Supernatural fandom
Jack Kline: total 3
- Young love.. (fluff)
- Do you ever feel (angst, fluff)
- Goodbye beautiful (fluff)
Dean Winchester: total 1
- Is he mine? (angst, fluff)
Pirates of the Caribbean fandom
Will Turner: total 1
- Change of loyalty (fluff)
Lord of the Rings/The Hobbit fandom
Legolas Greenleaf: total 1
- Mending the broken hearted (angst, fluff)
Kili: total 1
- When in Imladris (fluff)
Marvel Cinematic Universe
Loki Laufeyson: total 1
- Stop the clocks (angst)
Bucky Barnes: total 1
- Not so normal Thursday (angsty, dash of fluff)
Crimson Peak fandom
Thomas Sharpe: total 1
- A new future (angst, fluff)
And Then There Were None fandom
Philip Lombard: total 1
- Amongst the killing (fluff, implied smut)
Peaky Blinders
Thomas Shelby: total 3
- Let me down slowly (angst, fluff)
- The business deal
- Four times you told him you love him and the one time he told you (fluff)
Real people fanfiction (don’t take anything from those seriously please)
Jensen Ackles: total 1
- Comic Con crush (fluff)
Tom Hiddleston: total 1
- The ghost of Aphrodite (Alternative Universe, fluff, cross-posted on Wattpad under the title Cursed)
[ID: a screenshot of a comic speech bubble. The black text in it reads "No matter how open-minded, socially conscious, anti-racist I think I am, I still have old learned hidden biases that I need to examine. It is my responsibility to check myself daily for my stereotypes, prejudices and, ultimately, discrimination." /ID end]
antiracism is a constant process. i was raised in a racist village and it's not easy to get rid of it. i moved away over 10 years ago but those ideas are still haunting me.
also keep in mind that shame + guilt are not conducive to growing as a person. when it comes to "checking yourself" it should be a non-judgemental process. it's not about flagellating yourself for every bad thought or trying to purify your mind of all corruption. it's only when acknowledging your own racist thoughts doesn't fill you with dread that you can really progress past the white guilt of it all.
radical self-acceptance & genuine self-critique are not opposites. they need each other. do not let obsessive-compulsive behaviors colonize your desire to grow as a person.
As an adopted, bisexual, Asian woman who was raised in a white, west-european country in a Christian household, my whole existence is exactly this. I fight the voice in my head that reminds me of the 'rules' on a daily basis
⤷ 𝓼𝓯𝔀. leon is a stray dog of a man. first kisses. 𝟸.𝟿𝓀
leon is overly tired and very grumpy. it’s no surprise really when he rolled home in the early hours of the morning, bruised and so battered from his recent assignment—spain, if you remember it correctly—but since then, he clearly hasn’t slept and his mood is suffering for it. so, you take it upon yourself to fix it for him
“hey, leon?” you call out softly from your spot on the couch and then wince when you hear a cupboard door slamming shut in the kitchen. he’s been banging around in there for a while and truthfully, you have no idea what he’s trying to accomplish and you find it best not to ask, “c’mere for a second, please,”
it takes a moment but eventually, he leans around the kitchen doorframe with a frown pulling at his brows. he looks exhausted, his eyes are sunken in and the dark circles that are discoloring the tops of his cheeks can’t even hide behind the blonde hairs that hang in front of his face, “what’s up?” he asks, grumbling
his voice is rough, scratchy and faintly worn out, causing it to sound far deeper than it usually does. butterflies swarm low in your stomach over it—like they always do—but you try to ignore it this time whilst you smile and stretch your arms out towards him, “come and lay with me for a while, please,” you plead
the frown that’s painted across leon’s face deepens, his eyes get distant on the surface but you can see behind it—you can see right through him. something soft and melting hides behind the ice of his eyes, something that he doesn’t allow himself to feel often, much less indulge in it when you’re offering, “why?”
answering that with honesty is complicated. telling leon that you’re trying to lure him in, make him relax, force him to be pliant so that he can be tempted with sleep won’t ever work, you learnt that early on and because of it, you’ve had to get creative with telling little white lies that’ll benefit him in the long run
“because, i want you to,” you answer simply, keeping your tone light and airy, treating him as if he’s a shelter animal that’s at risk of backing into the corner, that’s furthest away from wherever you are, with his teeth bared. it’s not really a lie either, you would like him to lay with you but your motives behind it don’t need to be discussed
“but, why?” he asks again, this time sounding desperate and slightly pathetic. he knows that you’re lying in one way or another and he’s letting you. he’d never admit it but you’re the only person that can get away with it. if it were anyone else, he would’ve turned tail and left without even entertaining it
your head tips to the side, eyes raking over his face—the scars, the bruises, the cuts—whilst you make the decision to be somewhat candid with him, if only for his sake, “i just don’t like it when you shut yourself in your room after an assignment, that’s all,” you explain, carefully, still watching him
leon nods, his tongue darting between his lips, “do roommates lay together often?” he snarks, though there’s not a whole lot of heat behind it. he’s trying to deflect your offer, make himself out to be someone that you wouldn’t want near you at all but much to his dismay, it won’t work. it never does and it never will
“i don’t think roommates is the right word anymore, leon,” you point out with a knowing look—one that reminds him of the times you’ve patched him up, scrubbed dried blood from his body and washed gunpowder and god only knows what else from his hair, all without a complaint. “stop being difficult and come over here,”
the change in his eyes is the first thing that you notice, the first sign of submission. the distant look gets overpowered by the softness in an instant when he realises that he’s too exhausted to argue and what good would it do, he’ll only give into you in the end anyway, “yeah—yeah, okay,” he murmurs
finally, he steps out from where he was hiding against the kitchen doorframe. whatever he was doing—or rather, trying to do—in there seemingly becomes irrelevant as he shuffles towards you slowly with the telltale evidence of an ache that spreads throughout every single one of his limbs without his say so
still though, your eyes wander selfishly. his t-shirt is a size too small and clings to his biceps in all of the right places, his grey sweatpants hang low on his hips and one of the legs is caught up around his shin, exposing a ring of tanned skin between his clothing and his socks. he looks comfortable, for once
when he gets close enough, his teeth graze over his bottom lip and his gaze flickers between you and the couch and then over to the television that has been muted ever since you spotted him slinking out of his bedroom. he’s stalling but it only takes a soft flutter of your lashes to get him to cave and fall into you
it’s rather unceremonious and kind of clumsy. his limbs knock against your own and the couch creaks rudely with his added weight but eventually, he just gives up and sort of flops down on top of you, leaving his cheek smushing into your stomach and your legs spreading to accommodate his body
leon sighs. it rattles out of him while his arms snake around your waist, holding you pretty close for a guy who made out like he didn’t want this. it makes you smile, not that he can see it and for the first time ever, you hope that he can’t detect that butterflies that are still whirlwind-ing in your stomach, right under his head
instinctively, your fingers start to card through his hair. it feels like silk against your skin and it’s hard for you to imagine that not all that long ago it was thick with dirt and someone else’s blood—you try not to think about it as leon gives a small grunt of contentment, barely there and muffled but, it’s something
minutes pass by languidly, like time doesn’t really exist when leon is cosplaying as the most handsome weighted blanket. he stays quiet, enjoying the drag of your nails against his scalp and slowly, his breathing starts to even out as sleep starts to entice him but then he goes all at once and he jerks—hard
muscles pull taut all over his body while he goes from being on the edge of slumber to almost wide awake in the blink of an eye, “shouldn’t be—be doing this, i have work to do, reports and stuff” he rambles under his breath, trying to push himself up and away from you and this time you sigh deeply
guilt holds him in its grasp. survivors guilt—maybe. the constant feeling that he’s not allowed to relax, he’s not allowed to indulge in the simplest of things. the feeling that he has to keep going, an act of penance that’ll never be satisfied, no matter the amount of people saved or the heavy toll that it’s taking on his body
“leon—no, lay down,” you urge, though you sound more sympathetic than you’d like to. leon doesn’t like sympathy, he doesn’t like pity either but as your fingers slide underneath the neckline of his shirt and splay across tense muscles, he pauses, forces out a shuddered breath and then reluctantly relaxes again
“why do you even care about this?”
you flinch when leon can’t even ask why you care about him. he swaps the word with ease, leaves it unsaid but implied—even if he doesn’t mean to, “because i just do and if i didn’t, then who would?” you ask. it’s rhetorical, open ended if he wants to respond but there’s no pressure for him to try
strong arms loop around your waist again and large hands flatten against your spine, touching and committing the most ordinary parts of your body to memory, like it was made just for him, “you shouldn’t,” he whispers and the worst part is, he truly means it. he really doesn’t believe that anyone would care about him
“mhmm—sounded like a rough one this time so i’m trying to extra care of…this,” you breathe, repeating the same phrase that he used whilst shifting the subject ever so slightly. leon grunts in agreement—it was a rough job—and it gives you the chance to ask your favorite question, “do you want to talk about it?”
“no,”
just as you expected, the normal response. you have to ask him though and you won’t press the issue further, you won’t try to force him to open up about what he went through. instead, you leave it be and let an easy silence fill the space between you and him. you’re there if he changes his mind and that’s enough
in the meantime though, you drift your fingertips up and down the back of leon’s neck, tickling and just barely scratching your nails up through his hair and right back down to the top of his spine whilst leon seems to lose himself in a deep thought, one that allows you to see the proverbial cogs turning in his mind
a moment later, something shifts. you can’t pinpoint it and it’s odd because you feel it before anything really happens, almost like something prepares you for the shaky lungful of air that leon sucks into his body but then it leaves you high and dry, caught wholly off guard, for the gentle press of lips against your hipbone
it’s not a kiss—it can’t be. leon must’ve done it accidentally. too engrossed in his thoughts to realise that he did it but it felt like a kiss. fizzling beneath your skin, blossoming throughout your veins, a thing that you’ve wanted for too long. fleeting and sweet, causing you to overthink it, spoiling yourself with it. and then,
“i nearly died this time,”
your heart sinks. swooping low, stealing the air from your lungs. it hurts to hear, especially from a guy who has the most awful habit of consistently downplaying every single thing that happens to him, “w-what—oh my god—wait, come up here, please,” you gasp, screwing your hands into his shirt to haul him upwards
leon moves promptly, clambering and collapsing into the sliver of space between your body and the back of the couch. he slots in with ease and rolls you to face him, pressing his broad chest into yours as he settles his head against the armrest. he’s so close, more so than he’s ever been before but it's not enough
before you can think better of it, you’re draping your thigh up and over leon’s hip and tentatively resting your hand on his ribs but it doesn’t quite have the desired effect when leon flinches. a bruise from his assignment makes his body jerk and immediately, you feel awful and try to snatch your hand back
“no—don’t,” leon mumbles, vulnerable and out of his depth, while he catches your wrist and pulls your hand back to put it in it’s place. his own hand hovers over yours, displaying a size difference that makes you feel a little bit dizzy before his hand flits to your thigh and smooths tenderly up the outside of your leg
seconds bleed into minutes as you take the time to just exist with leon being so close. his breath fans over your cheek with every exhale and his hand squeezes lightly at your thigh but ultimately, you build up the courage to ask, “how did you—how did you almost…” you trail off, unable to say the words out loud
“that part doesn’t—it doesn’t matter,” leon answers you, too fast and frowning. his walls go back up—albeit, they’re only half the size that they normally are and ready to crumble at moments notice—while he attempts to draw your attention away from his confession. though, all it does is leave you feeling confused
an incredulous laugh bubbles in your throat, “leon—that’s insane, it does matter—you matter,” you rant frantically, hung up on the fact that you really almost lost him this time. sure—it’s a constant risk with his job but hearing him admit it makes it all too much for you to handle, “i mean—how can you even say that it—”
“i thought about you,”
oh. your previously sunken heart swells when leon cuts you off. your eyes widen as your breath hitches in your throat but your mind muddles with every single plausible implication of his words. maybe it’s wishful thinking on your part but it all leads back to one singular thing. still though, you blurt, “why?”
“i don’t know—i just—” leon stops himself and then presses his lips into a thin line. his eyes harden, only slightly, and his walls build themselves up to their full height. he’s struggling and you don’t blame him but you need to know and your fingers screwing into his shirt urges him on, “all i could think about was you and—”
you can’t take it anymore. you crowd into the small amount of personal space that he has left and press your lips into his and his walls collapse. he doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t waste another second before he’s kissing you back. soft, slow, sweet, all of the things that you weren’t entirely sure that he was capable of
his hand finds your waist, squeezing and tugging you closer until your bodies are flush against each other. your hand slides over his jaw and he doesn’t wince when you brush against the bruise that’s blooming underneath your palm. if it hurts him, he doesn’t show it because he’s too busy. he’s right where he wants to be
it’s all consuming, swallowing both of you whole where you lay on the couch until the air in your lungs begins to thin, causing you and leon to part your lips in an effort to breathe. he’s smiling though, you can feel it against your mouth whilst your chest rises and falls with every gasping breath
“shit—if i’d known—would’a told you ages ago,” leon mumbles in between kisses that have turned needy. it’s like he’s been teased with the taste of you and he’s worried that if he pulls away now, he’ll never get it again. somehow, the thought of that is far more harrowing than anything he’s ever encountered on a job
“what do you mean—ages ago?” you whisper, also refusing to interrupt the lazy flow of kisses that are being shared between you and him, as your fingers ghost up his jaw and into his hair once more. not pulling or tugging, just playing deftly in a way that makes him grunt low in his chest and grip your waist harder
he hesitates now. stuck somewhere between wanting to wear his heart on his sleeve and wanting to keep all of his secrets under lock and key. there’s a lull in his kisses, a moment where he’s too stuck to remember that he’s supposed to be kissing you back but when you threaten to pull away, he makes his decision quickly
“i think about you every time—all the time,” leon concedes with his bloodshot eyes wildly searching yours. he sounds sure of himself, no mumbling or muttering under his breath, he’s admitting it and you can practically see the weight of it lifting off of his shoulders, “it’s always just—you,” he breathes
inside of your chest, your heart is preparing to burst. it aches with happiness and an overwhelming sense of fulfilment and you can’t stop yourself from surging forwards to kiss him again. leon gasps as his bottom lip slots between yours—a sound that you haven’t ever heard from him—and then when you pull back, he grunts
“think about you too,” you giggle, sharing his sentiment, before you wriggle in close and tuck yourself against leon’s body. you fit together like puzzle pieces, your head slotting under his chin while his muscular arms wrap you up. you’ve found your place and you never plan on leaving, “miss you when you’re gone,”
“yeah?” leon chuckles, deep and throaty, muffled by his lips pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head as you yawn and nod in response, “thought you were trying to trick me into sleeping,” he teases, revealing that he knew what you were trying to do this entire time—you’re not mad about it though
still though, you playfully huff, “yeah—well—i am,” you mumble and press your ear against his chest to listen to the thrum of his heart beating. it’s an even thump, not panicked or rushed, just satisfied, “you’re gonna nap with me,” you garble around another yawn as leon’s exhaustion becomes infectious
“am i?” leon asks, though he’s already rearranging himself to get comfortable and tightening his arms around you, holding you close and trapping you against him. you nod again, not giving him a choice, but he doesn’t seem to care when he’s kissing your temple and whispering a peaceful, “yeah—i am,”
thanks for reading! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a kiss if you do, mwah ily! send prompts to my ask box!
Spending Time - Luis Serra x Reader (Beneath the Rot Part 7)
Summary: Dinner continues. He starts to come to some realizations.
Masterlist | Playlist | AO3 Link
He plates the food with more care than he should.
He chooses the only two matching plates that he has, taking care to try and make equal mounds of rice and meat on top of them. A stray speck of rice gets pushed back into the pile, almost like its disobedience is offensive. For some reason, he’s decided that everything about this meal has to be perfect.
Across from him, sitting at the other end of his small table, is you. Though you still look tired, a dark hue sticking to the bags of your undereyes, you seem a little lighter now. As if your earlier confession had freed you of whatever guilt and pains you’d been carrying lately.
He sets the plate in front of you with his signature smirk.
“Eat up, Carino. Goodness knows you’ve earned a good meal.”
You roll your eyes, “We’ll see about that.”
It’s lighthearted and he knows it. He can tell by the way your lips upturn when you speak, eyes sparkling. He watches with bated breath as you lift a spoonful of paella to your mouth.
“Oh, wow.” Your face lights up. It brings a heat to his cheeks. “This is actually really good.”
Luis presses a hand to his chest, feigning pain, “You wound me, as always. Did you not expect excellence?”
A scoff. “I was expecting something halfway decent. This is, just, wow!” Another bite gets swallowed down. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Ah.” He leans back in his chair. “That is a tragic story.”
You narrow your eyes. “That tone usually means I shouldn’t trust you.”
“No, no. This one is true.”
You make a vague motion with your fork for him to continue. Luis smiles. His mind is recalling the memories wistfully, almost like he can reach out and feel them. The neighbor girl, with her straw colored hair and emerald eyes, face covered in freckles and body clad in a modest brown dress.
“When I was maybe…” He squints upward, trying to recall the details. “Fourteen? Fifteen? There was a girl who lived a few houses over.”
Your eyebrows lift immediately.
“Do not make that face.” He groans.
“What face?”
“That face.”
You smile innocently. He sighs, continuing. “She was older than me. By three or so years, I would say.”
“Oh, so it gets worse!”
He ignores you. “She helped her father with everything. Chickens. Garden. Painting. Very responsible young lady.”
You almost choke on your food as you gasp, “…You had a crush on her!”
His eyes widen. “Excuse me. That is an aggressive assumption.” He sighs. “But, yes. I very much did.”
You grin. Luis points his fork at you, trying to hide the embarrassment flushing through his face. “In my defense, she was very pretty and once called me helpful.”
You laugh. It makes his heart sing.
“One day her father decided the fence needed repainting.”
You nod.
“And she asked if I wanted to help.”
Your smile grows. His shoulders rise, like he’s trying to shield himself from your humor. “So naturally, I thought…” His hand gestures grandly, as if to say: ‘This is it. This is romance.’
You start laughing already.
“I spent all morning preparing.” He brushes a strand of hair out of his eyes.
Your lips purse as you try to suppress your giggles. “Oh no.”
“Yes.”
Your head drops into your hand.
He counts on his fingers slowly, recalling how he had spent that morning all those years ago. “I put on my nicest shirt. I combed my hair. I even stole cologne!”
You’re openly laughing now. He nods solemnly.
“I arrived prepared to become someone’s future husband.”
You nearly choke. Luis continues with complete seriousness. “She handed me a brush and said, ‘Wonderful. You can do that side.’ She then spent six hours talking about tomatoes.” His expression becomes mournful. “I thought perhaps she was shy. Alas, she was not shy.”
At this point, your shoulders are shaking with laughter. Luis presses onward. “At one point I thought perhaps she was testing me. So I worked harder.”
You can only wheeze.
His voice lowers dramatically. “I got paint in my eye.” He smiles faintly at the memory. “When we finished…” He spreads his hands. “…she thanked me.”
You grin. “That’s sweet.”
He nods. “And then she said she owed me dinner.”
Your expression brightens. “Wait, really?!”
Luis sighs. “So she brought me into the kitchen.” He has to turn his face away to hide his blush, “And then she taught me how to make paella.” His face remains entirely serious. “And then she told me she was very excited because she thought I would get along with her cousin.”
More giggles. You’ve taken another bite, savoring it more now that you know the story behind it.
“So, you’re telling me that you dressed up, cooked, spent time with a girl, and wanted her approval?”
He sighs, “Ah, yes. Very tragic.”
Your brows raise. He can almost see the gears in your head turning. Yet instead of prompting more, you just ask, “... What other stories do you have? About that village?”
“Very many. We could be here all week.”
“Well, we have the rest of the day. Tell one more. Something tells me you got into a lot of trouble back then.”
He chuckles, a little breathy, “God yes. I was mischievous on a good day. Have I ever told you about Diablo?”
“Diablo? Like the Devil?” Your eyebrow raises.
“He might as well have been the devil with how much that damn goose hated me.”
“A goose?!”
More laughter falls from your lips. It’s a noise he wants to hear forever, for some odd reason that he chooses not to think about. Instead, he just sighs, “My grandfather kept geese. There was one, mean, huge, old fellow. All black feathers and rage deep in its eyes. It hated me.”
“Why?”
Luis tries to ignore the redness coming to his cheeks. Whether it’s embarrassment or something else, he doesn’t know. “Well, one of the other boys in the village decided to dare me to chase it. I was a fearless child. So I did.”
“And?” You’re leaning forward in your chair now, closer to him. Beckoning him to finish the story.
“It chased me back. Every time I saw it. For another 3 years until it passed from old age.” He shrugs. “But, he was delicious. I imagine all the extra running made him more tender.”
You snort so hard you nearly choke. “You ate him?!”
“Small village. No animal goes to waste! Abuelo made sure of that.”
As he speaks, your eyes seem to soften. “... You mention him a lot. What about him? What was he like?”
For a second, he freezes, his fork hovering between the plate and his mouth. It gets lowered slowly, his eyes downturning.
“He was a practical man.”
He can remember him so very well. His grandfather’s smirk, much like his own. The way the man would tease him just for fun. How he always encouraged Luis’ passions, no matter how odd or extreme they felt.
“A bit old fashioned, but that’s how the whole town was, I guess. He spoke with a little bit of a lisp when he was drunk. He made excellent bread, too.”
“He sounds like a great person.”
For a moment, his eyes can’t meet yours. “He really was. The best person who could have raised me, really. He taught me so much.”
“Like?” Your head tilts inquisitively. It feels gentle, like you’re trying to encourage him without pressing too hard.
“Well,” Luis pauses for a moment, thinking. “He was the village hunter. He always brought home all sorts of game. We were one of the only houses that didn’t worry about going to bed hungry.” A sigh, “I thought everyone’s grandfather came home smelling like pine needles and carrying rabbits. Apparently, that was not a universal experience. I was just, ah, lucky.”
Your fingers drum on the table for a moment as you listen, as if trying to imagine the man. Luis wishes he had a photo to give you. He doesn’t. Instead, he just smiles at you, softer than he’s used to being.
Your fingers still their movements, eyes looking at his fondly.
“I enjoy spending time with you, Luis.”
For a second, he forgets to breathe.
The compliment lands in a way he’s not used to. It hits him square in the chest, his heart beating out a strange tune that he’s never really felt before. Sure, many people have given him compliments. But none of them have ever felt this real. This… Right.
Luis has to force his brain to work again before answering.
“I… I enjoy spending time with you too.”
You keep talking, chattering about something that he tries his damndest to follow along with, but his mind is somewhere else. His brain is far away, trying to analyse the warmth in his face and the flutter of his heart. Trying to make sense of the way he keeps his eyes on you, like if he looks away for too long, you might disappear. When you swipe a few strands of hair out of your face, he can’t help but admire the shape of your eyes.
When you smile at him, giggling at a half minded joke he makes, he can’t help but trace the shape of your lips with his gaze.
As the day continues, midday sun dipping low on the horizon, he finds himself on his small couch with you, sitting closer than he would have before. You’re flipping through more of his books, reading out passages that you find interesting.
It hits him like a knife when he realizes that he wants more of this.
He wants you to be with him, sitting on his old couch, your voice trailing through the room like music. He wants you to keep asking him about his life, like he actually matters.
He wants you to stay.
That, somehow, feels more dangerous than the host trails or the parasites ever could be.
Coffee and Paella - Luis Serra x Reader (Beneath the Rot Part 6)
Summary: After the horrors of the host trails, he decides to take you back to his place for dinner.
