#life without colour part eight

[omgrandomwords]

ok so i’m incapable of keeping literally anything to myself but i am feeling very emotional abt this so

[gyuswhore]

Cherry Picker [1]

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

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

Part 1: 19k | Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“CAN I HELP YOU?”

“I’m sorry,” you gravel out. 

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

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

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

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

“Illegal truck, I guess.” 

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

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

“Fine. Change.” 

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

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

She has also mastered the art of impeccable dressing downs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um, did you—”

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

“And that means…?”

“We have the rink reserved.”

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

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

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

“That means—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t afford getting rusty.” 

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

“What?”

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

“Lorry!”

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

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

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

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

“Lorelai!” 

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

“You’re impossible.”

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

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

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

“Why would I try pleasing that woman?”

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

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

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

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

“Carroll is not that bad!”

“God, you become more like Marina everyday.”

You frown, “What does that mean?”

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

“Ew.”

Lorelai smirks. “Bite me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry. Really.” 

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

“Only a few months.”

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

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

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

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

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

Why did you bring me here? 

Six weeks. 

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

Six weeks. 

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

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

Six weeks. 

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

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

Six weeks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No?” 

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

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

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

“…you realise Hansol has security cameras right?”

“Are you planning on robbing my laptop?”

“No. Although it does have nice specs.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just play the track,” you grumble. 

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

“Lorry!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Impossibly, your blood runs cold. 

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

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

“Lorelai!” she yells it for no reason. 

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

“I’m worse,” she states. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said 4:30. It is not 4:30 yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“8 point 5! Nice!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I ask for your autograph?”

“He’s not special.”

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

“Why are you so hellbent on liking him?” 

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

“He was wearing the same stupid jacket—”

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

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

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

“Good for him.”

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

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

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

“They’re hogging my rink!”

“It is not your rink.”

“It’s as good as!”

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

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

Lorelai jumps. “What?”

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

“It’s still hurting, isn’t it?”

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

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

You snort, “Why would I do that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does that have to come from me too?” 

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

“I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She leaves before you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol saunters into the hallway, leading the pack. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The hockey team’s done. It’s two.”

“I wanna book a slot.”

“The rink’s empty you don’t—”

“Let me book the slot, Hansol.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ice is booked.” 

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

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

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

“And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything stops. 

!HOT TOPIC! 

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

!HOT TOPIC! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lorry,” you sigh. 

“Listen, I wanna win too but—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Too late.”

“Lorry! Lorelai!”

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

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

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

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

“She only meant it as a reminder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I only came third.”

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

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

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

Seungcheol leaves without a response from his friend. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choi, stop fucking fighting. 

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

A plea deal, perhaps?

Choi, what is it going to take?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They wanna drop you.”

“What?”

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

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

“You’re temperament—”

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

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

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

“In most cases.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Just—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

conditional. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeonghan would’ve gotten away with it anyway. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

!HOT TOPIC! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, you’d like to see her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEUNGCHEOL CAN'T SLEEP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SVT, he reads on their jerseys. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m at the rink.”

“Why is your angry voice on?”

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

“Do I need to sing?”

“No, you do not have to sing—”

“Everything is honey—”

“Jeonghan, stop!”

“—everywhere I see—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And yet the ghost loiters.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He watches as you take a small step back.

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

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

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

He isn’t afraid to admit that he stumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hold. 

“What?” you snap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You followed him?”

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

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

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

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

And then worst of all. 

Are they dating? 

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

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

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

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

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

“Talk.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“And you said yes?”

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

“So you’re dating?” you ask sharply. 

“I don’t know.”

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

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

“Fuck no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Friends with the coach?”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t look at the ice,” she blurts. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is happening?” you whisper to yourself. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol had spat his mouth guard into his face. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s sickening. Sickening. 

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lorelai.”

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

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

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

!HOT TOPIC!

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

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

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

Or perhaps she’s simply lost her spark? 

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

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

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

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

[llovely-12]

All I Need

(Let Down part 2)

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Park Jihyo x female reader

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, mentions of cheating, a bit suggestive at the end

Story: What had been broken, could also be fixed.

Authors note: A big thank you to the person who requested a part two! I'm happy for every interaction I get on my fanfics. Big love to everyone who has been liking my posts♡. Enjoy the read♥︎

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'What was broken could also be fixed.'

That's what eight year old Jihyo thought after breaking one of her mothers precious vases. While chasing after her siblings, she accidentally knocked the expensive object over and caused it to shatter into many pieces.

Now she was sitting at the table in her bedroom with a glue bottle in her hand, trying to fix the mess that she had made. It wasn't exactly easy to figure out which pieces belonged together and how to arrange them, but she would invest every second she had to ensure that this vase would be fixed.

The work was hard and painful, but Jihyo put her best efforts into putting the vase together. In the end, she had a decent result. The vase was almost the same as before. No, it was even better. The vase created a completely new image. The colours now create a different picture. It gave the vase a fresh new look.

Jihyo was, of course, scolded for the action. Her mother loved the vase, and she was quite sad after she found out that Jihyo had broken it. To her surprise, the result Jihyo came up with was even better than her previous vase. The new creation gave her so much joy and a whole different perspective that she put it into the entry. Jihyo's mom proudly showed the remade vase to everyone entering the house.

◇

The weeks after the finished collaboration were rough. Jihyo moved out of the once shared apartment. You were not really talking to her. Only acknowledging her when it was nessacery. What broke Jihyo the most were the ripped up pictures she found one day. That was apparently your way of dealing with everything, just breaking stuff out of frustration.

Of course, she understood the struggles you had. She still couldn't figure out what brought her to the decision to cheat on you. Nothing ever made her question her relationship until that point. To her relief, the short fling with the male artist quickly ended after the collaboration. He returned back to the States without messaging Jihyo. What an asshole. She put the most important thing in her life onto the edge just to be ghosted.

Well karma is a bitch and it was all over Jihyos face. The ripped up picture pieces lay secure in her bedside table at the new apartment. She would never let these go or the relationship with you. Everything that had been broken could also be fixed. That mindset burned into Jihyo's head as she made out a plan to win you back.

◇

Work drowned out your insecure thoughts. The books were kind of your saviour. After things with Jihyo partially ended, you felk into a consumerism spiral and bought every book revolving about love, relationship drama, and most importantly, murdering your ex.

You were so pent up with frustration that the poor books and customers had to suffer under the emotional mess of your life. Friends and family were your biggest supporters, but after a while, you found more solitude by drowning yourself into the world of books. They gave you the perfect scenarios to imagine. Scenarios that could've happened with Jihyo, too.

You tried to ignore her or everything evolving around her, but you live in South Korea. The streets are plastered with her face. The internet is filled with commercials that include her or even her voice. The radio plays the same Twice songs. You could never really escape her, even if you wanted to.

◇

Jihyo turned the key to your once shared apartment. There were still things that she needed to get. You were sitting on the couch, almost unbothered. You tried so hard not to care when she was around, but then her eyes met yours, and suddenly, everything started crashing down on you.

She would comfort you, hold you close to her, and you would let her. In the end, you would do everything to keep her. Being back in her securing embrace made you calm down. She always had a calming effect on you.

"I am going to fix this."

Her promise was sure and determined. You know jihyo. She pulls things through until they're done. She keeps her promise.

◇

The bed felt different this morning. Another weight pushed the mattress further down into the wooden bedframe. Her black hair is spread out across the pillow case. Her breathing, soft and gentle, casts through the air like a nostalgic melody. Her fingers wrap around the fabric of your shirt.

Jihyo sleeping next to you in bed was not something you thought you'd be waking up to any time soon. Both of you were still hurt and broken from her cheating. You never knew how much she was affected by her actions, but you also partially didn't care. She made that decision, and now she had to live with the consequences.

You take her hand off your shirt and leave the bedroom. The audacity she had, sleeping in your bed, next to you. You walk into the guest bedroom. The bed there wasn't as comfortable as your own, but you don't want to sleep next to Jihyo. At least not now.

Over the course of the last week, things changed. You started talking to her again and let her back into the apartment. Both of you actually settled for her sleeping in the guest room. That quickly changed, though, as she started sneaking into your room and sleeping next to you.

You started arguments over this, but at the end of the day, it was never enough for you to actually stay mad at her. Everything you tried shattered down the cliffs of her care for you. Ironically, she was the one caring for you when you were crying about the things she did.

Like always, she found a way back into your heart. Slowly but surely, she'd crawl back in like nothing happened. That's what she always did, and you could never hold her back. It's like you needed her more than oxygen. Like the air, your breath wasn't enough to fill you up to keep you functioning. She was like a siren, calling you back into the depths of her ocean at any time she wanted to.

◇

Evenings like these were normal once. A wine glass in your right hand, and a book in your left. The cushion of the couch comforted your back as you were lying against it. Jihyo sits at the other end of the couch. Her actions are the same as yours.

Her wine glass is almost empty. The second bottle of wine has already been opened and put on the small coffee table. Usually, Jihyo was more into beer. She would always order the bitter liquid on night outs. Here at 'home', she would enjoy a nice wine with you.

Her eyes are trained on the book in her hand. She's reading some romance drama novel you got her before the whole breakup drama. She always enjoyed your taste in literature. Her love for reading was actually quite unexpected. In the beginning, you only got to see her love for sports or her job. Yet after the first few walls of your relationship crumbled, she revealed more of her true self.

Things got better now. You could eat dinner with her again, sit next to her, or engage in a casual chat with her without thinking about the past events. Jihyo made a lot of effort to try to win you back. Of course you had noticed. Her actions never really subtle.

While thinking, your eyes were trained on her. Jihyo had to bite back a small smile. She wanted nothing more than to have you back as hers again. Regretting everything that happened and that she wasn't faithful to you. Jihyo wanted you back, more than anything in the world. She had made a fool of herself and mostly you.

Nothing would go back to the way it once was, but she could make something new out of it. You both could, together, like you always used to. Giving life a new perspective.

Every time Jihyo thought things were hopeless, she thought back to the broken vase. The effort she had put into something simple as glueing back together the shards of porcelain would give her the boost she needed. Like she did back then, she would now put her effort into repairing this mess. She would glue your broken pieces back together.

◇

Her kisses felt like little butterflies gracing your skin. You could never get enough of the feeling of her. Another night of enjoying some wine and books turned into kisses and caresses. It shouldn't be like this. You should hate her, and you have every right to.

Her mouth drags over your neck, only stopping to give your skin a wet kiss. A sigh escapes your lips. She knew all of your weak spots. Her hands hold onto your waist underneath your shirt. The skin of her hand is soft and delicate.

Your hands hold onto her tank top, fingers occasionally scratching the tanned skin underneath. Gasps escaped her lips. Jihyo was very vocal about her likes and dislikes. She leaned closer to you, her muscles tensing under your touch, but in a good way.

Your hand meets her cheek and pulls her head up for a soft kiss. The kiss holds emotions you nor she could ever express. Sometimes, actions do speak more than words. Jihyo knew how to transport the right message with her gestures.

"You're all I need." She rasps out, her voice breathless and almost hoarse. Her eyes meet yours, the brown orbs filled with hope and need. You've never seen her look at you like this.

Maybe you just need to let your guard down and love her again. The universe would never send you someone again who would look at you like this. The rawness of love, right in front of your face. Your head nods without much thought, and you lean in for another kiss.

◇

[gofishygo]

[PRIDE MONTH- WEEK FOUR] : through green hydrangeas (my heart lies) price x ftm reader (part 2/2) - UNFINISHED

(i will complete this once i am unsuicidal and motivated)

[PART ONE] | notes: medical settings, description of injury, should have a good ending but like rn its not necessarily very bonita for either of them

The next time you and Johnathan price meet each other is indeed, in Burningham.

The doctors treating you had come with a prognosis- a puncture to the intestine. Through the whole eight hours of the surgery, the whole two weeks of an induced coma, he’d shadowed it behind a glass window. His now practically immune to the scent of disinfectants, the lemon-stained chemicals burning at his nose until the chemoreceptors in them saw nothing, felt nothing. He compares it to a black hole, how his sensory limbs have dulled since his career; his ears are now half drowned, all noose shallow and diasporic, left behind at a botched mission in 2002 Moscow. The keenness of his nose now snuffed by a recent disaster with chemicals. His body is trying and failing, pulling the weight of the world on its shoulders and inside the gaping voids of his chest, always consuming, killing, but never truly settled. Never truly sated.

And now his eyes have resulted in you being eaten, now his ears have resulted in you being ripped at your core. His body has chewed you and, and was left to spit out your body, just like Johnny-

He is scared of looking into closed eyes-they remind price too much about him. So, he leaves the living pearls alone, refuses to peel the skin back to see your colours. He never wants to chew again, not after this.

In every other world be should have stayed attentive, should have yelled at you to not mount the doorframe. But now you are here, bandage wrapped vice-tight below your own scars under your chest and blanketing part of your tattoo, and guilt and pity and some dark festering emotion he couldn’t pinpoint layer and boil like bile in his kidneys. Threatens to spill over into his throat and all over the bed when he is finally allowed to take the compression off. It reveals the shooting star of a wound, crusted tail stretching and expanding into arms that seem to try reach across your skin, to take more of the body it had infested. And he fears you will meet the fate of Johnny- that the wound had claimed your soul instead of your life. And it was an early death too, for the man he had met, for the private who’d body he thought he’d fully memorised a decade ago. The short-lived life of the man who smiled with his whole face for the woman who couldn’t. He knows you have changed, have grown up and out of your past life.

But he can only hope that now; you are strong enough to live through it.

On the nineteenth day of your bedrest, John seems to notice that the slow trickle of bouquets and cards of condolence had been wrung dry, petals brown and crusting on the small bundle of roses that Gaz had left on the bedside since the beginning of your stay in the hospital. The colour of the wilt now matched his increasingly darkening eyebags, crow’s feet near buried, shallow dents in the corner of his peripherals. Pads of his fingers rest atop your forehead- and he knows no matter how dysregulated your internal temperature was since the mission, the number of degrees in your body would always be more than the amount of “get well soon’s” you were given. Some stone of pity seems to snowball at the tip of his tongue and lodge in his throat at the lack of a similar last name on any of the unopened cards left to collect dust on the table. Perhaps, since you’d dropped your original name, the people who’d carried your last refused to see you. And maybe, the idea that the number of degrees your body temperature was also outmatched the number of times you’d seen your relatives since your transition. And maybe, you had been alone for that stretch of years, without familiar flesh to grip onto or a face to share your ashtray and lighter with.

(When long-abandoned lawns are left unattended, they seem to flourish. Rainwater fills the cracks of pavement, toadstool and wildflowers sprouting between the roots of household weeds. In miracle, you had thrived in your isolation.) With one of your eyes slightly peeled open and fixed towards him, and voice barely gathering into the creak of a tree deforested, you ask what is wrong. Price swallows: and he replies with silence.

But even in your quarter-dead state, the captain can’t seem to stomp out the embers of your stubbornness. You’d always cared for him, affection growing teeth and latching onto him with a grip near impossible to pry. In warmth, it held him, in cold, it smothered him. “Put a lid on it, private,” its some form of rumbled warning, a predecessor to earthquakes that would split continents open. “Laswell called. All six targets got taken down, thanks to the work of you and the ULF. Another mission cleared, another day of living.” The dynamics of your exhale sound oddly like a rendition of price’s puff of a cigar. He can faintly recognise the lethargy, energy seeped out of your injuries, clearly exasperated by the way he slams shut at your prying. “You don’t need to worry about me,” But you’re attentive, even in your indigence, and notice how his eyes are not focused on the explosion of scab across your torso, but on the scars that adorned the underside of your chest. “Or is there something else on your mind?”

Price- he truly does hope that you register his stifled grunt and the widening of his eyes as shock instead of horror. Your words catch him off guard, a bear trap that ensnares his tongue instead of his legs, and he is left thrashing in desperation for new words. “no, it’s not- its not that you’re transgender. I don’t care for that. Why didn’t you contact me? What made you think that I would despise you, just because you changed? Just because you were happier?” did you think I could ever hate you for that? “no, its not your fault kid. m’ mistake.”

Silence from the only person who’d dared to raise their words to match all his own, isolation from the man whose touch anchored you down to the ground of the earth and the heat of his skin- it’s smothering him still, a phantom weight that chained the both of you to the bones in your knees and the cuffs of your necks. (If love Is liberation, maybe you two could have been set free-)

[futurepastme]

Emrys and the council of the seven

Just another thing I need to throw in the void to see if it leaves my mind alone. This "chapter" is just a rambled info-dump that I started before falling asleep and decided to continue today, so I acctually still have more to this universe and might do a part 2.

Au where Merlin didn't turn his back on his kind and accidentally became the unofficial king of a secret kingdom that he created himself. ≈ 2400 words

Prologue: The vanishing door

Camelot was known to be the strongest kingdom of the five lands that composed what would one day be known as Albion, its knights were fierce and strong, its walls were tall and impenetrable, and its King was imposing and unforgiving.

The knights of the king were trained by their own Prince, a man known for his swordsman skill throughout the five kingdoms.

The knights were strong, noble men, whose family's loyalty to the crown surpassed generations, men who dedicated their lives to the king and to the people, sons of Dukes and Earls and Barons.

All men who came from a noble blood lineage could try for a position as a Camelot Knight.

The common man who didn't, however, could still try for a position as a guard. 

The guards that protected the castle went through rigorous training before being worthy of their station, difficult trials meant to test their loyalty, strength, and resilience would take place through an extended period of time. Only those who could pass them all managed to qualify for the position, and only those who could survive training with the prince could keep it.

The Prince was a man made for war. From a very young age he was trained in the arts of politics, strategy, and combat. He knew how to read an opponent as well as he could read a map, could come out of seemingly impossible situations like no other, and knew how to inspire his men to fight for his kingdom to the death and without hesitation.

Besides training the knights, one of the prince's duties was to come up with the rounds for the guards; they were assembled in a way to be confusing but efficient and were cautiously scheduled just so, so people couldn't figure out a pattern.

