t say anything at first, just stand there, staring at you like they’re not sure you’re real.

“Hey,” you croak, your voice weak and raspy.

Alexia bursts into tears.

Leah rushes to her side, wrapping her arms around her, holding her as she sobs into her shoulder. It’s the most heart-wrenching thing you’ve ever seen, and all you can do is lie there, helpless, as the two people who mean the most to you fall apart.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but they don’t hear you. They’re too wrapped up in their own pain, their own guilt.

You want to reach out, to comfort them, to tell them it’s not their fault, but you can’t. Your body won’t let you. So you just lie there, watching them, feeling like the worst kind of burden.

Eventually, Alexia pulls herself together enough to come to your side. She takes your hand, her grip gentle but firm, and looks at you with a mixture of relief and devastation.

“You scared us,” she says, her voice trembling.

“I scared myself,” you try to joke, but it falls flat. The pain in her eyes is too much to bear.

Leah comes to stand on your other side, her hand resting on your shoulder, her touch light as a feather. “You’re going to be okay,” she says, but it sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than you.

You nod, but you don’t really believe it. Because you’re not sure if anything will be okay after this.

The game ended in a draw. Arsenal went through on away goals. Barca’s Champions League dream is over, and you’re lying in a hospital bed, feeling like the world’s biggest failure.

But for now, with Alexia and Leah by your side, maybe that doesn’t matter as much as it did before. Maybe all that matters is that you’re still here, still breathing, still fighting.

[studioeisa]

im here to harrow you.

thinking about f1 minghao crashing out on radio…. idk why… its burned in my mind…

crash and burn 📟 minghao x reader.

★ mercedes driver!minghao x reader ┆ word count: 1.8k ┆ includes: profanity, slight Trivia 承: Love reference. ┆ footnotes: oh, you are CRUEL for preying on my hyperfixation like this. how i ended up writing this much is anybody's guess.

For a moment, the entirety of Mercedes falls quiet.

You could hear a pin drop. The pit wall, the operations room, the garage. Deathly silent. 

Xu Minghao never swore on the radio. 

He could have. He’s certainly had his fair share of instances where a cuss or two would have been acceptable. The time he crashed into Williams’ Vernon on the final lap of the Australian Grand Prix, for example. Or the Singapore race where he ended up in the barriers after battling his teammate, Wonwoo, for podium position. 

Minghao hadn’t cussed then. Everybody liked to joke that his face often did the talking for him— his expressions post-race landing him on the front page of every sports media outlet. 

The Chinese racer was calm, cool, and collected under pressure. Critical without being cruel. Demanding without being demeaning. 

And yet, today, in Monaco— 

“Why do I have the penalty?” Minghao screeches, his voice crackling over the radio. “Hello?”

“Track limits, turn nine,” his race engineer says, voice carefully measured.

“You’re kidding!” Minghao downshifts aggressively as he rounds the next corner. The tires wail, the car jolts, and the telemetry lights up with data that makes the pit wall wince. “I stayed within the white line! You saw it, everyone saw it!” 

The pit wall scrambles. Engineers replay the footage frame by frame, dissecting every pixel of the contentious corner. The commentators speculate wildly, cameras cutting to Minghao’s onboard view. Sky Sports plays the radio message on repeat, the words for fuck’s sake! echoing through living rooms worldwide.

But Minghao doesn't care about the broadcast. Doesn't care about the headlines already being written. His pulse hammers, hands locked around the steering wheel like a vice.

“Box this lap, Hao. Serve the penalty,” the team calls. “Then push. We can still fight for points.”

Minghao murmurs something incoherent, though it doesn’t take a genius to guess that it’s probably another curse. He lifts off the throttle, coasts through the last sector, and dives into the pit lane. The Mercedes crew swarms the car, stoic and efficient, every second ticking down with excruciating slowness. 

The lollipop stays down.

Ten seconds feel like an eternity.

Minghao slams the throttle as soon as he’s released, launching back onto the track with a cloud of tire smoke.