Content Warning: Some angst. Minor mentions of readers family (pretty vague), talks of reader having a sister.
Masterlist | Playlist | AO3 Link
His arm stays wrapped around you far longer than it needs to be.
To be completely fair, it’s not like he could ever have a choice to let go of you. You’re still shaking as he starts guiding you towards the tiled stairs.
The hallway is mostly empty by now. There’s only the occasional lab assistant who dares step into the area, their faces ducked down and arms drawn in too closely to be comfortable. Somewhere further down the corridor, a cart rattles over uneven stone while distant voices echo between the walls. Life inside the facility continues forward with mechanical indifference. Like the screaming downstairs never happened at all.
It makes him despise the cold, clinical walls even more.
His thoughts are guided back to the present when he feels warm fingers inch closer to him. Slowly, your hands curl weakly into the front of his coat, grounding yourself against him for one brief second before you seem to realize what you’re doing. Embarrassment flashes across your face immediately afterward.
“Sorry,” Your eyes don’t meet his. It hurts him more than it should. “I’m just kind of shaken up, I guess. I’ll be fine.”
His lips part in a sigh, chuckling out a response. “You are many things, cariño,” he prompts, gently. “A convincing liar is not one of them.”
A tiny, almost silent noise leaves you. Like a wounded animal, scared to accept help from a stranger.
When you meet his gaze again, his chest clenches painfully. Your eyes look empty and exhausted. The harsh lights of the hallway emphasize the dark bags, lines of worry etched into your features. For a moment, it looks like you might start to cry, before you look away and straighten yourself up as though nothing is wrong.
“We should probably head back to the lab.” Even your voice shakes a little.
He studies you for a brief moment. Your hands are shaking.
The decision is easy.
“No. We’re done for today.”
Your eyebrows raise, “...No? We’re not? Luis, do you have any idea how many notes I need to finish-”
“We’re done for today. I have seen corpses that have more life in them than you do now. We’ve earned a break.”
Head shaking, you sigh. “I still have a lot of work to do.”
His eyes roll. “Tragically, so do I. I, however, am choosing to ignore it. A brilliant strategy, really.” He tilts his head towards the stairwell, brown hair glinting like amber in the light. “Why not have dinner with me instead?”
You stare at him like he just grew an extra head. “Dinner? It’s literally only 2:30 in the afternoon.”
“And time is a social construct, princesa.”
You hesitate for a moment, uncertainty creeping back across your expression. “I don’t really…” Your gaze lowers briefly. “I don’t think I’m very good company right now.”
Something in his chest twists painfully at that. As if you think you need to earn kindness before receiving it.
“Lucky for you,” he murmurs softly, “I talk enough for two people. Now, follow me. I’ll lead you back to my place.”
.
.
.
As you two walk, he keeps talking.
“Are you allergic to anything, genia?”
Your eyebrows raise, “... You’re cooking? You can cook? I thought you were just going to boil some instant noodles or something.”
He places a dramatic hand against his chest. “You wound me.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I cook beautifully.” He protests.
Your hand gestures vaguely back towards the lab. “You almost set a centrifuge on fire last week.”
“That was science,” he says immediately. “Entirely different skill set.”
A tired laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. God, that sound feels strangely victorious after the nightmare downstairs.
Luis gently touches your elbow, steering you toward the right hallway before you can change your mind. Your movements are slower now, drained clean through, but at least you’re walking beside him instead of disappearing back into yourself completely.
For a moment, silence settles between you two. You’re the first to break it.
“…Does it ever stop bothering you?”
The question catches him off guard. For a second, he considers lying. Giving you something comforting. Something easier to survive with. But after this morning, he thinks maybe both of you are too tired for lies.
“No,” he says honestly.
You glance toward him.
Luis keeps his eyes on the stairwell ahead as he continues. “You just get better at pretending it doesn’t.” His jaw tightens faintly. “That’s the dangerous part.” Then, after another few steps, he adds quietly, “I don’t want that happening to you.”
Your face softens in a way that makes him immediately regret saying anything remotely sincere. So naturally, he ruins the moment on purpose.
“Also,” he chuckles, “if I’m forced to eat another one of the cafeteria’s sad little protein cutlets alone, I may finally snap and assassinate someone.”
You roll your eyes weakly, but you’re smiling now. Small and tired and fragile, yes, but real.
And Luis realizes, with quiet certainty, that he would do almost anything to keep that expression alive in a place like this.
.
.
.
One of the few perks of working for the cult was that they provided living arrangements for all the staff.
Nothing crazy, of course. His apartment could be best described as a studio, with a bedroom off to the side, a small bathroom, and the living room and kitchen smashed into one larger room. It’s small. But it’s all he needs, really. He imagines that they gave you roughly the same setup.
“Come on in, hermosa. Get comfy.” He opens the door with a flourish of his hand, gesturing you inside.
Your footsteps are small and a little unsure, your head turning as you get a look at his place.
It’s sparsely decorated, he’ll admit. He’s rarely ever here, after all. The lab takes much of his spare time. And, when he is here, it’s mostly just to bathe and sleep before heading back to work.
Still, it’s not completely bare. There’s his grandfather’s old guitar in the corner, one of the strings snapped and needing replacement. A few old pictures are on the walls. But, your eye seems to be drawn to one set of items in particular.
The books on his bookshelf. Your fingers have reached out, soft skin tracing the hard spines.
“Do you like to read, Luis?” All of a sudden, your words are small. It almost catches him off guard. Your usual intelligent confidence is gone, replaced by someone vulnerable.
You’ve seen a lot today. It makes sense.
He almost hates it.
He wishes he could take the entire morning away from you. Replace it with the usual coffee and chatting as he pokes and prods at parasitic affronts to gods. But for now, all he can do is smile in your direction.
“Si,” He joins you, looking over the collection he’s amassed over the years. It’s nothing much. A copy of the bible sits at the very left of it all, and there’s quite a few biology textbooks and papers stretched after it. His hand touches two books in particular. The two on the far right of it all. The ones he’s loved since he was a child. “I’ve always had a thirst for knowledge.”
“I’m the same.” Your hand almost touches his, looking at the worn down covers. “I take it that you like Don Quixote?”
He almost laughs. “Ah, yes. A favorite of mine. My grandfather used to read it to me when I was just a nino.”
“That sounds nice.” Gingerly, you pick up the first volume, thumbing through the pages gently. The paper is old and soft between the pads of your fingers. “Did he read to you a lot?”
He rubs the back of his neck, “All of the time.”
There’s a sadness to his words. He can remember it all too clearly. His grandfather coming home after going hunting, his body injured after a wolf had decided to bite him. The man becoming delirious over the coming days. Luis can remember after the fifth day, how his beloved Grandfather had patted his head and hobbled out into the woods.
The gunshot had been quiet against the harsh chirping of the cicadas.
He never saw the man again.
“I read this once,” Your words bring him back to reality. You’re reading over a few paragraphs at the end of the book, “I always did like Dulcinea. Though, I will admit that the way Don Quixote sees her is a little unrealistic.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well,” You set the book back on the shelf, “He sees himself as a knight, and thus envisions her as a princess. But she’s not. She’s a peasant girl. I mean, Dulcinea isn’t even her real name.”
Luis chuckles, hand coming up to comb through his hair. “I see it a bit differently.”
“How so?”
Luis's smile softens slightly. “Because I don't think it was ever really about whether she was a princess.”
You glance at him. He leans back against the bookshelf, arms folding loosely across his chest. “Quixote spends the entire novel trying to make the world fit the stories he loves. Knights. Giants. Princesses.” His shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Dulcinea was simply the person he chose to believe was worth all that devotion.”
Your fingers brush absently along the edge of the shelf. “Even if she wasn't actually who he imagined?”
“Especially then.” The answer comes easier than he expects.
You tilt your head slightly.
He only gestures vaguely with one hand. “The real woman never changes. It's Quixote who does.” His mouth twitches faintly. “People always focus on the fantasy. I always thought the interesting part was that he saw something ordinary and decided it was extraordinary.”
You sigh, glancing between the bookshelf and his face. Something in your expression softens, like the previous tension from today is slowly chipping away. “That’s a lovely interpretation of it.”
“I do believe it is, yes,” He finally steps away from the shelf, heading towards the kitchen. “But enough chatter about myself. What about you?”
You hesitate to answer for a moment, instead following him as he starts to pull out spices and herbs from the kitchen cabinets.
“I’m not too interesting.”
“That’s the worst lie you’ve told yet.”
Almost playfully, your hand slaps his arm. It earns a dramatic yelp from him. He chooses to ignore the way the contact makes his heart ache.
“Fine. Let’s see…” You trail off, eyes watching the way he starts to mix together ingredients. His hands move with practiced ease. “I’m not from around here, for starters.”
“That was obvious, princesa.” He jokes, hands pouring rice and saffron into a large pot. It gets covered with about a knuckle’s worth of water, and then is left to simmer on the stovetop. The motions are almost muscle memory at this point. He’s been making this dish since he was a teenager. The neighbor’s daughter had taught it to him in exchange for him helping her paint the fence. “Tell me, do you have any family back home?”
The question makes you visibly stiffen. He suddenly feels like punching himself.
Smooth, Serra. He scolds himself, truly masterful conversational skills.
For a second, neither of you speaks. The rice bubbles quietly on the stove between you, filling the apartment with the warm scent of saffron. He watches your expression close off by degrees, like shutters being drawn over a window.
"Ah." He winces. "That bad, huh?"
Your shoulders lift in a small shrug.
"Sorry."
The apology surprises you enough that you glance up.
Luis gestures vaguely with the wooden spoon in his hand. “I didn’t mean to, ah, ofender.”
Your eyes cast down towards the floor, “Not… Bad, necessarily. Just complicated.”
“I can understand that.” His brain desperately searches for the right words, “It was only ever me and abuelo. He died when I was very young.”
You stay silent for a moment, observing him. Like you’re seeing if his words are real. After a bit, you must deem it satisfactory, as you keep speaking.
“... What are you making, anyway? It smells good.”
He beams. “Ah. A favorite of mine. It’s traditional. Paella.”
Your eyebrows raise, “I thought paella was hard to make.”
“Only if you’re bad at it.” He gestures to the setup in front of him, “I, fortunately, am excellent.”
A small giggle leaves your lips. It sounds warm and sweet. Part of him melts at the sound. “We’ll see about that.”
“Ah,” He tsks, “There you are again. Doubting my skills.”
“Always will. You’ve almost set the lab on fire twice.”
You both laugh. The room settles into a comfortable silence, accented by the bubbling of the rice and the chopping of vegetables.
“You know,” you say eventually, “this is probably the most I've learned about you since I got here.”
Luis looks up from the cutting board. “Only because you've never asked.”
“I have asked.”
He glances at you. “Ah, yes. Questions like, ‘Luis, did you label these samples correctly?’ and ‘Luis, why is there coffee in the incubator?’”
“There was coffee in the incubator.”
He raises an arm dramatically. “In my defense, I forgot it was there.”
“You forgot it for three days.”
“Scientific curiosity.”
Your eyes roll. “That isn't what scientific curiosity means.”
Luis grins. He lowers the spoon down to a pile of spices and vegetables, tasing them briefly. Not enough salt, he notes. He makes sure to add an extra few pinches to make up for it.
“... About earlier…” Your voice is small again. “When you asked about my family?”
He nods slowly, “You don’t have to tell me anything.”
Your head shakes. “I do have a family. They’re just… back home, I guess.”
“And what are they like?”
For a second, you smile. It comes to your face automatically. It drops when you start speaking. “My mother is very kind. She likes to watch crappy TV shows while she works. And my father is kind of strict. But he cares, you know?”
“I’ve heard of the type, yes.”
You continue, “I have a little sister too. She’s barely 14. She’s… Very smart.”
“She must take after you, then.”
Another playful slap to his arm. “Oh, hush. She earned her smarts on her own. She wants to be a veterinarian one day.”
“Ah! A bleeding heart type. She sounds lovely.”
“She is.” Your face falls. “She… she’s very sick, though.”
He feels his body freeze. “... Sick?”
You nod. Your eyes don’t meet his. “Heart condition. She was born with it.”
“That’s…” He struggles to find the words for a moment, “... Terrible. I’m so sorry, hermosa.”
Your mouth opens, but no words come out. Like you’re debating if you really want to say what you’re about to say.
Finally, you speak.
“That’s why I’m here.”
His eyebrow raises. “... Que?”
“Yeah.” Your hand finds the counter, fingers swiping over the grain of the wood. “My parents couldn’t afford treatment, and even if they could, it’s a risky surgery anyway.” You still don’t look at him. Your eyes are fixed on the cooking pot of rice. “I… I figured that maybe the parasite could help keep her alive until she’s strong enough to live through the surgery. I’ve been sending my paychecks back home in the meantime, but… Yeah.”
He almost curses.
He wants to say a million things. That it’s a horrible idea. That it can’t help her like that. That helping her isn’t worth your innocence here.
All that comes out of him is a muttered apology.
You simply smile at him. A sad, empty kind of smile. “I know. It’s a bad idea. But it’s kind of like what you said in the village. Desperate people do desperate things.”
The words echo in his head. His throat suddenly feels strangely tight.
"You love her very much."
Your laugh is soft and humorless. "She's my sister."
As if that explains everything. Maybe it does.
Luis nods slowly. "What's her name?"
The question seems to catch you off guard. For the first time since the conversation began, your smile looks genuine.
You tell him.
The name settles warmly into the room.
He repeats it once, committing it to memory.
Then, he points the wooden spoon at you. "Fourteen years old and wants to become a veterinarian?"
You nod.
"That child has better career aspirations than either of us."
A surprised laugh escapes you.
"There it is," he lets out a relieved sigh.
Your eyes narrow. "What?"
"That smile."
You groan, eyes rolling. "Oh, don't start."
"I am serious. We must preserve it. It is becoming endangered."
You throw a dish towel at him. Luis catches it with a grin. For a few seconds, the heaviness lifts. Not completely. Never completely. But enough. Enough for him to breathe again. Enough for you to look something other than heartbroken.
Your expression softens.
"You don't think I'm stupid?"
The question is so quiet he almost misses it. His smile fades.
"Never."
You study him carefully. "Even after everything I just said?"
Luis sets the spoon down. "I think you're scared." Your gaze drops. He continues. "And I think someone offered you hope when you were desperate enough to take it."
His jaw tightens slightly. "I also think those bastards knew exactly what they were doing."
The words come out harsher than intended. You don't argue. That worries him more than if you had.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, he reaches over and nudges your shoulder lightly with his own.
"Besides," he says. You glance up. "If being stupid was a requirement for working here, they would have made me director years ago."
A startled laugh bursts out of you. He smiles. Much better. He can work with laughter. The sadness in your eyes, though?
Guys, some time ago I had another Tumblr account where I also posted stories, and I received a message from an account saying they had reported me because they lost money. They claimed that a fake account pretending to be me scammed them.
Then they said that only I could fix the situation and that I needed to go to Discord and contact a specific person. They even sent a screenshot of a fake email saying that my account had been reported by them and their friends, and that I had to resolve it through Discord.
This has happened to me before, and when you’re scared it really seems real — but it’s not.
Please help me report this account. I’m posting these because it sucks when you work hard for having a nice account and to post for you guys and you lose it because of these type of people.
Here’s the link for the account
If you guys don’t feel comfortable reporting, reblog and help me spread this so other writers are aware of.
Story Summary: The day of Festa and Moreii, by many referred to as the 'Lovers Feast', passes once every two years in spring. For the first time you are determined to not be without a companion or flower at the feast. In the time leading up to the anticipated celebration you, one of the healers in the fort of Gramaire, try to live through the events happening before it.
Your friend Lancelot, the former Weeping Monk turned knight of the Fey and the man whom you have growing feelings for, does not approve of the man you have chosen to celebrate the feast with.
A woman who would rather see you trampled by horses, a man whose intentions are unclear and a love that is unrequited. Can the Lovers Feast bring clarity to it all?
Notes: Had this idea a while ago, was finally able to write it fully.
Warnings: Hurt. Pining. Fluff. Soft and sweet. Menstruation CW. Insecurity. Jealousy. Friends to lovers. Violence. Strong Language. Bullying. Romance.
Life for you after escaping more than one of the Red Paladins’ cleansings, was finally bettering. It was the Green Knight who had found you wandering the forest alone a few months ago and he had taken you with him to Gramaire where you met his acquaintances and friends. And among these friends there were certain people who stood out among the rest. A young Fey child who happened to be a knight, the Red Spear, and the Weeping Monk. Needless to say, it took quite some time before you trusted this Monk as Gawain did.
Upon arriving in Gramaire, Gawain had questioned you, trying to determine whether or not you possessed a useful skill. The only thing you had acquired was the knowledge for healing and so you became a healer along with Pym, a girl who was also a friend of Gawain. Together you saw all sorts of injuries, especially Red’s crew had some bizarre things happening to them. Then there were the regular common complaints, a cold, the flu… All were welcome to seek your aid. Even the former Weeping Monk, who you learned was named ‘Lancelot’.
You were a quiet person in the beginning, your soul was still healing from all that had been seen and experienced. Rarely you spoke, with Pym in the infirmary this was no problem but alone…
The first time Lancelot walked into the infirmary, with a bleeding gash on the left side of his chest, he said not a word to you. Not one. Not for the entire two hours I took to treat the wound. And neither did you, oddly enough it did not feel uncomfortable. Apart from your hands having shaken a bit, you kept calm in his presence.
The shaking hands lessened the more he sought treatment. It was always the same pattern, he went out to help Gawain and his friends and in the evening he sat on the cot in the infirmary to let you treat his wounds. All of them obtained because he was careless with his own health, throwing himself into danger to help the Green Knight and the others, that was what you had been told by Pym.
“I’ve never had to help him,” Pym had once said, “I’m glad. I don’t really want to.”
It was quite strange that Lancelot never went to Pym for healing, he’d often wait until evening when you were cleaning things up in the infirmary, you reckoned it was because he might prefer the silence over Pym’s babbling.
So there you were again, in the evening, dabbing away the blood from his upper arm to find where it was even coming from. In all this time, and in all the evenings before it, he had never said a word to you. All communication had been quite straightforward, he showed the injuries and you would treat them. Just as you went to grab a fresh rag to use he leaned forward more on the cot. He kept an arm around his abdomen and was growing paler by the minute.
You ignored the rag and went back over to him to feel his forehead. He was sweating, a fever was taking hold. “You should not go out tomorrow. Remain in the fort. I worry you may be growing an infection. I can give you a vial of-”
He was not one to listen to advice on his health. “Just suture my arm.”
With a sigh, you wiped more blood away from the cut and began to suture the stubborn fool’s arm.
His eyes remained fixed on the floor. “Thank you.”
It was not hard to treat him. He usually sat still as a statue when you helped him and as always he was out the door again mere moments after you were done. You watched the door fall shut behind him, wondering how long he would pretend he was alright this time.
Hours later, in the midst of the night, you were awoken by the Green Knight who nearly knocked your door out of it’s hinges. He informed you of how Lancelot had just collapsed on his way to the infirmary, they had to carry him the rest of the way once they found him. Right away you knew it did not look good for the Ash Man. He was not conscious and laying unresponsive on the cot when you arrived in the infirmary. Days and nights filled of trying to lower his fever followed, you made concoction after concoction in the hope that it would fight away the infection one of his wounds must have caused. No, it had not looked good for him at all.
By the third morning, he had regained consciousness but was too weak to sit up. You spoon fed him soup in the time that followed until he got more of his strength back. What followed was… strange. Due to his previous dire condition you had to stay near as much as you could until it was certain that he was indeed out of the dangerous claws of the infection. This meant helping the former Weeping Monk wash, treat all cuts with salve, and ensure he took the medicine you continued to make for him. You washed his torso daily the first days and left him to do the rest, the first times he was easily out of breath from the remaining fever, but as the days passed he got better. He did not make eye-contact on the moments when you had to freshen him up, it was hard to read his response to it. Only when you had touched the damp rag to his neck did he shut his eyes and tilted his head to the side, no wonder with how warm he must have felt from the fever.
Nights you had slept on the other cot in the infirmary to ensure he would be well. On the sixth day you had woken up to him being up on his feet and putting his weapon belts and cloak on. At first you thought you were imagining it, but no, the Ash Man had recovered from the fever. His skin had returned to a healthy color again, the paleness was gone. You were up on your feet in seconds, sleep still held your legs in it’s hold and threatened to send your body to the ground. The pain of a fall never came, his quick reaction to grab hold of your waist had prevented it.
“Careful.” A flash of worry went through his eyes. “It would be unfortunate if our healer broke her neck.”
You were rattled. “You shouldn’t be up…”
A smile crept on his face. “Was that not the whole point of me being in your care? For me to be up on my feet again.”
That smile made you lose the knowledge of words. Never before had you seen him, the former Weeping Monk, smile at you. Blinking, you cast your eyes away from him. All of a sudden he knelt down before you, tilting his head down in submission, a sign of respect he must have learned through his upbringing.
“Thank you.” He lifted his head to look at your face. “For your aid. I would not have survived this without you here to help me.”
Nervously you fidgeted with your sleeve. “There is no need to thank me. I am glad you feel better.”
He stared for a moment, then gave a slow nod. After a strange silence fell between you, he gingerly took hold of your hand and brought it to his lips to brush them to your knuckles very lightly. He stood right after, appearing as nervous as you were. After another nod your way he headed out the door. There you stood, staring flabbergasted at the door of the infirmary he had just walked out of. Wondering if a fever had taken hold of you and made you delirious as well. Had the former Weeping Monk really just kissed the hand of a Fey?
~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~
An odd dynamic had formed between you over the next two weeks. It started out with little things. A simple ‘Good morning’ from him. Him holding the door open for you when the opportunity presented itself. Just small things that weren’t so small to you, because this was the former Weeping Monk being oddly kind to you. And still… you remained your quiet self while he didn’t seem to mind the comfortable silence shared.
Pym was very quick to notice these little things.
~“Does he fancy you or something? Can that even happen, with him being… having been a monk and all that?”~
She had said. You had shrugged your shoulders, it was impossible to know what was going through his head. But surely the Ash Man had better options than a woman who could be the only person in a room and still be overlooked or ignored. Because that was you, you kept to the shadows and left others to be in the light. And there was a pretty woman, Gyda, who was vying for his attention for weeks now. She had thrown her arms around him not long after he had stepped out of the infirmary after his close call with death, claiming she had been truly worried. You said not a word of it, knowing full well that she had not visited him even once in the infirmary when he was there. Instead she had spend her time aiming her attention on the Green Knight who had been truly worried for his friend’s health and had no attention to give her. Of course all her effort focused back on the Ash Man the moment it was clear he was better. Her father and mother were spurring her on to marry a good match and what better match was there than a knight?
Two strange weeks had passed, two weeks of growing conversations between you and Lancelot. Two weeks of glares from Gyda whenever she saw him say a word to you. It was confusing to see how he sought out your presence. Did he feel indebted to you for healing him? Was that why he was making an effort to make you participate in more social situations?
It took a while to get used to sitting at a table along with the others, fortunately they made you feel welcome. Two whole weeks of Lancelot trying to help you be more at ease around him and those he considered friends. But there you were, sitting at one of the larger tables in the dining room. Pym sat not far away, Gawain sat opposite of you and Lancelot had sat down at your side the second he had walked in and saw you sitting alone. He was conversing with Gawain about places where flour could still possibly be found. And as they planned their journey to these mills, you often felt Gawain’s eyes dart between you and Lancelot. Why? You didn’t know. Lancelot hadn’t even looked at you since sitting down, he was focused on the conversation, not on you.