All these capable groups of men worked together to ensure the kingdom's safety, to ensure their walls were kept strong and to ensure that no one could breach their defenses without being caught.

It is why, after all this training and planning, it is almost comical that we can see the figure of a man seamlessly passing through every guard like they weren't there.

It was on a normal night, uneventful in its nature, that we could see this hooded figure dancing down the halls of the castle, taking advantage of every guard’s blind spot and every secret passageway known to him.

The figure never ran, he didn't have to. He would count down his steps and easily avoid anything that could possibly get in his way.

One, two, three steps forward and one backwards, to avoid being spotted by using a pillar as cover. Thirteen steps ahead and through the door on the right, waiting for six seconds before going out again, to avoid a group with three guards. Eight more steps and push down the torch bracket to go through a secret shortcut.

Step by step he went on his way through abandoned halls and others not so much, passing by paintings and tapestries, bedchambers and supply closets, down staircases and through secret doors until he reached his goal.

He went through one last door and finally found the abandoned staircase. Dark gray coloured stones formed the uneven steps, spiderwebs covered the broken sconces and a stale flavour weighted the air.

Behind the closed door he finally let himself relax completely, in a way he wasn't allowed during his daily life, and with a soft wave of his hand a floating white ball of light appeared, following him about as he continued his path down the cold steps.

After all this sneaking around, it might surprise you that the biggest crime this man committed so far was in the form of that small floating light.

Camelot was a great, strong kingdom that for over twenty years had been at war with magic users.

The purge, as it is called, has many beginnings. 

The baker that lived in the citadel his whole life, would whisper of how a sorceress enchanted the king into confidence and used this trust to try and kill the unborn prince, taking the queen's life in her attempt.

The shoemaker one town over would tell how the enchantress was actually the king’s old lover, who had learnt magic to steal his heart back and kill the queen to take her place, but botched the order her plan should go and forgot to enchant the king before getting rid of the queen.

A traveling merchant, that now could be found in the kingdom of Mercia, would spread the story of how the queen's own lady in waiting had traded her soul for the secrets of magic, but when the time for payment came she took the queen's life to try and offer it instead, effectively losing her soul and her heart along with what was left of her mind.

The bards would sing the sad prose of a king who had a sick wife with child. He begged an old friend to save his wife and son, not knowing that this friend had lost her soul to magic. The sorceress took the queen's life but was chased away by the brave king before she could get to the prince, and the king swore to protect the land from such evil, to never harm them again.

The court physician wouldn't say a thing, loyal to the king, he is one of the three people who were there the night the queen died. But from his mouth, the most one would hear on this matter is a solemn phrase and nothing more. The Queen died giving birth to the prince.

How many variations can one single story have? It's fascinating how one simple tale, retold a thousand times, can change form and become something so different from its origin that turns into its own thing. 

But if you look closely, all the overlapping facts and the substantial discrepancies draw one single truth.

The purge began twenty years ago, because the king lost his queen. 

After that night, no one with magic was safe. No woman, no elder, no child. The King chased and burned, slashed and drowned. He hunted down sorcerers with every man he had, with every dog he owned. He burned their books and burned their bodies, and no one could escape the rage of his darkened heart.

The ones that survived went hiding, running away from a destiny of pain and death.

As the years went by, the slaughter diminished along with the numbers of magic users found in the kingdom, but that didn't mean the king's hatred was any less latent. The use of magic or association with a practitioner of magic would still be punished by death at the stake, and any rumors related to magic would be met with search parties and red caped knights following a bloody mission by the name of the King.

The hooded figure reached the bottom of the stairs, his floating light following dutifully. 

He found himself inside a great cave covered in darkness. It was so big that he had to make the light shine brighter to be able to see the edge of the cliff that separated the entrance of the staircase from the rest of the abyss that composed the cave.

Once upon a time this cave was home to a great dragon, a magical creature, that was captured by the King during the worst years of the purge.

The dragon waited years to meet his liberator, until the same hooded man came through the gates of Camelot. He then told the man about the prophecies that for centuries predicted his birth, about his duties to his kind and about his destiny.

In exchange for this knowledge and many other insights that helped the man fulfill his part of the prophecy, the dragon was released. And now the empty cave had almost no trace of once being housed by a dragon, apart from the broken chain links that littered the ground and a few claw marks that decorated the walls.

The man approached the edge of the cliff, to an untrained eye there would be nothing but the abyss that dragged down the cold air and unbalanced unprepared men, but the man knew this cave as well as he knew the guards' rounds. 

Hidden by darkness, a barely accessible ledge could be seen a couple of meters lower than the edge of the cliff, big enough to fit a person.

With calculated care, the man jumped down to the ledge. 

If someone were to look down at him from the cliff, they would think our sorcerer was trapped, but the view from the top of the cliff had a blindspot that made it impossible to see that the ledge continued with a narrow path to somewhere under the castle. Somewhere only accessible by that ledge and the unassuming cracked slit on the wall by the end of it.

He continued on his way, slowly gliding through the narrow ledge with his back flushed to the wall, the tips of his feet losing ground for a second before regaining it later on as the ledge broadened slightly when he approached the slit.

Upon reaching the slit one would see that it didn't reach the ground of the ledge, with its bottom sitting at the same height as the man's chest, the slit from up close looked like a narrow tunnel. With the ease of someone who's done this before, the sorcerer jumped up and with a little bit of struggle managed to stand almost straight inside the tunneled slit.

He pushed his way through the tunnel, moving his body to fit through as its space changed size. Turning his body on the side when it was narrower and bending down when it was lower, avoiding sharp edges and tripping holes. 

After all the trouble he went through, one would be disappointed after reaching the end of the tunnel and finding nothing more than another empty cave. Different from the one that once housed the dragon, this cave was barely big enough to fit a dozen men, a frustrating sight to anyone who followed the man's steps hoping for adventure.

Jumping down inside the cave, he continued with confident pace towards the backmost wall of this disappointing place.

That wall was different from the rest of the cave, while the other walls were jagged and uneven, this wall was smooth from the bottom to the top. It resembled the walls that formed the hallways of the castle, except, instead of being made out of cut stones shaped for building, this wall was composed of one single smooth stone, like a vertical tablet.

The sorcerer let out a small sigh as he brought up one hand to glide across the stone's surface, at the same time he raised the other hand to the hood of his cape bringing it down and revealing his face to the emptiness of this secret place.

With dark blue eyes that never left the stone, the sorcerer brought both his hands to a chain that sat on his neck, pulling it out. His brows frowned as the chain got caught on one of his ears, he let a small sound fall from his mouth as he fought the bothersome thing off of him, leaving a small red spot on his ear caused by the aggressiveness he used to pull the chain.

Dangling from the chain was an iron key, simple in its look, the key didn't seem to be of any importance, just another key like many others.

The sorcerer held the key in his hand and took a second to frown down at it, letting mumbled curses reprimand the misbehaving object, as if it were its fault to get caught.

His gaze did a quick once over of the cave, as if daring the walls to say anything about what happened, before coming back to his senses. There was no one but him there, and the walls couldn't possibly be laughing at him. 

He brought his gaze back to the cursed thing in his hand and finally brought it up to the stone wall at the same height a keyhole would be. Once it made contact with the stone, it stopped for a second, before going through the hard surface and sitting in a perfect fit. 

He turned it once, and the little cave was suddenly consumed by a blue light coming from the stone as the frame of a door began to blink into existence.

He waited for a few seconds until the light diminished, and now in front of him was a hard oak door, with hinges, iron straps, a handle and yes, a keyhole. He turned the key two more times and reached for the handle.

The room was rapidly filled with a warm light that came from the open door. 

A waved hand dismissed the ball of light, relieving it from its duty now that the light coming from the door would be sufficient.

The man took the key out of the keyhole, stepping through the threshold inside the lit room before quietly closing the door behind him.

For a couple of seconds the cave was drowned in darkness, only a faint line of light escaped from underneath the door, before it was once again lit up with the same blue light as before.

Slowly, the magical blue light started to fade beginning from the frame of the door towards the middle, and as it went off, the door too began to disappear.

In a matter of seconds the stone wall conquered back its space, it consumed the frame, the hinges, the whole door until there was nothing but the keyhole. It blinked for a second before it too disappeared.

The stone wall was back to its natural form, inside a hidden cave with no trace a doorway could ever have existed, with no magic light to ease its darkness, and with no hooded man staring at its smooth surface.

On an uneventful night at Camelot, a sorcerer waltzes through the defenses of the castle to reach a cave that no one has heard about, with an illegal magic light that followed his steps, towards a secret door that didn't exist.

And as his journey through the depths of the castle reached its end with his magical disappearance through the said inexistent door, Camelot continued with its routine dance: the guards continued their rounds, a few knights drank at the tavern, and the prince slept on his bed, all of them unaware of the shadow man and his magic door.

[transformers-mosaic]

Transformers: Beast Wars - Second Chances - Page 4

Originally posted on February 2nd, 2011

Story - Mike Priest Art - Jeffrey Witty Colours - Jenny Son Letters - HdE

deviantART

wada sez: This was originally meant to be Page 5, with some of the later Waspinator stuff moved earlier. As envisioned by Mike Priest, all of the pages for the comic would have individual titles, but only he seemed to like this idea and none of them made it into the final product. He gave this page the title “Eternal Too”, a reference to the fact that this entire story is an expansion of his previous Mosaic one-shot, “Eternal”. See below for the original script and an early sketch by Witty, along with Mike’s “Writer Spotlight”.

Beast Wars: Second Chances- Page 5

“Eternal Too”

By Mike Priest

-

(FIRST PANEL- Depthcharge’s hand slaps down on wet sand; he’s just pulled himself from the ocean.)

(SECOND PANEL- A full side-view of Depthcharge, on his hands and knees crawling from the surf- wet, caked with dirt, seaweed hanging from parts of his body…we cannot see his chest.)

DEPTHCHARGE: G-geh…

(THIRD PANEL- Close-up of Depthcharge’s head, looking down at the sand, in confusion.)

DEPTHCHARGE: Huh…how?  I-I…thought…

(FOURTH PANEL- Depthcharge whirls and looks behind him in a panic, having heard a voice.  We still can’t see the front of his chest.)

RAMPAGE: (Dialogue bubble unlinked, border color differs) Well…THIS is certainly interesting.

DEPTHCHARGE: (Enraged) X!  WHERE ARE YOU??

(FIFTH PANEL- Depthcharge, horrified expression as he looks down at himself.  We see the pulsing glow of a spark from below off-panel.)

RAMPAGE: Where I’ve always been…

DEPTHCHARGE: (Small text) no…

(FINAL PANEL- Unveiling of Depthcharge’s chest- it is torn open enough for us to see a SECOND spark (smaller; it’s only a half) somehow messily “fused” onto Depthcharge’s larger spark, like some cancerous lump.)

RAMPAGE: …a touch more literally now, it would seem.  AHAHAHAH!

Ah, Beast Wars.  For me, it's a case of "third time's the charm!" Y'see, Beast Wars was Transformers' third coming for me.  And once it hit, I was snared for life.  As a wee lad, I was a fan of G1, from about the age of three 'til the age of seven or eight.  Oh, there was the Real Ghostbusters and Spidey and His Amazing Friends and whatnot here and there.  But Transformers was always the fallback, always something I could go back to when I lost interest with whatever the new fad was on the playground. Around 1991 or 1992, while there were still some Transformers toys on the shelves, I was growing more enamored with Ninja Turtles and Marvel Superheroes, and Transformers was largely on the backburner, possibly for good this time. But my growing love of comic books would bring me to Transformers yet again.  One fateful day in 1993, on a routine trip to the comic store with my older cousin, I saw it on the shelf. Transformers Generation 2 # 1.  Everyone can remember that cover -- Optimus Prime with bullets jutting out of his skull and faceplate and the tag "This is NOT your father's Autobot." I eagerly snatched it up and for the next twelve months, going to the comic store became a regular occurrence.  I loved Spider-Man and X-Men and Iron Man, but Transformers Generation 2 was the comic I HAD to have every month. You can imagine my disappointment when I discovered the book had been canceled after only twelve issues.  Without supporting fiction to give my toy "adventures" some measure of credibility, my interest waned as it had before, and Transformers once again only became a fond memory. Fast-forward to 1996.  My younger cousins tell me of an awesome "computer-graphics" show airing in the morning called Beast Wars.  "It's animals that transform into robots!", they tell me.  I chuckle, inwardly wondering if it is some rip-off of Transformers.  A few weeks pass and I catch an episode.  "The Web", it is titled, but what shocks me most is the "Transformers" subtitle underneath the prominent Beast Wars logo.  It isn't a rip-off, it IS Transformers! Of course, as a bitter, world-weary twelve-year old at this point, my initial reaction is "Turning into organic-looking animals?  Huh, dumb".  This doesn't stop me from watching the show on weekday mornings before going to school, rationalizing that "nothing else is on". Then suddenly, about midway through the first season of Beast Wars, I realize I'm not watching it because "nothing else is on" anymore, I'm watching it because it IS Transformers and it is AWESOME!  Before I knew it, I was hooked again!  And this time would be for good.  Never again would something push Transformers to second or even third-banana status with me.  I was a Transfan through and through and I owed it to Beast Wars for reminding me. To me, Beast Wars represents some of the very best Transformers storytelling has to offer and is unequivocally the best Transformers animated series of all time (so far).  I jumped at any chances to contribute to the Beast Wars universe in anyway, through fanfiction, through Transformers Mosaic, and now, through BEAST WARS: Second Chances. It's funny.  We're calling it "Second Chances".  But for me, Beast Wars was a THIRD chance.  And like I said before, third time's the charm! -- Mike Priest

[callmewrinkles3]

That’s when - DR3 x Fem!OC

Masterlist

Summary:  First part here. It’s been eight weeks since Em left Australia, six weeks since she got on her train to Liverpool. But when her closest friends pool their resources to locate her she finds herself back where everything started, just four years later.

Word Count: 11.7k

Warnings: mentions of pet death (not Em or Dans!), emotionally/mentally abusive families, angst, mentions of potential cheating, Zak Brown (he counts), mentions of fatal crashes.

A/N: It’s heeeere! Thank you so much for the wonderful reception this fic has gotten, and we hope part two is everything you’ve been waiting for. This most definitely isn’t the end of Dan and Em’s story, we’ve so much more to write about.

May 2022

--

The worst pain that Emma thought she’d ever felt in her life was when she was six years old. She was barefoot on freshly cleaned floors, running around her parents house playing an imaginary game when she slipped and fell right into the doorframe. She remembered her yells for her parents, her baby toe pointing out to the side and turning purple almost before her very eyes. The joint still ached if the weather changed quickly.

Not even the lack of sympathy from her dad had hurt more than the pain when he found her sobbing on the floor of the hallway. Not the doctor at Alder Hey giving her an injection into the aching joint that didn’t fully numb her before yanking it into place. Nothing in her life had ever hurt as much as right then, and she didn’t think anything ever could.

At least, not until she’d left London for good and arrived back in Liverpool.

She’d built up a routine in the five and a half weeks since she’d gotten on the train. The traditional grey British skies helped too. There hadn’t been a single day of sun since she’d arrived, the weather echoing her mindset as she stared out her bedroom window to the housing estate. It was miserable and cold and near constant rain. It matched her mood, no respite from the constant exhaustion and nausea she’d been dealing with since she arrived making her not want to eat anything. She could hear Michael in the back of her head, telling her to just eat a bloody protein bar when she was stressed and had forgotten to eat. But Michael probably hated her. He’d said in his texts that he wanted to find her once, and she’d read them and stared at the screen. She’d nearly written back, not realising he was online and watched as he asked her for details but she ignored it. He couldn’t have meant it. She was the one who left them.

The rain also helped when she followed her routine to go get her coffee at 11.25 - after the boxing classes she went to but hated because the instructors weren’t Michael, but before she started job hunting - because it meant she could keep her coat on. She didn’t have to see the delicate number 3 tattooed on her wrist. That was a blessing. She kept the same routine every day, the only variations if she needed to stop somewhere or do something. There was a day she had to go to the job centre, the day she thought she needed the chemist but it turned out she didn’t need to. It was easier this way.

Em felt like Bella in New Moon, time passing by her rather than her moving with it. The grey skies and constant routine didn’t really help in that regard if she was honest. Everything felt like she was going in slow motion. Without the sun she could keep her mind focused, keep herself away from the memories that were so happy they made her want to sob. Michael forcing her to stand and stretch and go for a walk through the paddock because she’d been head down working in the one awkward position all day. Blake pulling her tablet away from her when they were on the deck at the farm during lockdown and she was making a colour coded calendar of sponsor videos that needed to be filmed and published. But more than that it reminded her of Daniel.

Sunny days made her think of his wide grin and the dimples that had captivated her from the very first night they met. The way he laughed when she made a stupid joke that yeah, the sun stopped the earth from freezing but his smile did the same to her heart. It made her think of summer Christmas in Perth, barbecues and no turkey in sight as she chased the kids around the garden before getting pulled into a paddling pool. Of the sun ring she’d given him. Of her matching moon one that she’d left behind and how much she missed it.

Sunny days reminded her of Daniel, but more than that they reminded her of everything that she’d given up and how maybe she’d gotten things so incredibly wrong. That she’d lost her Australian family. She’d given up her brothers and her sister and her nibbling and the parental figures who cared about her. Grace kept asking to FaceTime and Em sent one word responses back, unable to ignore her. She could pretend to ignore everyone else, but never Grace. Those sunny days meant her family and now she was alone and she was dreading summer.

Her parents weren’t helping either. As soon as she got on the train she knew that Liverpool was the wrong place for her to go to sweep up her heart. Staying with her parents was so definitely wrong, and she shouldn’t have been surprised by how badly it was going. Instead of asking how she was, if she needed anything, even if she was ok, all they wanted to know about was the rumours. About if she was sleeping with Michael, Blake, and Dan. If the photo of Lance hugging her from when he made his pole in 2020 was another “man she’d slept with”. Because, of course, none of them would like her for who she was. It had to be something else.

