#WHY WAS IT SO BRIGHT AND FOGGY 😭

[jinikaris]

HYUNJIN | 'SKZ 5'CLOCK' INVITATION ♡

[23victoria]

Am I Still Me? ❀

f1 grid x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader

wc: 6.6k+

summary: the aftermath of y/n’s horrible crash in suzaka, part 2 to ready, set, suzuka!!

warnings: cussing, angsty, sad, kinda depressing ig, emotional and physical trauma

authors note: sorry i took so long with this, honestly didn’t know what to write 😭💀, also if you get some of the references i put in here and characters names you a real one!! any feedback is appreciated and please like, comment, and reblog!! hope you enjoy!!

PART 1

f1 masterlist

The beeping of machines, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the distant murmurs of nurses and doctors—it all blurs together into a foggy haze. When you finally open your eyes, it’s like surfacing from a deep, dark ocean. The light is too bright, the sounds too sharp. Your body feels heavy, achingly so, and it takes a moment for the fog to clear enough for you to remember why you're here.

The Japan Grand Prix. The crash. The pain.

Your vision focuses slowly, revealing the worried faces of your parents, sitting by your bedside. Your mother's eyes are red-rimmed, and your father's face is etched with concern. When they see you awake, relief floods their expressions.

“Y/N, sweetheart,” your mother whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re awake.”

You try to speak, but your throat is dry and scratchy. Your dad quickly offers you a sip of water, helping you take small, careful sips.

“How long…?” you manage to croak out, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“About a week,” he replies gently. “They had you in an induced coma to help your body heal.”

You try to take in the information, but your mind is sluggish, struggling to process it all. You notice the casts on your left leg, the bandages wrapped around your torso. Every breath sends a dull ache through your ribs.

“Your injuries were severe,” your mom says softly, as if reading your thoughts. “The doctor said you had a punctured lung and liver, three broken ribs, a laceration to your kidney, and broken femur and tibia in your left leg. The doctors… they did everything they could.”

The gravity of her words sinks in slowly. You close your eyes, tears escaping, feeling the weight of your injuries, the immense road to recovery ahead.

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The days blur together, filled with endless medical procedures and physical therapy sessions. The pain is constant, a relentless companion that gnaws at your resolve. The physical therapy is grueling, each session pushing your body to its limits. Your left leg, encased in a cast, feels like it’s made of lead. The simplest movements send waves of pain through you.

Your parents are always there, their support unwavering, but you can see the toll it’s taking on them. They try to hide it, but you notice the way your mother’s hands tremble when she thinks you’re not looking, or the way your father’s shoulders sag with exhaustion.

It’s not just the physical pain that wears you down. The psychological toll is immense. The fear, the uncertainty—it’s all-consuming. The thought of never racing again haunts you, a dark cloud that looms over every waking moment.

Despite their best efforts, the doctors and therapists can’t hide the reality from you. Your injuries are severe, and the road to recovery is long and uncertain. There are no guarantees that you’ll ever be able to race again.

A few weeks into your recovery, your finally allowed visitors, you receive a visit from Max. He enters the room with a tentative smile, looking unsure of how to approach you.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says, his voice soft. “How are you holding up?”

You force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’ve been better,” you admit, your voice tinged with bitterness.

Max sits beside your bed, his expression serious. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through,” he says. “But I want you to know that we’re all here for you. Whatever you need.”

You nod, grateful for his words but unable to shake the feeling of despair that clings to you. “Thanks, Max,” you say quietly. “It means a lot.”

He stays for a while, chatting about the latest races and team developments, trying to lift your spirits. But when he leaves, the emptiness returns, heavier than before.

Lewis visits next, his brotherly presence a comforting balm. He’s always been a source of inspiration and comfort for you, and seeing him now brings a glimmer of hope.

“Hey Y/N/N,” he says warmly, enveloping you in a gentle hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

You manage a weak smile. “Thanks for coming, Lew.”

He sits with you, sharing stories and offering words of encouragement. “You’re one of the strongest people I know,” he tells you. “If anyone can come back from this, it’s you.”

His words touch you deeply, but the doubts still linger.

George's visit is bittersweet. He’s always been like a brother to you, and seeing his concern is both comforting and heartbreaking.

“Hey, Y/N/N,” he says softly, his eyes filled with worry. “How are you holding up?”

You shrug, trying to mask your frustration. “Some days are better than others.”

He takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “I know it’s tough, but you’re not alone in this. We’re all here for you.”

You nod, but the words feel hollow. The reality of your situation is a heavy burden, one that seems to grow with each passing day.

Lando brings a burst of energy into your room, his usual cheeky grin tempered by concern. “Hey, superstar,” he says, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re looking better than I expected.”