“Gap to P10?” he demands, his tone unusually biting. 

“7.3 seconds to Boo. But DRS is enabled—” 

“I can catch him,” Minghao decides on his engineer’s behalf. 

Nobody doubts it, really. 

Minghao takes the next lap like a man possessed. Nailing apexes, brushing curbs, deploying battery in the perfect spots. Purple sector times flash on the screen; the crowd roars as he slices through the field like a scalpel.

Clean. Precise. Ruthless. 

Minghao pushes right past Alpine’s Seungkwan, who screeches into his own radio about this reckless man, trying to kill him with the way he faked to the outside. It doesn’t matter to Minghao. Not when he’s through. 

“P10, Hao,” his engineer says, relief bleeding into his voice. “Keep it up.” 

“Don’t—” Minghao cuts himself off. Everybody can more or less guess what he was about to say. Don’t tell me what to do, he had planned to snap, and it only drives the team into a deeper state of confusion. 

It’s even worse in the press room. 

Minghao sits in the middle, flanked by Aston Martin’s Seokmin and Red Bull’s Jihoon. Minghao’s Mercedes suit is still speckled with sweat, and his jaw is tight, hands clasped in front of him on the table.

The moderator introduces them. “We’ll start with questions for the drivers. First, to Mercedes’ Xu Minghao. P9 after serving a 10-second penalty. Can you walk us through your race?” 

A muscle in Minghao’s jaw ticks. Not a good sign.

Minghao leans into the microphone and very simply states, “It was bullshit.” 

Again, that stunned silence. Seokmin balks like he had been physically struck. Jihoon fights back a grin. 

The moderator blinks. “Uh,” she stammers. “Could you elaborate on that?” 

“The penalty,” Minghao says plainly. “It was bullshit. I’ve seen the footage. I stayed within track limits. And even if I hadn’t, we both know there were other drivers exceeding limits all race who didn’t get penalized.” 

A reporter from BBC Radio pipes up. “You’ve been known for keeping a cool head in difficult situations, but we heard your radio messages. Do you regret your reaction?” 

The question draws a humorless laugh from Minghao. Today, his wit is razor-like in its sharpness. The claws are out, so to speak, as Minghao answers the query. 

“Regret? No. I regret not pushing harder after the penalty. I lost ten seconds and still clawed my way back to points.” He pauses, letting the fact sink in. “What does that tell you?”

Somebody from Fox Sports pushes the envelope. “Are you implying bias in the stewarding?” the journalist calls out. 

Minghao’s eyes flash, making even the most fearless of the media personnel shrink back a bit. 

“I’m saying there needs to be consistency,” he hisses. “That’s all.” 

Mercedes’ PR manager shifts uncomfortably in the background; one can assume they’re already drafting damage control statements in their head. The list of people to apologize to only grows when a ballsy ESPN journo dares to ask, “Do you think this will affect your relationship with the FIA?” 

There’s no reason for the FIA— the Formula One’s governing body— to be dragged into this. Or maybe there is, with the way Minghao is crashing out in public. 

The racer smiles coldly. “Maybe,” he answers, “but I’m not here to make friends.” 

“Okay,” the moderator interjects. “I think it’s time for us to move on—” 

Minghao concedes, leaning back into his chair and pushing the microphone over to Jihoon. There’s the slightest of miscalculations, though, when Minghao grumbles something to the Red Bull driver.

The microphone catches Minghao’s snide side comment, supposedly meant solely for Jihoon’s ears. “You should ask the FIA why they’re so scared of drivers who fight back,” the Chinese driver huffs. 

The room explodes. Minghao doesn’t flinch. 

Mercedes’ PR manager accepts that it’s going to be a long, long night. 

Even Wonwoo doesn’t have an answer for his co-driver’s uncharacteristic behavior. The driver frowns when the team principal brings it up. 

Wonwoo runs a hand through his dark, sweat-slicked hair, as if reviewing what he witnessed pre- and post-race. “Hao was already a bit… off when he came in this morning,” Wonwoo admits. “Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something.” 