She was at the kitchen table for breakfast when she finally responded, siting there nibbling on a piece of buttered toast with a cup of badly made tea.

“You need to tell us if there’s going to be a scandal, Emma. We need to be prepared. Were you sleeping with them?” Her mother asked as the cramps low in her abdomen made Em want to get sick from fear and anger and loss.

“Blake and Michael were like my brothers. Daniel was my best friend. They couldn’t keep me employed any longer and we decided a break from our friendship would be good for a while. That’s it.”

She couldn’t go into the details of what had happened or it would all blow up in her face and that was the last thing she wanted. She couldn’t tell them that she was in love and now was utterly heartbroken. If she went into the details of how heartbroken she was Em would break right then and there. The last thing she needed was for her parents to judge her on the baseless rumours. If she cried in front of them she’d never hear the end of it, and she couldn’t admit that she’d lost the best friends she’d ever have and the man who was the love of her life. That she’d be followed around by Dan’s face every time she moved because it was Daniel Ricciardo.

That was why Em spent so much time in her childhood bedroom. It was the only place in the house that didn’t scream reminders of the life she’d left behind, that didn’t immediately make her think of Dan. Everywhere downstairs was filled with the memory of when Michael had been there once on the way home from a Liverpool match. But the bedroom that still had Westlife and Spice Girls posters on the walls - the latter quickly pulled down to get Geri Horner’s face away from her - was the best place to hide. If she had her way she would never bring Dan to the house, he’d never even go near Liverpool as a city. She wanted to keep him safe from the ghosts that haunted her past, and more importantly she wanted him safe from her parents.

Daniel was everything that they would never want her to have in a boyfriend. He was a man with too many tattoos, who hadn’t finished school let alone gone to university, who she’d basically been in a relationship with for four years. A man who travelled the world and wasn’t going to settle down any time soon, who drove fast cars at dizzying speeds. They’d call him reckless and feckless and judge him on sight, not caring what Emma saw in him.

They wouldn’t listen to her tell them that he was the person who made her laugh until tears of joy fell from her eyes and her stomach hurt from laughter. They wouldn’t know that before every race she kissed his helmet and told him to go fast. They’d have no interest that he was the most caring man she’d ever met, that he’d spent the last four years trying to make sure that she was happy and safe and looked after.

All they cared about were things that were unimportant to Em right now. A ring on her finger, two point five grandkids, a house in the suburbs and a steady office job. Not apartments in different countries and tax residencies, not having friends around the world. Not having racing be such a huge part of their lives.

Her parents didn’t care that she loved him more than she had ever loved anyone else in the world, that she would always love him more than anyone else. They didn’t care that he was bigger than her whole sky. She always said that he was her sunshine, but he was so much more than that.

He was her whole world. But she’d had to learn the hard way that she wasn’t his and that knowledge and understanding still ached in her chest. If Dan loved her he wouldn’t have sent her away alone in Saudi. He would have gone back to the room to check on her, even knocked on the door to let her know he was safe. He would have put an arm around her waist and asked “are you ready to leave, love” at the party in Melbourne because that was their code for him wanting to leave. He would have kissed her forehead in bed that night, he would have hugged her.

He wouldn’t have said what he said. The Daniel that she loved, the one that she thought was in love with her, wouldn’t have said that he was done with her. He wouldn’t have said that he was done with them. He wouldn’t have left. The Daniel that she thought loved her for four beautiful years would have spent every minute that they were together in Melbourne trying to convince her to change her plans and come to Perth after the race because he didn’t need to be in London. He would have roped the kids into convincing her to come stay with them and spend time with them. The Daniel that she loved would have never let her go like that.

The worst part was Em knew that she wasn’t blameless. She could have said something, should have said something. After Christmas when things felt oh so wrong she should have spoken up then. On their trip to Sicily when it felt like they were papering over the cracks with sex and food and selfies. When they’d been talking about finding an apartment for them in London but the conversation stopped. She should have said anything. But she was so afraid of things being broken that she hadn’t realised that there was a fundamental break in their relationship that could never be repaired. Because Dan didn’t love her like she loved him.

That’s what she repeated to herself. It played on a loop in the back of her mind every waking minute of every single day since that warm April evening that she stepped on the first plane out of Melbourne. Every single hour of the seven and a half weeks since she’d seen him she kept telling herself that it wasn’t real. She’d fallen so deeply in love with Daniel and wanted him to love her the same way she loved him, so she convinced herself that he loved her. But he didn’t. Not like that. She had to come to terms with the fact that every time he said “I love you” to her it was platonic. The “Emmy”, the “Baby Girl”, the “y’know, right” was all platonic. He was the Morgan to her Garcia the exact same way it was when they watched Criminal minds on quiet flights, except she had fallen so deeply for him. She was making it up and got everything mixed up in her head. That was all it was, a big misunderstanding.

Thinking that way hurt her so much less than the other thoughts that filtered through her head. The ones like Dan was bored of her. He was sick and tired of having her around. He picked the fight because he wanted her to leave. That he’d met the blonde from the photo in Miami before and that’s why everything stopped. He’d found a woman who looked the way the media said a Formula One driver’s WAG should look, so Dan wanted to get rid of her.

It was so much easier than the “I told you so” she’d heard as soon as her dad saw her again. Better than the judging faces she saw when she came out of her room wearing the cardigan Charles had bought her for Christmas. She hadn’t mentioned where she even got it, it wasn’t worth the “stop lying, Emma. We all know you were just an assistant”. It was easier to be quiet than deal with the shocked expressions on faces when she actually appeared at the anniversary party, her press smile firmly on her face and her aunts and uncles judging her. One of her uncles mentioned that it was too safe and she wanted to scream that she was in Spa that awful day three years ago, that it wasn’t safe and she’d seen boys who were too young hold burdens they shouldn’t have to carry. Some of her younger cousins asked questions about if she’d ever met a driver and she wanted to laugh.

She wanted to tell them the story of meeting a barely twenty year old Max Verstappen, gangly and growing into himself, who’d smiled and shaken her hand. Of Charles helping her with her French and Italian in return for being treated not like il predestinato, but like a normal human. Of being one of the privileged ones to get to pet Roscoe and Coco Hamilton and feed them treats, giving Lewis a card when Coco died. Of Esteban and Lance and Mick treating her like a big sister. Of Hanna Vettel handing over one of her kids for a brief minute just inside the Aston garage while Em was talking to Chloe because she was Em and she was always there and she was trusted and liked. That she’d lived and breathed that world for a solid four years, and she’d lost her family and friends leaving it behind. 

But she couldn’t. None of them would believe her even if she told the stories and showed the photos she had. None of them counted on her, they thought her flighty. Her leaving her job without a safety net was of course something that Emma would do. She’d moved to London in her teens and had essentially run off, coming home for Christmas and funerals and that was it. She was the one who’d built a life away from them, a life that her parents constantly talked badly about her “gallivanting around the world”. But now it was over and she had to make her peace with that. She’d walked away from everything she’d had, lost everyone she’d loved.

At least she thought she had.

Every single time the doorbell rang, Em ignored it. There was no way it could be for her, so why would she go to get it? Her debit cards remained unused in her purse, and nobody knew she was there. Nobody had any idea that she might even be there. The rare moments that she spent in the living room staring out the window reminded her of that.

“Nobody’s coming, Emma.”

It was the refrain her father said when she didn’t realise what she was doing. He didn’t just mean Dan. There was nobody else in her life coming to see her. Michael and Blake were probably too mad that she’d left her work behind to see her. Chloe and Scotty had enough going on that they might not have even noticed her disappearance. Her father was right, but she didn’t want to hear it. So instead she ignored the knocks and doorbell ringing, ignored the raised voices from downstairs. Her dad was doing his usual being annoyed at a delivery driver for being there and Em went to roll over on her bed to mute the noise. But then she heard it, clear as a bell.

“Wiggle!”

Each of the boys had given her a nickname in the four years they’d spent together. Emma had become Emmy from Dan, and Wrinkles after the first night they met. Blake called her Ems, or after her rant about how Tim Tams were basically the same as penguin bars she became Tim Tam. Or Timothy. Or Tamothy. Or whatever variation of the bars he could come up with in the moment. Michael was the most creative. She was Em to him, but after he walked into her dancing around to Speak Now he started calling her Wiggle when he compared her awful dancing to the kids show. It was their thing.

She went from having no nicknames for most of her life to having more than she could count. It was ridiculous and she joked that it was the result of spending too much time with Australians. But she loved it. It was one of the things that made her feel oh so loved. And there was no greater feeling than the one spreading through her when she recognised Michael’s voice calling her from downstairs thanks to the stupid nickname.

Em wanted a clean break from them all. She left everyone thinking it was the best thing for her to do, that the people she loved could move on without her around. But the second she heard his voice again she stumbled out of the bed and ran to the top of the stairs.

“Sir, I know she’s here. I know Em is here and I’m not leaving until I talk to her.”

“There’s nobody called Em or Wiggle here, I’m not sure what you mean.”

When she got to the top of the stairs Michael said her name again, and the moment she saw him a tiny “Michael”” burst from her, the tears in her eyes making everything blurry. Michael Italiano had found her and he was at her parents front door, arguing with her dad to stop him from closing it in his face. He was there.

Her big brother was right there and she didn’t know how he’d found her but he had. Em couldn’t tell you how she got down the stairs, tears spilling as she pushed through to Michael standing there. She didn’t stop moving until his arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly against him.

All she wanted to do was ask how the hell he’d figured out where she was but she couldn’t. How had he found her in the very last place she ever wanted to be? Between her near uncontrollable sobs and the knot in her throat all she could do was rest her head against his chest and hold him tightly. It was Michael. She could feel him and smell his usual deodorant and he was right there with her. It felt like a dream but it wasn’t. He was there. She could tell by the way that Michael was holding her and the way he kept pressing kisses to the top of her head that it was real. He was there. 

“I told you I was gonna find you, Wiggle,” he whispered against her hair. It was barely loud enough for her to hear it, a warning that her parents were still close enough to listen. “Can we talk?”

She didn’t want to let him go. Letting go of him meant that he could disappear, he could leave. She’d take her hands away and he’d be satisfied that she was alive and could go without a word and she couldn’t take it. He was right there.

Em nodded into his chest, looking up and beginning to loosen her arms but Mike knew her so well and kept one of his around her shoulder, pushing another kiss to the top of her head. The last time she’d hugged someone was eight weeks before in the hotel lobby in Melbourne, holding onto Isaac and Isabella before having to let them go and Joe wrapping an arm around her. She hadn’t touched another human since then. After almost four years with her boys and their families hugs and human touch were common and she craved it. Before now she hated it, but they’d converted her to it. She was so touch deprived that actually being held by someone nearly hurt.

If she couldn’t have Daniel there with her, if she couldn’t have the one she really wanted, at least this way she got to have one of her brothers there with her. Michael didn’t let go, keeping a hold of her as she led him up the stairs. They both ignored her parents questions as they made it into her room and sat down, Em leaning against his chest for another cuddle. They were perched on the edge of the single bed as Em took deep breaths, waiting for him to speak first.

“You don’t know how many people miss you, Wiggle. I missed you so, so much. Come home?”

“I can’t.” It was hard to say so casually but she did it, watching as his face fell in shock. “I appreciate that you’re here but I can’t come back. I’ve nowhere to live, I can’t. I can’t come back to London.”

“If you wont come back, at least let me FaceTime Blake? I had to fight him to stop him getting into the car with me, part of me thinks he might be in the boot. Let him see you and know you’re ok at least?”

“Ok.” She could do that. Michael kept his arm around her while he opened his phone, Em spotting the photo of the two of them walking through a paddock together as his Lock Screen. It barely rang before Blake picked up, hair unusually askew.

“Mate did you find her? Was Chloe right? Is she ok?”

“Hey Blakey.” Em smiled through her tears, watching the shock on his face as he realised she was there. His hands reached out to the screen as if to touch her face.

“TImmy, you ok?” She nodded, unable to speak while swallowing back a sob at seeing him again. “You scared us, you know that? We miss you so, so much. I can’t wait to see you.”

“I’m not coming back. Thanks for being caring, but I can’t. I need to be away. I can’t see him again.”

“Just come home,” Blake pleaded, barely taking a breath before continuing. “Emma, please. Please just come home to us. I need my sister home with me. Nobody needs to choose between anyone, TimTam. But we need you home.”

She wanted to say no. She wanted to tell Michael to leave, to let her stay in London and try to find her new normal. But she’d left to make life easier on them and it clearly wasn’t. She could go back with them and find a new life with them all still there. And that felt right to her. She could deal with Dan on the periphery of her life rather than in the centre.

“I don’t have anywhere to stay.”

“My spare room.” Em turned to look at Mike, a grin spreading across his face. “You can stay in my spare room, it’s your room now. You’re coming home with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. I’ll come home.”

“Blake, I’ll text you when we’re in London. Gonna get our girl packed up and ready to go.”

It didn’t take long for her to pack, Michael making her stay sitting as she directed him to where everything was. She hadn’t even unpacked her things fully, just pulled out what she needed as she did. But the two cases were packed, Michael had gotten her chargers together, and he brought them downstairs as Em followed behind him.

“Where are you going, Emma?” Her mother asked, watching the way Michael kept his hand on Em’s back.

“Back to London. I shouldn’t have left.”

“We never wanted you to go, everyone’s just glad you’re coming back. Chloe knows I’m here, trying to convince her not to fly over has been tough.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. She was about to tell Lawrence what happened so he’d get involved in finding you. Lance really misses you. They’re the only ones who know everything, we told everyone else you’ve family stuff happening. Well, Seb, Este and Mick might have an idea from Lance. Natalie and Ted said to say hi and to look after yourself. Charles kept asking when he thought you’d be back.”

Em could feel her parents eyes flicking between them as he spoke, taking in the names.

“Who are you talking about?” Her dad asked, Michael squeezing her hand for a moment as if to ask if he could reveal everything. Em squeezed back hard, watching as he was let off the leash.

“Em’s friends in the paddock. Chloe Stroll, her dad Lawrence owns Aston Martin and her brother, Lance, is one of the drivers. Sebastian Vettel, Esteban Ocon, and Mick Schumacher are Lance’s teammate and best friends. They all helped Em when she learned French and I think Seb helped a bit with Italian. And then Natalie and Ted are Natalie Pinkham and Ted Kravitz from Sky Sports. And of course the last is Charles LeClerc. He got you that sweater, right?” Em looked down at the one he’d gotten her the year before, fingering the soft wool.

“Yeah he did. I told him I owed him for the Italian and French lessons and he told me he owed me for the English ones and got me this. I’ve missed them all.”

“They’ll be happy to see you in Monaco. We’ve got to get going to get back to London.”

“I hope this isn’t another mistake.” Em nearly stopped as her mother commented, but instead she just looked at her.

“It’s not. This is the right thing for me.”

“Let us know if there’s going to be another scandal. We need to get ahead if there is.”

Em turned and left, not dignifying it with a response. Michael was the one who got her suitcases into his car, opening the passenger door and watching as she settled in. It didn’t take long to get on the motorway, Michael pulling into a services about halfway through the drive.

“What do you want with your coffee?” He asked, Em shaking her head.

“A caramel latte is fine. I don’t need anything.”

“Did you have breakfast?” She shook her head. “You need fuel, Wiggle.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“A chocolate muffin?”

“Maybe.”

She sipped her coffee and picked at the muffin, barely eating any of it. But finally they were getting closer and closer to London, the motorway getting busier with people leaving the city after work. She was terrified and excited at the same time, completely unsure if this was the right thing to do. They’d said they wanted her back. They wanted to see her. People were asking about her. But really would she be wanted there?

Her phone lit up with an incoming call from Grace, Em sending it to voicemail. She couldn’t.

“Who was that?” Michael asked, Em taking a sip of coffee before speaking.

“Grace. I still texted her. She kept asking how I was and saying she was worried and I couldn’t cut her off. I was trying to do it slowly. It’s easier when she’s the other side of the world.”

Michael reached over to squeeze her hand, Em squeezing back.

“We’re home.” She looked around the familiar car park, panic starting to hit her chest. Michael recognised it in a moment, a hand on her shoulder. “I’m right here, Ems. Right here. Blake’s in the apartment because he couldn’t wait to see you. Are you ready for that?”

“Yeah.” No. She wasn’t nearly ready but she had to. She had to see him and apologise for leaving him lost with work. 

Again Michael insisted on carrying her cases, the two of them arriving in together. He opened the front door to let Em through and she saw Blake the moment she stepped into the living room. He stood up, opening his arms and Em walked straight into them and clung to him again.

“God I missed you. So, so much. I didn’t think I’d get to hug you again.” Blake’s words made Em want to crack, her sobs coming out so quickly.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You’re back, that’s all that matters TimTam. You’re home and we’ve got you.”

The afternoon passed quicker than Em expected, the three of them splitting takeout that she barely ate. They boys glanced at her, and she knew she didn’t look great, but she couldn’t stomach anything.

“I added you to the flight reservation for tomorrow, Ems,” Blake said and her head shot up, staring at him.

“What reservation?”

“To Nice. Monaco’s this weekend.”

“I can’t.” Cold fear caught around her stomach. Monaco was the beginning of everything. “You don’t understand, Monaco is-“

“Where everything started. Dan told us.” She looked at Michael, at the first mention of Dan he’d made. “Em the two of you need closure. Say goodbye to him in person. I’ll bring him to our hotel to do it so he’ll leave when you need him to. But you need this.”

“I don’t know if I can walk away again.” The words were choked, yet more tears flowing. She didn’t know she had anymore tears left to cry. “It was so hard the last time. I don’t think I can again.”

“He’ll be the one leaving this time. But you need it. Plus, Chloe and Scotty will be there. I put it in the group chat we found you and Chloe’s insisting. If it wasn’t Monaco she’d be here already.”

“Group chat?”