You chuckle, appreciating his attempt to make you laugh. “Thanks, Lando. I guess I clean up well.”

He spends the visit telling you funny stories and trying to distract you from your pain. For a brief moment, you almost forget about your troubles. But when he leaves, the emptiness returns with a vengeance.

Oscar visit is quieter, more introspective. He’s always been a man of few words, and today is no different.

“Y/N/N,” he says, his voice gentle. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

“Thanks, Oscar,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

He sits beside you, his presence a comforting anchor. “So…what do you wanna talk about?,” he says simply.

You look at him surprised, “What do I want to talk about?”

“Yea, what did you want to talk about” he says softly.

“You're not going to tell me that “You're strong, you’ve got this, you're gonna overcome this” you say indifferently.

He shakes his head saying “Nope.”

“Why?” you ask.

“Because I'm pretty sure everyone else who visited you has said the same thing, so I want to know what you want to talk about. Any good shows you’ve been watching? Hospital drama? Yes, no, maybe? Tell me I wanna know” he says gently.

You smile at him, greatly appreciating the normalcy his bring. You smile saying, “Did you bring food?”

He smirks, laughing “Yes I brought you y/f/f.”

You squeal, happy to have some outside food, the hospital starting to bore you. “Yes, there is some hospital drama. Apparently a resident has been sleeping with a neurosurgeon, and get this, he was married the whole time! And he didn’t tell her until his wife showed up last night for a case!” you say opening your bag of food.

Oscar looks at you in shock, “No way! Holy shit! Tell me more!”

Charles visit is the hardest. He’s always been your closest friend on the circuit, and seeing the pain in his eyes is almost too much to bear.

“Y/N/N,” he says, his voice choked with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

“Charles,” you say, reaching out to take his hand. “It’s not your fault.”

He nods, but you can see the guilt etched into his features. “I know but I still feel like I should’ve been there for you earlier,” he says quietly.

“You were,” you reply, your voice firm. “And you still are.”

He stays with you for a long time, his presence a comforting reminder of the bond you share. But even his support can’t chase away the shadows that cling to your mind.

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One particularly difficult day, you’re in the middle of a grueling physical therapy session. The pain in your left leg is excruciating, and every movement feels like a battle. You’re sweating, gasping for breath, and on the verge of tears.

“I can’t do this,” you whisper, your voice trembling with frustration and pain. “It’s too hard.”

Your physical therapist, a kind but firm woman named Maria, looks at you with sympathy. “I know it’s hard, Y/N,” she says gently. “But you’re stronger than you think. You’ve come so far already. Don’t give up now.”

You want to believe her, but the doubts are overwhelming. The thought of never racing again haunts you, a constant shadow that refuses to be dispelled.

“I’m worried about her, Y/F/N,” your mom says, her voice thick with worry. “She’s losing hope.”

“I know,” he replies, his voice equally troubled. “We need to do something.”

The next day, they call a meeting with all the drivers who have visited you. They gather together like a small conference room, their faces etched with concern.

“Thank you all for coming,” your dad begins, his voice serious. “We wanted to talk to you about Y/N. She’s struggling, and we need your help.”

Your mom nods, her eyes filled with tears. “She’s losing hope, and we’re afraid she’s going to give up. We need you to remind her of the fighter she is, to help her see that she can get through this.”

Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, Max, and Charles exchange worried glances, their expressions serious. They all care deeply about you, and the thought of you giving up is unbearable.

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” Lewis says firmly. “We’re not going to let her give up.”

The others nod in agreement, their resolve clear. They begin to plan regular visits, phone calls, and messages of encouragement, determined to lift your spirits and help you see the light at the end of the tunnel.

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The next few weeks bring a steady stream of visitors. Max is the first to arrive, his usual confidence tempered by concern.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says, sitting beside your bed. “I brought you something.”

He hands you a small box, and when you open it, you find a miniature model of your race car. “I thought it might help you remember what you’re fighting for,” he says quietly.

You smile, touched by the gesture. “Thank you, Max. It means a lot.”

Lewis is next, bringing a stack of racing magazines and a collection of your favorite movies. “I thought you could use some entertainment,” he says with a smile.

George brings a scrapbook filled with photos and memories from your racing career. “I want you to remember how far you’ve come,” he says softly.

Lando arrives with a box of your favorite snacks and a playlist of uplifting songs. “Music always helps me when I’m feeling down,” he says with a grin.

Oscar arrives with a stack of books, his quiet presence a calming balm. “I know you love to read,” he says simply. “I thought these might help you pass the time.”

Charles comes last, bringing a framed photo of the two of you celebrating after a race. “I want you to remember all the good times we’ve had,” he says softly. “And all the ones we still have ahead of us.”