You reached out to take a piece of bread from the bowl a little to the side in the midst of the table. The Ash Man reacted ridiculously fast, without stopping the conversation with Gawain he had taken a piece of bread from the bowl and handed it to you. You stared at the bread in your hand, it were those small things that continued to rattle you.
“What?” Lancelot said to Gawain, after he saw the knight stare at him.
Gawain gave him an incredulous look, then gestured to you and him, “I have not seen you so attentive before to anyone else here.”
From the corner of your eyes, you could see the Ash Man go rigid.
It was Arthur who interrupted the growing strange atmosphere at the table, the Manblood put a tankard of water down right beside you. “Good morning, y/n. I noticed you didn’t have any water yet. Here you go.”
The tankard was shoved right under your nose, with a nod and a smile you showed your appreciation.
Arthur sat down next to Gawain. “Well then, what are the plans for today?”
The Manblood was smiling, full of enthusiasm, even as the Ash Man tried to hide how he rolled his eyes.
“We are going to retrieve the flour of the mill in the west,” Gawain answered.
“Good. As long as someone doesn’t get the urge to set the place on fire whilst we’re in it,” Arthur chuckled.
You quietly chewed the bread, eyes darting between the three of them. It was no secret that Lancelot may have once set a mill on fire and almost killed them on purpose, Arthur tended to remind him of it often.
“Do not tempt me,” Lancelot voice was monotone.
You nearly choked on the bread at hearing him say it and started coughing.
His eyes snapped away from Arthur immediately, he almost touched your arm but stopped himself. “Are you alright?”
Arthur stood up and held the tankard of water up for you. “Here. Drink some water.”
It sounded as good advice and after drinking some sips the coughing stopped.
Gawain scolded them over their bickering, “This is what happens when the two of you can’t sit at a table for one meal without acting like ill-mannered children.”
Both men cleared their throat, unable to meet the stern eyes of the Green Knight.
“Ignore what they say, y/n,” Gawain said. “They behave like this until we face the enemy, then they are friendly all of a sudden.”
“Friendly…” Lancelot huffed.
Gawain pointed at him with his spoon. “Don’t start again. Eat your breakfast.” The spoon pointed to Arthur next. “The same goes for you.”
Arthur protested quietly, “I wasn’t saying anything.”
Gawain shook his head, mumbled something under his breath. You chewed the bread a bit more carefully. It was quiet between them for a while, until Gawain spoke to you.
“Looking forward to the feast of Festa and Moreii soon?” he asked.
This feast only occurred once every two years. The last time, after your attendance, you had cried yourself to sleep. It was a feast for all, but among the Fey it was often used as the day when women were gifted flowers from lovers, family and even friends. But in the past few decades it was mostly used as an excuse for interested parties to seek the attention of those they were interested in. Therefore, by many it was called the ‘Lovers Feast’.
You shrugged your shoulders a little, quietly answering, “I don’t know…”
“Surely, you will be there?” Gawain asked.
Lancelot spoke up, looking as confused as Arthur was, “What is this feast?”
Gawain put down his spoon, having finished his soup. “Ah yes, that’s right. You two don’t know about these Fey events, or do you?”
Arthur and Lancelot both shook their heads a little. The Green Knight sighed and proceeded to tell them the story of Festa And Moreii and what this feast was for.
~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~
A week had passed.
Somewhere between the rare smiles and the time he spend in the infirmary with you, it had happened. It was something you had feared would happen. That unpredictable feeling that had caused so much heartbreak in the world already. Love. You were enamored with the former monk turned knight and it was not a feeling you welcomed. It was unrequited, secret and fueling a hope you shouldn’t have had. But it was there and no matter how hard you tried to ignore the feeling it only grew stronger. It did not help that he still sought out your aid in the evenings in the infirmary instead of one of the other healers. Beside you and Pym, two more healers manned the infirmary during the day. The nights were yours to work and Lancelot knew it very well.
After one night a week ago, when he had even helped you fill vials of medicine, you had started to carve a small wooden horse figurine out of a piece of a thick branch. Even painted the figurine black to match his stallion that he spoke of so fondly. It took a whole week to make and you hadn’t told anyone of your secret hobby, the figurine was kept hidden under your bed along with some others you had made. But today you wanted to gift it to him.
With nervous steps you searched the fort for him, the figurine was neatly wrapped into a piece of cloth to let it be a true surprise. And then you spotted him in the courtyard, speaking to Gyda who had put her hand on his upper arm as she laughed melodically over something he must have told her. You did not want to stare but could not look away. For Gyda conversation seemed so effortless and natural, she knew just what to say to keep the conversation going.
After a moment, you turned away and headed back to your room. Unwrapping and putting the figurine on your night table instead. Such foolish hope, a quiet mouse could not compete with a bold feline. A heavy feeling set into your abdomen and you sat on the bed for a while to let it settle down. You hated being in love, your stomach was acting up and you were constantly questioning everything. It was cruel how your own mind could be your worst enemy, how it could whisper all your insecurities into your thoughts over and over again. It felt horrible.
After the feeling in your abdomen got better, you headed out again, this time to the infirmary to drown your thoughts with tasks instead. The sound of laughing children reached your ears, a mere second later a door swung open right into your path. It hit against your temple as you tried to avoid the collision at the last second. The children had no idea the door they had swung open had struck someone, they were quick to run down the hallway and out of sight again. You huffed through the pain, cursing quietly until only a dull pain remained and a mark to your temple that would be there for a while.
You continued your way to the infirmary, greeting Gawain on your way there as you passed him by. Your feet had not a chance to pass the threshold of the infirmary before a hand wrapped itself around your arm. Startled, you smacked the hand away then gasped when realizing who was to blame.
“Who did that?” Intensity burned in Lancelot’s eyes.
He stood so close, so very close. Such handsome features, those small freckles on his neck. Such deep concern his eyes held.
“What?” You blinked.
Briefly the knuckles of his fingers gingerly touched your temple. “This bruise. Who did this to you?”
“A door.”
“A door?”
You felt a bit embarrassed, it must have made you sound like a klutz. “I was walking through the hallway, a door swung open and hit me.”
He did not seem to think you were being truthful. “But you are wounded someplace else.”
“I am not.”
Doubt washed over his face. “I can tell that you are bleeding.”
“What? But I-”
Realization hit you cruelly strong, the pain in your abdomen had not been due to the distress you had felt. This could not get any worse. He could smell it? How humiliating, if you had known you wouldn’t have left your room. It was bound to happen with his heightened senses and with how much more time he spend near. It had only been evenings in the infirmary together until this month.
You took a couple of big steps away, fearing the blood had already stained your clothes for all to see. “I need to go.”
“Wait-”
He tried to stop you but you bolted away to your room to prevent further damage to your self-esteem, leaving him behind in confusion.
Lancelot snapped out of his thoughts a moment later and decided to go after you. He ran into the Green Knight only two hallways further, who stopped him in his path.
“Ah, Lancelot. I was wondering -”
“Have you seen y/n?”
“Every time…” Gawain mumbled under his breath.
The knight was no fool, he had noticed that ever since you had arrived there the Ash Man had went to the infirmary for the smallest cut and always during the times of day when you just happened to be the healer that was present.
Lancelot wisely ignored that remark. “I believe something is wrong. She had a bruise. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary today?”
The knight hummed pensively. “I have not. Have you tried to speak to her?”
“I fear I may have been too forward.”
“You? No…” Gawain’s sarcasm shined through. “Go on. Find our healer. See to it that she is well.”
He walked away, intending to do exactly that, hoping that his nose was wrong.
Blood and a forming bruise… had someone attacked you? How you had run off when he had questioned you about it with concern… he feared to worst.
~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~
You had changed clothes the second you walked into your chamber and were trying to rinse the small blood stain out from your other pair of trousers hoping no one had noticed it. Out of all the people that could have noticed your monthly blood, it had to be him. The handsome Ash Man who you had grown to feel more than just friendship for. It was mortifying. You held your breath when a knock sounded at your door and heard Lancelot call out your name. Oh, no no no…
The last thing you wanted was for him to realize what sort of blood he had noticed on you. You put the trousers back into the bucket of water in a small corner of the room next to the wardrobe.
He knocked again, sounding concerned as he spoke through the door, “Are you alright?”
Think… think… think… there was no time to think. His knocking grew more urgent and you feared he’d break open the door if you did not respond soon. You opened the door, hoping to just keep it open a few inches. He quickly took hold of the edge of the door and made his way inside the room, you stumbled back a little and frowned at his urgency.
His eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. “You changed your clothes.”
When he took a step further into the room, you took one back. His expression changed instantly, he almost looked hurt to see you step back.
“You do not have to fear me,” he said quietly and removed his hand from where he often let it rest on the pommel of his sword, hoping to ease your mind.
“I don’t.” It was the truth.
He was quiet for a moment and stood motionless, showing no intent to leave the room.
It felt uncomfortable because you just knew he was going to ask about the blood scent. “I’m alright. You can leave.”
His brow arched. “Not before you tell me where and how serious your injury is.”
It shouldn’t have come as such a shock that he could be persistent. “It is nothing.”
He shook his head. “I do not believe you.”
You sighed, the on-setting cramps were causing you to be short with him. “Please, leave.”
He was terribly stubborn and stern. “I will. Once you either tell me the truth or let me walk you to the infirmary to see a healer.”
It was getting on your nerves quickly. Not everyone in the castle needed to hear about your monthly blood. You did not need a healer. “It’s none of your concern, Lancelot! I don’t want to talk about this!”
Multiple scenarios rushed through his head. Was someone hurting you? Did you submit yourself to the scourge as he had once done?
You saw his nostrils flare ever so little, so easily missed if one would not pay attention to it. When he took a step in the direction of the place where you had hidden the bucket from sight, you stepped into his path. More suspicion filled his eyes. He moved faster, passing you and ignoring your protests, finding the bucket where your trousers were soaking in the cold water.
The scent of blood was diluted by the water but it was there. It left him highly alarmed. He noticed your other clothes on the bed and went over to them, inspecting them.
You felt so embarrassed. “What are you doing?!?”
There were no tears in your clothes. No visible evidence that someone had tried to damage them.
He approached you fast, taking hold of your arm. You froze entirely when he leaned in and inhaled audibly, your face started to burn.
“What are you doing?” you blurted out again, shocked by the behavior.
There were no other Fey scents over you that could point to a Fey possibly having attacked you.
His eyes darted over your form, still searching, “Has someone hurt you?”
That concern in his eyes almost instantly made you forgive him for being invasive. “No.”
He still seemed to doubt whether or not that was the truth, “I want you to come with me to the infirmary.”
You protested when he took hold of your arm but he still dragged you out of the room. You finally managed to break free when he got you a few steps away from your room. He cursed under his breath and tried to grab hold of your arm again but you swatted his hand away.
“Enough! Leave me be, Lancelot!” you snapped.
He countered, “You need to see a healer!”
You stood your ground. “I don’t! I bleed like this monthly!
It still took him a moment to understand what on earth you were trying to tell him, his past in the clergy was at blame. “Why-”
You saw it click into his mind, realizing just how far he had to think to come to the conclusion.
This was not a matter that was discussed within the clergy. He barely knew anything about it, certainly not the details.
You hugged yourself. “I told you I didn’t want to talk about this. It’s worse enough already that I bled through my trousers and you were the one who noticed that I am bleeding. Gods… you can smell it…”
He could not bring a word out and by the time he finally managed to try and speak an apology you had already returned to your room and locked the door.
~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~
It had been hours. Hours filled with laying in bed and suffering from the foolish humiliation and annoying cramps. You couldn’t stop thinking about how he was just able to smell the blood, it must not have been noticeable to him before or he had noticed because he had become more attentive towards you lately after you helped him when he was ill. Still, you wished he had not noticed this. Once he had told that he often just did not focus on the scents around him because they would become too much, but he must have been alert when it came to you unfortunately. And then he had barged into your room and found the trousers…
No. You did not feel like leaving your room for the rest of the day. Pym would be fine in the infirmary with the other healers for a day while you recovered from the situation. Besides, you doubted you would be much help with the cramps in your abdomen.
Someone knocked on the door of your room and you prayed to the Hidden it wouldn’t be him. Anyone but him. But after a short pause in-between knocks, you heard Lancelot call out your name. When you didn’t hear him walk away from the door after ignoring him, you grumbled and got out of bed to drag your feet to the door. You held the door closed more, still his fingers slithered around the edge of it as he send a pleading look. Sighing, you opened the door for him and just went and climbed right back into bed, feeling too miserable physically to stand for much longer.
He was carrying a small basket in his hands and approached the bed with it, looking rather unsure of himself. “Forgive me for how I reacted earlier.”
“It’s not your fault. I just feel humiliated.”
“Why?”
“Because you could smell the blood.”
“I have caught the scent of blood hundreds of times.” He tried to ease your mind. “The only difference with you is that I paid attention to it only because I was worried. I feared someone had harmed you.”
It was quite nice to hear that he had been genuinely concerned. “I truly did just walk into a door. Some children were playing and pushed a door open haphazardly, it hit me in the head. We can’t all be as graceful as you.”
He blinked slowly, eyes aimed at the floor, a careful smile grew on his lips. “Graceful…” he quietly uttered, as if it was a word no one had ever used to describe him.
It dawned on you that he had considered it a compliment. And it was, for you found him so graceful that it often left you in awe when you stared at him in secret during the times he sparred with his comrades.
He looked at the wall and cleared his throat. “I have asked Pym about this… bleeding.”
Were you imagining things or did he truly just say it?? “You asked Pym?”
He came closer, taking seat on the edge of the bed, the basket on his lap. “She did her best to give me some advice.”
Poor, poor Pym. One of the first true conversations she must have had with him and it was about this matter. She must have felt very strange.
He placed the basked on the night table. “A vial for the pain and some fruit I know-… I hope you like.”
You stared at the basket in disbelief. He had gone through this much effort? A quick glance in the basket told you that he had put more than your favorite fruit in there, there were some sweet baked goods and berries. The whole basket smelled so good. “Thank you. You didn’t have to go through so much trouble for me.”
He ignored that comment, his attention fell on the small wooden horse figurine that still stood on the night table as well. Too tempted not to, he picked it up to look at it better. “Did you make this?”
“Yes. It’s silly, I know-”
“Impressive.” He turned it over, intrigued by the small details.
“What?” You glanced up at him.
“How long did it take you to make this?” he wondered out loud.
Nights it took you. “Some hours.”
You saw him keep turning it between his fingers to look at it from all angles, seemingly enamored by the small wooden figurine. “You can have it, if you want it.”
His eyes widened slightly by the offer. “I could not possibly-”
It slipped out, “I made it for you after you helped me fill those vials in the infirmary.”
His gaze fell on you, studying your eyes as if he could not believe you had truly made it for him. You thought it was rather endearing and smiled, letting your eyes fix on the sheet under your hand instead.
He stared a little longer, cleared his throat. “Horses are such loyal creatures.”
“They are.”
Once more he cleared his throat, scratching his chin. He didn’t put the figurine back down, but didn’t say he wanted it either, you wished he would say it. A cramp welled up and it felt like someone was standing on your lower back. You groaned in pain, turning over to face the wall and curling up to fight it. He instantly reached out and touched your arm.
“It hurts.”
“Your abdomen?”
“My back.”
You didn’t expect him to reach down and touch your back and froze in response. He rubbed over your back gingerly, hoping it would bring some comfort.
“Here?”
“It’s lower.”
His hand took it as an instruction, he touched just where the pain was radiating to and oddly you felt your body relax because of it. The tension that you had felt was starting to lessen and it helped make the cramps less painful. His warm hands were soothing the pain. Silently you wondered if he was one of the feys who the Hidden granted a healing ability to.
“Could you-” you stopped yourself, realizing what you were about to ask the man who had been a monk for most of his life until he joined the Fey.
But he had heard. “What do you need of me?”
You shook your head. “I cannot ask it of you.”
He hushed that concern, “You heal me when I am wounded or ailing, allow me to do the same for you. Ask.”
It came out very quietly, “Could you keep doing what you’re doing?”
He fell silent for a few seconds, his hand had stopped tending to your back. Had you crossed the line and made a fool of yourself?
Slowly, he started again. “Does it help?”
You nodded in relief.
“Tell me when to stop.” He rubbed your back gently.
Minutes went and passed, but you did not tell him to stop and he quietly rubbed your back, soothing the pain. As time passed he seemed to grow less reserved towards the task. He gave you the vial to drink and you drank half of it, keeping the other half for later if it was needed.
He brought the sheets over your body, still gently rubbing over your back. His hand had gotten warmer from the friction and it was stilling the pain before the vial could even work. But the vial’s effect took not long to begin, your eyelids grew heavy and closed under his encouragement. You were sound asleep soon after.
~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~
That night, a week ago, not only had he taken the figurine with him to keep. When you had woken up you had found your stained trousers washed and dried on top of your dresser. It had left you speechless, for him to do such personal things…
When you had felt awkward about the matter, he had simply said he was used to washing blood out of clothes. To him, being in contact with blood was as normal as breathing. But not a word had been said between you about how he had rubbed your back to sooth your pain, neither of you had dared to breach the topic. It was a delicate matter, surely an infringement on the vow he had upheld for so long. You thought of apologizing for it, hoping it had not caused him to feel remorse, but you were too timid to even mention anything of the vow to him. Perhaps it was for the better that you pretended that that night had not occurred, it would be better to stop hoping that your feelings could be reciprocated. Sparing yourself the heartbreak was a merciful choice.
He still often walked into the infirmary in the evenings, having grown somewhat more careful with injuries he sustained after barely having survived that infection. This night was no different, he walked in with a cut near his wrist that was the result of him training young Percival with a sword. Some stitches. Some salve. Some medicine for the pain he would often refuse to take. It was a standard evening.
“The boy is getting quicker.” You gave a sympathetic smile.
He stared for a blink, then looked down at the work you had done for his wrist. “Indeed. This is the second time he was too fast for me to evade.”
“He learns well. Must be because of his talented tutor.”
You were done with bandaging the cut and noticed him looking up at you, eyes filled with a certain intrigue. With his other hand he was gripping the edge of the cot he was sitting on, something he often did when he was nervous.
The Ash Man was not the only one seeking aid it seemed. A man, Burk, walked into the infirmary and the air filled itself with the scent of ale. Burk was known for his drunken shenanigans.
“You wouldn’t have one of those little vials that dulls a headache, would ya?” The man slurred, gesturing to the shelves of medicine on the other side of the room. He didn’t even appear to notice Lancelot in the room at all.
You quietly sighed, already guessing that he needed the vial for the coming morning. But medicine was hard to come by in these times, the Green Knight had ordered for it to not be given without there be a true need for it. And bottleache was not a good reason to use up one of the vials of medicine.
Your voice was quite as a mouse, “I’m sorry.” You went to stand in front of the shelves. “I cannot give them for bottleache. Ordered by the Green Knight.”
Burk wasn’t happy to hear it at all. “To hell with the Green Knight!” He hiccuped a few times. “Out of the way!”
He gave you a rough shove to the side, your balance was lost. You yelped when landing on your hands and knees, your palm took most of the fall and you felt the pain shoot up your wrist. Your mind was still busy processing what had happened when chaos erupted in the room. It felt like you had barely turned to look and in that time the Ash Man had drawn his sword and pinned the drunkard against the wall. The tip of the sword rested against the man’s chest.
“Are you alright?” Lancelot spoke to you.
It was humiliating and you felt yourself withdraw in your shell. A nod was all you could manage as your eyes refused to lift from the floor.
He put some pressure on the sword. “Apologize to her!”
Burk looked absolutely terrified. The tip of the sword was making a hole in his jacket. “I’m sorry!”
Lancelot looked back at you, at how your gaze stayed on the floor, he moved the sword away from the man.
“Do not come near her again!” he barked the warning before letting go of Burk. The man scrambled away from him and ran out of the room.
The instant silence that fell was suffocating. You never felt so inclined to speak before, but when the Ash Man turned to you, the words hooked themselves in your throat. Even he appeared indecisive on what to do. He stepped closer, you went rigid. Lancelot followed your gaze and realized you were looking at the sword in his hand, he quickly sheathed it and reached a hand out for you to take. With wide eyes you glanced up at him, tentatively placing your hand in his as if you were reaching into fire. It was as warm as that night and far more gentle than one would expect of someone who was raised to fight.
His eyes scanned your form. “Are you hurt?”
You shook your head, he stood so close that you could feel his breath on your face and it was scrambling your thoughts. It was too hard to make eye-contact, his closeness was causing your heart to quicken and you hoped he would not notice.
Your voice was but a whisper, “I’m alright.”
He was holding on to your elbow. “I will ensure that he does not bother you again.”
“You’re not going to…” you let the rest fade out.
He guessed the question. “No, I will not kill him. But I shall speak of this to him when he is sober.”
When he let go of your elbow and brushed his hand along your arm a few times it was hard to hide your flustered state. He withdrew it and folded both hands behind his back as if to scold and restrain himself for it.
The door of the infirmary swung open again, Gyda stepped inside, her eyes darting between you and Lancelot who took a step back upon noticing her.
“Oh? Lancelot.” She stepped close, wasting no time to put a hand on his upper arm to form a physical connection. “I heard you were in the infirmary again tonight. Nothing bad I hope?”
He had kept his hands behind his back until she asked this, then he showed her his bandaged wrist. “Only a cut.”
She gasped rather dramatically and took hold of his wrist with both her hands. “Gods, my dear Lancelot, it must hurt.”
He seemed frozen in place. “The salve our healer applied helps numb the pain.”
She feigned a smile at you. “Our healer is very kind to tend to your wounds so late in the evening.”
You were starting to dislike her attitude, there were insinuations hidden under her words and they were laced with venom. “I tend to everyone who needs help, no matter the time.”
Lancelot awkwardly cleared his throat, you wondered what he was thinking and if he could feel that Gyda was ingenuine towards you.
“Forgive me, Lancelot.” She feigned a small pout. “May I speak to the healer alone for a moment? I came to discuss some womanly matters with her.”
He pulled his hand back when she let it go and gave an inclination of the head. “Of course. It is late indeed, I shall retreat to my quarters. Goodnight, Gyda.”
She gave him her sweetest smile and wished him a good night as well. That smile fell when he had his back turned to her to wish you a goodnight too. It was no surprise that the second he was out of the infirmary and had closed the door behind him she dropped the facade.
Her complaint fell instantly, “He comes here almost every evening.”
You pretended to clean some bowls up. “He obtains new injuries daily when out protecting our people.”
She strolled around the place, picking up a bowl of herbs to sniff it and scrunch her nose at the smell.
The silence felt filled with uncomfortable tension. “You came here to see me. What is troubling you?”
“You are.”
You swiftly turned to face her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I know what game you are playing, healer.” Gyda got closer. “And it won’t work.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Acting innocent now?” She scoffed arrogantly. “Last week you pretended to be in pain just to steal his time away. I heard about your little act, using your monthly blood to get his attention. Disgusting.”
It was appalling how she spoke now. Was she so thirsting for his attention that she’d resort to this behavior? She had set her sights on him and stole his attention away every moment that he did not spend taking care of his duties as a knight, but even that did not seem enough for her.
You got defensive. “It was no act-”
There was no convincing her otherwise. “You played the wounded little bird because you know Lancelot would never spend his time with you otherwise. He only feels like he owes you for saving him when he was ill.”
It hit harder than you were prepared for. Stubbornly you kept quiet.
She folded her arms in front of her chest. “He is merely being polite. Soon he will see that he does not owe you a thing and he will forget all about you.”