She listened in stunned silence as they filled her in on everything that happened since she’d left. Chloe’s flight to London, leaving her in laws behind, so she could try find Em. The gossip instagram sightings of her that had been used to find her. The way people kept asking about her. Brown wanting to cancel her paddock pass.

“It’s still active?” It was the one thing she was stuck on.

“Dan wouldn’t let them cancel it. He insisted that you needed it. He kept hoping you’d turn up one weekend.”

“I’ll come to Monaco with you.”

That night she lay in bed, staring at the wall. She was home. She’d get to see Chloe tomorrow, and nobody was mad at her. They all missed her and wished she’d talked to them, but they weren’t mad. She was going to get to say goodbye to Dan for a final time and then come home and start building her life up. She could do it.

Her phone rang and without thinking she answered in her half asleep haze, realising too late that it was Grace calling.

“Hello? Grace?” There was silence on the line, Em leaving it for a moment. “Are you there?”

With no answer she hung up, switching her phone off. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need to mourn anymore, not when she had a hard few days ahead of her because Monaco was the place where everything had begun and where it would end for good.

-

Dan stared at the track map in front of him, his finger tracing the oh too familiar streets of Monaco. He knew every single round of the track. Every single place he’d need to turn, he’d driven them the day before when he got back from Barcelona. When he came back to this apartment that reminded him of Emmy and cried sitting on the couch and spotting her shoes by the tv. When he sprayed her perfume on the pillow next to his because it helped him get a little bit more sleep.

He wasn’t ok. He knew that now. He knew he had monumentally fucked up and ruined the best relationship of his life because he never opened his mouth. He had flights booked to go home and tell everyone that Em was gone and he was dreading it. Having to tell his parents she’d left him, telling Michelle and Adam that she was gone. Telling the kids how much their auntie Emmy loved them but Dan had fucked it all up on them so she couldn’t come back again. 

His heart was completely broken. The one week between races meant he didn’t have to go to England, could avoid the apartments in London. His empty one and her former one he was paying rent on. Instead Dan focused on the next weekend. He ran through the circuit on the sim again and again until he was driving it as perfectly as he could but his lap times were still too high. He ate and worked out and used the sim and showered and slept and that was all he did. Focusing on anything else was too much.

Blake and Michael were still in London. They were getting in on Wednesday but not seeing him till Thursday, two days from then. And that was barely hanging on by a thread. Every morning Dan half expected Michael’s resignation letter. Blake hadn’t said anything yet, but it was coming. He knew his manager too well. The explosion and anger were going to happen and it was going to be deserved.

When Dan was feeling especially masochistic he dug down in his backpack and opened the green leather box hidden in a bottom pocket. Nestled in the black satin was a thin gold ring with a tiny diamond in it. Em deserved more, deserved a huge ring. But she’d never wear it. She always preferred dainty jewellery, made comments about how big stones were destined to fall out. He picked it out for her style, not his. He should leave it in a drawer or sell it but he couldn’t. It meant giving up on her, and he didn’t know if he ever could.

“Dan? Em? Are you home?” His head shot up as his hand dropped the ring into his bag. No. He knew that voice and she should be seven timezones away from him right now. Not walking into his apartment. 

“Danny? You here?” His mum and dad walked into the kitchen to see him, both of their faces brightening at seeing him there before taking in the expression on his face, the tears he’d let out thinking he was alone. “We thought we’d surprise you for Monaco. Where’s Em? Is she gone out?”

His throat went dry as he swallowed, watching the two of them taking in the scene. The lack of anyone else’s belongings. Her baby blue suitcase not there. 

“Danny? What’s wrong?” He hadn’t heard his mum like that since he was a teenager and scared to move to Italy.

“I…uh…I have flights to come home next week to tell you.” He swallowed desperately, unable to make himself say the words for a moment. He hadn’t said it out loud. “Em…I…Emmy left me. She’s gone. She’s gone for good and she’s not coming back and it’s all my fault.”

He could see the moment they hit his parents, the way they nearly rocked back. The devastation on his mother’s face, the shock and dismay on his father’s. 

“But you were going to propose?” Dan huffed a bitter laugh at his dad’s words, putting the ring box on the table where they could both see. “What happened?”

“I fucked up, Dad. I…I did something I never should have. I said things I shouldn’t have said. So she’s gone and she isn’t going to come back. I don’t even blame her, she was right to. I never even called her my girlfriend to her face.” They both sat and looked at him as Dan ranted, letting it out to the two people who he thought would still love him after he revealed everything. “She made me promise her not to leave her alone and then I not only did it, but I sent her away. And we fought in Melbourne. I told her I was done. She resigned when she was flying home from Australia. I haven’t seen her since the hotel and there was a letter in Blake’s and my stuff and she moved and she’s gone. I chased her away. She’s sorry for hurting everyone but I made her leave. I made her go. She’s never coming back.”

He watched his mum pull out her phone and hit a speed dial, putting it on speaker. It rang once, twice, three times, and then hit voicemail. “Hey, this is Em. If this is business related send an email. If not, leave a message after the beep.”

“Dan…” His mother wrapped him in a hug and Dan sobbed in her arms, everything hitting him now he’d said it out loud. Em was gone. His Emmy wasn’t his and she was never coming back. It had been nearly eight weeks since he’d gotten to even see her, it was nearly three months since they’d shared a bed. Not since the night before going to Saudi. She wasn’t going to run her fingers through his hair anymore. She wasn’t going to cup his cheek and kiss him, fall asleep with her arm over his chest. Curl up on his lap on a plane while he talked to the guys and she napped.

He’d never see her in the paddock again. Never get that jealousy when he saw her talking in French with Charles or Lance, never see her hug Chloe before they went to their own garages. Never watch her talk to Mick and tell him to keep his head up, that she was proud of him. 

He was never going to get to have a child who looked like her. One with her hair and eyes and nose. One who looked like him but with her personality. Never put the ring on her finger. Never ask her to please let him be her husband because he didn’t care about the rest of it, he wanted her. 

The list of things he would never do again felt sickeningly long. He’d forget how it felt to kiss her. How it felt when she woke up from a nap in his arms and smiled up at him. When they were in Sicily and ate food and he showed her where his great Nonna had lived, a house no longer occupied by Ricciardos but where his dad had carved his name into drying cement. The way she looked at him like he was her world. The way she said “I love you”. 

He was going to forget all of it in time. He’d never forget Em, never forget how she had changed his life and ruined him for any other woman, but he’d forget the details. He kept opening his messages praying for something from her but nothing. He was never going to get another one from her.

“You were going to propose.” Joe was caught on that detail, opening the box and looking at the ring he’d bought. “You had the ring, you asked me how I knew. How did…how did it happen?”

“I told her I was done.” It slipped out with another tear, Dan pushing his fist to his mouth. He’d replayed those sentences over and over and over in his head. “If that’s what you want, I’m fucking gone. I’m done here, I’m gone” Em’s face falling as he turned to slam the door. The way that if he’d taken even a second he’d have realised she knew him so well she pushed his buttons deliberately. He’d have known. He wouldn’t have left. He didn’t even kiss her goodbye.

“I can’t believe..you…I…” Joe burst into angry ranting and Dan half ignored it, feeling his mother stiffen at his back.

“Did you really say that to her?” Grace was quiet, and the quiet disappointment was worse than anything else. Italian mothers knew Catholic guilt, and at his heart he wanted to be a good son.

“Yeah. She told me to leave, that I’d been leaving her behind the whole weekend and I should go. So I told her if that was what she wanted I was gone. I was done. And then she went downstairs and said goodbye and I swear she planned it. She knew what she was doing. The resignation email was already queued. She knew she was leaving and I encouraged her.”

“The presents…” he could hear the realisation in his mother’s tone. 

“I have to tell the kids she loves them so much but she can’t see them anymore and she wishes she could be their auntie. It’s why I’m going home next week so I can tell everyone. I just want her back, Mama. I don’t know how to do anything without her. She’s my life.”

His mother sat opposite him, pulling Dan’s face up and wiping his eyes. He stared into that identical face, the same nose and curls he’d inherited.

“You can’t fix this, Danny. If she’s gone she’s gone. But if she saw you like this? You’re too thin, have you eaten?” He shook his head. “If she saw you like this she’d blame herself and you don’t want Emmy to do that, do you?”

“No.”

Exactly. So you’re going to put that away and we’re going to make dinner. You have media tomorrow and you need to get yourself ready for it. Understood?”

“Yes, Mama.” She pulled him into a hug.

“We’ll talk more when you’re ready for it. I bet Michael already told you just how angry he is?” Dan nodded. “I thought so. I’m so disappointed in you. You called her your girlfriend, you were going to ask her to marry you but you never told her that you’re dating?”

“I thought she knew!”

“You always say it. Did you even have an anniversary?”

“Monaco. It’d be four years on Friday.” Grace peeled back through the memories, shaking her head.

“I…that makes sense. You need to get ready for tomorrow. Go shower and change, and I’ll have food ready when you’re out.”

“Thank you.”

He ignored the quiet disagreement he could hear between his parents as he left the room. He just felt hollow, and when he got into the shower and caught sight of Em’s fancy custom shampoo his tears fell almost as hard as the water from the shower head.

—

Being in a hotel in Monaco felt too much like four years before and it was suffocating for Em. She shared the room with Michael, and the day before Chloe had appeared at the hotel room door, wrapping Em in a hug and pulling her to sit and talk. It was awkward and painful and part of the mistakes she’d made were full force in front of her, but it was also like she’d never been away. Having her best friend there as they people watched out the window and Chloe filled her in on the gossip she’d missed in the last few months. 

But it was Thursday and she was on a mission. Michael had agreed to bring Dan to the hotel that afternoon for her to say goodbye to him at last, and Em was on her way back to Dan’s apartment to pack up whatever was there. She wasn’t even sure what she’d left behind, but she needed to get it out of the apartment. She didn’t want to have to go to the place she almost considered home after saying goodbye to Dan for the final time.

For the first time since she’d answered Grace’s phone call and got no response on Tuesday night Em switched her phone back on, muting all her notifications but opening Spotify. Her Taylor Swift Heartbreak playlist was on repeat, big sunglasses hiding the bags under her eyes and making her blend in with the rest of the city. Last Kiss was playing through her headphones and she bit her lip as she went into the apartment building, pushing the button for Dan’s floor and waiting to go up. Their floor. Dan’s floor. He’d kept making the joke that she basically lived there, she should stay more. But London had always been their home base, really.

Never thought we’d have our last kiss. Never imagined it ends like this. Your name, forever the name on my lips. Just like our last kiss.

The music was blasting as she undid the lock, closing the door firmly behind her. Em didn’t notice the extra shoes in the hallway, didn’t hear the movement in the living room until she pulled an earbud out of one ear and heard movement. Looking up she stopped in terror as Joe and Grace Ricciardo were watching her with shocked eyes.

“Emmy?” Grace asked, worry filling her face as she took Em in fully. The panic filled her chest, her phone falling to the floor and the other earbud yanked out of her ear. They weren’t supposed to be here. They were supposed to be in Perth, far away from all of this. They were supposed to be the other side of the world and the apartment was supposed to be empty and she’d run away, why were they still here? Why weren’t they yelling?

Her hand reached out blindly, grabbing the side of the couch and holding on as it became hard to breathe. She didn’t know what was happening, panic filling her entire body as her thoughts fizzed out and she could feel herself shaking.

“Joe, get orange juice and some water? And put on the Red album, its by Taylor Swift. It’ll help her. Emmy I’m going to touch your arm and help you onto the couch. It’s just me, I’m right here Sweetheart. We’ve got you.”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry,” she gasped out, Grace sitting her down and pulling her into a hug. 

“You don’t need to be sorry, we understand why. We get it. Deep breaths, deep deep breaths. Follow my breathing. In for four, hold it for seven, out for four. Follow my counting.”

She followed Grace’s counting, almost jumping when she felt someone at the other side of her. Em kept her eyes closed, afraid if she opened them it’d be just a dream. State of Grace was playing in the background and the irony made her want to laugh if she was less panicked.

“It’s just Joe. We’re both right here for you, deep breaths. We’ve got you Emmy. We’ve got you.”

“I’m right here Kiddo. Follow Grace’s breathing and we’re right here.”

It took time for her to calm down and the trembling to stop. Treacherous was playing in the background as she opened her eyes, looking at her hands. Two familiar hands were clutching hers, sandwiching her on the couch.

“You’re here?” Em asked, Grace and Joe both squeezing her hand.

“We got in Tuesday to surprise you and Dan. He didn’t tell us what happened. We’re so glad to see you.” Grace’s voice was low, Em looking over at her and leaning in.

“I was coming to get my stuff. Michael’s getting Dan to come by the hotel room so we can clear the air.”

“We missed you so much.” It was quiet as Em took it in. The warmth of the two of them beside her, the way Grace’s arm was still around her back and holding her steady. Leaving once was impossible, but leaving twice felt like torture.

“I should go. I’ll get everything when you’re not here.” She went to stand but Joe held her in place, making her look at him.

“Why do you think you need to go?”

“I left. I’m not sure why you’re being so nice to me.”

“You’re family, Kiddo.” Those simple words made her break. The tears that the panic attack had held back started, Em trying to wipe them away. They wanted her. Nobody ever wanted her and she’d walked away but they wanted her and Em felt like she was going to break in two. But Dan’s parents held onto her tightly, calming her down until Grace pushed a glass into Em’s hands.

“You’ve had a shock. Drink the juice and then we’ll talk.” Once Em drained the glass she looked at Grace, the older woman holding her hands as Joe held onto her shoulders.

“Dan told us about what happened. He told us about you not wanting to make people pick sides. But you’re our family, Emmy. Just as much as he is. No matter what happens or happened with you and Dan, we want you in our lives. Don’t take that choice from us.” She nodded, Grace beaming at it. “Now, the kids gave me presents for you. They told us you weren’t well so they wanted to make sure you felt better. Plus we picked up things for you too.”

Joe was the one who went to a suitcase and opened it, pulling out a pile of presents. There were two packets of Tim Tams to make her laugh, a giant Perth mug the size of Dan’s head, and her favourite of all. A hand made get well soon card with childish colours on it, Isaac written semi neatly and Isabella written in a scrawl inside it. Attached to the card was a small white teddy bear that could fit in the palm of Em’s hand. There was a thin red scarf on the bear, making Em grin. She let out another tear at the inscription in the card, written in Isaac’s messy handwriting.

Auntie Emmy,

Uncle Dan said you’re sick and you can’t go on FaceTime with us but we miss you! London looks like it’s raining so you should come to us to get better cause it’s sunny. Isabella named the bear London cause it’s where you are.

Lots of love and see you in winter!

Isaac and Isabella

“They don’t know?” Em asked, Grace shaking her head.

“None of us did. You know how Dan is when he’s hurt, he keeps it in.”

“We both do. He…he’s my whole world. And it’s over and I have to say goodbye tonight and I don’t know how to.”

“Emma, look at me.” Joe had never used her full name and she looked up, wiping away tears. “I shouldn’t say this, he said it to us in confidence. But Danny said the exact same thing about you. He called you his life. Now I don’t know all the details of what happened, but if the two of you miss each other so much then I think you’re destined to fix things. You don’t get two loves like this. He wants you back, Kiddo. And I think you do too.”

“Yeah, I really do.”

Em sat there, holding the teddy to her chest as Grace and Joe kept her penned in. All she wanted was to stay right there with them.

She knew she needed to leave but it was the last thing she wanted to do. Even with the assurances that she was still family it just didn’t make sense. Her family had never wanted her but the Ricciardos still did? They wanted to keep her in their lives? She couldn’t understand why. Time kept passing and the sun was moving across the sky but she couldn’t do it.

Before she could make herself stand up, the front door opened and the oh too familiar footsteps came in. Dan was right there.

“Mum, Dad, I’m home!” She stood up at his voice, Dan coming into the room and stopping still. “Emmy?”

“Hi.” He was gaunt, the tan not hiding how pale and drawn he looked. She knew they were nearly identically haggard, the split hurting both of them more than they could have believed. They met in the middle of the room, Dan opening his arms and wrapping them around her. Em clung to him, holding on so tightly that she thought she might break him. Dan was doing the same thing, pressing kisses to her head. She could hear movement around them, listening out for speech.

“We’ll make sure she’s ok,” she could hear Joe say.

“Really?”

“Yeah. If we need to we’ll bring her to the hotel ourselves.”

“Thanks.” It was Blake and Michael who’d spoken and left the room, Em barely paying attention.

“We’ll leave you two alone.” That was Grace, squeezing Em’s arm and leaving the room as Em looked up at Dan. He was staring at her, and the look in her eyes made her nearly want to look away. It was fierce and caring and she thought it was echoed in her own.

“Are you really here?”

“I’m here.”

“Are…are you going to leave again?”

Em took a breath, deciding to be brave for once. “I’m only leaving if you ask me to leave.”

The grin that spread across his face was the best thing she’d seen in months, the bright smile making her join in.

“Can I kiss you?”

She didn’t even get the words out, nodding as Dan leaned down to kiss her and it felt like coming home. He was there and they had so much to fix, so much to work out, but he was her home. The idea that she was going to walk away or leave him again was impossible.

“I love you. I love you so much and there’s so many reasons why I should have said it before now but I love you and I want you to be my girlfriend. I know we have to talk but I need you to know, Baby Girl.”

“I love you too. So much. I didn’t think you loved me. That’s why I left. But I’m not going anywhere Dan. I can’t.”

He held onto her as they made their way to the sofa, Em settling on his lap. She didn’t fit the way she used to but she rested against his chest, her hand over his heart as her other hand held the teddy against her chest.

“Who’s that?” Dan asked, Em smiling.

“Isaac and Isabella sent him with your parents, they called him London. He’s to make me feel better. They’re good kids.”

“They love their auntie. I didn’t say anything to them. I didn’t know what to say. Just you were sick and had some family stuff so you couldn’t go on FaceTime with me. Next time I talk to them you can too?”

“I’d really like that.”