Their visits bring a small measure of comfort, but the road to recovery remains daunting. The physical pain is relentless, and the psychological toll is equally severe. There are days when you feel like giving up, when the thought of never racing again is too much to bear.

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Today was another day of physical therapy, the room was sterile, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on the rows of equipment in the physical therapy room. You sat on the padded bench, beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. Your physical therapist, Maria, stood in front of you, her expression firm yet encouraging.

"Alright, Y/N, we're going to try to put a little more weight on your leg today," Maria said, her voice gentle but insistent. "You’re making great progress, but we need to push a bit more."

You nodded mechanically, gritting your teeth. The pain was a constant, gnawing presence in your leg, a cruel reminder of the crash that had shattered more than just your bones. You took a deep breath and tried to stand, but the agony was immediate and overwhelming. You crumpled back onto the bench, gasping.

"Come on, Y/N, you can do this," Maria urged. "Just one more try."

Something inside you snapped. The relentless pain, the frustration, the overwhelming sense of loss—everything boiled to the surface. You exploded.

"NO! NO! NO! I CAN'T DO THIS!" you screamed, your voice echoing off the walls. "I CAN'T! IT HURTS! I'M IN PAIN! AND DON'T YOU TELL ME YOU KNOW HOW IT FEELS WHEN YOU DON'T! YOU HAVEN'T LOST THE ABILITY TO WALK! YOU HAVEN'T BEEN TOLD YOU MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO DO THE ONE THING THAT GAVE PURPOSE TO YOUR LIFE!"

The room fell silent, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Maria's face paled, and she took a step back, her hands raised in a placating gesture.

"Y/N, I—" she began, but you cut her off.

"Just please, take me to my room," you said, your voice breaking. "I can't do this anymore."

Maria hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Okay," she said softly. She turned to call a nurse. "Please take Y/N back to her room."

The nurse arrived within minutes, her face a mask of professional concern. She helped you into a wheelchair and wheeled you down the long, sterile corridors back to your room. The journey was a blur, the walls closing in on you, each turn of the wheel a reminder of your limitations.

Once inside your room, you pushed yourself onto the bed, curling up into a ball. The nurse lingered for a moment, her eyes filled with sympathy.

"Do you need anything, Y/N?" she asked quietly.

"No," you muttered. "Just leave me alone."

The nurse nodded and exited, closing the door softly behind her. The silence that followed was deafening. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of despair settle over you. The hours dragged by, each second a reminder of the future that felt increasingly out of reach.

You heard the faint knock on the door but didn’t respond. You knew it was someone coming to check on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The knocks continued throughout the day, but you ignored them all.

You didn’t eat, didn’t speak, didn’t move. The room grew darker as the hours passed, the light outside fading into night. The pain in your leg was nothing compared to the ache in your heart, the sense of hopelessness that had settled in like a lead weight.

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Nights like this are the hardest. The darkness magnifies your fears, turning whispers of doubt into deafening roars. It’s one of those nights now, the kind where sleep seems impossible. The weight of your injuries and the uncertainty of your future press down on you like a suffocating blanket.

A soft knock on your hospital door interrupts your spiral of despair. It’s Charles, his silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway. He steps inside quietly, his eyes searching yours with concern.

“Hey,” he says softly, pulling up a chair next to your bed. “I heard what happened, thought I’d check on you.”

You manage a weak smile, but it quickly fades. “Thanks for coming,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I’m not great company right now.”

He takes your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “You don’t have to be. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

For a moment, the two of you sit in silence, the weight of your shared pain filling the room. Then, the dam breaks.

“I don’t know how to do this, Charles,” you confess, your voice trembling. “Every day feels like a battle, and I’m so tired. I’m scared I’ll never race again. Racing is everything to me. It’s my passion, my dream. And now… I feel like it’s slipping away.”

Tears stream down your face, and Charles moves closer, wrapping his arms around you. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out all the pain and frustration you’ve been holding in. His embrace is warm and strong, a safe haven in your storm of emotions.

“I know,” he whispers, his voice breaking with emotion. “I know how much racing means to you. It’s not fair what’s happened. It’s not fair that you’re hurting like this.”

You pull back slightly, looking into his eyes. You can see the tears there too, the raw pain he’s been holding back. “Charles, I feel like my life is over. If I can’t race… what’s the point? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Without it, I don’t know who I am.”

He cups your face in his hands, his eyes filled with determination and love. “Y/N, you are so much more than a racer. You’re strong, and brave, and passionate. You’ve touched so many lives, including mine. This injury doesn’t define you. You do.”

You shake your head, the weight of despair still heavy on your heart. “But what if I can’t do it? What if I can never race again?”

Charles’s grip on you tightens, his voice firm but gentle. “Then we’ll find a new dream, together. But I believe in you, Y/N. I’ve seen what you can do. You’ve overcome so much already. Don’t give up now.”