You kept your chin up, refusing to let her see that she was voicing your fears out loud. “Is that all you came here for?”
She disliked the lack of a stronger reaction, her tone got cold, an icy warning. “Careful, healer. You do not want me as an enemy.”
“And one will certainly not want someone such as you as a friend either.”
She huffed and on her way to the door she knocked over a bowl of herbs on purpose, sending the contents all over the floor, then slammed the door shut behind her.
You breathed out, feeling sick to your stomach from the distress she had caused. Whilst cleaning up the spilled herbs that had mixed flower petals between them, you thought of the nearing feast. The last thing you wanted was to feel the way you did two years ago. Lonely, on a night when love was celebrated and chased. And you would certainly feel worse when seeing Gyda with Lancelot at the feast this year. It was time to seek someone that would accompany you to the feast, this would not be as it went two years ago.
~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~
The next morning, Gawain asked you to come with him to the stables. He worried Gringolet may have been ill, but it did not take you long to figure out that all the horse wanted was a carrot before he’d eat something else, knowing very well his rider would spoil him to death if he appeared ill. Gawain quietly scolded Gringolet, that didn’t last long, everyone knew how much he adored and spoiled his horse.
“Found yourself a partner for the feast, yet?” he suddenly asked you.
“Not yet.”
The knight saw the pout on your lips. “I am certain you will. You never know what the day will bring, you may already have someone’s attention.”
You did not share the optimism. “I doubt that, Gawain.”
Marcus, the stablehand who was restocking hay nearby, suddenly piped up, “You should come with me to the feast.”
“I could not possibly…” you muttered awkwardly.
His smile stayed bright. “Why not?”
Indeed. Why not? The perfect chance was presenting itself and Marcus seemed nice.
Marcus was very persuasive. “Give me a ‘yes’ and I’ll search the most beautiful flower to give you at the feast.”
You looked at Gawain, who shifted his weight on his feet, his hands on his hips.
“For now…” Marcus held up his hand, urging for you to stand and wait. Marcus hurried out of the stable and returned with a dandelion, he gave it to you. “This is what I can already offer.”
The effort he showed was rather sweet, and you couldn’t even recall the last time someone gave a flower to you.
“A dandelion?” Gawain’s brow arched.
You dared to swat his elbow for his rudeness. “I think it is sweet.”
The knight wanted to say more but held his tongue, Marcus ignored the look he was giving him.
“Will you go to the feast with me?” Marcus asked very politely.
Gawain quickly turned to you. “Perhaps you should wait a bit longer, someone else may still-”
“Who?” you confronted in a whisper. “I see no one else lining up for me.”
Gawain fell silent, looking like he wanted to say something else but refused to.
The prospect of being able to enjoy the feast was too tempting to decline the offer. “I would love to, Marcus.”
Marcus was happy that his offer was accepted. You were glad that this time you wouldn’t be alone at the feast. Gawain stood silent, his thoughts on the matter remained a mystery. You spoke for quite a while with Marcus, learning that he liked to play the lute and he even offered to play some for you some time.
Gawain had been in the stables, spending his time tending to Gringolet. He interrupted your conversation with Marcus. “Who is manning the infirmary now?”
You answered him, “I am-… oh…”
Gawain gave you a look. You quickly said goodbye to Marcus and hoped not to find a dead person in the infirmary after you had been gone for over an hour without someone else there to help those who needed aid.
You hurried to the infirmary and found Lancelot waiting inside. It was not his usual time to visit the infirmary and of course it was cause for concern. “I’m sorry you had to wait. I was in the stables to help Gringolet.”
“I do not mind waiting.” His gaze fell on the flower in your hand. “Is the dandelion for one of the salves you are skilled in making?”
Was that a compliment? It sure felt that way. “No. I uh… it’s a gift I received.”
You went and put the dandelion in an empty flask and put it on one of shelves.
A frown creased his forehead, he was silent for a moment, then asked, “Who gave you a flower?”
“Marcus did.”
There was a twitch in his jaw. “Marcus? The stablehand?”
You picked up on the condescending tone. “Yes. The ‘stablehand’”.
He began to walk around the infirmary, looking at every bowl and vial on the shelves, looking everywhere but at you.
“Did you need my help?” you asked. Something felt different between you, he felt distant.
He stopped at a shelf, picked a vial up and looked at it disinterested before putting it back. “Did you help Marcus?”
What an odd question. “No. I have not seen him in the infirmary yet.” You got closer to him. “I am certain you did not come here to speak of Marcus. So tell me what ails you.”
His answer was delayed. “Would you have something for a pained head?”
You scanned his head for visible injuries. “It depends on what is at blame for the pain.”
He gave half a smile. “Only my thoughts.”
The vial for that was on the shelf behind him, you stepped forward closely passed him. When he turned and followed your movement to look, his arm brushed against yours. His close proximity made you nervous quickly, you wished it did not.
Quickly you handed him the vial. “This should help. Drink half of it now and the rest of it when you go to sleep.”
He turned the vial over between his fingers. “Thank you. You always know precisely what I need.”
“Not always.” You forced your eyes to the floor. “It is not simple to read you.”
He opened the vial. “And yet you make the effort to try.”
As he lifted the vial to his lips, you made the foolish mistake to lift your gaze to his face and were entranced by how his lips touched the vial. He drank half of it, then closed the vial again and let his eyes drop on your staring ones. For a second you could have been fooled into believing he noticed the truth in them.
You left his side rather hastily. “Forgive me. I have a lot of work I must finish. These salves must be ready.”
He knew when he was being politely dismissed. “Do you wish for my help?”
The answer came quick, “No, thank you.”
As he walked to the door he halted to look at the dandelion. “Do you like this kind of flower?”
That had sounded rather curious. You turned to face him again, seeing a look in his eyes you could not place. “I do. Many animals like to eat them, rabbits, bears… They are good for salves and medicine. We can even cook them or use them in tea. Did you know the whole flower is edible? Even raw, just wash it and you can eat it.”
A smile broke out on his face at the rambling over the flower you fired at him.
You realized he might have been asking if you liked the appearance of the flower rather than it’s many uses. “Oh… did you mean to ask if I find them pretty?”
He looked at the floor, still smiling and blurted out, “You are charming.”
Nervously you fidgeted with your sleeve, unable to meet his eyes after how warm his voice had sounded. A silence fell into the room, it carried a certain tension that made your heart leap in your chest.
“I should go…” He walked to the door, opening it. “Thank you for your help. I do truly appreciate the effort and the sacrifices you make to aid me.”
You clicked your tongue. “It’s the duty of a healer.”
He tilted his head, eyes locking on yours. “I believe it is the heart of a good soul.”
Your chest warmed at his words, at the warm timbre he used. The whole room felt smaller, he felt closer than he was, you took in a deep breath.
“Perhaps I shall see you later.” He took a step out the door.
“Planning on getting injured again?” you quipped.
A chuckled escaped him. “I do not have to plan it. Misfortune has a way of finding me.”
Your smile fell a little at that, it had carried an undertone that scratched away at the layer of stoicism he tried to keep on himself. He was out the door before you could think of what to reply to that statement. You knew he hid behind his bravery often, but the statement now and the way he had tried to feign a small smile had twisted like a knife in your stomach. Hopefully he would feel comfortable enough to come to you when the world’s hardships became too much for him to bear.
You noticed something on the floor, a small flower petal belonging to a flower you did not use in the infirmary. Had it fallen from your clothes, or perhaps his? You picked it up, the scent of it was rather nice and made you wonder what a whole flower of it would smell like. Maybe you could ask him about it later, with his heightened sense of smell he surely would know what flower it belonged to or at least find another of it’s kind.
~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~
Two days had passed and every single day Marcus had made an effort to spend time with you. He was flirtatious from the start, countless compliments and countless light touches. It was no surprise that he entered the infirmary again to seek your company. As you worked to mix salves and medicine, he stood by your side and talked about his life. According to himself, his skill for playing the lute was known, you were yet to hear it for yourself.
“I forgot my lute in the stables.” He rubbed your upper arm a few times, then left his hand there. “I have been working on a song just for you.”
Your eyes snapped to him. “For me?”
Suddenly he reached out and caressed your cheek. “My lute can never sound as good as your voice does, but I hope the song will please you.”
Your feet were rooted to the spot, your thoughts too slow to realize what was about to happen. He kissed you, cupping your neck and he was not shy about it at all.
Was this what you wanted too? So quickly? He pulled you closer by the waist and you broke your mouth away by tilting your head to the side.
“Marcus… uhm…”
He was kissing your cheek and jaw, mumbling some sweet nothings in your ear. The sound of footsteps and a very loud knock on the already open door was why he stopped. You took some steps back when seeing who had walked in on this.
Lancelot had stepped into the infirmary, not bothering to wait seeing that the door was open. A strange tension build itself into the room instantly, you risked one look at Lancelot’s face and it made your eyes fix on the floor. His whole stance was different, stern and distant.
“Marcus.” His voice was sharp and heavy as he spoke the name, he then seemed to control it more, “The Green Knight is expecting you.”
Marcus frowned, protesting, “But-”
“Now. Marcus,” his tone grew sharper. “He has summoned you.”
Marcus knew that going against a knight of the Fey was unwise, even though this knight’s attitude was angering him. “Fine.”
Your eyes darted between him and Lancelot, sensing the dislike they seemed to have for each other. Marcus was quick to lean in and steal a kiss from your cheek, leaving you flustered by the boldness and this right in front of Lancelot. Lancelot set not a foot aside as Marcus approached him to head for the door, Marcus begrudgingly had to slip through the small space between the Ash Man and the wall. Lancelot shut the door the second Marcus was out of the infirmary, his whole body tense as if he was heading into a battle. He walked into the infirmary, his stern expression turned to downcast. He was quieter, even quieter than normal for him.
You feared he was sicker than he would admit to, slowly you crossed the distance towards him. “Lancelot?”
He looked at you from the corner of his eyes but was avoiding eye-contact. When you touched his forehead to feel for a fever he stilled completely, he had not expected the action. There was no fever to be felt, his skin was warm but not out of the normal range, you pulled your hand back and he looked at you with an emotion you could not identify.
“I am not ill.” His voice was quiet, soft and lacked the strength it usually had, “Would you come with me to see to Goliath for a moment?”
Your stomach sank at the sound of him, he felt more and more distant. “Of course. What do you fear is bothering him?”
His answer was delayed, “There is a mark on his flank.”
You went to the shelves stocked with medicines. “I will inspect it. Let me grab some salve just in case. I have some with yarrow and marigold here somewhere…”
He came closer as well, then leaned past you, brushing with his chest against the back of your arm as he took one of the bowls from the shelf and showed it to you. “This one has yarrow in it, I can tell by the pungent scent it has.”
You could still feel him stand against you a little, feel the warmth radiating of off him. “It’s that one.”
He took a few steps back, perhaps aware of how close he had been standing. “I will carry it. Are you ready to see to him or do you need something else?”
You remembered the flower petal you had found, but decided against asking him about it now. “I-… no.”
His gaze was alert right away. “What is it? I can see there is something you wished to say.”
“It’s silly and it can wait. This is more important-”
“Please.”
You went to the bowl on the shelf where you had put the petal in and handed him the bowl to look. “I found this petal in the infirmary. It has such a lovely color and I was wondering if you knew what sort of flower it came from.”
He swallowed audibly, staring at the small petal presented to him. “I do not recognize it.”
“Not even by scent?”
He shook his head, put the bowl back where you had taken it from the shelf and headed for the door. “Coming?”
Stranger and stranger he behaved, distant while close. Were you losing his friendship? Had Gyda pulled him far enough in her web? Quietly you decided to follow him to the stables, holding hope that this was just temporary.
In the stables, you were cooing to Goliath lovingly and ignoring how the Ash Man seemed to stare. The mark on Goliath’s flank was nothing more than a very old scar that had long since healed. But Lancelot was not the only Fey knight who was overly worried over their horse and you found it quite endearing. To put his mind at ease, you did apply some salve to the scar. He came to stand beside you, arm and back of his hand brushing against your side from the close proximity. You felt your heart in your throat and tried to focus on Goliath, hating how you still held the hope that Lancelot would share the same feelings that you had for him.
He held the bowl of salve. “Thank you for taking a moment of your time to examine him.”
Your voice was very quiet, “He seems fine to me. And this old scar will not go away, but it is no reason to worry.”
“Perhaps I am too fixated on his health.”
“I suppose it is normal to be worried about
someone you are attached to.”
A pause. “Yes.”
A few silent seconds passed, then you took a step away and turned to leave. Lancelot had moved as well and you accidentally collided into his chest. He was quick to support you by the elbow to ensure you stayed on your feet.
You got the feeling that he had moved with the intent of stepping in your path to keep you there longer. “I’m sorry. Uhm… was there anything else you needed?”
He blinked twice and appeared to be thinking, then his gaze lowered to the ground and he let go of your elbow. A strange tension filled the space between you, you forced yourself to keep breathing normally and not overthink it. When you tried to step away again, he finally spoke.
“I don’t like to see you with that man.”
“What?”
“With Marcus.”
“Why?”
“He has only just arrived here. We do not know him well.”
“We can learn to know him. Once, I did not know you either.”
He looked off to the side for a moment. An uncomfortable feeling hanged in the air.
“He seems nice,” you told him.
His eyes stole a glance, but there was a slight upward tilt to his head, a straightening of his back that told he wasn’t pleased to hear it.
“Is there something bad that he did that I should know of?” you asked.
He thought for a moment. “No. There have been no complaints.”
“Good.”
He stood very still for a while, feeling the judgment in Goliath’s eyes. He would reward him for this small inconvenience. Or the stallion might consider walking over his foot by ‘accident’ again.
“He has asked me to go with him to the feast tomorrow evening,” you told him.
He tensed. “And will you?”
The cold breeze in the stables went through your clothes. You hugged yourself to stay warm. “I said I would. I do not want to be without a companion at this feast again. I’m sick of the pitying looks.”
His gaze fixed on Goliath as he began go pet the horse, seeming distracted.
You couldn’t help but ask, “And you… I assume Gyda has asked you already?”
“She has.”
Of course she had, she must have asked him days ago.
He sighed quietly. “But I do not know if I will attend. These celebrations are not what I am used to. I do not understand these Fey customs.”
You frowned. “How so?”
“Living among the Fey… everything is the opposite of what I was taught. And this feast is one I would have never been allowed to take part of.”
“I think…” You started but fell silent, maybe he would not like to hear your opinion on the matter.
He was clearly waiting for you to continue.
It felt like such a risky thing to say. “I think it would be good for you to take part of this feast. It’s your heritage too…”
He stepped away, this was still a delicate topic with him but you got the feeling that he was giving thought to your opinion. You wiped your hands on the rag you had carried along, getting rid of the salve on them. The day was colder than you had expected it to be, your teeth threatened to chatter.
He saw you shiver. “The horse figurine you made for me, is it meant to resemble Goliath?”
“Yes. I know how much you adore him.”
He was quiet for a moment, then stepped forward and took off his cloak to drape it over your shoulders. “Come. I shall walk you back to the fort.”
The cloak was warm and smelled like him, the sense of comfort it brought was otherworldly. This cloak was as close to his embrace you would possibly get. He walked you to the entrance of the fort. You were still a few feet away when halting and turning towards him to reluctantly hand him the cloak back.
You would miss it’s warmth and the sense of his presence it gave. “Thank you.”
He fidgeted with it for a second, then put it back on. With a respectful tilt of the head he acknowledged the expression of gratitude and watched as you headed into the warmth of the fort again.
Marcus was outside as well, having seen who’s cloak was over your shoulders and realized why the Green Knight had no idea why he thought he had summoned him.
He marched over to Lancelot and got his attention by stopping only a few steps away and confronting him. “Ser Lancelot!”
Lancelot had already caught the Sky Folk scent that irritated him and sighed at the sound of Marcus’s voice. “What is it, Marcus?”
Marcus seethed at him, “Who do you think you are? Does your title make you think you can just get away with this?”
He turned, severely disliking the tone aimed at him. “Pardon?”
Marcus pointed at him accusingly. “I know the Green Knight did not summon me! You were lying, you deceiving rat!”
He turned away, not willing to converse or argue with this man. He wanted nothing to do with him.
But Marcus was foolish enough to voice his thoughts out loud. “If it weren’t for you, I would have wetted my cock with her already!”
Lancelot had halted, Marcus was unable to see the storm in the Ash Man’s eyes that was about to descend upon his head.
He had never felt such white hot fury in him so sudden. By the time his mind caught up with him again, he had struck Marcus.
There was nothing graceful in the fight of fists that ensued between them. It drew the attention of others who were all too apprehensive to interfere in a fight that involved the former Weeping Monk. Not once a sword was drawn, fists flew to each other, trying to place the blow that would send the opponent to the ground.
It was Arthur who got between them, practically dragging Lancelot away as he had gotten the upper hand. Blood dripped from the Ash Man’s nose, the hood of his cloak hanged haphazardly over his head. Marcus had a bruised eye and jaw, bloodied nose and busted lip.
“What the bloody hell is going on here?” Arthur demanded to know, giving Lancelot a light push with his hand to signal that he needed to stay away from Marcus.
“The Asher is a madman!” Marcus spoke accusingly. “He just attacked me!”
“You’re an impudent swine!” Lancelot spat back.
Arthur knew the atmosphere between them was too heated, too dangerous to linger in to search for the truth. “Alright. Let’s go, Lancelot.”
He was fuming, Arthur patted him on the arm to urge him to walk along.
“A war for a heart cannot be fought by fists,” Arthur told him quietly.
He did not dare look at the Manblood. “I do not know what you speak of.”
Arthur pushed the matter, “Did you put your cloak on her so she would be warm, or so she would smell like you instead of Marcus?”
He reacted cold. “I am not an animal trying to mark territory.”
“Then stop behaving like it,” Arthur boldly told him.
The Ash Man gave a glare and walked away from him. Too angry to continue this sort of discussion with the nosy Arthur.
~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~
It was past noon when Gawain entered the infirmary with Percival. He was holding on to the boy’s jacket, preventing him from running off if he’d be tempted to. It was no secret that Percival did not like a visit to a healer, he was fearful towards needles even though he would never admit it. You let him sit on one of the cots, he had fallen and scuffed his knee. Gawain had noticed it because the young knight’s trouser leg had a blood stain on it and brought Percival to the infirmary to get the dirt and gravel cleaned out of his knee before it got infected.
“The feast is tomorrow.” Percival tried to distract himself as you cleaned his knee. “And there will be ale.”
Gawain crossed his arms over his chest. “There will be ale indeed. But not for you, boy.”
Percival was appalled at the news. “What? Why not?!”
That started a minute long argument between them that Gawain barely won by standing by his choice on the matter. Percival grumbled quietly through his teeth.
The boy put his attention back on you. “Are you going to the feast?”
“I am.”
There was an audible excitement in his voice now, “With Lancelot?”
You shook your head. “No. I am going with someone else.”
“Why don’t you go to the feast with Lancelot?”
“He would not want to.”
“That’s not true,” Percival said as if it was a blatant lie you had told him.
Gawain walked over and swatted the boy’s shoulder lightly. “Boy. Stop distracting our healer before she sews your nose to your foot.”
It made Percival think of something else. “Has Lancelot been here for his nose yet?”
You frowned a little, eyes still fixed on the task. “What is wrong with his nose?”
Gawain tried, “Perciv-”
“He fought with Marcus the stablehand.”
Your eyes widened. Had he really just said that? The look on Gawain’s face told you it was true. “What happened?!?”
The knight gave a disapproving look at Percival who sheepishly smiled. “From what I heard Marcus said something that Lancelot did not like to hear.”
You feared the worst. “Gods… is Marcus alright?”
Gawain put your mind at ease. “Pym saw to him. He’s alive, but his nose is broken.”
The timing could not have been more unfortunate for Lancelot to knock and quickly walk into the infirmary. He was looking at Percival with concern and only then noticed the discreet telling look Gawain was trying to give him to warn him that you knew what had transpired. Lancelot could already guess by the fierce glare he was getting from you and swallowed hard.
You smeared some salve on Percival’s knee and waited for a moment as it dried before rolling Percival’s trouser leg back down. “There you go. Better?”
Percival felt the soothing coolness of the salve numb the pain. “Lots.”
Lancelot went to stand closely beside Gawain, as if to seek some form of protection against the glares you send his way. That plan failed miserably when Percival got up from the cot and Gawain steered Percival out of the infirmary while giving Lancelot a sympathetic look.
You waited until they were out of the infirmary and closed the door behind them, then marched right over to him. “You have some nerve to show your face here after what you did!”
He, the former notorious Weeping Monk, took some steps back when seeing the fury burn into your eyes. “I…”
“Is it true you attacked Marcus?”
His expression turned near stoic. “He lacks manners.”
Was that his reasoning?!? “And you don’t?!”
He looked like he was about to cower, tilting his head down but keeping his eyes on yours.
You shook your head, disappointed in his behavior. “Do not come to the infirmary to receive my help with the injuries you sustained from attacking my suitor!”
His eyes fell away. “Your suitor…”
“Yes. The only one I had! And this will have scared him off! Marcus knows you are my friend and he will not want anything to do with me after this.” You tried not to let the tears show but it was no use, your lip quivered. “Do you have any idea how much it hurts to be the one without a flower on the Lovers Feast? I had a chance this time to experience what the others have and now that’s gone.”
He appeared genuinely remorseful, even shocked at the sight of your tears. “I am sorry.”
You hugged yourself. “What lead to this, Lancelot?”
“Something he said.” He had to admit to what caused him to lose control over his composure.
“Did he deserve to have his nose broken for ‘something he said’?”
“Yes.” He was firm on that answer. “He deserved it for how he spoke. I apologize for how this upsets you, but not for giving Marcus what he deserved.”
The conviction he showed alarmed you. “What exactly did he say?”
Lancelot looked away, showing high reluctance to speak of it. It only alarmed you even more.
“Lancelot! What did he say?” your voice rose, demanding to learn the truth.
He paced around for a moment, frustrated. “It will only upset you.”
“I still want to know. I want to know why you thought that breaking his nose was a proper response!”
The silence that fell lasted a while, the frustration in his eyes was gone as they fixed on the floor. His expression downcast in a way you had not seen before.
“What he said… I cannot speak it,” he quietly admitted. The heaviness in his words told he was truthful. “He spoke of you as nothing more than a subject to use for his carnal urges.”
A pit formed in your stomach. “What did he say?…”
He shook his head. “I cannot…”
You believed him. If he could not repeat what Marcus had said, then it must have been anything but proper. And Marcus had said it to him, where others could have easily overheard. You thought he was a proper person, a sweet person, but his true intentions had come to light and it was hard not to feel humiliated and betrayed. The Lovers Feast would become a dreaded event again this year.
You took a seat, managed to stay composed for a few seconds but broke down into quiet tears after-all. He stood motionless, silently shocked by seeing you weep. Then approached and knelt down beside you, not knowing what to say or do to help.
You wiped some tears away, voice trembling, “I want to be left alone.”
He spoke your name so gently and tried to take hold of your hand. “I wish I did not have to bring you this news. He is not worth the tears shed for him.”
The stablehand had a reputation, chasing all women he caught in his sight. He had hoped Marcus’ intentions were good, but the man had ruined that hope.
A drop of blood was running down his nose, your sorrow turned to concern for him. Quickly you wiped your tears away then got up and grabbed a clean piece of cloth, getting it damp in one of the washbasins. He seemed unaware of the blood, confused as to why you were suddenly darting around the place in such hurry. He was still kneeling and staring when you stopped in front of him and put your fingers under his chin to make him look up at you. Carefully you wiped the blood away and inspected his nose to see if it had been broken or cracked as well. Slowly his fingers curled around your lower arm, taking a light hold. He tilted his head back, letting the hold slide to your wrist. The marks beneath his eyes heightened their beauty to a greater level, he was truly born to bear them.