It was quiet for a moment before they both tried speaking at the same time, identical words flowing into each other.

“I’m sorry.” A huffed laugh went between them, Dan holding out his hand for her to speak.

“I’m sorry. For running, for not talking. I shouldn’t have left but I couldn’t stay. I was convinced it was over and you hated me. I couldn’t stay waiting.”

“I’m so sorry for making you think that, Baby. I love you. I’ve loved you for so long. I never should have said that, I shouldn’t have sent you away in Saudi. I shouldn’t have stayed away from you in Melbourne and I definitely shouldn’t have just left the bed that morning. I should have been there for you. If you’ll let me I want to be there for you now.”

“Yeah. I want it.”

“Yeah?” Em reached up to kiss him, separating and kissing his nose next.

“We have so much to talk about. We have so much we need to fix. But we can’t do it now.” Dan went to speak but she held up a hand and he let her continue. “This conversation we need to have is gonna take time and we don’t have time in the middle of the season. When summer break happens we’ll do it then?”

“That sounds good. But if stuff comes up we talk about it straight away. I can’t lose you Emmy. When you answered that call on Tuesday I couldn’t speak. I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t lose me. Not again. And that was you?”

“Yeah. I thought you’d answer if you thought it was Mama, but I was in shock hearing you again. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Danny.”

She stayed curled up on him as they both half dozed, content to just be together. Grace and Joe came out a few moments later, looking at the two of them. Em fell asleep in Dan’s arms, unaware of what was happening around her.

“You gonna tell her everything?” Joe asked Dan quietly, watching as his son ran his hand up and down Em’s back.

“Yeah. We’re going to make this work. I got a second chance, Dad. I’m not losing her again.”

“Good.”

Em woke for dinner, actually eating the meal put in front of her. She still wasn’t hungry but having people around made it easier for her to eat. She was beside Dan, his hand on her thigh as they ate Grace’s cooking. It was quiet afterwards, Em pushing kisses to Dan’s cheek because it was something she could do now.

“Are you staying the night?” Dan asked, Em shrugging.

“I don’t know if I have anything here.”

“Your clothes are all still where they belong. I couldn’t move them.”

“Then yes.”

It was awkward as they got into bed for the first few moments, each lying on their own side and trying to get comfortable. Em took the first step, rolling over and putting her arm over Dan’s chest, resting her head on his pec and curling into him. One of Dan’s arms went around her, his lips pushing kisses to her to make her smile. It was the first night of uninterrupted sleep she’d had since she’d left Saudi.

Em woke to a kiss on her forehead as Dan eased out of the bed. “Hmm?”

“Go back asleep, Baby. Just getting up. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She put her arms around his pillow and curled into it, smelling Dan again on it. He was there and he’d told her he was getting up and it was fine. Fifteen minutes later she woke to more kisses to her face.

“Wakey wakey, I’ve got breakfast.”

“What?”

There was a tray waiting for her, bacon and eggs and a pancake on a plate. Dan’s own meal was there too, along with a bowl of fruit for them to split and a coffee each. She grinned and sat up as Dan got back into bed.

“You made breakfast?”

“You always love when I do.”

“I just didn’t expect it.”

“Happy anniversary, Emmy.”

“Happy anniversary.”

Four years since she’d been in Monaco and watched him win, four years since that night in the club and the sex that had led to everything. To the happiest and saddest she’d ever been in her life. She couldn’t help but grin, eating her breakfast and talking to Dan before going for a shower.

In the bathroom Em fully realised just how she looked. She’d lost weight, her face tight and her hair dull. She looked sick, dark bags under her eyes. And yeah she was there with Dan now but she wasn’t ok, not really. She needed to get herself together and Monaco was not the race to be back in public for.

It was too early in the morning for them to really get up, but Monaco was always weird and Dan had more media that day before and after the practices. Em had insisted she’d be fine there alone, she’d be happy on the couch with F1TV on. But Dan had another surprise for her.

There was a knock on the door at eight, Grace opening it up and welcoming the visitor in. Chloe Stroll stood there smiling, hugging Em and kissing her cheek.

“Everything good?” She asked, Em nodding.

“My boyfriend and I are good.” Chloe grinned, hugging Dan and whispering something that made him pale.

“I’m here for the day. Practice day isn’t fun from the garage, and I figured you wouldn’t want to be around the paddock this week considering everything.”

“Thank you.”

Blake and Michael were the last to arrive, the latter immediately coming over to Em.

“I’m good. Really, I’m good.” She gave Michael a hug, giving one to Blake as well.

“We need to head. I got Nat to move your interview to this morning instead of last night. I told her Em needed you because of family stuff. She was good to move because it was for Em.” Blake nodded towards her after he finished speaking, Dan putting his game face on.

“Tell her I said thanks?”

“Of course.”

Everyone except Em and Chloe left the apartment, the two women sitting on the couch with coffee and Chloe catching Em up on everything that had happened. Apart from that it was relaxing, FP1 on. Em cringed at the times, nervous watching Dan going around the track. She’d seen him be confident on it and seen him be miserable on it, and this was reminding her too much of the year before. But she had lunch with Chloe and they spent an hour painting each others nails as FP2 began. Ems were blue and purple to match Dan’s helmet from the year before, just dry as she caught sight of an orange car going into the wall.

“No. No.” Chloe grabbed her hand as Em increased the volume.

“Is the car ok?” She heard Tom say.

“I’m ok.” She breathed a sigh of relief before standing, heading to the bedroom and putting one of Dan’s oversized hoodies on.

“Em? What are you doing?” Chloe called, watching Em slip on vans.

“I have to see him.”

“Ems, you can’t. He’ll be back soon, he’s fine.”

“I have to. Chlo…if that was Scotty and something happened on a half pipe, and you were a kilometre away. You’d run, right?”

“Yeah. I would.”

“Please.”

It took five minutes for Chloe to do Em’s makeup, hiding the worst of the dark circles around her eyes and the sickly pale complexion she had. The two women had their passes, Em picking hers up from the counter and putting it around her neck. It was an active pass, it was her pass, and it’d get her into McLaren which was where she needed to be. They scanned in and were mostly ignored, just looking like two more young women who were in the paddock. Chloe slipped into Aston, promising to text as soon as she saw Lance for Em to head over to them. Em walked up to McLaren, scanning her pass in front of the security who watched with suspicion as she was immediately allowed into the garage.

Grace and Joe were standing in the viewing spot and Em crept up, tapping Joe’s shoulder. Dan’s car was back, the suspension clearly an issue and the front wing gone. Joe wrapped her in a hug, Em returning it and giving one to Grace.

“How is he?”

“Ok. He got checked out, he’s just finished media. He was going to the med centre afterwards so he could be approved, and then he’s going to his room. Head up there, he’ll be glad to see you.” She nodded, turning and going straight to it. She caught sight of a nod from Andreas and a look from Brown, but they were mostly ignored as she set her sights on her target. 

The drivers room was small, Em sitting on the tiny couch and waiting. He’d be there soon. She’d see him and get to see him. He’d be ok. She could hear his footsteps coming down the hallway and when the door opened Em stood to see him.

She didn’t know who hugged who first, Em wrapping her arms around his shoulders to hold him. Her boyfriend was so much taller than her but she didn’t care, keeping him close and rubbing his back.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve got a meeting in ten though,” Dan whispered, Em kissing his cheek.

“I’ll go down with you and sit in hospitality. It’ll be fine.”

Em held Dan’s hand going downstairs, walking into the garage still holding it as they got looks. Brown came over to call Dan to his meeting, but Dan leaned down to peck her lips before he said anything.

“I’ll be over when I can. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Chloe was just outside the garage, the paddock still mostly empty while practice was happening. She draped another lanyard around Em’s neck, nodding at Blake behind her.

“You’re in Aston Martin for the rest of the weekend, Dad said yes immediately. I thought it’d keep the media away, they won’t expect you to be there. Can you tell Dan?” The second part was to Blake who nodded, watching as Em was swept down to the green hospitality.

She spent the rest of the afternoon in there until she got a text saying they were leaving, the paddock now empty of media and Em putting her sunglasses back on to head down and walk out in the gaggle of people around Dan. She blended in and nobody noticed, Em tired after the day. Once they were further into the city Dan took her hand and she smiled up at him, the two of them able to do it in public. It felt so good.

That night Grace insisted on cooking for them before leaving to go for dinner with Joe, making their anniversary dinner before hugging them and saying goodbye. It was good food and smiling, Em ending up in Dan’s arms on the couch.

“I love you.” It felt so lucky to get to say it over and over and watch Dan’s eyes light up.

“I love you too. I booked flights to go to Perth on Monday. I was gonna tell everyone that you and I were over and you’d left. I thought the kids deserved to know in person.” Em sniffed, forcing back tears as Dan kissed her forehead. “Come with me. It’s a super quick visit, we’re back in Baku by Tuesday next week. But we need this. And I think you really need a hug from them.”

“I do. I really do. What do they know?” She hated asking, clutching the teddy they’d given her even closer.

“You were sick and there was family stuff going on so you couldn’t be on FaceTime. They didn’t need to know anything else.”

“They don’t need to know anything else.” She was firm, staring up at Dan. “They’re kids, they don’t need to know what happened. All they know is they have an auntie and an uncle who love them so incredibly much.” She nuzzled into Dan more, feeling kisses pushed to her head.

“Exactly.”

The next two days were exhausting, Em not fully fit for the experience. Dan was driving and looking miserable, she was constantly exhausted and felt like she was on the verge of having a meltdown. The noise, the movement, the people were so much. Chloe was great, Scotty there and holding her hand when she needed it in the hospitality. Lance came over to give her a hug on Saturday and she waved at Seb from across the room, getting a grin back in response. Her friends had learned she was there and it was secret meetings in the back of the Aston Martin garage where cameras wouldn’t see. The hugs Mick and Charles gave her made her grin. It wasn’t unusual for the two to pop by Aston, so they could be there in secret. She felt human again.

The practice and race were a wash. Dan wasn’t lapped, which was better than the year before, but she was so fed up of hearing Brown make comments about her boyfriends performance. Give him the car they promised and he’d be able to do something with it. This hunk of junk they’d given him that was designed around his shorter teammate? It wasn’t going to work.

They went back to the apartment that evening, Blake and Michael on the couch with her as she watched Dan change into a suit for a sponsor event. Em offered to go with him, put on a dress and heels, but Dan insisted she shouldn’t do it. She needed to relax and spend time resting, so instead Em kissed him goodbye and waved to Grace and Joe who were accompanying him. She was wrapped in one of the original Ric3 hoodies they’d designed and clutched London the bear as she dozed off. It was one more night until she got on the first flight to Australia and she couldn’t wait.

She woke being lifted off the couch, Dan holding her up and carrying her to the bedroom.

“Huh?” Em asked, still half asleep.

“Just going to bed, Emmy. I got out early and wanted to come home to you.” She filed the question about getting away early to one side, instead focusing on how Dan slipped next to her in the bed and she got to curl up beside him, arms around her as he kissed her forehead before going to sleep with her.

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@dr3lover @sabrinaselina55 @majx00​ @tall-tanned-tattoo @lovingdennishauger @lauehr @msolbesg @f1medlife @idkwtfimdoing2 @leclercsbae @hiphopdancer101universe @mehrmonga @lewispool @saintandrea-droidsmuggler @coldheartedmar @sugarbabygirlofdaddy @nonsensical-nonce @a-distantdreamer @tita010 @leslizzle @javden @mloyer 

[evans23]

I Shall Live On

Pairing : David Friedman x OC

Summary : It's twenty-three minutes before seven and the fate of David and his wife is at stake. It's twenty-three minutes before midnight and the fate of David and his wife was decided.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Angst. Mention of death.

A/N : Hello dear 😁 So, apparently people like to suffer in this fandom, so here it is. I tried something different, it's why my female character has a name, anyway I hope you still like it.

Also read on AO3

It was twenty-three minutes before seven in the night when the heart of Rose Benson Friedman stopped beating in her chest. She was twenty-eight, walking in the street of New Orleans after a day of work in a bookshop, ready to return to the house she shared with her husband, the detective David Friedman.

She had met David when she was twenty-eight, by a happy coincidence. He entered in the bookshop where she worked during her shift. He was looking for a book except that he didn't know the title. Only a part of the plot and the colour of the cover. It happened that it was the book she had been reading for two weeks at the time. 

"And what do you think of the book ? Does it live up to the good reviews we can read everywhere ?" he asked her.

Actually, David hadn't read any reviews. If he had, he would have known that the press had destroyed the book and his author. He just needed an excuse to talk with Rose. For the first time in a long time, he had felt something strange, warmth, and alive inside him. 

He hadn't felt like that since his divorce. To be true, he hadn't felt like that far before his divorce. He had married too young, his childhood lover, but after fifteen years of matrimonial union, they fell apart. David was so absorbed in his work that he didn't notice the distance that was settling in between his wife and him until he came back after long weeks chasing leads and pouring over shreds of evidence to find his wife in his bed with his best friend and colleague.

If he hadn't killed the man that day, it's only thanks to the alcohol which had numbed his senses. He still remembered how he had stood frozen on the threshold of the door, trying his best to not let the tears fall from his eyes. After all, he was a man, and never before had he cried in front of anyone. It was because of the alcohol. And the betrayal of his wife, of course.

He had run away, ignoring her wife shooting his name. He didn't remember where he spent the night, probably in his car, on the precinct parking since it was where he had woken up. In the morning, he came back to his home to gather all his things and he left while his wife was at work.

Six months later, the divorce was granted and one year later she married that little shit of Matty. 

After that, David dived deeply into alcohol and work. He could have died if it hadn't been for Rose. The day he entered her bookshop was a holy day. It had saved his life. Rose was his redeeming love. 

There was a ten-year gap between the two of them, but when they were together, sharing their thought, talking about their day or simply being domestic during a lazy Sunday, he felt more himself than he had ever been before. 

However, the beginning of their relationship hadn't been easy. Indeed, she couldn't put up with his bad habits to dig his sorrow into a bottle of alcohol. Not that David was violent when he was drunk, but it is not what she strived for in a relationship. Therefore, one day, she gave him an ultimatum : the alcohol or her.

This ultimatum led to an animated quarrel, but eventually, David admitted he had a problem and he sought help. He was afraid to lose Rose, but seeing how hard he was trying to get rid of this addiction, she supported him as best as she could, and after a long fight, he became totally sober.

Now, he only drank grape juice, and never had he touched a drop of alcohol again. All thanks to Rose, who had saved his life in every sense of the word. 

Because he had already got married once, without success, he wasn't up to commit himself again into marriage. After all, he didn't see the point of signing a sheet of paper to prove his love to Rose and she thought the same. However, when he got almost killed during an investigation, owing his life to Sadie, the FBI agent who became his colleague after their first investigation together and her retirement from the secret agency, he decided on a whim to propose to her.

Actually, not totally on a whim. More out of pragmatism. If he came to die, you would get nothing. Neither his money nor the house you were sharing. Maybe not even his ashes. Truth to himself, his proposal hadn't been romantic at all. She came to the hospital, sick with worry, but when she heard David complaining to a nurse before having the time to enter his room, she knew Sadie was right : David was more than fine. 

"You scream quite loudly for someone who had almost got run over by a car," she said with a smirk.

"Rose," said David with a little smile.

His whole face had brightened with her entrance. Only she had this effect on him. 

"Tell him he must rest !" almost ordered the nurse to Rose before leaving the room, slamming forcefully the door behind her.

"David, please, stop torturing the poor nurses," she joked, striding towards the bed where she sat down.

"I told them I was fine enough to go home but they want to keep me under observation for the night," he complained with a pout.

Rose kissed him softly, her fingers running through his blond hair with delicacy. 

"And you should listen to them. You almost got killed today David !" she chided him gently. 

"Talking about that, while I was in the ambulance, I thought seriously about something..."

He started explaining to her all the advantages of being married to a policeman. More interesting, a detective of his caliber. In fact, there were none if it wasn't for the sharing of love they had. 

"David, what if you just told me what's on your mind rather than beating around the bush ?"

He stiffened, his hazel eyes fixing the wall in front of him.

"David ?" she asked, squeezing slightly his hand. 

"I had a great deal of thought about something. Not only today. I've been thinking about it for some time now. But today, I realised I shouldn't delay it for any longer."

He felt silent, his eyes edging towards her suspiciously.

"Okay..."

"You do not have to answer me today. Or any other day. Feel free to say no. Besides, I expect you to say no. What an idea to say yes to such a stupid idea. I would never fathom what you can see in me, but hey, I'm not complaining, I'm lucky that you are smart but not enough to understand you could find someone far better than me..." he said with anguish, his hooked nose casting a shadow on his left cheek. 

"Ok, David, I don't know if you're scarring me or if it's just the drugs the doctors gave you," she cut him off.

David sighed heavily. She wasn't able to understand what he was trying to tell her. To be honest, even he couldn't comprehend what he was saying. Maybe she was right, his mind was dizzy with the morphine he had received earlier to alleviate the pain.

Nevertheless, he hadn't felt more conscious, wishing for her to say the word he really wanted to hear and not the one he was expecting her to say.

"If something happened to me, it would be better if you were my wife."

Her eyes widened so widely that she looked like a fish, that one people could admire in a Japanese garden. If he hadn't been afraid to hear her say no, David would have laughed at her funny face.

"Are you proposing ? To me ?" asked Rose with incredulity.

"Of course to you. Who do you expect me to marry ? The Queen of Saba ?"

Rose ignored his sarcastic comment, too flabbergasted by what was happening. 

"David, why does it sound like a business arrangement ?" she eventually managed to say. 

"I didn't know you wanted me to pull out all the stops. You told me you didn't believe in marriage," he groaned.

She rolled her eyes, reminding him that he had said the same thing to her many times. 

"Yes, yes... Only a fool doesn't change his mind. Don't tell me you want a ring," he moodily said.

"Of course, I want a ring ! A pretty one ! And Elvis," answered Rose with a smirk.