“Drivers like Minghao don’t just wake up one morning and decide they’re going to be the devil reincarnated,” the team principal says tentatively. 

Wonwoo takes a moment to contemplate. “Trouble in paradise, maybe?” 

“Drivers like Minghao—” 

“Don’t let their personal lives affect their racing,” Wonwoo finishes before waving his hand dismissively. “Well, I don’t know, then.” 

Except— for once— Wonwoo is right. 

The team doesn't press Minghao to celebrate, not when he’s a walking PR disaster in a foul mood. He heads straight back to his apartment, shedding all his rage on the way home. 

It’s the only reason he manages to gently open the front door. He toes off his shoes at the doorway and shrugs off his hoodie, each action deliberate in its intent and slowness.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You’re seated at one of the bar stools, forearms leaning against the island. Minghao doesn’t come close. Not at first. He lingers a couple of steps away, stock still as the two of you lock gazes. 

You open your mouth. Minghao beats you to the punch line. 

“I know,” he says, his voice the most gentle it’s been the entire day. “Trust me, I know.” 

“I wasn’t going to tell you off.” 

Minghao lets out a derisive snort of laughter, though he’s quick to look chastised when he catches the shift in your expression. “Alright,” he says tiredly. “What were you going to say, then?” 

You hop off the stool. Minghao holds his breath. 

He still feels like he isn’t breathing by the time you’re standing right in front of him. Where others might hesitate, you don’t. 

Your hand reaches up to cup Minghao’s face. Your palm is warm against his cheek, but your words are much warmer. 

“I was going to apologize,” you say slowly, enunciating each word, “for breaking rule number three.” 

Rule number three. To have it brought up now is comedic. Minghao thinks of the restaurant tissue framed in the living room, the one bearing the silly list the two of you had jotted down when you first started dating. 

The very rule you’re referring to right now had been in Minghao’s loopy handwriting, underlined twice to emphasize its importance. 

#3: No fights on race weekends. 

It had come with an asterisk, a couple of caveats. Still, it was one of those ‘rules’ the two of you tried to see through the most. For not only Minghao’s sanity, but Mercedes’ as well. 

Minghao sighs, the tension in his shoulders easing with the heavy exhale. He can’t help it; his cheek nuzzles into your palm, seeking the familiarity of your touch after being without it last night. 

(That was his choice, admittedly, after he opted to sleep in the guest room instead of your shared bedroom. He left in the morning without all of his usual routines— his 30-minute guided meditation, his good luck kiss from you.) 

The fight— God, what was the fight even about? Minghao is embarrassed to admit he can barely remember. 

By the way you’re looking at him, though, it looks like you’re also ready to put it past the two of you. 

“Did you watch?” he asks. 

The corners of your lips twitch upward. “What’s the right answer?” you shoot back, half-teasing as Minghao’s arms gingerly wrap around your waist. 

“I think I’d prefer that you say ‘no’,” he says wryly. “I was a monster out there. I’ve got so many people to apologize to.” 

You give a low hum of approval. Minghao tugs you into his space until he can bury his face in the top of your head.

For a moment, the two of you bask in the aftermath. The bittersweet race, the shaky reconciliation. Minghao breaks the silence. 

“I said fuck,” he mumbles, horrified, “on the radio.” 

“You did,” you confirm. “Twice, actually.” 

Minghao groans. “And at the press conference—” 

“You told the FIA they could take it up their a—” 

“I did not,” your boyfriend says shrilly, “say that!” 

You break out into giggles. Minghao can’t help it; his arms tighten around you, and he holds you like he’s trying to erase the past 24 hours through touch alone. 

Tomorrow, Minghao will be back to his usual self. He’ll play the PR game— waxing poetics about mental pressure, apologizing to the FIA for his conduct. He’ll pay the fines and promise to do better, be better. 

Tonight, Minghao softens all his edges and loves you.