You could barely think, your voice was no higher than a whisper, “I don’t think your nose is broken.”
A small smile bravely curved his lips. “You are helping me, even after I fought your suitor?”
“Don’t make a habit of it.” You gave a warning look. “I’ll have to forgive you for it this time considering you did it because he was speaking vulgar about me.”
“How could I not defend the honour of the woman who saved my life?”
“You do not owe me for that.”
The fear that he only spend time around you because he felt obligated was still present. Perhaps he even felt pity for how withdrawn you could be.
“I disagree.” he stated and rose from the ground.
You stumbled back clumsily a little or risked him bumping into you from how close he was. Whenever he was in close proximity, your heart began to race and your palms sweated. It was fortunate he did not have a heightened sense of hearing as well or you would have been in trouble.
“I must go. There are still tasks I must handle before tonight.” He was looking at you, undoubtedly seeing how you struggled to find something to look at instead of him.
Breathing normal was the hardest to do. “Of course.”
He went to pass you, but stopped at your side and took hold of your upper arm for a moment to pull you close. “Remember, he is not worth a single one of your tears.”
You could only nod.
There was a deepening in his voice, “Thank you for helping Percival. He does not enjoy a visit to a healer, but you always make him feel at ease.”
Your heart went faster and faster, until he let go of your arm and walked out of the infirmary. At this rate it would be hard to get him out of your thoughts.
~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~
When evening neared, you headed to your room to get ready for the feast. You had not spoken to Marcus since that morning and were left to wonder whether or not he would still show up as your companion for the evening. A strong part of you hoped that Lancelot had struck him hard enough to forget about that agreement, but you doubted you’d be that lucky.
That feeling of dread was forgotten when you entered your room and the most appealing scent hit your nose. Purple flowers were on your bed and the night table, petals of the same flower were placed here and there. The very same kind of petal that you had found in the infirmary. Stunned, you walked into the room, loving how it smelled now. The flowers were beautiful.
There were only two people who could have done this and you doubted it was Marcus. No, only one had known that you were curious about what flower that petal had belonged to. Had Lancelot truly done this? Was it to cheer you up? It certainly had succeeded in that endeavour. You picked up a flower to smell, feeling your heart flutter with a hope you tried to suppress. The former Weeping Monk, leaving flowers in your room because he had seen how upset you were. It made you determined to go to the feast and enjoy yourself, dance at the music and eat the baked goods. Lancelot was right, Marcus was not worth the tears.
You did your hair and put on the dress you had picked out at a market weeks ago to wear. Even if Lancelot would attend with Gyda, you would not give Gyda what she wanted, you deserved to celebrate as much as everyone else. After an hour, you were ready. The music was already traveling into the castle, but it was the knock on your door that forced your heart to quicken. Was it him?
That hope was gone when you opened the door to a face you had hoped not to see. “Marcus…”
Marcus had multiple bruises on his face and a speck of dried blood still under his now crooked nose. “Whoa… you look stunning.”
“I do.” You stood up straight. “But I will not be going to the feast with you at my side.”
“What-” Realization set into his eyes. “I don’t know what the Ash Man told you, but he is lying.”
You crossed your arms over your chest. “I don’t believe he is.”
Marcus was clearly irritated to be called out on it, showing that he had hoped you would side with him. But you knew Lancelot, knew he would not lie about such a thing and certainly not react the way he had if it weren’t true.
You were so disappointed in Marcus’ behavior. “You only wanted to take me to the feast because you hoped to bed me.”
He was shockingly blunt about the truth now, “It is the Lovers Feast. It’s only fitting.”
You slapped him, the flat of your hand loudly collided with his cheek, shocking even yourself with the reaction given to him for it.
Marcus touched his cheek, having stumbled a step back from the force of the hit. He responded with words of venom, like an angry threatened snake wanting to strike. “No wonder you find yourself alone on this feast. Even your knight cannot bring himself to make the sacrifice to accompany you. Gyda’s been telling everyone he is her companion for the evening. Whilst you are alone.”
Your rejection brought forth who he truly was, a cruel bastard. It was perhaps fortunate that you learned this before you’d grow more closer to him.
Marcus saw the shock in your eyes, the hurt he wished to cause visible in them. “He pities you, you know? That’s what others say when they see him give his time to you. You healed him, saved his life, he knows he owes you for that. It’s nothing more than a knight looking upon you with sympathy, too cowardly to show the true pity he feels. He wouldn’t have looked your way if he hadn’t been forced to in the infirmary whilst burning with fever.”
You took a step back, feeling the fury blend with pain. “Get out.”
“You-”
Your voice drowned out his words, furious like the lash of a whip, “Get out of my room!”
Marcus furiously left your room, slamming the door shut behind him so hard it caused it to open again from the force. Only a few seconds you were able to keep your composure, then a sob fell. He had thrown your biggest fear in your face again. Were others truly thinking it too? There had to be some truth to it if so. Lancelot felt indebted to you for the help you had given him and once that debt was settled he would have no reason to be a friend.
You were still wiping your tears away when Gawain walked past your door, stopped and walked into the room upon seeing what state you were in.
“Dare I ask why our dearest healer is weeping?”
You tried to at least give half a smile, it did not work. “I spoke to Marcus.”
Gawain sighed, giving a sympathetic look whilst he approached you. “You’re not letting that fool keep you from enjoying this night. Come.” He made you hook your arm around his, determined to get you to the feast. “Away with those tears. Even without a companion, you can enjoy the ale and sweet baked goods. And I doubt you will be the only one lacking a partner, find yourself someone who believes they are alone as well and ask them to dance. You’re a brave one, keep your head up and remember that nearly everyone at this feast will love to see the one who healed them when they were ailing.”
Hearing him be so encouraging helped, you let him walk you out of the room. “Thank you, Gawain. I needed to hear that. Marcus had spoken cruelly to me and it made me lose the will to go to the feast.”
He strolled with you down the hallways towards the courtyard where the feast was held. “Forget him. He’s not worth the headache he would have given you.”
“And who, if I may ask, will be your companion for the evening?” you wondered out loud.
“I asked Pym.”
“Truly?”
“She was Nimue’s closest friend and therefor I want to ensure that whoever takes her to this feast has nothing but the best intentions for her.”
Sorrow filled his eyes for a hallway after talking of his dear friend Nimue. You tried to cheer him up before the two of you stepped into the courtyard. The atmosphere alone was enough to help him feel better. Lanterns were hanged up and smaller ones were placed all around. Flowers decorated the place and music filled the air. There was a crowd already, some dancing, some enjoying the ale.
You released his arm and steered him to Pym who was snacking on the small treats that were provided. “Go on, Green Knight. And good luck.”
He chuckled a little and gave a respectful bow. “Come to us if you seek company. Alright?”
The whole courtyard was so beautifully decorated that you grew quiet. “Thank you for getting me out of my room.”
Gawain was clearly pleased that you were there to celebrate with the rest. He gave another bow and then went over to Pym. You noticed Gyda at the table behind you where ale was being served. She noticed you too and instantly glared. Trying not to roll your eyes, you looked away and to the dancing crowd. Perhaps Gawain was right and there were others without someone to accompany them. As your eyes trailed over the crowd, they landed on only one person. Lancelot. He stood speaking to Red Spear and Arthur and looked more handsome than you had ever seen him, not one stain of blood was on his attire, fresh new attire that complimented him so well.
You were at the table with the ale within seconds, tempted to drink some of it to silence your racing heartbeats. Unfortunately Gyda was only a few steps away and closed in when she saw you.
She looked in Lancelot’s direction, a growing pout on her lips that vanished when she looked and glared at you. “You’re selfish.”
Your eyes snapped to her. “I beg your pardon?”
It set her off. “You are the most selfish person I’ve ever met. Instead of letting Lancelot choose for his own happiness, you allow him to keep feeling indebted to you! All you did was feed him medicine when he was sick, you only did your duty as a healer. So tell him he owes you nothing!”
Wide wide eyes you stared at her. It only infuriated her more that you were too speechless to react to her rant.
Her voice was laced with venom, every word sharp as a blade, “I tried to convince him that he does not owe you, but he’s far too considerate to believe it. You’re so selfish that the only way you could get a companion for this feast was because of the obligation they feel.”
You hated the accusations, first Marcus and now her again. “I have no companion-”
She put her tankard of ale loudly down on the table right next to you and filled up another for herself. As she walked away, she glared again.
The stress this evening had caused weight on your stomach. Something inside had broken, no matter how hard you tried misfortune kept ruthlessly ruining it. You wanted a moment away from the feast, or risked bursting into tears in the midst of it.
You turned to leave the table and saw Lancelot head your direction, one look behind you told that Gyda was looking his way with anticipation, she was waiting for him and you were in his path. He had a flower in his hand and was nervously turning it between his fingertips. She had to be happy, she had vied for his attention for weeks now and this flower exchange was just what she had wanted. And it was the worst thing for your heart to have to witness, so your gaze fixed itself on the ground hoping to spare your heart the suffering. He was close and you would not stand in the way of his happiness as Gyda accused you of.
“Sorry,” you uttered quietly and stepped aside, making room for him to pass.
But he did not pass, no, his brow furrowed as his body turned to follow your movement. Your gaze snapped up to his face when feeling him take hold of your hand. For a moment he said nothing, his gaze falling on the dress you wore and slowly traveling back up to your eyes. You felt the stares aimed your way and the glares Gyda was sending, it was all becoming too much.
Lancelot said not a word as he knelt down before you, holding your hand in his own and presenting you the flower in his other. The very same kind of flower like the petal, like the ones in your room. Had he… wanted to give you one of these that day? Is that why that petal… no… it was just another foolish hope.
Lancelot gazed up at you, the nearby lanterns casting a warm light upon his face. “Will you celebrate this night with me?”
You froze. All that had been said by Marcus and Gyda rushed back into your mind. This was pity for the tears you had shed… an obligation he felt to you for saving his life. This was not what he truly wanted. No wonder Gyda was furious. The stares of the crowd became too much to bear, your heart was going too fast, it felt hard to breath. Did they all pity you?
When nausea twisted your stomach, you pulled your hand free from his and stumbled away. Uttering what should have been an apology, but you fell over your words whilst hurrying away.
~~~♡~~~♡~~~♤~~~♡~~~♡~~~
You rushed to the infirmary, hoping to still have some of that vial that would help calm your panic down and ease the heaviness in your stomach. In your haste, a bowl was knocked over but you did find the vial and took some sips from it right away. Dizzy, you sat down on one of the cots to wait for the vial to do it’s work. Peace was not granted to you, Gyda stepped into the infirmary and must have followed you there.
She did not sound fully sober. “Because of you I face this humiliation. You filthy trollop.”
This wasn’t helping you calm down at all. “I did nothing to you, Gyda.”
She stepped closer, again showing her true nature by picking up one of the bowls from the shelves and letting it fall from her hand on purpose. Right after, she took a small sip of ale and looked pleased with herself.
You rolled your eyes and stood up from the cot, tired of her idiocy. “I had no idea that he was going to approach me this evening. I thought he was there with you.”
It infuriated her further. “He would have been if you weren’t such a selfish wench! I told you he felt obligated! You should have never shown your face tonight!”
You had enough of her. This night was already ruined. “You keep throwing yourself at him and yet he is not at your side tonight. Perhaps I am not to blame, maybe he sees you for who you really are and not to facade you deceive others with.”
She retorted by throwing the contents of her tankard of ale onto your dress, ruining it. As quick as she had done it, just as quick did you lash out and punch her. She let out a scream whilst stumbling back and touching her face.
The ruckus had drawn the attention of others outside, Gawain stepped into the room and stopped Gyda before she could attack you. Lancelot followed in his footsteps and of course she hoped to use this to her advantage.
“The healer hit me!” She shouted, quickly moving towards Lancelot to grab hold of his jerkin.
He plucked her hands from him, his eyes scanning the room and falling on your dress ruined by ale. “She defended herself.”
Gyda looked at him appalled. “What? She is a madwoman!”
His eyes grew cold when staring down to her face. “We heard you.”
The broken bowl on the floor, the ruined dress, the accusations and insults. He had heard it all transpire outside the door with Gawain.
Lancelot took hold of her elbow and steered her to Gawain. “Go. You do not seek healing, you seek to harm.”
“But Lancelot…” She tried to resist when Gawain took her by the arm and led her to the door. “You do not have to do all this for her, I told you before, you do not owe her anything!”
“And I told you that it has nothing to do with it!” he snarled in anger. “I despise those who find joy in tormenting others.”
With a nod towards Gawain, he signaled to the knight to take Gyda out of the infirmary. Gawain did and closed the door behind them, determined to bring peace back to the evening.
You looked at Lancelot, seeing how he tried not to show how bothered he felt by the situation. “I am sorry.”
“What for? You were defending yourself.” He looked down at the broken bowl near the door again. “Did she do this on purpose?”
“She did.”
He came closer to you, suddenly taking hold of your hand to inspect your knuckles to see if there was damage to them, there was some broken skin on two knuckles. You winced when he accidentally touched them with his thumb.
He headed for the shelves. “Where is the salve you often use on me?”
“It’s fine. You don’t have to-”
With a scolding look he asked again, “Where?”
“Second shelf. On the left.”
After finding the salve he returned with it, taking your hand in his to carefully apply some of it to your knuckles. “You blackened her eye.”
“She ruined my dress.”
Stunned by the response, he tried to bite back a smile. “Is that a fair exchange?”
“It is to me.”
He clicked his tongue. “Well… it was a beautiful dress. “I must admit, I am impressed with the strength in your strikes. First Marcus, now Gyda.”
You frowned at him. “How do you know I slapped Marcus?”
“I did not add that red mark to his cheek that I saw. That one was fresh from this evening.” Interest gleamed in his eyes. “Our sweet healer bares her teeth to defend herself.”
He grew more and more intrigued. Your secret talent for crafting figurines, this fierceness, the fearless attitude towards him. Yes, he was intrigued indeed.
You watched how gentle he was when touching your hands, so light and careful as if he was handling something he feared to break. The last time he had held your hand, you had left him on his knees in front of everyone and now he was here helping. “I am sorry for leaving the way I did. I didn’t even thank you for the flowers you left in my room.”
He glanced up into your eyes.
Quietly you spoke, “I know you were the one who left them there…”
“Do you like them?” He wrapped a bandage around your hand to cover the salve and let it do it’s work.
“I do.” You could sense him grow quieter, the reaction to him earlier must have hurt him after-all. “It was very sweet of you to do, to cheer me up after the whole Marcus-situation.”
Quietly he put a knot into the bandage to secure it. The small smile he had worn was gone, the distance in his eyes grew more visible. “Will you go back to the feast?”
You looked down at the stained dress. “My dress is ruined.”
“You could change,” he suggested.
Was it your imagination or did he sound hopeful? “I thought you were going to give her that flower.”
“What?” He blinked. “Why?”
The reason was obvious. “Because she has been vying for your attention for weeks.”
His reply was rather firm, “I have not vied for hers.”
That was… true. You had never actually seen him approach her first. Just them together and always her going over to him.
He sought the truth in all this. “Do you truly believe what she said? That I act out of an obligation I feel towards you?”
You withdrew your hand and took a step back. “I do not want to be selfish, I don’t want you to feel as if you must repay me for healing you. I just did my duty.”
He moved his cloak a little aside and there sat the flower he had offered you safely behind the sheath of his sword, he took it between his fingers and placed it down on the cot right next to you. “I thought…”
You saw an emotion in his eyes that twisted a knife in your chest. “Lancelot?”
His gaze did not lift from the floor. “Everything I did for you was because I chose to do it. I wanted to see you happy. Obligation was never part of that.”
“But then…” Shaking your head, you stepped away from him and created some distance. “I just do not understand why someone like you would ask me to celebrate the feast together.”
A frown creased his forehead. “‘Someone like me’… did you refuse me because I once was a monk?”
He sounded as if he was misunderstanding, searching fault in himself. You couldn’t believe it.
“What? No! Of course not.”
“Then why did you reject me tonight?”
“Why did you ask?”
It greatly confused him. “Why should I not?”
Tension weighed down in your stomach. “It just doesn’t make sense to me that you would ask me…”
“Why?” he demanded to know.
“Because you’re perfect!” your thoughts spilled free. Quieter you told him again, “You’re perfect…”
You wanted nothing more than to leave, feeling the loaded atmosphere rise in the room. He was staring and you felt more vulnerable than ever before. Your eyes couldn’t lie anymore, today had taken it’s toll.
“How could you ever want me?” You shook your head and felt your eyes go watery. “If the gods somehow were on my side and you would be mine one day, I would to spend the rest of my life wondering if I am actually truly worthy of you.” Tears that escaped blurred your vision. “Because you’re everything I’ve always wanted… and nothing frightens me more than to be rejected by the one who can truly break my heart.”
Intense silence came from his side, shock plastered on his face along with what you feared to be pity. You did not want him to pity you, this was embarrassing enough.
“I’m going to go now…” your voice was much quieter, all it’s power had been used up on voicing out loud what you now regretted.
Humiliation was overtaking your courage and you did not want him to witness the change. As you were about to pass him to reach the door, he stepped into your path and blocked it. You took a step back, not expecting his action.
“How can you treat yourself so cruelly?” he sounded in disbelief.
“What?” you breathed.
“‘Worthy’? " he appeared upset, shocked by the mere notion. “You have saved more lives than one can count and you believe yourself to be unworthy of someone such as I who for years has done nothing but murder our kind?”
“Lancelot-”
He shook his head, tone firm, “It is I who is unworthy. The only matter that has stopped me from pursuing you is my past, I would taint your reputation. You are grace and kindness, everything I believed did not exist in this world until I met you. There is no one as noble as you.”
Your eyes widened. Had he truly been thinking of pursuing you? “What…?”
He closed the distance, intensity burned in his eyes. “I have loved you since the evenings you spend sitting next to my cot when I was on the verge of death. You promised me you would not leave my side, you sat by me and watched over me. I remember it, I never told you that I did, but I do.”
He had been so consumed by the fever. You didn’t think he remembered that you had sat at his side for so long, the soothing words you had spoken…
“You remember that?” you whispered, then realized what he had just confessed to. “You love me?!?”
Slowly he nodded, swallowing hard. Never before had you seen him so worried for your reaction to him.
“Romantically?” you whispered in disbelief.
He was wise enough not to speak of love around a woman if what he meant was just appreciation and friendship.
Gingerly he fished for your hand and took hold of it. “Yes.”
The door flying open caused both of you to part away. In walked Pym and Gawain supporting a drunk Arthur with a bloody knee.
Lancelot turned to Arthur with concern. “What happened?”
Pym sighed. “He fell over someone’s foot while trying to dance.”
“We’ll handle it.” Gawain said. He must have seen how close the two of you had been standing before the abrupt interruption.
You worried. “Are you sure-”
“They are.” Lancelot wrapped his hand around yours and steered you with him out of the infirmary, giving Gawain a discreet nod of acknowledgment.
He stopped walking and turned to you after shutting the door behind him. Before he could speak, Arthur was cursing inside the infirmary from the pain he must have felt.
“Manbloods…” he sighed annoyed and took you further away from the door.
He remembered too late that he had left behind the flower in the infirmary, a blunder he truly regretted.
He picked his words carefully, “I know how much this feast means to you. If you allow it, I will accompany you.”
You touched your ruined dress. “I would need to stop by my room first.”
It was as if he had completely forgotten the state your dress was in, his gaze dropped down to it. He cleared his throat. “Oh.”
“Want to come along and help me choose a dress to wear?”
It had slipped out of your mouth and your mind caught up only a second later. Your eyes widened at him. Why on earth had you just asked him that?
He stared for a moment. “Of course.”
Of course? A former monk felt comfortable to do this? The interest in his eyes said it all.
Timidly you walked next to him, to your room. That whole walk you were fidgeting with your sleeves. He often walked so close his arm bumped into you.
Once inside the room, you searched your wardrobe for another dress to wear. You fished three out and put them down on the bed to search for more. One had caught his interest, he lifted another one off of it to pick it up.
“This one?” he looked towards you.
“Not proper for the occasion I think.”
“Why?”
Hearing him so curious made you smile. “It’s quite open for an evening at the side of a former monk.”
He frowned a little until he saw you place your hand on your chest to explain where it was quite open. Then he cleared his throat, still holding on to the dress as he looked to the floor. He held the dress out for you to take. “Perhaps… let a former monk see it for himself and share his opinion on the matter?”
You gasped at the daring request he had made and playfully smacked his upper arm. “My goodness, Lancelot!”
The playful tap had not deterred him, the brief physical contact lured him in. He carelessly tossed the dress on top of the others and grabbed hold of your elbow to get you closer. “I believe I need to seek your aid tonight.”
Your voice was wavering under his gaze, the playfulness in his own was like music to your ears, “What ails you?”
“A yearning heart.”
“And you believe I can help with that?”
“I know you hold the cure.”
Gingerly he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over it slowly. “My healer...”
Your gazes were intertwined until his fell on your lips and he touched his thumb to the corner of it. There was hesitation in him, a visible fear of blundering or crossing a line you were not ready to cross yet.
“Please, Lancelot, if you think of kissing me…” You gave him your most inviting look. “Do it.”
There was an instant change in his eyes. His lips descended on yours, kissing you with every fiery bit of passion he possessed within him. Pulling you close and tight, hand on your hair to keep you close and trapped to his lips. As if he wanted to erase the memory of another on your lips. Stilling all thoughts and feeding your mind thrilling ones instead. A startled sound trying to flee your lips was silenced effortlessly by him. There was no question about it anymore, everything he had done for you was not out of obligation, it was because he loved you.
The idea to head back to the courtyard was quickly forgotten and replaced by the desire to spend the Lovers Feast as it was always intended to be.
Lando Norris as in right now we are at WAR. Enemies. Not in speaking terms. Worst thing you could have done. That mullet was everything. EVERYTHING. and you discarded it, just like that. like it meant nothing. Why? How could you? Rude. Vile. I will need time to recover. To process.
Funerals will be held soon. Mourning will last between 3 to 35 days. RIP.
summary: you're a romance novel influencer that has never actually experienced romance. ironic, right? and when f1 driver lando norris accidentally becomes a constant presence in your life, he decides he can't possibly let that slide.
f1 masterlist.
pairing: lando norrisﾉf!reader
wc: 11.2k
cw: reader is a ferrari fan and is said to wear feminine clothing (dresses, skirts etc), reader has a race taking place in her home country but it's not precised where, takes place during a fictional season (w the 2025 grid), cussing, inspired by nick and cassie on tiktok, slight angst near the end for plot reason, otherwise just tooth-rotting fluff!
a/n: first fic who cheered! this is so self-indulgent and cliché but who caresss also its a long one so buckle up (editing was hell, ending is a bit rushed too sorry)
THERE WAS NOT ONE day in which @.whoisy/n, book influencer extraordinaire, did not pass her day with her head inside a romance novel.
You always liked reading. The passion struck you in late primary school when you first opened Percy Jackson and before you knew it, you finished the entire series in three days and begged your parents to buy you Heroes of Olympus. There was no going back after that. You couldn’t spend a day without your thirty minutes to an-hour reading session.