"Elvis ?" asked David, confused.

"Elvis Presley," she clarified.

"Isn't he a little bit dead ?" asked David, arching one of his brows.

"Oh, come on David, everybody knows he's living his best life on a private island. But I was talking about the one living in Vegas."

David had laughed so hard that he had almost popped his stitches. 

"So, will you ?" he said after having calmed down from his hilarity. 

"What ?" she asked, biting your lips.

"Little minx, you know what I'm talking about," groaned David.

"Yes, but I want you to propose to me correctly. Not as if you were trading an important business. We are not living in the Regency David !"

"Oh woman !" he grumbled.

Yet he obliged you by asking properly for her hand. And as a matter of course, Rose had said yes. 

They got married six months later, in Las Vegas, with Elvis acting as a priest and Sally as their witness. Rose had invited her parents, but they were living in London, her birth town, and her mother was too sick to travel so far away and her dad didn't want to leave her alone, something Rose had perfectly understood. She had been saddened by the lack of support of her friends, but since she had moved into New Orleans, she had fallen apart with almost all of her English friends, some of them having been in the green-eyed monster's grip when she had won the green card thanks to a contest, and she didn't have built any strong friendship in America. But none of that mattered anymore since she had David in her life. 

The wedding was everything both of them had dreamt about. Elvis for a bishop was obviously the greatest and misunderstood desire of Rose. David couldn't understand that fantasy of her, but as she didn't ask for much most of the time, he had graciously accepted, more than happy to get married in Sin City. Indeed, he had always wanted to try his poker skills at the great table of a casino. He didn't win that night, but he didn't lose too much either. After that, they ate some cheeseburgers and drank too much chocolate milkshake, then, David drove from Las Vegas to Los Angeles where they had spent their honeymoon.

Rose, who was a well of science in the field of cinema had led him all around the city, talking about all the anecdotes she knew about almost the beginning of the talking cinema. David always preferred books over movies, but seeing her so happy and in her element made him beamed with love and happiness. She had confessed to him once that she had tried three times to be accepted into one of the best dramatic schools in London, without success. She had finally given up, choosing to become a librarian. He never dared tell her that she was far too shy to be an actress, but she was skilled enough in writing to dabble with it and play aptly with words. 

"David, you're far better than me in writing. You should write some thriller. You had seen so many things, you could compete with the best criminal authors," she had said once. 

David had always written, but never before someone had acknowledged his talent for it. Not that he had thought of having any aptitude for that craft, but hearing her telling him how she loved his short story, something he had started to do when he went to therapy to cure his addiction, had made his ego thrive with pride. For the first time, someone was able to see more than his grumpy exterior and his being a detective. For Rose, he wasn't Detective Friedman. He was David, a man of many talents. A good cook, a writer, an affectionate lover, a support, her husband. 

After their wedding, David had been afraid to see her moving away from him as his wife had done. But it never happened. On the contrary, it had strengthened their bond. Rose was always there for him after a hard day of workwhen the horrors his work forced him to see took a toll on him and she never blamed him for his hectic schedule. She understood his job was demanding, but also the importance it had for him. And for that, he cherished her even more. 

For the first time, Rose and David were happy to be alive. Both of them had gone through difficult times, they had tried their best to get their life on track, their love had made him grow stronger, making them appreciate the little things in life, and able to see the hidden beauty of existence.

Unfortunately, life had a strange sense of humour. Five years after their wedding, Rose, thirty-three, collapsed on the ground of a little-used street in the Bayou. Superstitious, Rose consulted a medium twice a year. David always laughed at her, telling her it was all rubbish and she shouldn't spend her money on such a trivial thing, but she couldn't prevent the need to know, or at least having the delusion to know. She was a regular of Soraya, one of the most respected mediums in the vicinity. Rose would never forget what she told her the last time she consulted her. 

"There's a vampire lurking in the shadow. It'll steal what you love the most. It'll fill your soul with murderous torments. It'll take a toll on your fragile heart. It'll make your heart burn with a rancid venom. You'll wish to be dead, but be careful because sometimes, we get what we wish. Yes, this vampire will try to bring you down, but two angels will look after you. One won't be alive, the other one will be your salvation. Both of them will save you from the darkness you will be surrounded by. Yes, Rose, a vampire will encircle your soul with its cold arms, it'll feed your sorrow, but your ghost will help you to see the light and an angel will give back to your mind the peace and love that will save your life."

Soraya often spoke in riddles, and if Rose was utterly honest with herself, she would admit that the medium had never predicted anything true. Until that day. When she had left the little shop with the heady smell of incense, a vampire had touched her heart. A vampire called heart failure. That day, in a dark alley in the middle of nowhere, in the Bayou of the New Orleans, the heart of Rose Frances Benson Friedman had stopped beating. She had collapsed on the ground, with no one to notice her motionless body and the rain started to drench.

At the same time, on the other side of the town, the detective David Friedman was in the middle of a shootout. A madman with a Kalashnikov was shooting in all directions, shooting that he was Rambo. When he saw a little girl, who probably was five or six, totally unaware of what was happening, David, listening only to his courage, ran towards her, grabbed her by the waist, and threw her to the ground. At the same time, his partner, Sadie, had shot the man in the head. The little girl screamed and cried, protected under the tall frame of David. 

When the S.W.A.T. arrived to help the detective, the first thing they saw was a pool of blood. One of them, who had medical training, turned him with precaution. Another one took the little girl up in his arms, leading towards an ambulance while an emergency team was running towards David. It was twenty-three minutes before seven in the afternoon when a bullet reached the heart of David Friedman. 

He was rushed to hospital, when, somewhere in the Bayou, another medical team was choking Rose Benson Friedman with a defibrillator with little hope to bring her to life. Her body was cold, the rain having been of no help to keep her warm. The team didn't know when her heart had stopped.

She had been discovered by a homeless man who had phoned 911, explaining in bad English that a young woman was lying, probably dead, in the street of the worst part of the town. She didn't seem to have been assaulted. She didn't seem to be from those living below the breadline. She was probably one of those crazy people who had her fortune told by a so-called local witch. Maybe the bitchy witch had given her some brew to get pregnant, poisoning her involuntarily. 

Except that the homeless man was wrong. She hadn't been poisoned. It was just her heart that had broken. Little did he know that her life, if they were able to bring her back, would never be the same anymore. 

It was twenty-three minutes after seven in the night when both, David Friedman and Rose Benson Friedman arrived in hospital to undergo surgery. Sadie was in the hospital waiting room, trying to reach Rose, phoning her again, again and again, swearing under her breath against the woman who didn't answer her call. For God's sake ! Her husband was severely injured. Her place was here, in the hospital, waiting and praying for him. 

In another hospital, a medical secretary tried again, again and again, to get an answer from David Friedman, the emergency person of Rose Benson Friedman. After the tenth attempt, the young secretary swore that if it was there how a husband cared for his wife, she would never marry. Rose was dying, she would probably not last the night, she needed someone who loved her by her side. But no one was there for her. No parents, no friends, no husband. 

It was twenty-three after twenty-two in the night when David and Rose had been brought back to life twice and had died thrice. The medical team in both hospitals was doing their best, as did David and Rose. Both of them, even though unconscious, were fighting for their life in the abyss of death. 

Alone, in the little chapel of the hospital, Sadie who had finally been called by the hospital where Rose was losing the battle between the Angel's death, was praying for his colleague and his wife. She wasn't really a believer, but that night, she didn't know what else she could have done. She regretted having cursed David's wife for her lack of answer. But how could have she known the poor woman was in hospital ? 

Thankfully, the medical secretary, well decided to find someone who cared for poor Rose, had looked up David's name on the internet and found out his name in a small article talking of a corrupted Senator. She had given an educated guess and called the local precinct to ask to be put in relation with the detective who was working in another part of the town, for another precinct. It was Matty, David's nemesis, who had answered the call, explaining to the secretary that David was fighting for his own life but that he would tell his partner about his wife, and what he did, letting Sadie decide if she should tell David about it or no when he would come back from surgery.

Sadie wouldn't have to tell anything to David. Instead, she would drive across town to check on Rose who was in a coma. She would have to call her father, a man who had just lost his wife, and she would tell him that he might lose his daughter too in the same years, four months after the loss of his loved one. And if Rose ever woke up, what she hoped from the bottom of her heart, then she would have the heavy task of telling her.

It was twenty-three before midnight when the heart of Detective David Friedman stopped forever. It was twenty-three before midnight when the heart of Rose Benson Friedman had started again. 

[sadly-never-after]

Music in the EAH Universe and who listens to them Part 5.

This is just an excuse to try to make music puns and share music I think the characters would listen to. (Some of these are even canon by the books!) I don't even like a majority of these musicians but I am fully convinced of my choices here. I marked in colours the one that are canonically part of the EAH Universe.

Since Tumblr only allows 100 inline links for a post I have to make different parts.

Part 1 (Alistair, Apple, Ashlynn, Blondie, Briar, Bunny)

Part 2 (Cupid, Cedar, Cerise, Chase Courtly, Daring)

Part 3 (Darling, Dexter, Duchess, Farrah, Faybelle, Ginger)

Part 4 (Holly, Hopper, Humphrey, Hunter, Jillian, Justine)

Part 5 (Kitty, Lizzie, Maddie, Meeshell, Melody, Nina)

Part 6 (Poppy, Ramona, Raven, Rosabella, Sparrow, Tucker)

ᓚᘏᗢ ☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩ Kitty Cheshire ✩° 𖦹｡⋆☽ ᗢᘏᓗ

Godmother, Godmother (Burning Pile, Oh Ana, Verbatim)

The Neverland Experience (Cult of Dionysus, Queen of White Lies, Your New Boyfriend)

Spellanie Martínez (Pity Party, Tag, You're It, Mad Hatter)

Marina & the Diamond Cards (Hermit The Frog, Rootless, The Outsider)

Tailor Hall (You, Ruler of Everything, Turn the Lights Off)

♛ 🂱༺♥️༻🂱 ♛ Lizzie Hearts ♛ 🂱༺♥️༻🂱 ♛

Katy Fairy (Dark Horse, Hot N Cold, Teenage Dream)

Marina & the Diamond Cards (Lonely Hearts Club, I Love You But I Love Me More, Rootless)

Nixie (Your Best American Girl, Goodbye my Danish Sweetheart, First Love/Late Spring)

Yes, Yes, Yeses (Heads will roll, Shame and Fortune, Dragon Queen)

Lana d'Aulnoy (Without You, Dark Paradise, Chemtrails Over the Country Club)

☕ ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★🎩 Madeline Hatter 🎩★‧°𖦹｡⋆☆ ۪ ⋆ 𓈒 ׂ☕

Giantz (19-2000 - Soulchild Remix, Fire Coming out of the Monkey's Head, Pac-Man)

Plucky Tailor (Stout-Hearted Men, It Gets Better All The Time, Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing)

David Longbow (Under Pressure, Starman, Oh! You Pretty Things)

Of Wonderland (Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Games, Lysergic Bliss, Peace To All Freaks)

Tailor Hall (Mucka Blucka, Banana Man, The Whole World and You)

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 Meeshell Mermaid 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

FKA Witch (Water Me, Ultraviolet, Give Up)

Florence & the Mill (Swimming, Never Let Me Go, Mermaids)

Lana D'Aulnoy (Mariner's Apartment Complex, Video Games, High by the Beach)

Nixie (Come into the water, Pearl Diver, Valentine, Texas)

Reigning Spectre (Tornadoland, Us, Samson)

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆🐭⋆.˚✮ Melody Piper ✮˚.⋆🐭⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

Giantz (Dare, Every Planet We Reach Is Dead, Tomorrow Comes Today)

N-Chant (Shoulda Known, Ball & Lead, Monday)

Lil' Swain (Forever, Annihilate, Mrs. Officer)

Twenty one King's Men (Message Man, Stressed Out, Guns for Hands)

Cage the Dragon (Trouble, Cigarette Daydreams, Telescope)

Tyler the Narrator (Earfquake, Corso, New Magic Wand)

🍄🦋🌸 Nina Thumbell 🍄🦋🌸

ABBA-cadabra (Chiquitita, I Have A Dream, Waterloo)

Dolly Charmton (Coat of Many Colors, Wildflowers, Love is like a Butterfly)

Elvis Princely (Burning Love, You're the Devil in Disguise, Hound Dog)

Ever After Authors (Best Day of My Life, We Happy Don't Worry, Daisies)

Joan Bard (The Night they drove Old Dixie down, Farewell, Angelina, Love is just a four-letter word)

You are trapped on an eight-hour long road trip with these guys and you have to give one of them the aux chord.

[fauxraven]

The Time Paradigm [VI]

pairing: Dream of the Endless x fem!reader

summary: the death of a Dream, the anguish of another

warnings: gore, Dream’s endless (but hot af) anger, character death

word count: 2.9k+

Enter the Dream, weary traveller

Chapter VI: Mutually assured salvation

GaiaPrime-57, Londinium, Half the Lifetime of the Universe,

A window snaps shut.

A droplet drops.

A zipper zips shut.

Zips open.

Chipping nail polish cracks further with every slide of the zip. Zip up; zip down. Zip up; zip down.

The suitcase slams on the floorboards. A frustrated groan leaves the chipping nail polish.

‘’Yes. Yes, I understand that too, Mr. Harris.’’ Up and down and up and down again until it jams. The phone gives a groan under cheap nail polish and exhausted fingers. ‘’Pedro, come—hop on my suitcase.’’

The curly head of a child pops around a corner; small, for his age, smallest of his class, in every aspect. He holds a soft toy that’s half bunny half elephant and about 5% extinct species. He hops on the suitcase silently.

‘’No, obviously, I don’t expect you to hop on my suitcase, Mr. Harris.’’ The zipper draws back, jams again. ‘’Pedro? Remember the Chuck E. Cheese ball pit?’’

The child throws himself onto the suitcase. The zipper is still stuck.

‘’Yes, I know. But the lease said—just one really. Yes, the other intends to stay. I don’t know, a few months. Yes, just me. She’ll stay. Yes—yes! Perfect, thank you, so much!’’ The phone drops on a red faux suede beanbag. ‘’Kid, this isn’t working.’’

‘’It was zipping a bit funny when Aunty Anna tried it too.’’

‘’Anna was within a file-mile radius of my suitcase?’’

The half-elephant half-unicorn dips a head of a cotton into a nod. She pulls him up and throws the suitcase open.

‘’You have got to be kidding me!’’

A pink garment falls to the floor. Followed by a white veil and a cable knit stitch the colour of ebony. Footfalls draw closer with every piece she plucks from the intestines of the suitcase.

‘’Pizza’s ordered. What? You said healthy; veg—what the bloody hell are you doing?’’

‘’You tell me. What part of ‘going there for work’ do you not understand?’’

‘’I understood perfectly! Blimey, I even packed you nice professional clothes.’’

‘’Lingerie? That’s what you call professional?’’

‘’Pleasure and business. Precisely in that order,’’ a lacy thong drops, adding to the growing pile forming on the floor. The child has gone away, thankfully. ‘’What if you meet a hot and loaded British bugger? What then? You’ll be glad I packed the essentials, that’s what.’’

‘’It’s a job in a quiet countryside house; the closest village is eight miles. The only guy I’ll see is pushing ninety and I’ll spend my days wheeling him around—passionately.’’

‘’Just loaded then?’’

‘’Business. I’m going there for business. I’m not like you, Jo. Hell, how many did you—okay, who needs this many thongs?’’

‘’That one’s a stray, actually.’’

On cue, the top layer of the unholy pile shifts into a ginger Tabby cat.

‘’Tell me you did not keep that thing.’’ Johanna snags in a beanbag, hissing at the cat when it tries snuggling up against her leg. She plucks a magazine from the coffee table and starts thumbing through gibberish. She isn’t really paying attention to the words; she isn’t paying attention to anything.

‘’I let you keep the kid!’’ The woman fires back, sitting on her haunches.

‘’Kids aren’t strays, love. Besides, this one’s just using ya for food and free snuggles, hope you know that.’’

‘’Since you’re missing the point, I’ll just cut to the chase—where did you find a whole kid? Where are his parents?’’

Johanna spares her a coy look over the magazine. ‘’Don’t you mean when are his parents?’’

‘’No, I really just mean where are his parents, the people who are supposed to care for him and report him missing should you decide to keep him any longer than you already have.’’

Johanna opens her mouth, tongue fit with a quick retort, but a zipper zips shut and a bell tolls; and life goes on. Without her. Always without her. She ought to move on too.

A sharp snap! rescues her from grim thoughts. A luggage handle is drawn and a decision is made.

‘’Looks like I’m all set. Walk me to the door?’’

‘’Promise to visit for Bommy Night?’’

‘’Sure. Why not Christmas or Easter or any other normal holidays?’’

‘’I want you on Bommy Night.’’

A suitcase is wheeled over the threshold of a small London flat. A dream leaves through the door.

‘’Hun, it happened four hundred years ago, think you can let it go, eventually?’’

‘’Bommy Night?’’

‘’Bommy Night.’’ She sighs. ‘’And do clean up while I’m gone. This place is a mess.’’

A door shuts behind an idyllic picture, a semblance of normalcy, a modicum of love.

In all her lives, Johanna Constantine has never particularly enjoyed loneliness. But loneliness far outweighs death, grief, sorrow, work. So she lets it go. She lets love overflow. She lets her only friend forge her own path through the world. A world cleansed of any demons, ghouls or whatnots that come bump into the night.

Still, she hangs onto the knob. Still, she pauses before the door. Still, she glances at the quiet flat.

A piece of paper and a mess of clothes strewn about a dust-covered couch.

All that’s left of her.

There’s a child in there somewhere, but she doesn’t bother finding him. She knows it won’t last. She knows nothing ever lasts.

An orange cat pushes its head against her calf, purring lightly through her bones.

She might take that gig at Saint-Anne’s. She might blow up the Houses of Parliament. She might phone Rachel.

Endless possibilities.