Like every girl raised with the idea of being a strong, independent female lead in the novel that was your life ─ at the sweet age of thirteen, dare I be precise ─ you never dabbled too much into romance. If it ended in a book you were currently reading, so be it, but you wouldn’t outwardly enjoy it. Why would you need someone in your life? You were so not like the other girls, you didn’t waste your time on boys or parties or things like that ─ you didn’t even wear pink!
Except that now that you have grown up, at the age of twenty-two, you liked wearing pink and bows, and because you spent most of your life buried in books with this idiotic, sexist idea of the “not-like-other-girls”, you never had kissed or dated anyone. Damn Rick Riordan.
I mean, you went on dates, sure, but they never went anywhere further than a “that was fun!” text and radio silence right after. It made you feel used, sometimes, but at that point, it was just something you expected whenever you took an interest in an individual.
The only thing that stuck with you as you got older was your passion for books. So after you resigned yourself to it, you dived into romances. Bad idea, really, because you started living vicariously through them.
Everything was so perfect: the storylines, the female leads, the guys and the girls and what they whispered into the other’s ear, and when they noticed small things nobody else would’ve noticed, proclaimed their love high and loud in heartfelt speeches, the awkwardness of a first love and the tenderness of a first kiss. A part of you, whenever you tapped your Kindle or rushed through the pages, ached a little in the middle of your incessant giggling. Something that yearned for a story like that - but you’ve learned against your will that nothing in the real world could compare to the stories or the movies.
You were doomed to die an old maid with many, many cats and a thousand bookshelves. It didn’t sound that bad, of course, but come on. You still held hope that maybe, one day, something like that would happen to you. Maybe.
One of your favorite subgenres was sports romance. There was something so romantic about running into someone’s arms after a well-spent game ─ you devoured the hockey ones, the basketball ones, even the football ones. More recently, though, you got into the motorsports ones ─ more specifically, Formula One.
There weren’t many, mainly because of the work that had to be done to dodge plagiarism: you couldn’t use the actual drivers or team, so you had to reinvent everything down to every detail. But for those that existed, you simply couldn’t let them go. You liked Formula One, it wasn’t a proper passion like reading was but it still was a nice pastime: you’d turn on your sketchy website that streamed F1 TV Pro to watch the Grand Prix and became impatient during the overly long summer and winter breaks. While you were more partial to drivers than to teams, you grew very fond of Ferrari as the years went by.
You were very vocal about your interests in your accounts. Obsessing so much over books gave you access to fandoms at a young age and a desire to have your own space within them. You quickly became a staple presence on BookTok, BookStagram, and BookTube after your first posts and videos went public. People found you funny, endearing, and relatable… not to throw yourself flowers, but you were. It’s that transparency about your Sahara-desert dry love life and your contagious excitement about your hobbies that made you so popular, reaching millions around multiple platforms.
People liked you, so people were kind to you. An advanced reader copy of a new F1 romance novel was on another level of kindness, though.
You hadn’t expected it, but it came in your mailbox with a sweet written word from the author, Leandra Moore ─ she was pretty influential and had written multiple New York Times-acclaimed New Adult romances. You didn’t even process everything she was saying, only that she liked your videos and your personality and ‘thought you might like her new work’.
What a stupid question. Of course, you did.
You devoured the 430 pages in a sitting. The sky, awfully bright when you got the package, was pitch black by the time you turned the last page. You were breathless, flushed, and smiling so hard your cheeks were beginning to hurt. “Silver Spring Race” was a wonder of brother’s best friend, secret exes, and second chance rom-com goodness, mixed with the adrenaline of the perfect F1 season, five out of five stars on Fable and GoodReads. You didn't waste any time: tripod, lighting, and you were already filming a review video in your almost ecstatic state, giggling away with the camera knowing full well you were sharing with a few thousand.
It was a simple review as you always did. Yet, it did way, way better than your normal videos ─ so much so that the book had to be released early. So much so that Leandra had the means to host a release party after the goddamn Miami Grand Prix. So much so that she invited you, personally and free of charge, as multiple other book influencers to attend the Grand Prix and the release party the day after.
Someone had to pinch you because holy shit, this couldn’t be your reality. You never confirmed something as fast as you did for that. Honestly, who wouldn’t?
The race had been an exceptionally good one. The sun was bright and hot but the slight breeze made up for the extreme Miami heat. You and your book influencer friends and acquaintances had amazing seats at the Beach Grandstands - some on the North and some on the South. You quietly wondered just how much money did Silver Spring Race generated for Leandra to get those sought-after seats.
There had been a few technical difficulties during the race, causing Pierre Gasly to DNF, and a narrowly avoided crash on Albon's part which cost him to lose standing. Ferrari was going strong, though, which kept you breathless from screaming until the checkered flag. Norris ended in pole position, with Verstappen following suit in P2 and Leclerc in P3. While it was not the outcome you hoped for due to your bias toward the latter's team, you had to cheer when faced with the radiant smile of the first-placed.
Now, the thing was to get out of the stands. That was a harder task, the Beach Grandstands were filled to the brim and before you could process what was happening, the flow of people separated you from your friends. No matter how much you fought against the current you couldn't help but be brought down to wherever they were going: guess you'll have to find a way out by yourself.
By the time people scattered, you were in an unknown setting with multiple staff members, all wearing different colors ─ pink, orange, red ─ and running around. You would have liked to stop one of them to ask where you were, or at least how you could access the parking area from here, but all passed you as if you didn't exist. You couldn't blame them, the Grand Prix had just ended, and they probably had ten thousand other things to do. You were on your own. Great.
You just wandered off and hoped you'd stumble upon a miraculous exit sign amidst the long and confusing hallways.
You definitely didn't expect to crash into Lando Norris.
You didn't realize it was him at first. The only thing you knew was that as you were looking around, finally finding somewhere open from where you could see the stands (but still not anywhere that looked like it could lead you to the parking lot), you back bumped full speed against someone.
You turned around, heart skipping because of the shock. Soon enough, though, your astonishment turned horrific when you gradually noticed the full can of Monster energy drink spilled on an orange tracksuit, staining it deep brown.
It couldn't get any more embarrassing. Until your eyes darted up and you saw a mess of curls and wide, green eyes. That's when your horror became panic. Holy fuck, you didn't just─
“Oh my god!” You exclaimed, after a few seconds of stunned silence. “I'm so, so sorry─ I didn't─ I was looking for the exit and I didn't see─ holy shit─”
You started aggressively looking in your small handbag, hoping─ no, praying, you brought some tissues with you. You spilled an energy drink on Lando Norris. His energy drink. Lando Norris was in front of you, staring at you like you were some wild, erratic animal. He was probably furious. You wanted to bury yourself six feet deep underground. “I'm sorry, I can't find any tissues I─”
He snorted.
You froze in your tracks, interrupting your rambling. A glimmer of amusement shone in the driver's eyes. “It's chill, don't even worry about it. It's not as if that was like, the only suit I owned.”
“Uh─” you started. “I'm still─”
There was something about your expression, maybe the fact you were opening and closing your mouth searching for something to say like a fish out of the water, that made him reiterate. “Really, it's cool. You can stop panicking.” After a pause, he continued, in a more reassuring tone. “Plus I'm already all sweaty and dirty, so not much of a difference.”
He was…? Heat furiously rose up to your cheeks and you couldn't tell if it was because of embarrassment or his words or how painfully aware you were of the situation. “What?”
This time, Lando's face was graced with a shit-eating grin aimed right at you. “From racing and champagne, you know.”
Oh.
Now you wanted to be five feet under. What was wrong with you? “Right.” You took a deep breath. You bump into Lando Norris, an F1 driver you admired for years no matter your loyalty to Ferrari, and spill an entire energy drink on him before accidentally stepping right into borderline sexual harassment. Get a grip, Y/N. “I saw. I mean, I was in the stands. Beach Grandstands. I saw you. Win the race. Congratulations, by the way!”
You sounded like a robot. Oh my god. You couldn't act less natural even if you tried.
Lando arched an eyebrow. “Thanks a lot. But uh, if you were in the stands─ what are you doing in staff quarters?”
Your heart lurched in your chest, realizing the impression you probably gave. “Shit. I promise I'm not a weird fan or anything, I'm not a stalker! Which is definitely what a stalker would say. But I'm not. I was dragged by the mass of people and I couldn't find the exit and nobody would tell me─”
Another laugh from him interrupted you and what surprised you was the absence of mockery: he sounded genuinely amused. You didn't know how to react to the fact he found your distress funny. “Are you always this anxious?”
“See, this whole…,” you made a circular hand gesture, “... situation is not helping my anxiety. So the answer would be maybe.”
Lando chuckled again and this time, an awkward smile found its way to your lips. “I wasn't trying to blame you, it was just a question. You can breathe. But the exit's not there.”
“Yeah, I think I noticed,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“It's through there,” Lando turned around and pointed to a slightly hidden door, but right above was a bright green exit sign. You were blind. “You just go straight and the parking lot shouldn't be that far.”
“Oh, uh. Thanks. I didn't see it,” you simply answered. Dusting off invisible dust from your clothes, you looked at him again. “Again, I'm sorry about the drink. Really.”
“I told you it's nothing, just go before a team member calls security on you, ‘aight?”
You aggressively nodded, which stole another breathless laugh from him that you decided to ignore. Right as you went through the door, the curly-haired driver called: “Hey!” You turned around, frowning in incomprehension.
“Next time you decide to sneak into McLaren's quarters,” Lando said, “at least wear the right colors.”
You quickly glanced at your Ferrari shirt, slightly cropped to go with your jean skirt. That's when the words echoed in your brain. “I wasn't sneaki─!”
Before you could finish your argument, he closed the door on you.
Walking back to your car, the realization of everything that went down the last 10 minutes slowly dawned on you. What the fuck had just happened? Was it real? Did you hallucinate? Did you just humiliate yourself like that in front of Lando Norris?
Most importantly: novels made meet-cutes seem so simple and easy, how did you manage to mess it up that bad?
A day later, you tried to push that interaction to the back of your mind, mainly because of how embarrassed you were about how you acted but also because otherwise, you wouldn't be able to think about anything else.
Once the night had comfortably settled, you confidently walked into the venue Leandra rented. It was an immense room in an even bigger hall, and so elegant you couldn't help but feel a bit out of place. You guessed that’s what you were supposed to expect when you partied at the same place the drivers usually did ─ at least that's what one of the girls told you: it was where they would throw after-parties when they had time after races. Fits the theme, you thought.
The decor was tasteful and themed in a way that didn't feel cheap, which was surprisingly hard to do, as you discovered as you mingled with Leandra Moore and her entourage. The buffet was delicious, the champagne was flowing, and there were professional photographers and signed illustrations of the two main characters of Silver Spring Race, along with a Fairyloot exclusive edition of the book. You could have died right here and there: the details were to die for.
Right as the music was getting louder, the conversations grew more deconstructed and the alcohol less diluted, you decided to step out for some fresh air ─ as much fun as it was, being socially involved for so long was tiring you out. If you wanted to last the night, you needed a little break.
The exit was notoriously hard to find, which gave you war flashbacks from yesterday you had a hard time pushing away, but you didn't spend as long finding it ─ just enough to regret the aesthetic choice of wearing high heels for the night.
By the time you got outside, your feet were aching for freedom. You quickly rushed to the stone stairs leading to the party hall and sat on the first step. The scenery was quite stunning: a fountain throned in the middle of the place leading to stairs, lightly illuminated by the white neons in the water and the warm hall light, and tall trees surrounding the square. You could have probably appreciated it more if you weren't so preoccupied with detaching those fucking straps of your ankles: why weren't they coming off, those little─
“Oof, looks like you need help again.”
Your hand froze on your shoe as the voice and accent hit a familiar spot in your brain. It took you a second to catch up, and around a minute to realize. Your heart dropped and you turned around, slowly, like the main character in a horror movie.
Lando Norris stood before you. Again.
Who exactly was controlling your life? Because the odds of this happening a second time were really, really low.
His hair was usually messy, and yet tonight they seemed more contained and professional. He wore a white shirt, and a few buttons popped open at the collar gave you an open view of a small gold chain around his neck ─ you had to drag your gaze away. Straight-legged black pants finished the look, topped off with black loafers. He looked miles away from the Lando Norris you accidentally ran into after the race. He probably showered.
He looked gorgeous, too. It would be a blatant lie to even ignore it, and that realization slightly took your breath away.
Yet, the only thing coming out of your mouth was a strangled, “I swear I'm not stalking you.”
A pause. You had serious issues.
And still, Lando laughed. Hard and loud, like the ones you saw in a few selected interviews when you were bored and scrolling on YouTube during the breaks. It made you feel slightly self-conscious. He breathed in as he walked toward you, a chuckle still in his tone when he spoke up. “I mean, I'd believe you this time but the coincidence's pretty big.”
An offended scoff escaped you and suddenly, all the thoughts about him being a celebrity, a renowned driver, a trust fund kid flew out the window right into the fountain.
“I'll let you know I was invited to an event here, thank you very much. I have other, more important things to do than follow someone around.”
When you realized what you said, your eyes widened. “Sorry, I didn't mean─”
But Lando was smiling.
“Nah, you did.” Right now, he stood right next to you on the stairs and you quietly wondered if he was going to sit down or keep looking down on you like that. Then you realized that you were, again, in the most improbable situation known to man. Anxiety swirled in your stomach.
“Soo… what event are you attending?”
You squinted your eyes up at him. “...Is this an interrogation?”
Lando simply shrugged. “Can never be too sure.”
Well, you couldn't blame him for that.
“A book release party. The author, Leandra Moore, happened to invite me and other people. She was the one that got us tickets for the race yesterday, too. I just went out to get some fresh air.”
He hummed in response. “Oh yeah, heard something about that. I guess you're legit, then.”
“Yes, I am!” When you looked up again, there was that shit-eating grin. You rolled your eyes to the high heavens.
“... Wait. Is your name Y/N?” He suddenly asked.
Huh?
You never mentioned your name to him. You don't think it was even brought up in the 15 minutes you two talked. A frown scrunched up your eyebrows. “Uh, yes? How'd you know?” Silence. “And I'm the stalker?”
Lando laughed a bit at that. He finally sat down next to you, and the heat of his exposed forearms somewhat close to your own made you panic again.
“Y/N as in WhoisY/N?”
The gasp you let out could have landed you a role in The Young and the Restless. There was no fucking way. Absolutely none. This is where you drew the line. “You can't possibly be watching my videos.” Your tone was resolute.
“Nah, not me. My little sister though, Cisca.” That made more sense than to imagine Lando Norris, McLaren's golden boy, giggling and kicking his feet in front of your last romance review. Still, it felt unreal. “She eats up every single one of your posts. You’re the reason why we have so many cartoon covers at home, that's why I thought you looked familiar at first. The book release party confirmed it.”
You didn't know what emotions you should let transpire first. The fact that you were a celebrity in the Norris family was enough to make your jaw drop, but the mention of cartoon covers added heat to your cheeks ─ you hoped he never opened his sister's books.
“She's so gonna freak out when I tell her I met you,” he said between laughs.
“She's going to freak out?” You asked in disbelief. “You're in Formula 1. She can't freak out because of me. I'm freaking out because of you!”
He didn't point out your statement, thank god, but his eyes didn't seem to miss it. “I'm her older brother, she uses that to make fun of me now. But no, definitely, she's going to freak out.”
“What even is my life right now.”
That, at least, made you both erupt in an unstoppable fit of laughter. When it died down, you finally had the space to ask the question sitting in your mind since he appeared behind you. “What are you even doing here?”
Lando arched an eyebrow at you. “Is this an interrogation?”
“Yes.”
He exaggeratedly rolled his eyes, clearly mimicking you. “There's a race after party in the hall. McLaren special. Also went out to get some air, DJ-ing was becoming suffocating.”
“Oh,” it clicked, and you started thinking out loud. “I guess the girls weren't lying when they said that's where the drivers partied. It makes sense Leandra would rent out this hall.”
“Why?”
You were pretty sure smoke could be escaping from you right now just by how flustered you were. “Uh. For promoting her book?”
“Yeah, I got that, but like… why would our parties have anything to do with it?”
Lando was becoming suspicious again. Somebody kill you right now. How do you keep messing it up? “Because… it's… an F1 romance?”
Blank stare. You were just as red as the dress you wore and ready to go home to cry yourself to sleep. Then he laughed, hysterically, and you couldn't feel more ashamed.
“That exists?” He asked, breathless.
You turned your face away from him. “Yes.”
“And you read that?”
“Leave me alone,” you added, “if she follows me, your sister does too.”
That seemed to make him stop, at least, to your devious satisfaction. “I think I'll need to take a look at her shelves when I go home.”
“For the good of the girl and mine, please don't.”
The cold night breeze brushed your arms and you were now very mindful of how thin the material of your dress was. You shivered, rubbing your arms with your hands. Lando was quick to notice. “Shit, sorry. I don't have a jacket. I would have landed it to you otherwise.”
You don't know what came over you, but you bumped your shoulder with his. “Wow, that was almost gentleman-like.” Where did this familiarity come from, you didn't know ─ you have known the man for no longer than an hour. But there was something about the easy-going conversation, the late night, and the champagne buzzing in your blood that made this scene… just like the ones you read about, in your favorite books.
As soon as that idea slithered into your mind, you forcefully pushed it out. That was another level of delusion, Y/N. Those novels fried your brain.
You got up before Lando could answer. “It's fine, I was going to go back to my hotel anyway. The party drained my social battery and my flight takes off early tomorrow, so it's better if I go to sleep.”
“Okay, sure. Let me walk you to your car at least.”
Oh shit. “... I don't have a car.”
He blinked slowly. “What do you mean? How'd you come here, then?”
“I carpooled with some girls who are not going home right now.” That was a very dumb idea now that you look back on it.
“So… how are you planning to get to your hotel?”
You didn't bring your wallet with you, so no chance of getting a taxi. “... I'll walk?”
“... Yeah, no. No chance. At night? Dressed like that?” He took you in, making you hyper-aware of the high slit and the almost sheer material of your dress. “I'll take you.”
You were stunned. So much for avoiding delusion or further embarrassment. “I can't possibly ask you─ I mean, you have a party─”
“If you think that after-party is going to end anytime soon, you're so wrong,” he chuckled.
In all honesty, you could have argued more, but Lando already seemed settled on his decision. He stood up, not before grabbing the heels you took off during the conversation and decidedly headed toward the parking lot. You hummed and followed suit as he started walking toward his car, your comments dying on your tongue. The improbability of what was currently happening was just too much for you to grace it with a thought, so a sentence would be crossing the limits.
The car ride was spent in comfortable silence as soon as you typed the address of your hotel in his GPS. Your eyes widened when his car came into view: a black 2018 McLaren Senna, with red accents, you hadn't seen so beautiful with your own eyes in a while. You had to bite back a gasp when you got in.
Lando rolled the windows fully down. The wind whipped strands of hair around as you watched the scenery roll by at a dizzying speed, making you wonder if he knew what a speed limit was. Soft bass music played on the radio, one you didn't know the lyrics to, but Lando did as he whispered-sang them. He looked calm behind a wheel that didn't belong to a Formula One car, the contrast was drastic. The driver met your eyes with a smile, and that was only then you realized you'd been staring. You turned your head as he laughed.
When your hotel came into view, you quietly thanked him for dropping you off and stepped out of the car. You didn't know what to do after that. Some part of you tugged at your mind ─ it was too good to be true, those things only happened in books. He was probably waiting for something in return. After a small wave to him, you were ready to disappear behind the doors and leave this night behind.
“Wait!” Lando called out from his opened window. Your stomach dropped. You knew it.
Hesitantly, you turned around.
“You're still wearing the wrong color,” he simply said, “I better see you in orange if you want my services next time.”
Relief washed over you and no matter how hard you fought it, a smile broke your carefully impassive facade. “Next time?”
Lando smiled at you. “Next time.”
And when he drove away, you couldn't help the butterflies in your stomach either.
As you lay in bed that night, you didn't push anything away. You processed what happened, today and yesterday. You didn't know how to feel or what to feel exactly, many emotions were contradictory, but maybe it was alright ─ not to know. To just let yourself feel without having to put a name on it.
When you grabbed the phone in your handbag, an Instagram notification caught your attention before you could even unlock it.
@.lando started following you.
A disbelieving, loud laugh escaped you. He did say there would be a next time.
After that it was safe to say, even though a little wild, Lando Norris had become a staple in your daily life.
The moment you got back home, you had received a DM by the driver himself asking if you traveled safely to which you couldn't help but reply with a “Stalker much?”. He simply answered that there was only a single flight going back to where you lived today, so it was easy to find on Skyscanner. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
It made you smile.
The texts continued. What first started as small conversations every two days, reacting to each other's stories or silly tweets with not much depth behind them gradually grew, over a month, into useless life updates, every day with no exceptions.
lando: just ate the biggest fucking sandwich today
lando: [1 picture attached]
lando: scooby-doo type shit
whoisy/n: i'm so hungry actually
lando: did u get sidetracked reading again
whoisy/n: it's LITERALLY my job
lando: go get something to eat you muppet
whoisy/n: yessir
whoisy/n: u'll never guess what happened in my book
lando: he cheated on her right
whoisy/n: …
whoisy/n: you WILL guess what happened in my book
lando: LMAOOO that was so obvious from what you told me
whoisy/n: i had sm faith in him. men!!!
lando: they're all the same
whoisy/n: RITEEEEEE QUEEN
Lando always asked about what you were currently reading. It didn't take a genius or an Oxford diploma to notice how much you loved it, not when your entire social media presence was built around it. You knew it wasn't performative and he enjoyed hearing you talk about it ─ he often sent texts during the week asking about your favorite character, at what page you were, and if they kissed yet. It was harder during weekends due to races. Somehow, he still made time.
Similarly, Lando took the habit of sending you long vocals at the end of his days, explaining what happened, what Oscar and him were up to, and how annoying the different media were. He still refused to tell you much about his team, because your allegiance to Ferrari was simply “outrageous” according to him. You gladly landed a listening ear, chiming with a helping comment whenever you could. The late evenings got later and the vocals longer and longer each passing week, and before you knew it you two were calling almost every night.
It was a normal occurrence. He would get ready for bed and you would drop your Kindle for an hour or two, even longer the rare times he didn't have anything planned the next day. You would talk about anything and everything at the same time ─ sometimes he'd rope you into downloading a game and playing it with him, sometimes you'd just remodel the world until one of you was too exhausted to keep playing God. Most of the time, it was Lando.
Due to its sudden start, this growing friendship of yours quickly attracted the attention of your entire following base as well as his. Lando commented on almost all your new Instagram posts and TikToks with random things that either had a link with what you were talking about or none at all ─ most often alluding to the many inside jokes that stemmed from your conversations. Every interaction succeeded in making everyone crazy, especially your followers: apparently, you were finally getting the sports romance you were dreaming about for years.
The thought crossed your mind, how could it not with the amount of allusions under your posts? The fan edits on your For You page? But you never let yourself linger on it for too long.
You and Lando were friends. Nothing more, nothing less.
The call you got that night was unexpected. Tomorrow was race day, the Canadian Grand Prix more specifically ─ and Lando never called before a race. You understood perfectly, something about being well rested and focused, so you usually sent a good luck paragraph he'd read in the morning and answer after the event. So why did his caller ID light up your phone screen as you were getting ready to go to bed, you didn't know.
You picked up without a second thought. “Everything's alright?”
“What happened to hello?” He chuckled, his voice grainy through the speaker.
“My God,” you sighed. “Hello, Lando. Is everything alright?”
“Why wouldn't it be?”
“You never call before race day.”
Silence. “Hello?” You called. “You're still there?”
“Yeah, sorry. Uh, it's just─ your books are so unrealistic.”
Your heart skipped a bit, and you sat a little straighter against your pillow. “What?”
“I couldn't sleep and I didn't have anything to do, so I picked up one of your F1 romances you recommended in your last video─” No. No, he didn't. “Throttled? By Lauren Asher? And I just─ it's so dumb.”
Your mouth dropped open and instead of letting out words, a small screech left your lips. “You─ you read─? Why?”
“Like I said, I couldn't sleep. Whatever, it's─”
“Embarrassing!” You interrupted Lando. “You read one of my─ oh my god. This is not the family-friendly kind either. And it's F1. Next time just punch me in the face, I’ll be less humiliated.”
A wheeze came from the other side of the phone. You buried your head in your pillows, trying to put out the fire in your face. “Oh yeah, definitely not family-friendly.”
You groaned in response but that didn't stop Lando from continuing. “As I was saying before you rudely interrupted me, it got most of the sport right but otherwise it's so… it took all the competitiveness out! That's, like, the entire point of F1! I thought you were a fan, how can you willingly enjoy that?”
“I mean, I know it's not the most accurate representation of F1,” you flopped on your back, “but it's kinda like Drive To Survive, y'know? Most people watch it for the drama. I read those for the romance plot.”
Lando scoffed at your words. “Even the romance plot isn't that good, Y/N. The whole part in which he throws a race to make her happy? That's such bullshit.”
“How so?”
“If you love her, you win a race for her.”
You couldn't put the words on it once again, but the way he said it constricted your chest with such tightness you had to take a long, calming breath. You had to concentrate to get out your next sentence. “Well, I don't know, it's not like I know anything about romance. I thought that was pretty romantic.”
“What do you mean, ‘don't know anything about romance'? You read this shit all day long.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, but that's not the real thing. I've never actually dated or kissed anyone, so actual romantic gestures are like… foreign languages to me.”
A beat. Until you suddenly heard a mess of covers moving around, reverberating right in your eardrums. You hissed, and Lando spoke up again.
“You've never kissed anyone? Or dated?” He sounded stunned, which surprised you. It's not like you've tried to hide it. It grew to be your brand over time.
“Uh, yeah. Never.”
“You're shitting me.”
“No?”
“I can't believe it.”
You rolled your eyes. “Well, jeez, thank you for making me feel so great about being a twenty-two years old virgin, Lando.”
“No! No! I didn't mean it like that,” he screamed at his speaker. “You're just… you're you. You’re too nervous for your own good, true, but your cheeks get darker when you laugh, you fiddle with your sleeves when you don’t know what to say, and you constantly hum songs when it’s too quiet for you. You're smart, you're beautiful, you're passionate, you're funny…” He got quiet before continuing. “I don't get how anyone could pass up the chance to kiss you, that's all.”
Oh. Oh.
The fluttering in your stomach flew its way up to your throat, and for a little moment, you thought you were going to throw up. The silence stretched as you basked in Lando's words, left hanging in the thick air. Suddenly the screen didn't seem like enough space between the two of you.
Lando ended up breaking the stillness. “I just─ I think I should hang up. The race's tomorrow and it's getting─” A pause. You glanced at the time: 00:23. “Shit, the race is today.”
“Don't worry. Go to sleep, get those hours in and win tomorrow,” you answered in a shaky breath.
“Yeah. Yeah, that's what I'm gonna do.”
Still, neither of you clicked on the red button. “Lando?”
“Mmh?”
“Thank you. For what you said.”
“... I meant it.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” He hung up.
You desperately tried to fall asleep, tossing and turning, fighting with your pillow and covers to get comfortable but the only thing your mind could focus on was the end sentence he uttered, the inflections of his voice a ghostly whisper in your ear. I don't get how anyone could pass up the chance to kiss you.
How did you successfully act as if that call never happened? You didn't know. You never were a good liar, less of a good actress. Maybe it was the way Lando carefully sidestepped the subject every time you nearly alluded to it that made you so good about ignoring it altogether.
It was nothing. You just blew it out of proportion, like you usually did. Maybe you should try self-help books instead of romances for the next few months.
No matter how bittersweet your feelings were about this whole situation, you chose to put them aside, simply because Lando had two free weeks starting today and he chose to put a few of his days aside to fly out to your town. For the first time in almost three months, you were going to see each other face to face. And under normal circumstances! That would be a first.
When he came out of the airport, with a gigantic suitcase for just a few days and his characteristic grin adorning his lips, all questions just vanished into thin air. You resisted the urge to jump into his arms but you didn't miss how tight Lando held you when he initiated the hug ─ you melted into him like snow in the sun.
Lando had rented a hotel room for his short stay, a good thirty minutes ride from you. He used it once before you both silently declared your home was way better than a five-star Hilton. He squatted on your couch and you'd sleep in your bed, the rare times you slept as most nights were spent playing video games and marathoning movies. Most of them were romantic comedies. Lando would complain about the lack of realism and you'd smack him over the head, and the movie would be watched in between snarky commentaries and heartfelt comments on your perception of love, sneaking glances at each other.
You tried not to let the latter get too much to your head.
However, Lando's trip had to end at some point. Too soon, it was the evening before his plane ride home and you were helping him gather the stuff he left all over the place ─ the state of your living room was deplorable, but you could cry about it tomorrow morning. In any case, you had to get ready since Lando established earlier there was no way in hell he was going to go back without going out at least once. You replied by saying you already went out a couple of times but according to him, visiting was not considered “going out.”
A good thirty minutes later, you crossed the threshold of your house, heels clacking on the pavement as you approached Lando. He was waiting next to your own car, black shirt half buttoned and messy curls hastily tamed. You had forced yourself not to stare too much ─ friendship established or not, you were still the same girl he found on the stairs in Miami and he was still undeniably beautiful. His eyes raked over you in silence, his lips parting slightly, and you found your normally confident walk faltering.
You hoped he thought of you just the same.
Then, breathlessly, “Wow.”
That's all it took for fire to flame up your face, drowning the blush you so carefully applied. You graced him with a little spin, which he applauded. “Well, you're not so bad yourself,” you added. Understatement of the year.
You walked to the driver's seat, but Lando's hand on the handle stopped you going further. “Nah, I'm driving tonight. I got a surprise for you.”
“What do you mean, surprise? Weren't we supposed to go to the movies?” You raised your eyebrows, confused.
“We watched, like, 30 movies and I've been there 5 days - I’m starting to overdose. Trust me and get in the passenger seat.”
“... You being so ominous is making it very hard to trust you, Lando.”
“I’m an F1 driver, I can drive your car.” He sounded offended you doubted him, even though you weren’t alluding to his driving skills at all. Still, the tone he employed when mentioning your car was almost offending you. Not everyone had a McLaren salary. “I meant the surprise,” you clarified.
“Ah. Well. Have a little faith in me, c’mon.” On these words, he climbed into the driver’s seat and closed the door on you. The audacity of that man, sometimes you couldn’t believe it. It didn’t leave you much choice than to take the seat next to him and watch the landscape go by. Quiet conversation was made as the sky tinged with dark, navy blue, and before you knew it Lando was parking in front of one of the most reputable ─ and expensive ─ restaurants in your town. It was safe to say you never put a foot in it before.
When you got out of the car, you almost jumped at him. “That’s your surprise?!” You whispered-exclaimed under his amused gaze. “You’re crazy. Downright mad.”
“I’m inviting you!” Like it was the most natural thing in the world, to just indebt yourself by inviting a girl to dinner. The smile he flashed at you was a mix of hesitation and enthusiasm, so bright that any protests and remarks about how you just couldn’t let him pay died in your throat. Instead, you thanked to which Lando answered by giving you his arm. You took it and entered the restaurant.
You couldn’t describe the meal as anything but luxurious, whether it was taste-wise or the plate’s presentation. Your surroundings were gold plated and yet the only thing you could focus on was how hard Lando was trying to make you choke on your food ─ the jokes were flowing just as much as the wine in your glass, any awkwardness you may have felt stepping into this place disappeared into thin air as soon as Lando started occupying the conversational space, like he could sense how tense you were.
Before you could even look at the dessert, he stopped you. “We’ll skip that,” he said. You threw him a strange look. “I have another thing planned, just go with it.”
How many surprises were in store for you tonight? You didn’t know, and your Excel-spreadsheet-on-vacations self was getting panicky. But if there was one thing you learned with Lando was that your incessant worrying was needless, especially with him. You left after he took care of the bill, being very careful about not letting the numbers in your sight, and climbed back into the car. The sky was now an inky black and the air was lukewarm on your bare arms. Lando rolled the windows down like he usually did, but this time let you be in charge of the aux ─ considering it still was your vehicle. Frank Ocean’s “Moon River” resonated in between hushed giggles and the chime of the wind in your hair. Flashbacks of that fateful night, three months ago, crept through your memories. You still couldn’t believe what it had come to.
You drove longer than you did before. This time, Lando parked on a cliff you had no idea existed, even though this was your town. And this time, when you got out of the car, your breath was taken away by just how many stars contrasted with the darkness of the night, the lights of the town too far away to blind them and instead joining them in a faraway source of light.
Marveling in front of the scenery stopped you from noticing Lando’s shenanigans behind you. He was awfully quiet, which wasn’t like him, so you turned around.
You found him on the roof of your car. Literally. With plastic goblets, the half-empty bottle of wine you had at the restaurant, and ─ you weren’t joking ─ a plate of pancakes. Your jaw dropped open, nearly hitting the floor. “What? How─ huh?” No full sentence could come out of your mouth at this moment, no matter how hard you tried.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like pancakes,” he pleaded, “I woke up way too early to make them not be eaten.”
You thought you dreamt yourself climbing on the top of your car to sit next to him, but it was all very real: you were wholly stunned, which he seemed to notice. Sheepish, he prompted a proper explanation, “I just thought I should, uh, properly thank you. For letting me stay at your house and all. This seemed less impersonal than the restaurant.”
“You stole the wine,” was the only constatation you were able to get out, barely. Emotions constricted your throat too tightly for you to utter anything else.
He laughed. “Took it when you weren't looking. ‘S not like they're going to reuse it so I took care of the waste.”
“Such an ecologist soul,” you teased.
“They call me Father Nature at McLaren.”
“How'd you…” Words weren't coming out easily. Your eyes darted from the bottle, to the pancakes he probably woke up at an ungodly hour of the morning to make, and Lando ─ who was waiting for you to speak like you were his saving grace. Nobody ever looked at you like that, you thought, like you meant something more than what you were. “How'd you get this idea?”
Your question seemed to fluster him a little. He ran a hair through his curls, eyes darting to the side. “Uh, that's what he did. The male character in your book. Nothing Like The Movies I think? I thought that'd be something you like, y'know?”
Your heart thumped against your chest like it threatened to burst out of it. He read a romance novel, one of the most recent ones you reviewed. He took note of your favorite scene, in which Wes was supposed to take Liz to a restaurant but ended up eating on the roof of his car. He reproduced it.
For you.
“I…” There was a sentence threatening to spill out that you're not sure you quite mean yet, but you were feeling it so deeply it was hard to keep it in check. “I don't know what to say.”
“Then just eat the goddamn pancake before they get harder than they are. Turns out, they're not really durable.” It surprised a chuckle out of you.
The conversation carried on after that. The slow hum of Frank Ocean's discography escaping from the car made the perfect soundtrack to the vast discussions about racing, books, and life in general. The longer Lando and you went on, the quieter your voice got until they were reduced to a little more than a whisper, almost into each other's ears. Your cheeks hurt from laughing, your pinkie was intertwined with his, and the bottle was empty by the time the clock on your lock screen showed midnight.
“How did you even find this place?” You looked around once more, taking in the city lights, the tall trees, and the numerous stars above you.“I've been living here for years and I never knew you could get such a good view. Plus, it's not like you sneaked out during the night to scout places out. Unless?” You gasped exaggeratedly.
And there it was again, the pinkish tint at the end of his ears and the avoiding looks. “Nah, no sneaking out. I… I mean, what I did was─”
“You…?”
“I googled ‘date idea’ in your city and this is one of the places that came up.”
All of the sudden, the reality of the situation slapped you in the face. How Lando's thumb was lazily drawing circles on your hand, the romantic lyrics of the song playing from the car, the wine and the restaurant and how your eyes have been switching from his eyes to his lips a bit too often ever since you parked.
“Is this…?” You could kiss him right now. According to how transfixed he was by your mouth, you didn't think Lando would mind much.
You leaned in ever so slightly. He never answered your half-question, and even if he did you don't think you could have heard it through the hammering in your ribcage. However, his lips were but a brush of air against your own.
Because a goddamn flash stopped you.
You both jumped in surprise, the harsh light blinding you for a split second. The other half of it was enough to realize what you were faced with. Lando was the first to voice it, in more of a hiss than a sentence. “Fucking paparazzis.”
He got off the car in a jump, but a flurry of hurried footsteps told you that by the time he reached the spot the light came from, there would be no one left. You jumped off as well, dusting off your dress. “Lando?” You were shaking. Somehow, you couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment, panic, cold, or the brutal withdrawal of the high you were in not even a minute ago.
“The fuckers ran away.” His voice betrayed the palpable anger radiating off him. “I should’ve known. They’re always fucking there.”
The mood was gone, replaced by the static of the cold night air and the missing warmth of each other. By a silent, common agreement, you both cleaned up your car’s rooftop and climbed back in your seats soon after. The soft music was gone, the windows rolled up and Lando’s hands were tense on the wheel. When you got home, nothing more but a small “goodnight” was exchanged ─ apart from a glance, as you crossed your bedroom’s door, but it was too dark for you to interpret what it could mean.
When you woke up a few hours later, Lando was already gone.
You knew it was too good to be true. Things like that happened to the type of girls in the novels, not to you. But when Lando wouldn’t answer your texts, or carried on his vacations and his first Grand Prix back without a care in the world, you still couldn’t be asked to describe the terrible ache in your chest. You should have known.
You couldn’t wrap your mind around it ─ that all the late night calls, the comments, the texts, the rooftop of your car and the soft sweep of his breath on your lips was so easy to brush off for him. Not when it was the ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ of what could have happened that night that kept you up for so many sleepless hours. It left you wondering if any of it was real: the friendship, the sweet words, and everything in between, or if you were just the new mystery girl to toy with and give up when it became too complicated.
The heartbreak and betrayal weren’t even the worst part of the situation. You didn’t expect the photo to come out as quickly as it did, after McLaren had a good PR team and would be able to at least intercept it, right? Wrong. It came out two days later. The picture was slightly blurry but clear enough so you could perfectly see your face and Lando’s, dangerously close to each other, and your hands intertwined together.
The flurry of comments, DMs, and interview requests sent to you after was unbelievable. Your community did the best it could to try and get the tabloids off your back, bless them, but all the other sides of the internet were either begging for more information or calling you names. Still, Lando and McLaren chose to ignore the whole situation. Swallowing your pride and deciding to take the high road, you did the same. You read romance books, you reviewed them, you exchanged a little bit with your followers on social media, you watched movies ─ you carried on with your day-to-day life, even if it was with a little less vehemence and a growing dislike for the romantic genre you adored.
It was the first year a Grand Prix would take place in your city. A brand new circuit, with brand new challenges. Taking place in the middle of the season, you were ecstatic when it was announced a few months back. Now, seeing people walking down your street with bright orange shirts and a number 4 on their back on a Friday morning, the only thing you wanted to do was to close your blinds and crawl back into bed for the weekend.
Your plans were thrown in the wind not even an hour later by none other than Cisca Norris. With an Instagram DM. You started following each other a few days after your friendship with Lando had been noticed by the public eye, but you’ve never really spoken to each other. She looked like a sweet girl nonetheless.
ciscanorris: heyyyy
ciscanorris: ik we never talked
ciscanorris: and that might not be the bestest moment to get friendly
ciscanorris: but heyyyyyyy
Your eyebrows rose at the notification, but you weren’t about to let your situation with Lando get in the way of interacting with his sister ─ who had nothing to do with it in the slightest.
whoisy/n: hey cisca! dw at all, hows it going : )
ciscanorris: great!! hbu?
whoisy/n: tired, but apart from that nothing much
ciscanorris: rest well then!
ciscanorris: i’m going to be honest tho
ciscanorris: i’m not just texting you to ask how you’re doing
It should have surprised you yet it didn’t. The timing was too spot-on to be a coincidence, but you chose to live in ignorant bliss.
ciscanorris: are you going to the race this weekend?
whoisy/n: what do you think
ciscanorris: can’t blame you
ciscanorris: my brother’s an ass
That made you chuckle.
whoisy/n: i was thinking worse
ciscanorris: so am i
ciscanorris: but he wants to make up for it
ciscanorris: really
ciscanorris: he insists you should go to the race
whoisy/n: and he couldn’t text me and ask himself because…?
ciscanorris: doesn’t want to spoil the surprise apparently
ciscanorris: idk what he’s planning
Another surprise. Knowing how the last one amazingly ended, you were a little doubtful. Lando sent his sister to ask you to come as if she was the one racing, and now he had something planned ─ again.
ciscanorris: just check your mailbox and think about it
This was enough to pique your curiosity. You went out immediately, opening the little white mailbox next to your front door. There was only a small, brown letter with your address hastily written in black ink ─ you recognized Lando’s handwriting. There it was: a paddock pass, classic McLaren colors, with your name on it. With it? A note, same brown paper, same handwriting: “Please”.
That’s all it took to convince you to go. After all, you still had to get a proper apology.
This time, you entered the McLaren’s side of the paddock with purpose. The staff member at the entrance knew your name and even showed you the way ─ a sharp contrast with your experience a few months back. You stood above the garage, right in front of the track and near a decisive turn, though the number didn’t come back to you. It was a good spot, excellent even, it could be said to be better than the Beach Grandstands in Miami.
Yet, there was no sign of Lando.
You walked past Oscar in the hallways and the quiet driver just flashed you the tight-lipped smile you give to acquaintances in the street. You walked past his girlfriend, Lily, and you even passed by Lando’s dad, whose eyes widened in recognition but was clearly too busy to offer you anything more than that. Everyone but the man you came to watch the race for. You started to absentmindedly fidget with the bottom of your orange shirt ─ if that was his version of an apology, he was pretty shit at it.
The race started soon after your arrival, and the pit in your stomach dug deeper and deeper as you watched Lando do the formation turn. You suppose you were to wait until the end of the race, which made sense in a way, but you didn’t appreciate being put on standby like greenery on a windowsill.
The animosity dimmed when the sound of motors rang in your ears at lights out.
The circuit was brand new, and two days of preparations were not nearly enough to get acquainted with an entire novel track. Risks were high, and the probability of winning was evened out for everyone, which justified the cacophony of cars bumping into the others during the first lap as everyone found their footing. You believed Lando would have a good chance of ending P1 and snatching a victory in your city ─ it was the type of track and weather that favored him.
But Lando had started on pole position.
From the years you spent watching races and your general knowledge of him, Lando Norris didn’t do well when he started a race on pole. Most often, pressure got to him and he lost one or two places during the first few laps, which made you curse at the TV more than you’d like to admit. Unfortunately, it was exactly what was happening right now: you gripped the railing for dear life as Hamilton passed him, then almost broke your nail on the metal when Verstappen followed suit.
By the last lap, Lando had managed to stay P3 and keep his place on the podium, much to your relief, but the bitterness of pole escaping him was obvious in his behavior: champagne was sprayed all over him by his colleagues but he wouldn’t even look up from the ground, his traits disfigured by disappointment. Maybe some would see it as tiredness, but you knew better.
That’s why as soon as he walked down the podium to head to his team and to his garage, you darted downstairs to meet him.
It didn’t take long to spot Lando. His team surrounded him, clapping his shoulder and congratulating him with a bright smile. He barely returned them, scratching his neck in embarrassment. He was looking around like a lost puppy and you stood there, amidst the mess of elated people, unsure of what you should do or say. When Lando’s eyes set upon you, his expression went from disappointment to remorse in a split second.
He acted before you could. Rushing toward you, his voice was broken when he spoke up, trying to make himself clear above the surrounding noise. “I’m so, so sorry. I fucked it all up. I was─ that was shitty. My race was shitty.”
You blinked. “What?” You couldn’t understand the link to the race and your situation to save your life. “Lando, you’re P3.”
Lando ran a hand through his hair, gripping his curls. His eyes bore into yours, cutting off anything you might have wanted to add. “No!” He continued. “It’s not─ it’s not good enough. I should have been P1. It should have been me, up there. I worked… I worked so hard so I could…” He was breathless now, searching your face for something, even though you couldn’t tell what exactly.
“What are you even talking about?” Frustration elevated the tone of your voice.
“I was supposed to win the race for you!”
That shut you up. Incredulity coursed through you and your mouth, half-opened to say a sentence, couldn’t manage to get out a sound. His words didn’t make sense, and somehow you didn’t need to know more. Lando took your stunned silence as a sign to continue.
“I was supposed to win the race for you. I wanted to give you your book moment. You’re, you’re the type of girl that deserves to get swept off her feet, the grand gestures and all that!” He threw his arm in the air. “When you told me you never had that when we called that night, and the fact I could be the first one to do that for you… I never wanted something, someone, as bad.”
You felt yourself flush. “Everything else failed,” he kept on going, almost erratic, “I tried the heartfelt confessions but bailed right after, I tried to impromptu date but I forgot all about the fucking journalists. So I thought that- that maybe I could give it to you the way I knew best, by racing.”
His words, two months back, echoed in your mind. If you love her, you win a race for her.
“But I had to fuck that up too. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”
All of it was for you.
The way Lando looked at you, desperate and miserable, the way your feelings were overflowing out of you and him… it was almost too much for you to process. Your mind and heart were an unintelligible tangled mess you couldn’t make sense of, and in classic you fashion, the first sentence that spilled out of your lips was a teary-eyed, broken, “You’re so stupid.”
“I know.”
You quickly wiped the tears that started spilling down your cheeks. “Not in that self-deprecating way you’re thinking of. Don’t you think it would have been easier if you just told me all this instead of ghosting me for almost a month? Making me think nothing about all this was real? Is that why you weren’t texting or answering me, you were figuring out how to go about this circuit?”
Lando nodded bashfully. You let out a dry laugh. “You’re unbelievable. I don’t care about- that! I don’t care that you didn’t get pole position, I don’t care about your ‘failed’ attempts. I couldn’t care less. What I care about is you. If you had told me that instead of leaving…”
“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he apologized again. “I just─ I wanted─ I know I acted like a moron and I should’ve done better but I thought that if I─”
“I understand. I know.” Gently, you took his hands, furiously fisting the pans of his tracksuit, into yours. Apparently, it acted as an ice bucket dropped right on Lando’s head. He stared at you as if it was the first time ─ in a way it was. He was sweaty, dirty, and covered in champagne, his curls falling onto his forehead and you were standing there, almost as surprised as your first meeting. Except everything else had changed, and the man in front of you wasn’t just a guy driving in a fast car you liked watching on Sundays. “But I didn’t need it. You’re plenty enough all by yourself, without the grand gestures and book-worthy moments. I’m not a book heroine. I need something real.”
The space between the two of you suddenly seemed too vast for the emotions inside of you. One of Lando’s hands carefully slithered on your waist, as if to test the waters. The gentleness of his movement, its implication, stole the breath out of you. “How real are we talking?” He was trying to make light of the situation, but the underlying seriousness in his voice betrayed him.
“I think you know it by now.”
And just like that, his lips crashed onto yours.
It was an electric shock as if lightning struck you and spilled in your entire body. When he pulled back, you didn’t waste a second wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him right back in.