⌛︎ ⌛︎ ⌛︎

GaiaPrime-57, Edge of the Worlds, Mytikas Peak, Two Millennia Before the End,

He isn’t sure she is breathing.

Granted, his kind do not need to breathe, but nearly all living things do.

In the beginning, breathing was surviving.

Breathing was new, invented by some higher power, meant to be the latest trend in a series of many; holy gifts bestowed upon humanity before it even became humanity.

But in humanity breathing has found meaning.

One’s breathing tells a tale of life—of life and of love and of sorrow and of pain.

In times forgotten but not forgiven, he’d relish in the steady breath of sleepers.

He’d watch the ephemeral rise and fall of a passing chest with great fascination, overcome with a strange mixture of relief and indifference when the fleeting moment inevitably ended.

He’d listen to the soft thrumming of a laboured breath fanning across his own lips, bodies tangled, hearts mingled, minds miles apart. He’d pour his heart into everything that he was and everything that he wanted and he’d breathe them all into his arms… and they would always end up drowning. He’d choke the breath right out of them.

His sorrow was great; but his love was suffocating.

To add insult to injury, evolution has made breathing mandatory; essential.

But she has defied every rule, every law, every principle and sacred promise from day one.

So he is almost certain she is not breathing at all.

And he needs her to breathe.

He isn’t sure why—perhaps because she’s got a kind smile and she’s happy and she’s wounded and she’s saved his life.

A debt he can never repay, to his dismay.

He cannot stand between a flying sword and her lovely face. He cannot mend her wounds with a flick of his wrist. He cannot call out her name so sweetly and stir something buried within the depths of a blazing nova.

But he can save her life.

The hopeful thought digs, and soft golden grains of sand guide him to Chiron’s bedchambers.

He finds the Centaur reading. He calls to him, nearly falls to his knees.

Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, Oneiros, the Shaper of Form and everything he has ever been and ever will be—is utterly devastated.

Strangely enough, nothing gives the King away.

Nothing on the hard face, the wild hair nor deep eyes, nothing in the dark billowing robes and the shining ruby; it’s a feeling in the air, a rapture through time itself that tells Chiron something dreadful has happened.

That, and the dying girl in his arms.

For his usual aloofness, Oneiros proves to be very cooperative.

He lowers her to the cushioned table, per Chiron’s orders and stands aside to let him work.

He watches, powerless, as the doctor tears through fabric and blood-marred skin and frowns.

‘’What is it?’’ His voice is cutting, demanding, that of a sovereign hanging onto his crown with one hand. In the other, lie his wants and desires. Duty warring against something barely blossoming. Something deadly. Something very nearly dead.

‘’The stitches hold still.’’

‘’Is that not a good thing?’’

‘‘Terrible. Very terrible, Milord.’’

Gilded scissors cut deeper, digging into raw flesh and crusted meat alike, dragging unintelligible pained murmurs from the victim’s throat.

‘’She’s coming to, my lord.’’

‘’Not quite. Faster.’’

Scissors chop away, blood bursts everywhere, screams rip free, golden liquid bearing the smell of spoilt milk leaks through veins.

‘’By Zeus—’’ The Centaur curses; the Dream Lord hears it—neither moves an inch.

‘’What is that?’’ Oneiros rasps, anger lacing his even tone as he stares deeper into the leaking wound.

‘’Adiona—‘’ Chiron stammers, wide eyes burning a hole into a gaping canyon. ‘’Go, find Adiona, and any servants and willing gods.’’

Oneiros does not move. His star-filled gaze has darkened; the stars are slowly dying as they gawk at the trickling drops of blood and the large puddle of liquid gold pouring from the wound.

‘’Oneiros, go!’’ Chiron calls to him, they share a glance over the woman and then his eyes sweep over her fevered form again. A pale hand he hadn’t noticed falls from a limp grasp. He is gone in a swirl of sand.

What happens in the split second of his absence is a secret kept between the doctor and the universe.

But for clarity’s sake, the scene is as follows; this tale is not for the faint of heart.

Blood pours.

As a doctor, surgeon, centaur, son of a ruthless beast, he has seen blood. Some might say he is used to the sight of it. Blood and pus and bodily fluids, all fascinating in their diversity. After its inevitable loss, the human body can produce nearly one liter per day. That's two gallons full of pungent blood. He fears she might fill up five pitchers of wine with her blood alone.

But the blood doesn't bother him. It is terrifying.

Blood pours, pours.

Vicious droplets gushing from a gaping wound—a Sunday to him.

He'd operated during the Dhorian Invasion and all that followed humanity's first brush with extraterrestrial forces. He'd served as a soldier for a time, a nurse, a brother, a friend, a gravestone. He thought he'd seen all the world had to give and take.

He hadn't.

He probably still hasn't.

Blood pours pours pours.

Red splotches dot his skin—her skin, the difference is hard to tell anymore.

He reacts mechanically, his body switching to auto-pilot. His arm lifts, a hand reaches and nibble fingers dig through shining flesh and golden remnants of bone. He knows what this is, this gilded ambrosia spreading through her veins. He knows what it is and he knows what it does, so he carries on, hands digging through her entrails as her screams overpower the wet squelching of his crass ministrations.

He digs and he digs until the voice that comes from her throat is nothing but a distant echo carried by a Roman breeze, a flutter of a butterfly's wings.

By the time the doors to his antechamber burst open, he's elbow deep into the angry flesh of her.

A flurry of gods and goddesses and servants stand arrayed about him, gawking eyes narrowing at the sight of the carnage.

''Chiron,'' a voice calls to him, and then two, and then three and a thousand and one. They pierce through the silent spell in the room and noise comes back to him at once, a moist, most disturbing noise.

He carries on; acutely aware that somewhere along his ministrations, she had stopped screaming.

''Chiron, there's too much blood.''

''Is this all from the... inside?''

‘’I could not find Adiona.’’

‘’No matter. Hold her hand.’’

Wordlessly, he gives commands. A world of gods and servants obey, gathering tools and knowledge, changing bandages and spoiling cloth after cloth with dried pungent blood. It just never stops, the flow keeps pouring, rushing over all of Mount Olympus. The rivers of blood spread like gossip on Haloa, splitting into narrow paths, designing warped veins on the pristine floors. The irony.

The servants still the traveller. It is useless. The violent writhing has subsided, only slight tremors remain, faint whimpers and an assembly of gods.

Hephaestus beats her chest repeatedly with brawny arms.

A Cherub's small rounded fingers are pressed against her pulse. With every passing second, they press harder still.

Calliope, ninth daughter of the Hecatae, is sponging up blood and gilded pus from a corpse.

A painting that will never make it to a museum.

Oneiros knows she is no longer breathing. Her hand lays slack in his palm.

Chiron perseveres. Delicate fingers pry him off the body carefully.

The stranger-traveller-lover-of-dreams is... dead?

''It's alright, Chiron. You did your best.''

''You were very admirable. As was she; she shall be remembered as such.''

''Really nothing you could do.''

''Try again.''

A death knell drops. A pipe organ is playing somewhere deep within the bowels of the palace. The eerie melody cannot reach them. Nothing can save for sorrow and grief and the Dreamlord's quiet anger.

''My Lord?''

''Try. Again.''

Chiron holds his haunted gaze. The ninth daughter of the Hecatae raises a graceful hand to the side of his face. ''Oneiros—''

''Save her.'' he repeats, rasping voice never changing in tone. ''You owe her that much.''

''Do I?'' The doctor's eyes sweep over her form again. Just a moment ago she'd been laughing, mocking his customs and reminiscing gibberish. Just a moment ago, she'd been carried in by the prince of stories for whom she obviously harbored a strong inclination. ''Do you?''

Just a moment ago, she'd been more than a cold lump of meat on a decorative table.

''I know when to admit defeat, Dreamlord. Please, forgive me.''

''No.''

''Oneiros, he did all he could.''

Cold, starless eyes barely brush against some ninth daughter. Under his stare, she feels smaller than a grain of sand.

''No,'' Chiron says before the Dream Lord can retort. ''No, I did not.''

''Chiron—‘’

His shoulders deflate, turning away from Calliope's comforting touch. ''She came to see me this morning. After the feast.''

''Well, what did she want?'' a rough, gravelly voice asks. The Cherub hops on a corner of the table, bare legs brushing over the tip of her dead sandaled feet. She is a corpse now, everything about her is dead, expect, perhaps, her heart. It shall live endlessly.

''She asked me to check the wound. I had to remove the bandage and cut her up, I'm afraid.''

The temperature drops, the air turns crisp, burning the doctor's lungs when he draws a deep breath and looks into Morpheus' eyes.

''Tell me, is this your doing?''

''I wish,'' he surrenders, summoning all the strength left in him. His hands are covered in blood, his arms reek of death and his scalp is as damp as that of the victim. The blood has gilded vein-like streaks stretching across his arms. ''This—this is something else. Something impossible.''

He orders the blood-covered servants to leave. As they fill out wordlessly, he watches, scrutinizing them one by one. The doors close on blood and fabric and a forbidden glance.

To the remaining world, he whispers one word.

''Δηλητήριο.''

''Poison?'' Calliope echoes, frowning. ''It cannot be. Zeus had all the hemlock shrubs removed after the Phaedra incident.''

''Only this isn't hemlock, Calliope. This is something else. Something new.''

''Could it be lethal to us?''

''Of course not, dimwit! Why would you even think that?''

''Look what it's done to her, Anteros! A powerful beauty, was she? I mean no disrespect my lord.''

Hephaestus considers himself a man of bravery and honor.

He isn't anywhere near as obnoxious as Plutus, or inconsiderate as Aergia, and twice the man Anteros pretends to be. But he must admit that the tendrils of pure darkness sprouting from the Master of Dreams’ shadow make him a tee tiny bit frightened.

They expand, licking across the polished floors, continuing their creeping journey toward the foot of the table, snuffing out all light and life from the closest particles of this plane. The shadows grow, shape, de-shape and reshape in a senseless and endless twirl.

Calliope has always been braver than him.

She turns and in one graceful twirl places herself between the tendrils of darkness and her half-brother. Between the god and the Endless. She stares him down. He stares right back.

The tendrils tremble around the edges.

Chiron pinches the bridge of his nose wearily. A cherub sucks a thumb into his mouth, watching the game with bright amused eyes.

A shadow stills, the air turns sour.

A gasp is breathed, a heart is released.

A stranger-traveller springs from a table, cheered on by a collective shriek. A toddler tumbles from her table. A palm is pressed to her cheek, lovely brown eyes coming into view. Shadows retreat into the darkest parts of an ancient soul.

She breathes. She lives. She cries.

''Please, please, don't send me off on a burning boat.''

-

A/N: yes I am alive, no, I’m not sorry (a tiny bit still).

Also… finally introducing the premise, how do we feel about that ;)

Gotta sort the rest of my drafts before I update again, but I’m currently working on a Sandman x DBD crossover so updates on this series might take a while. And since the algorithm seems to be against me, I'd recommend a follow to be sure not to miss them!

[samobservessonic]

After the most intense two weeks of my then eight-year-old life trying to guess what would happen next, we return to the narrative where Sonic believes he’s killed his friends. At least enough time has passed that randos in a bar have started talking about it, while a hooded Sonic angstily sips his cola. Is angstily a word? Probably not, but I’m making it one now

Watch out, it’s Sonic the Hedgehog! That guy killed his friends, apparently!

The lighting on this whole scene! Man, I wish we still had the Elson's colouring from this era in the Sonic brand somewhere now

With that, Super Sonic is back. He’s appearing more lately because Sonic absorbed a lot of chaos energy when he fell in that emerald pit, but I doubt the stress of Sonic thinking he’s killed the others is helping him keep very calm in any situation

Thankfully, his very much still alive friends are tracking him down

Super Sonic’s biggest reaction to finding out they’re still alive is that now he gets to kill them again

Amy takes control of the situation, talking to Super Sonic to keep him distracted. It’s no wonder I was immediately drawn to how cool she is in StC as a kid

Remember in the Holiday Special last time when I said the Star Post would be making another appearance again soon? Well, here it is. This Star Post is about to be a big part in the resolution of this arc

There’s a lot of me pointing at stuff in this arc and saying “Look at how cool this is!” but really, look at how cool this is!

Time out time for you, sir

Then we get this glorious page of Super Sonic trying to escape before he’s pulled in. We still don’t have any context for what the Freedom Fighters are trying to do, just that it’ll be bad news if they don’t succeed

And here we have one of the biggest developments in StC - they might’ve managed to rip the chaos energy out of Sonic, but Super Sonic isn’t gone. No, instead we now have the distinct possibility that he has become entirely separate from Sonic. Trust me when I say they’re going to run with this idea

We end on this alarming note, with the Freedom Fighters realising they have to get Sonic out of here before they stop to reflect on it. With their caravan gone, their places to hide are surely more limited than before ALSO while it's on my mind, it shows the strength of Running Wild that we've had this whole arc without any of the villains involved and it still manages to be the most intense story in the comic so far

[thelustybraavosimaid]

"Loneliness is a terrible thing, but so, too, is the hunger," Aemon felt for the lit candle before him, held onto it to warm his frail, wrinkled hands. "And with that hunger...when we do not heed it, we waste. Valyrians are meant to live long lives, as long as the dragons we claim—barring any maladies or ill-fated events, mind you—but without a soulmate and their blood, our lives are cut by half at the very least..."

Jon watched him as he adjusted the heavy chain resting at his thin neck, wondering. He flexed the fingers of his sword hand. Why is he telling me this? He was perplexed enough with his dreams...yet he couldn't help the curiosity that bloomed in his mind.

Jon may not be a Stark, but he felt Ghost's desire for fresh elk as if it were his own craving, the feeling so sharp on his tongue, the thought of hot crimson and chunked meat cascading down his throat mouthwatering. Was that common among werewolves with bonded loves, as it must be for vampyres? If so, mayhaps the Targaryens and the Starks were never so different, after all.

"...there was a girl I loved, did you know?" The skin around his milk-white eyes crinkled as he grinned. Jon was surprised by that; knowing how young he had been when he joined the maesters, he found it hard to believe he ever would have been romantically involved with another. Aemon sighed in remembrance. "I remember some about her, even still. The colour of her hair, the fairness of her skin, the soft way she spoke. I had already forged maester's links by then, devoted to my order and the lord I served. Yet I couldn't help the way I felt when I saw her.

I met her by chance; she served the lord as well, as a cupbearer. For a while we had gotten close, until I received the letter of my father calling his sons to the Red Keep. There was some...relief in leaving Oldtown. My father urging me to return home was a sound excuse, but there existed another reason why I had to, a deeper reason. A vampyre's bloodlust when it comes to our soulmates is almost consuming at times. It is painful when they're near and we cannot have them. In the past, such torment had driven some to madness.

My greatest fear was hurting her. I was torn back then; all I had devoted my life to was challenged with a single gaze of hers. Despite it, I had to choose my work instead. The both of us were miserable when I departed, but I knew it was for the best. I never would have forgiven myself if I had harmed her with my selfish impulses..."

Aemon's wizened voice drifted off as he fell into his memories. Jon sat in the silence as he dwelled in his own thoughts. Lately, his dreams had been strange, all-consuming, eerily real...but how much to reveal?

He decided on a far safer approach. "Do you remember her name?"

"I told you all the things about her that I can remember for a certainty," his smile carried a hint of morosity. "It has been nine-and-seventy years since last I glimpsed her. When you get to be as old as I, when the bond between soulmates is severed so early, you begin to forget certain details over time. My mind is still as deft as a blade, for the most part...yet I cannot remember her name..."

Silence fell over them once more, the quiet cut through with the occasional crackle of the hearth's firewood. Jon poured him a glass of wine, relieved when he accepted the goblet.

Aemon's white eyes peered over the rim of the goblet, finding him with ease. "You have had similar dreams, have you not? Do you know her name, Jon Snow? The one who plagues you so?"

...how could I forget?

Five years, eight months, and a fortnight had passed since he had last seen her, and yet the memory was fresh in his mind as if he had left Winterfell but a few hours ago. Jon closed his eyes, thinking of the last time he had seen her. She jumped into his arms when he gave her that skinny sword, stung his arm when she whapped him with the flat of her blade, drowned him in shy kisses in gratitude...

He thought of when she laughed and how the world felt warmer in response, chipping away at the jagged anger that lanced him.

He didn't want to leave, not her, not then...but after this, perhaps it was for the better. When he thought of her as she appeared in his dreams, of her striking grey eyes, her slender legs springy and longer, and the smell of earth and snow that clung to her skin, Jon's breath choked on a trembled gasp. His teeth sharpened, pressing down into the meat of his bottom lip. No matter how many years one had spent here, men did not forget their loyalties, their loves, their wants, and that rang true for him, as well. There was a darker edge to his love now though, if this was the painful bond the good maester had warned him about.

Hunger coiled in the pit of his stomach, worsening the more he thought of her.

Was that truly what she looked like now?

"You need not speak it aloud, dear boy," Aemon's hand drifted over Jon's, warm from the dying candle, "the love you bear her is plain enough, even without the seeing. And I hear the pain all the same."

He was grateful. He didn't want to say it in fear of being judged. Hells, he could even be wrong; dreams were but fragments of memory, often making mockery of men. If he wasn't, though...wouldn't the good maester understand, what with his Targaryen ancestry? Of course he remembered her name, though, and Jon was sure he'd never forget, no matter how much time would weather them both.

Arya Stark.

Jon stood. "Thank you for your time, Maester Aemon."

"Before you go, I suggest you take this," he rested his palm over a thick tome, the cover black and without a label. Along the spine, it said, Soulbonds and Bloodlust: On Vampyrism. "Septon Barth was a great chronicler of dragons, wyrms, wyverns...but little know how extensive his work had been on the lore of vampyres and our soulbonds. If you have the time, perhaps it can be of some use to you."

How could it be of any use when the last trueborn vampyre in Westeros was sitting before him, kept alive by the Wall's purported magic? Jon did not want to be disrespectful, though, so he took the tome from his hands. The book was massive, with a sizable weight to it. It was about vampyrism, of course, but maybe he could glean some understanding of his wolfish cravings all the same.

The old man smiled again. "And who knows, perhaps you may see your beloved far sooner than you believe."

Dare he hope? With a flex of his hand upon hearing the words, Jon thanked him, tucked the book under his left arm, and retreated back to the confines of his quarters.

[lauralot89]

Let all be put down exactly. Van Helsing and I arrived at Hillingham at eight o'clock. It was a lovely morning; the bright sunshine and all the fresh feeling of early autumn seemed like the completion of nature's annual work. The leaves were turning to all kinds of beautiful colours, but had not yet begun to drop from the trees.

Lucy's on the edge of death but let me wax poetic about the leaves exactly

"You must not take all the credit to yourself, doctor. Lucy's state this morning is due in part to me."

...

...

Listen, ma'am, I'm really, REALLY trying not to place all the blame for this on you, given that Van Helsing stupidly didn't tell ANYONE but Lucy that the flowers were medicinal, and he's an idiot for that, but do you have to be so SMUG? Who takes something out of a sick person's room in the first place?

You will be pleased with her, I am sure

Ron Howard: He was not pleased with her

As she had spoken, I watched the Professor's face, and saw it turn ashen grey. He had been able to retain his self-command whilst the poor lady was present, for he knew her state and how mischievous a shock would be; he actually smiled on her as he held open the door for her to pass into her room.

Van Helsing is a stronger person than I am, I must say, I would have lost it

Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down. He raised his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then beat his palms together in a helpless way; finally he sat down on a chair, and putting his hands before his face, began to sob, with loud, dry sobs that seemed to come from the very racking of his heart.

Okay this is at least half his fault, but you've got to feel for the guy

This poor mother, all unknowing, and all for the best as she think, does such thing as lose her daughter body and soul; and we must not tell her, we must not even warn her

Ron Howard: They did tell her and even warned her later this very day

"No!" he said. "To-day you must operate. I shall provide. You are weakened already."

You ever think about how Dracula tasted the blood of almost every member of the Crew of Light, and most of them he tasted through Lucy?

Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that she must not remove anything from Lucy's room without consulting him; that the flowers were of medicinal value, and that the breathing of their odour was a part of the system of cure

Great work, Van Helsing. Not to rub it in but why didn't you do that the first time

Then he took over the care of the case himself, saying that he would watch this night and the next and would send me word when to come.

Really should have done that before too

[pedriswife]

Pour it up ☆ Part 2 《read part 1 here》

Hola todos! Decided to add this request onto this fic because I felt like it would suit. Enjoy🫶🏼

Warning! Smut ahead (of course;)

It's been 2 weeks since Pedri last saw you. He woke up to an empty and cold bed, his clothes folded on top, no sign of you. No note, no number, no nothing. The only thing he knew was your name.

You on the other hand continued with life as normal; sure, you felt a bit bad that you had to end the fling in such a manner, but you couldn't let a hottie from Tenerife impact your studies which were currently your priority.

Right now, you were working at a local cafe, a needed Saturday shift just to get that bit of extra money to help with your expenses of living here. You spent the whole morning serving the customers at the quiet side of town, the buys mostly elderly people or university students trying to cram for an exam.

Coming up to the closing time, you were wiping down the tables and collecting any dirty utensils when you heard the front door ding, signifying that someone had entered the shop.

"We're closing, I can't serve you until tomorrow," you said, without looking up to see your customer.

You were met with silence, the person not replying but not leaving either.

"You know, I think I liked you better in that black dress. And those black heels. Especially when they were draped over my shoulders, " a familiar voice said, making your head snap up in shock.

You were met with Pedri's eyes, staring you down, a mixture of annoyance and disbelief visible on his face. You never expected to see him again, and yet he had found you.

"Why did you leave me bonita, huh?" He asked, his arm snaking closer to your waist pulling you in.

"It just seemed like the best thing to do," you replied simply, ignoring the buzzing of excitement going through you.

"Well, it wasn't. I spent these 2 weeks trying to find you. You had some sort of intoxicating effect on me, I just had to see you again. Even if it was just to see your face, I had to try, " he whispered, his breath hot on your ear, his lips inching closer.

"You've found me now. What you gonna do about it?" You teased, a smirk forming on your face. You had this man wrapped around your finger, and both of you knew it.

"I'm gonna take you home if you allow me. And we can see from there, " he answered hesitantly, not knowing what your response was going to be.

But who were you to deny him; both of you wanted this. "Go on then, let's see whether you can live up to that night's expectations."

He immediately pulled your arm towards the exit, you barely managing to close the shop, his hungry lips already on your neck. Once you got in his car, the two of you drove off to Pedri's apartment, not wanting to wait any longer.

☆

His hands were tugging at your clothes the minute you made it over his doorstep, his lips roughly kissing yours, your hand grabbing at the strands of his hair, pulling, making him groan out load.

You finally made it back to his bedroom, your clothes scattered in a trail leading up to it. Pedri's erect cock was already leaking precum, the tip an angry red colour, seeking release.

His lips were now on your neck, viciously leaving marks while you couldn't help but moan out his name, his smirk visible against your neck. He made his way down to your breasts, sucking harshly and tugging at your nipple, alternating sides, red marks already starting to form, your hands holding on for dear life on his back, scratching down the length of it.

"Tell me bonita. Are you going to leave me again?" He growled as his hand made its way into your soaked core, his fingers tracing a figure of eight over your clit.

"No - no, I'm not," you whimpered out, his fingers speeding up and occasionally entering you. Two of his fingers fully entered you, the squelching noise heard through the room as he drove them in and out of you. You were moaning his name, still leaving scratch marks over his back. He curled them up, hitting your g spot consistently as his mouth gently traced over the marks he left on your chest.

Your orgasm hit you suddenly, a moan ripping from your mouth, Pedri slowing down his movements, as he watched your euphoric face.

"You did so good for me bonita, so good," he murmured, placing a kiss on your cheek. "You think you can do two more?" He asked, stroking your hair as you came back to yourself.

You nodded in response to which Pedri tutted "words bonita, tell me."

"Yes, please, Pedri, do something" you said to which Pedri licked a stripe against your core, gathering all your juices, you arching your back at the feeling, still sensitive from the previous orgasm. Your hand made its way back to his hair, and you used it to tug him closer to your core, his tongue pressed flat against it, his nose pressing on your clit.

He continued to eat you out, slurping up your juices like a starved man. His tongue entered you, to which you pulled him in even closer, somewhat restricting his breathing as you bucked up your hips, wanting more pleasure. He was lapping up your juices, his nose still proving that extra pressure against your clit and in no time, you were cumming again, his name escaping your lips along with a string of profanities, Pedri pulling away as your thighs shook, his face covered in your cum. He licked off what was around his lips, the rest wiped off with the back of his hand.

You looked down at him, your face warm and hair sticking to your forehead, trying to catch your breath. He came up to your face and kissed you passionately, tasting yourself in the process. His hand was on his cock, giving it a few tugs before putting on a condom.

"Ready bonita?" He asked, moving you up further on the bed so you feel more comfortable. You grabbed his shoulders for support and whispered a "yes," and he entered you, the feeling of fullness coming back to you, same as you felt on the first night with him. Pedri groaned at the feeling, before bottoming out and slamming back in, his tip hitting your g spot once again.

You moaned at the feeling, Pedri's thrust continuously hitting against your spot, you feeling close again due to the two previous orgasms. You wrapped your legs around his waist, the position allowing him to reach deeper, making the two of you groan out loud. His hair was sticking to his forehead, perspiration visible on his chest, his cheeks having the signature red hue on them. He sped up his movements causing you to cum, screaming out his name once again. Feeling you clench around his drove him over the edge; his head dropped to your shoulder, groaning and letting out profanities, emptying himself out into the condom.

You lay like this for a while before Pedri got up and removed his condom, chucking it in the bin before going to the bathroom to get a towel to wipe you down with.

"You did so bonita," he stated, kissing you on the lips as you smiled up at him. He picked you up and made his way to the bathroom again, putting you down in the bath whilst filling it with water. He washed your tired body, massaging your muscles as you relaxed, content with how your night turned out.

Once finished, you got dressed in one of his t shirts, which was enough to keep you covered. You sat down on the bed once again, same as you did the first time you had sex with him, watching as Pedri battled with the TV to find some film.

He finally put on some Disney film, joined you back on the bed, and scanned through your face, looking for any sign.

You looked back at him, right into his warm brown eyes, and turned back to the TV, wanting to relax.

"Are you gonna leave me again bonita?" He asked, already knowing the answer but still asking, hoping that maybe he is wrong.

You nodded, not being able to look him in the eye now. The two of you went back to watching the movie, knowing that you probably won't have this encounter ever again.

☆

The end...

[pricescigar]

Vincent Saar Bowman

Cw: Mentions of murder & violence

Born: 5th November 1884

Age: 75 (Deceased in 1959)

Nationality: British

Gender: Male

Height: 182.88 cm (6ft)

Parent(s):  Unknown

Siblings(s): Unknown

Wife: Clara Jones (Deceased)

Hair colour:  Brown

Eye colour:  Brown

Nicknames:  Vin, Vinny _________________________________________

Personality:

Strong headed, stubborn, yet kind and caring on the inside. Vincent is protective of the family he made, and prone to violence when necessary when it comes to protecting mutants.

Likes: his family, wife, smoking cigars, travelling, protecting mutants, his club, music

Dislikes: Humans, loud spaces, disloyalty, Being late to things, his paranoia getting the best of him,

_________________________________________

Backstory:

Vincent Saar Bowman grew up in London, coming from a well to do family. He had the highest , most private education that was offered to him. The oldest of eight siblings, Vincent was the most intelligent put of them all, he was the role model, most responsible and the back bone of the family.

At 14 years old in 1894, Vincent suffered a traumatic accident which caused him great distress, what kind of accident remains unknown due to him to have never spoken about it.

What truly happened was that his parents and siblings died in a freak accident, leaving him the only sole survivor. Now the only surivor of the Bowman family. All inheritance was left to him.

Vincent began to hear voices a day after the accident. Voices that weren't his own, he thought he was going crazy but he always ignored it. Whenever he focused on people. He could hear thoughts, their deepest, darkest desires. Everything about them.

With his new found mutation. He didn't know what to do with himself, other than to try and keep it under wraps the best he could. Discovering that he could read peoples minds, make them do whatever he wanted was a great thing. Something he needed to control.

At the age of 18 in 1902, Vincent met his wife Clara who was also a mutant with the most beautiful wings he'd ever seen. Though Clara was always seen as a freak, after she was recently disowned by her parents he took her in and the two quickly fell in love. Truly it was love at first sight. By the end of the year the two got married.

The two moved out of London and moved to East Hanningfield for a new chapter of their life, and a better life for the future.

In September of 1903 , Clara gave birth to her daughter Harriet. Both of them were surprised that they managed to have a child, as they struggled to reproduce

Though Vincent was disappointed over the years that she didn't show any signs of her mutation. Yet, part of him was glad that the teo could have a normal child, without the curse of a mutation.

With Vincent determined to find other mutants like he and his wife, however he didn't know where to start. But part of him always knew, he would find someone like him one day.

Summer of 1928, Vincent met Sebastian Shaw, the two grew a close bond with one and another. Again, I feel glad that he and his wife went alone, Vincent proposed a deal to create am underground club for any other mutants they find. So that they could feel safe and protected.

August of that same year, Vincent formed "The Ministry." His own personal gang, or club however you may perceive it. Which included himself, Clara, Sebastian Shaw and five other mutants who joined in the later years.

With Harriet now an adult at the age of 25 and watching her get close to Sebastian Shaw. He approved of the marriage when Shaw personally asked Vincent for his daughters hand in marriage. He accepted of course.

1930 Vincent's daughter got married to Sebastian shaw, and in 1932 Harriet gave birth to Harper making Vincent a grandfather.

In the early year of 1939 , Clara got murdered by humans when they discovered she was a mutant. She died of injuries that were too severe, heartbroken by the news... It didn't take long for Vincent to track them down, and kill the humans with his mind.

Now more paranoid than ever thinking humans were constantly after him and his family. Any human that found out about his club, were killed instantly. Without a second thought. After what happened to Clara, he rarely trusted any human that he came across.

In 1940, Harriet ran away with Harper when she was only eight years old. That only increased Vincent’s paranoia knowing that humans aren't so kind when it came to mutants.

But no matter how hard Vincent looked, he was never able to find them. Leaving it to Sebastian shaw to try and find them.

At the height of the Second World War, his club got disbanded due to the increasing threat of the war. Sebastian Shaw went off to do his own thing, the other mutants disappeared to keep themselves safe. Leaving Vincent more alone than ever.

Over the years he grew more insane, spending so many years alone got to Vincent badly. He began to hallucinate, seeing things that aren't really there.

As he got older, he got sicker. Eventually he got diagnosed with dementia, and prone to having seizures sometimes he had such little time left.

In 1959, at the age of 75. He came across Harper again who was now and adult, but he had forgotten who she was. After suffering another severe seizure, losing control of his powers while accidentally hurting Harper.

Harper put herself and him in the astral plane, while the two had a heart to heart. With Vincent finally remembering Harper in his last moments, he used the last bit of strength he had to enhance Harper's telepathy to help her become stronger, to protect herself before he passed away.

[tsarisfanfiction]

Beyond Help

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Friendship/Hurt/Comfort Characters: Will, Miranda Even Demeter's daughter can't heal the flowers of a god's soul when they start to fade. TOApril day 26 - Wilting Flowers. This one is actually set between BOO and THO. Apollo equates his sense of self to the Curse of Delos, so what would that look like while he's being stripped of his godhood?

“I’m sorry, Will.”  Will swallowed at the despondent sound in Miranda’s voice as he forced himself to look at her.

She still had her fingers buried in the soil of the planter on the window sill, but there was no sign of the usual spark of life the daughter of Demeter could bring.  The flowers stayed drooping and faded, as though they were mere moments from losing their petals and drying up into the shrivelled brown stems of dead plants.

It was normal, a part of nature.  Will was familiar with the seasonal nature of plants the same way most people were, used to different flowers blooming at different times of the year, always with some colour to display proudly somewhere.

He had never, ever, seen these flowers wilt before.  Logically, he knew that they weren’t the exact same flowers that he’d first seen when he was seven – they’d moved around, had different shapes and clusters – but whatever happened to cause those changes always happened without his notice.  Will suspected overnight, when the flowers took on a silvery hue in the moonlight, but he’d never seen them to prove it.

They were his dad’s sacred flowers, as eternal as the god himself.  In eight years, they’d never faltered.

But now they were changing, wilting and losing the inherent life that always thrummed through them, and Will’s heart felt like it was being constricted by an ever-tightening serpent the longer it went on.

He’d known that Miranda probably wouldn’t be able to do it, when he’d finally caved and gone to the Demeter cabin for help.  They could help any plants to grow, revitalise the soil, whatever was needed – but this was different.  This was the flowers of a god, and Will had the horrible, sinking feeling that it was no coincidence.

None of his siblings had heard anything from Apollo since before the Argo II had left camp for the Romans, and their father’s silence had persisted long past the end of the war and Gaia’s defeat.

Still, there was a significant part of him that had hoped she could produce a miracle and restore the life and vitality of Apollo’s flowers.  The fact that she couldn’t wasn’t the resigned dull ache he’d thought, but a far more vicious pain.

“It’s okay,” he told her, pushing past the way his heart felt like it was cracking in two, the separating parts being crushed together by serpentine coils as though an organ could compound fracture.  “Thanks for trying.”

She pulled her fingers out from the soil, dirt clinging to her skin like it couldn’t bear to be parted from her.  Most people would brush it away, but children of Demeter weren’t most people when it came to soil, and Miranda didn’t seem to even notice the specks of brown on her hands.

“Is there still no sign?” she asked him, gently because that was Miranda all over – gentle and caring even if she had a spine of steel behind it.  Will thought the state of the flowers was answer enough for that, but he humoured her and shook his head.

“Nothing,” he admitted, feeling his lip tremble slightly.  “He’s still silent.  The dreams haven’t started again.”

“There must be a reason,” Miranda said.  “I’m sure he wouldn’t go silent without reason.”  She didn’t even know Apollo, but she’d been in camp long enough to know how close Will and his siblings thought they’d got with their father.

“Yeah,” he said, despondently.  “A reason.”

It wasn’t that he thought Apollo suddenly didn’t love them, or had never loved them.  That was a thought process too far, even in the current silence, although Will wondered if that was the better option.

Because the other option was the one that haunted Will.  No-one had heard of Apollo since the giant banes started appearing, and on top of whoever Apollo’s giant bane was, there was also Delphi, and Python – because Python wasn’t a giant.  Delphi was one of Apollo’s seats of power and it had fallen, and no-one had heard anything from Apollo since.

Will liked to think that he’d, somehow, feel it if something had happened to his dad.  That the sun would feel different against his skin, or a feeling with an unmistakable meaning sinking into his bones.

(The hurt that came from the wilting flowers, the squeezing snake around his breaking heart, meant something, but Will ignored them, because he wasn’t strong enough to handle whatever they were trying to tell him.)

Miranda fumbled a little bit, a good friend but not one equipped to deal with Will facing the hell that was the rest of his life without the father that was supposed to be immortal, before resting a dirt-covered hand on his shoulder.

She couldn’t promise everything would be okay.  Neither of them would ever have believed that, not after two wars and the deaths of too many siblings (Will had lost more, yes, but Miranda hadn’t lost none and even one was one too many; grief wasn’t a competition and Will had never let himself fall into one).  “You’ll get through this,” she said instead, with a quiet confidence.  “Whatever has happened, whatever will happen, you’ll get through this.  And if it gets hard, remember you’re not alone.”  She pulled him into a secure hug, and Will felt his shoulders start to shake in companionship with his lip.

He didn’t cry, but it was close.

“I know,” he said instead, with a voice that shook.  “Thank you.”