If his hands were considerate, never unraveling further than your waist and cheeks, his mouth was the complete opposite: hungry, intense. He kissed you like he had been holding back for so long it pained him not to touch you, and you kissed him back with the same vigor because you had been waiting just as much. He tasted like expensive alcohol and you were drunk on it, on the feeling of his lips on yours, his hands on your body. You couldn’t get enough. You don’t think Lando could either. It was messy, somewhat clumsy, his mouth wet and firm moving in sync against your own in haste and impatience.
But it couldn’t have been more perfect. Not for your first kiss.
“Really, right here? Get a goddamn room.”
You recognized Oscar’s voice, even though you couldn’t see him, which was an acidic reminder of where Lando and you both were. You broke the kiss first, and he let out a breathy laugh against your lips, sending shivers through your whole body. “That… was a long, long time coming,” he whispered.
“Whose fault is that?” He chuckled again. You did too.
You gave each other a bit of space, mainly for some well-needed air but also for the comfort of the staff around you. Still, Lando’s hand went up from your waist to your forearms, taking you in like it was the first time he saw you. His smile, wide and bright, brought the trademark heat to your cheek. “You wore the right color this time.” You were now hyper-aware of the shirt you wore, bright orange with a 4 printed on the back. “Good, I would've hated kissing you while you were wearing red. That equals cheating now, by the way.”
“Oh, really? You know, you still technically haven’t taken me out on a proper date,” you teased. “Don’t think you’re forgiven just yet.”
“Don’t even worry about that, I’ll take you out on the best dates ever. No paparazzis this time. You’ll even choose the movies.”
“Even if it’s a romcom?”
“I kinda grew attached to them because of you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Before you could get another comment out, a squeal replaced it as you felt the floor give up under your feet. It took you too long to realize Lando had swept you up in his arms, bridal style and was currently heading down a hallway. Your arms went up around his neck, this time for support. “What are you doing?” You asked with a giggle.
“Taking you to the driver’s room.” Even though you couldn’t manage to see his face, you could practically hear his grin, proud and cocky. “Going to give you reasons to forgive me, we can talk date ideas here.”
“What about the interviews?”
“They can wait.”
Playful protests escaped you under the incredulous eyes of the staff members who saw you disappear behind the white door. You didn’t care. At all. Anxiety be damned, as well as everything that held you back before. Because of this, what you had with Lando, felt perfect. Right. It might be too soon to call it love, but you had no doubt it would come to that sooner than later.
Because the way he held you, the way he kissed you, the way he looked at you, was undoubtedly better than any romance novel you ever read. Because it was real.
Summary: Lando Norris and his girlfriend, Y/N continue to grace the stream with tooth-achingly sweet moments, often caught on camera. But they’re not immune to some naughty slip-ups, much to Max F's dismay.
Words: 3.9k
Warnings: swearing, suggestive content
part 1 | part 2
Mic On
It was already well into the night, and somehow, Max had convinced Lando to hop on his Twitch stream for a late-night Counter-Strike session. They were in between rounds when the door creaked open, and Y/N walked in.
Lando tugs off one side of his headset the moment he felt her hand rest on his shoulder, tilting his head back to look up at her.
“Oh, hey baby. How was dinner?” he murmured, catching her hand in his and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.
Y/N smiled, running her fingers through his hair, making his eyes flutter shut for a brief second. “It was good. You’re on stream?”
“Mhmm.” He nodded, completely unbothered, yanking off his headset entirely.
Max’s voice suddenly boomed through the speakers. “Hey Y/N! Chat’s been looking for you.”
Y/N laughed, settling into the empty gaming chair beside Lando. “Sorry, chat. I was out with friends.”
Y/N’s eyes continued to scan the chat, answering a few questions every now and then, completely unaware of the way Lando was staring.
He hadn’t looked away since the moment she walked in. Not once.
Max was still talking, chat was flying, but Lando? Lando was somewhere else entirely.
Y/N finally glanced over, catching his intense gaze. She raised a brow, lips curving into a small smile. “What?”
Her soft voice snapped him out of his trance, but instead of looking flustered, Lando’s lips curled into a mischievous grin. He didn’t answer right away—just leaned in slightly, fingers reaching for his mic.
An attempt to mute himself.
Except—
He missed.
He tugs her chair a little closer, his hand sliding onto her lap as that familiar cheeky smirk plays on his lips.
“I was just thinking… you look really good right now, my love. Do you wanna—”
"MIC ON! MIC ON! YOUR MIC IS STILL ON!"
Max’s panicked scream blasted through the speakers.
Max’s panicked shouts made both of them jump, Y/N spinning her chair away in embarrassment while Lando nearly slid off his own chair from laughing.
Chat was going feral.
Lando, still wheezing, finally managed to get words out. “I just wanted to ask if she wanted to stay on the stream and play with us!”
Max, still skeptical, narrowed his eyes through the screen. “Sure, Lando. Sure.”
Lando shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Get your head out of the gutter, mate. Dirty bastard.”
Y/N, still red-faced, simply sighed. The damage was already done.
"max always having to come to their rescue will never not be funny"
"LN was ready to risk it all"
"cant blame bob, Y/N looks amazing"
"MAX SHOUTING"
"Please tell me someone clipped that"
Lando’s whiny complaint made both Max and Y/N pause mid-chew, turning to look at him like he’d just announced he was retiring from racing to become a monk.
Max glanced over at Lando’s plate, unimpressed, before shaking his head with a chuckle. "You're unbelievable, mate."
"It's just sushi, Lan" Y/N muttered, barely sparing him a glance as she scrolled through her phone.
"It's fish!" Lando exclaimed, holding up his plate dramatically for the camera, zooming in to prove how his spring rolls were daring to brush against Y/N’s salmon nigiri.
Max snorted. “Grow up, Lando.”
Lando huffed, crossing his arms. "You grow up." He looks over at his girlfriend, pleading eyes "Baby please, I don't even want to touch it"
“Lan…” Y/N sighed in defeat, picking up the piece of sushi he was so dramatically complaining about and popping it into her mouth. “Happy?”
Lando watched in absolute horror, his face scrunching up like he’d just witnessed a crime. He shivered at the mere thought of it. “Don’t know how you can eat that… raw too.”
Y/N smirked, grabbing another piece. She held it up to him. “Try it. Come on.”
“No.”
“I promise you it’s good.”
“And I promise you I’m gonna be sick.” Lando leaned back, holding his arm out like she was trying to feed him actual poison.
Max, watching the whole thing unfold, burst out laughing. “This is the farthest I’ve ever seen Lando be from Y/N while being in the same room as her.”
Chat? Losing it.
"HE’S SO DRAMATIC I CAN’T"
"MAX WITH THE LIVE COMMENTARY"
"bro is scared of sushi"
“I’ll do a photoshoot for Quadrant merch if you eat one piece.”
Silence.
Both Max and Lando’s heads snapped toward Y/N so fast they could’ve gotten whiplash.
Y/N had denied every single request to model for Quadrant—begged, bribed, guilt-tripped—nothing had worked. Until now.
Max turned to the camera, mouth slightly agape. “Do you guys understand how long we’ve been asking Y/N to model for us? They weren’t even dating yet and we were already trying to convince her.”
Lando’s gaze flickered between the sushi and Y/N, eyes filled with pure despair and conflict.
“Two collections,” he blurted out.
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“You have to model for two collections” Lando negotiated, like this was a high-stakes F1 contract and not about eating a single piece of fish.
Max and Y/N exchanged glances before bursting into laughter.
“There you go, chat,” Max said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Now you know we’re working on two new collections, thanks to Lando’s terrible bargaining skills.”
Lando groaned, realizing he had just leaked their upcoming release in real time.
“Fine,” Y/N conceded, “but you have to actually chew and swallow it.”
Lando narrowed his eyes. “AND… you do a shoot with me for LN4 merch too.”
The room fell silent again.
Max watched in amusement as Lando and Y/N locked eyes, neither blinking, waiting to see who would fold first.
Max smirked. “This is the most intense negotiation I’ve ever witnessed, and I’ve seen Alpine and McLaren fight over Oscar Piastri.”
Finally, Y/N held out her hand. “Deal.”
Lando took it, but instead of shaking, he brought it up to his lips and kissed it. “Deal.”
Max exploded. “I can’t believe this is happening. Someone clip this, please, I’m begging—fuck it, I gotta film this.” He fumbled for his phone, nearly knocking over his drink in the process.
Lando let out a deep, dramatic breath, grabbing his water bottle like it was his lifeline.
Y/N’s smile stretched wide, almost devilish, as she slowly inched the piece of sushi closer to Lando’s mouth.
“Open up, cutie,” she cooed.
Lando shot her a look of betrayal, but he had already sealed his fate. With a deep breath, he took the piece into his mouth, chewing at full speed, eyes squeezed shut like he was enduring actual pain.
Max was already cackling.
Lando forced himself to swallow, then dramatically opened his mouth wide to prove it was gone before immediately chugging half his water bottle like his life depended on it.
Y/N and Max? Wheezing.
Max threw his hands up. “And history has been made!”
Still recovering, Lando grabbed a spring roll and took the biggest bite possible, desperately trying to erase the taste of fish from his mouth.
Y/N ruffled his hair, grinning proudly. “Proud of you, my love. I’m telling Carlos about your bravery today.”
Lando nearly choked on his spring roll. “No. You are not.”
"HE TOOK IT LIKE A CHAMP"
"Lando vs. Sushi—Sushi wins"
"CARLOS NEEDS TO HEAR ABOUT THIS ASAP"
Max had woken up far too early, but the excitement for the Australia race had him buzzing. He’d set up his stream, ready to deliver some live commentary for his viewers as they watched the race unfold. Max had already talked about Lando's stellar performance from practice and qualifying, and of course, a handful of jabs about Y/N's debut on the big screen.
As the camera cut to Y/N chatting with Cisca, Lando’s mom, during the red flag pause, Max’s eyes lit up.
“Ah, there she is! WAG title stealer!” Max exclaimed, clapping his hands loudly as the broadcast showed Y/N mid-conversation, the words "Lando’s partner" flashing across the screen beneath her name.
The chat exploded with laughing emojis as Max quickly snapped a picture on his phone, an evil smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m sending this straight to Lando. He’s gonna love this. Bro is down bad for her, it's actually sickening”
The race hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. Max was feeling empathetic for all the rookies, as well as Carlos and Fernando, who were all out of the race early, DNFing one by one. But what really sent everyone into a bit of a spiral was when both McLarens went off-track, and then Oscar slid off into the grass.
Max kept going with his commentary, his usual sharp observations now mixed with praise for Oscar’s effort to get his car back on track. He was doing his best to keep it light, but when the camera cut to a replay of the McLaren garage’s reaction, Max couldn’t help himself.
“Oh dear,” Max chuckled softly, eyes glued to the screen. “Look at Y/N. I think she aged 10 years and it’s only race 1 of 24.”
Y/N’s face was a mix of concern and pure stress, tightly holding hands with Cisca as she watched her partner’s car struggle. Her eyes went wide when Oscar’s car slipped, and the pressure was visible on her face.
Max, clearly enjoying himself, added, “Poor Y/N looks like she’s about to start a full-on grey hair collection.”
The chat was absolutely losing it.
"MAX IS SO SAVAGE LMAO"
"Y/N'S FACE JUST AGES A DECADE"
"she's just like us"
"SOMEONE CHECK ON Y/N SHE'S ABOUT TO HAVE A MELTDOWN"
Max and Lando sat side by side, setting up a lobby to play a new game, both of them already gearing up for the chaos that would ensue. The vibe was relaxed, but that quickly shifted when the door opened, and Y/N walked in, looking absolutely fuming.
"Lando! I can't believe you. I've—"
Max immediately reaches over and mutes his mic, the tension in the room rising as both he and Max exchanged brief glances. Y/N didn’t even acknowledge them, her hands waving around, clearly heated about whatever had just happened. Her eyes locked onto Lando,
Lando can be seen reaching out to her, both now in deep conversation while Max sat there like a child caught in the middle of his parents arguing.
Lando can be seen running his hands through his hair, immediately reaching for his phone as she stormed off, clearly done with the argument.
Max, ever the opportunist, unmuted himself with a small sigh. “Alright, so… that argument?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “It was about who ate her ice cream from the freezer”
Lando, still rubbing his temples in frustration, groaned. “Mate, keep your voice down, she has super hearing.”
Max burst into laughter, throwing his head back. “Chat’s probably thinking it’s something serious”
Before Lando could respond, the door slammed open again with a dramatic flair, and there stood Y/N, hands on her hips, eyes practically smoking with fury.
"It was swirly pistachi-oh— Fewtrell, you know how hard it is to get a hold of that!" she snapped, voice sharp as a knife.
Lando pursed his lips, doing his absolute best to hold back his laughter, but it was clear he was about to lose it. He could feel Max trying to hide his grin beside him, but Lando knew the minute Y/N saw him struggling, it was only going to make things worse.
Max, still processing, blinked a few times in disbelief. “Wait, like Lec’s swirly pistachio? Charles Leclerc’s?”
Y/N shot Max a look that could melt steel. “Yes, Max. Charles' ice cream. It sells out so fast around here, it’s like gold. And Lando—” she turned her glare to him, the look of death now firmly in place, “—decided to eat my stash. The whole thing. All of it.”
Lando couldn’t keep it in anymore and burst into laughter, clutching his stomach as the weight of the situation hit him. But the moment he saw Y/N's expression change—eyebrows raised, hands on her hips like she was ready to deliver an epic punishment—his laughter faltered.
Y/N squinted at him like he had just committed war crimes. “Oh, you think this is funny?”
Lando immediately stopped laughing and put his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry, baby, please… Come here.”
But Y/N stood firm, not budging an inch. Her arms stayed crossed, her expression still ice-cold.
Lando’s smile faltered as he stood up to walk towards her. “Come on, my love… I already texted Charles to see if he can get us some more,” he said, doing his best to sound sweet and sincere, though the grin trying to form on his face was absolutely betraying him.
Y/N eyed him suspiciously, her lips pursed in the tightest line. “You texted Charles? Before apologizing to me?”
Lando hesitated, then shrugged sheepishly. “Well, he’s the pistachio supplier, isn’t he? Just trying to get the best deal for us.”
Max, now full-on crying from laughing, added, “You know, I think Charles might just have one last scoop left in his freezer. You’ve got to pull out the big guns, mate.”
Lando pulls her into a tight hug while shooting Max a glare that could only be described as a silent plea for mercy. But as Y/N’s gaze softened slightly, he knew he might just be getting out of this one alive… for now.
Lando and Max were deep into a heated game of Tarkov, and Y/N walked in, casually leaning against the doorframe, watching the two of them play. She walks over behind Lando’s chair, arms folded as she observed their chaotic gameplay.
Lando glanced up at her, offering a playful grin. “Hi, my love. Wanna grab a chair and join us?”
Y/N smiled, shaking her head, her fingers threading through Lando’s messy curls. “I’m good. Just making food right now. Came to check on you two.”
Max groaned from the other side of the room. “Perfect timing. I’m starving.”
Y/N laughed. “I know, you’ve been playing for hours.”
Lando leaned back in his seat, humming contentedly as she ran her fingers through his hair. “Mmm, that feels nice, baby,” he sighed, half-losing focus on the game as he relaxed into her touch.
Y/N grinned, her fingers still running through his hair. “Your hair’s a bit tangled, you know.”
Max snorted from the other side. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t seen a brush in weeks.”
Lando smirked, keeping his eyes on the screen but clearly enjoying the attention. “I like it like this.”
Y/N laughed lightly, “I’m sure you do.” She leaned down to give him a quick kiss on the top of his head as he leaned into her touch.
“Alright, I gotta go check on the food,” Y/N said, pulling her hands away from his hair. But as she did, something unexpected happened.
Her fingers got caught in the tangles of his curls, and as she moved away, it pulled harshly, making Lando let out a loud, unintentional moan.
Max, mid-game, froze. His eyes widened in shock. “What the fuck was that?!”
Y/N froze too, her face immediately turning a shade of red. She stood there, staring at Lando, unsure how to recover.
Lando, now realizing exactly what just happened, doubled over in laughter, his face bright red. “I swear, it wasn’t what it sounded like,” he managed to say between fits of giggles.
Max, still shocked, looked from Lando to Y/N, his face full of disbelief. “Oh no, it was exactly what it sounded like”
Lando, trying to stop laughing but failing miserably, looked at Y/N. “Oh baby...” He burst into laughter again, shaking his head.
Y/N, standing frozen with her hands still awkwardly in the air, just shook her head, biting back a laugh herself. “I didn’t mean to—” she started but was cut off by Lando’s giggles. "You know what, i'm leaving" Y/N shakes her head as she rushes out of the room
Max and Lando, still laughing at the absurdity of the situation, wiped tears from their eyes. “I can’t—I can’t even focus now,” Max gasped, trying to regain his composure.
Lando, still chuckling, shook his head, attempting to steady himself. “Yeah, alright, I’m good. I’m good.”
They both took deep breaths, trying their best to get back into the game.
Max, still grinning like a Cheshire cat, clicked his tongue and looked at Lando. “So... hair pulling, huh?”
“Shut up, Max.”
"LANDO IS INTO HAIR PULLING"
"max's face!"
"POOR Y/N"
"LANDO CAUGHT ON LIVE AGAIN"
Viewers slowly began to fill Max's stream, immediately flooding the chat with comments about the unusual setting. The camera was focused on Lando, who was sitting in a make-up chair, while Y/N stood off to the side, rummaging through a pouch.
Max clapped his hands and grinned. “Alright, chat, welcome!”
Lando flashed a smile and gave a small wave to the camera. “Bit of a different setup today, we managed to rent out a tiny studio for an impromptu shoot,” Max explained.
Y/N returned to stand between Lando’s legs, gently dabbing a make-up sponge on his face.
“Y/N’s the one making sure Lando looks presentable today,” Max added.
Lando tilted his head slightly, looking up at her with a soft smile. “Make me pretty, baby.”
Y/N chuckled, carefully applying concealer. “I can if you'd stop moving so much”
Max stood to the side, watching intently. “Can you make him look like Carlos?”
Y/N didn’t miss a beat, scoffing as she carefully worked on Lando’s face. “I said I can make him look pretty, Max, not like a Spanish model. I’m not God.”
Max choked back a laugh, and Lando’s jaw dropped as he stared at Y/N, utterly bewildered. “Are you saying Carlos looks so good you can’t even make me look remotely like him?”
Y/N shot him a playful smirk as she continued her work. “Took the words right out of my mouth, baby.”
Lando shakes his head, looking at the camera and pointing a finger at it. “My girlfriend, everybody…”
“I’m kidding, Lan, come on!” Y/N laughs, tilting his face back to look at her as she brushes powder onto his face. Lando scrunches up his nose. “That tickles.”
Y/N chuckles at his reaction, planting a quick peck on his nose. “All done. See? Gorgeous.”
Lando looks at himself in the mirror, nodding with satisfaction. “Damn, I look good.”
Y/N stops him from getting up. “I gotta do your hair, baby. Just a little longer.”
Lando glances at the clock and then back at her. “You gotta hurry up a bit, love. Need to do Max’s makeup too, and we both know that’s gonna take you nearly the whole day just to make him look half decent.”
Max, who’s been silently listening to the conversation, suddenly snaps. “Why the fuck am I catching strays? I haven’t said a word in the past five minutes!”
“Max, come on mate, look at you. You look ghastly. You feeling okay lately?” Lando grinned
Max shot him a glare, rolling his eyes. “You look ill, Lando. Have you seen yourself?”
Lando waved him off dramatically. “Seriously, Max. I’m getting worried here. You look like you need a bit more TLC. Maybe a nap... an exorcism?”
Max groaned. “I hate you. You’re so annoying.”
Lando smirked. “You’re annoying.”
Meanwhile, Y/N stood silently with a hairbrush in hand, staring at the camera. Her expression was a mix of exhaustion and quiet desperation, as if she was silently pleading for help from the viewers as the two continued to bicker like an old married couple. “Help me…” she muttered under her breath, eyes still locked on the camera.
Lando and Max were on their respective twitch streams, playing a rather relaxed game of UNO. It wasn't until Max decided to cheekily check Lando's stream to sneak a peak of his cards.
What surprised him, however, was his friend who had an annoyingly smug smirk on his face, his other hand no where in sight. And his girlfriend, suspisciously sat quietly beside him, wrapped in a blanket.
"You naughty little shit"
Lando’s whole body tenses. Y/N immediately looks away, suddenly very interested in the chat messages scrolling by at the speed of light.
Max’s smirk widens. "Hand check. Right now"
Lando, the master of deflection, tries to laugh it off as he shows his hand that was once set on the mouse. "Mate, what do you mean? My hands are—"
"Nah nah nah, show me both hands. Now!"
The chat goes feral.
"MAX IS ONTO THEM." 🕵️♂️"Lando’s sweating LMAO.""Y/N LOOKS GUILTY ASF."
After a long, agonizing pause, Lando finally raises his hands, one noticeably slower than the other. Max absolutely loses it.
"YOU NASTY LITTLE FUCK!" he cackles, pointing accusingly.
"Oh come on Max it was just on her bo—"
"Lando!" Y/N shouts and hides their face in her hoodie, and chat is now 100% convinced they just witnessed history.
Lando and Y/N glances behind them as Max walks into the room, a couple of bags of food in hand, his face a mix of annoyance and hunger.
"You two should just throw your phones away, I've been trying to call you for an hour" Max grumbles, shaking his head as he drops the bags onto the table.
Y/N smirks, grabbing one of the bags. "Hello to you too, grumpy." She starts pulling out boxes of food, her attention split between Max and the chaos on Lando's screen.
Lando, who’s completely absorbed in his game, glances up just long enough to acknowledge Max. "Oh you're here"
Max eyes the screen, raising an eyebrow. "Oh nice, Y/N, you're finally sharing your Sims with the stream?"
Y/N rolls her eyes but keeps pulling food out of the bag, clearly not impressed. "That's Lando's Sim. I was supposed to play, but he hogged it."
Max laughs as he leans in, squinting at the characters on the screen. "Mate, is that you and Y/N? Hold up, they actually look like you two. It's kinda freaky..."
Lando grins, still not taking his eyes off the game. "Yeah, I found a pre-made version of me and spent hours making Y/N."
Y/N shrugs as she digs into her food, rolling her eyes again. "He wouldn’t even let me play. Spent hours on it and wouldn't let me touch it."
Lando, not missing a beat, taps his mic as if it’s a casual question. "Chat—should we hire a nanny for Livie or should I quit my job and stay home?"
Max freezes. "Who the hell is Livie?"
"Our kid, Max," Lando says, looking at him as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "Keep up."
Y/N looks at Max, nodding seriously. "Yeah, we’ve got two kids now."
Lando, eyes glued to the screen, clicks furiously as he navigates through the Sims world, completely absorbed in his virtual family.
Y/N and Max exchange amused glances, trying not to laugh at how seriously he’s taking the game.
"Kind of concerning how invested he is in this," Max says, his voice low, as he watches Lando’s furrowed brow. "He doesn’t even play VR golf with this much concentration."
Y/N, chuckling under her breath, leans back in her chair, shaking her head. "Oh, Max, no. He’s really invested. Don’t let the quiet fool you—he’s planning their whole life. I'm pretty sure our Sims' kids are more organized than we are."
Lando leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied grin. "Alright, baby, Livie’s grown enough, and Sim me just quit his job. Time to woohoo for our third baby," he says nonchalantly, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard as if he’s casually discussing his grocery list.
"You're mental"
Just Kore :) @koressecretidentity - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