His words pierce through the fog of your despair, lighting a small spark of hope. “But what if I fail? What if I can’t come back from this?”

Charles’s eyes lock onto yours, filled with a fierce resolve. “Then I’ll be there to catch you, every step of the way. We’ll face it together, no matter what. You’re not alone in this, and you never will be.”

The sincerity in his voice, the unwavering support in his eyes, brings fresh tears to your eyes. “Charles, I’m so scared.”

“I know,” he whispers, his own tears falling freely now. “And it’s okay to be scared. But don’t let fear steal your dreams. We’ll fight this, one day at a time.”

You lean into him, your hearts beating in sync as you cry together, the shared pain and love binding you closer than ever. In his arms, you find a flicker of hope, a reason to keep fighting.

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The next day your parents come in, their expressions filled with concern. They sit on either side of your bed, each taking one of your hands.

“Y/N,” your mother says softly, her voice filled with emotion. “We know you’re going through a lot. But we’re here for you, every step of the way.”

Your father nods, his grip on your hand firm and reassuring. “You’re not alone in this. We’re all rooting for you. And so are your friends.”

You nod, but the doubts still linger. The thought of facing another day of pain and struggle is almost too much to bear.

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It’s been five miserable and grueling months in the hospital. You’ve improved a lot, the doctors say but you just feel like you're stuck in limbo, going nowhere. Today you receive a surprise visit from all the drivers at once. Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, Max, and Charles fill your room, their presence a comforting reminder of the support you have.

“Hey, superstar,” Lando says with a grin. “We’ve got a little surprise for you.”

He hands you a small box, and when you open it, you find a collection of letters and messages from fans all over the world. Each one is filled with words of encouragement and support, reminding you of the impact you’ve had on so many lives.

You feel a lump in your throat as you read through the letters, each one a reminder of why you started racing in the first place. The passion, the thrill, the joy—it’s all still there, buried beneath the pain and fear.

“We’re not going to let you give up,” Max says firmly. “You’re one of the strongest people we know. And we believe in you.”

Lewis nods, his expression serious. “You’ve overcome so much already. This is just another challenge, and we know you can get through it.”

George takes your hand, his eyes filled with determination. “We’re here for you, Y/N/N. Every step of the way.”

The others nod in agreement, their support unwavering. In that moment, you feel a flicker of hope, a small but growing light in the darkness.

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As the days fly by, the recovery process grinds on. The physical and psychiatric therapy sessions remain grueling, one pushing your body to its limits and the other peeling back layers of fear and doubt you didn't even know existed. You're forced to confront not just the physical pain, but the emotional turmoil of possibly losing the one thing that has defined you for so long: racing.

“Tell me about your fears, Y/N,” Dr. Yang, your therapist, prompts gently during one of your sessions.

You take a deep breath, the words sticking in your throat. “I’m terrified that I’ll never be the same again,” you admit. “Racing was everything to me. It was my passion, my identity. What if I can’t do it anymore? What if I’m not...me?”

Dr. Yang nods, her eyes full of understanding. “It’s natural to feel that way. But remember, you’re more than just a driver. You have other strengths, other passions.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. “But I don’t want to be anyone else. I don’t know how to be anyone else. Racing was my life. Without it, I feel...lost.”

Dr. Yang leans forward, her voice soft but firm. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience, Y/N. It’s okay to feel lost right now. But this is also an opportunity to discover new parts of yourself, to grow in ways you never imagined.”

The thought of having to reinvent yourself is daunting. The stress and anxiety of not being able to race again loom large, casting long shadows over your recovery. Each day is a battle against these fears, a struggle to hold onto the hope that you can still find a way back to the track.

Each therapy session, both physical and psychiatric, feels like an uphill battle. The pain, both physical and emotional, is relentless, and the progress often feels painfully slow.

During one particularly tough session, you break down. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you sob, the tears streaming down your face. “I don’t know if I can ever be the Y/N I used to be.”

Dr. Yang sits quietly for a moment, letting your words hang in the air. “You’re right,” she says finally. “You might never be the same Y/N you were before the accident. But that doesn’t mean you can’t find a new version of yourself, one who is just as strong and passionate, even if in different ways.”

Her words strike a chord, the truth of them both painful and liberating.

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One day, after a successful therapy session, you receive another surprise visit from Charles. He enters the room with a bright smile, holding a small box.

“Hey, Y/N/N,” he says, his voice filled with warmth. “I’ve got something for you.”

You open the box to find a small, intricately designed keychain in the shape of a racing car. “It’s beautiful,” you say, touched by the gesture.

“It’s a reminder,” Charles says softly. “Of your passion, your strength, and your determination. No matter what happens, you’re still a racer at heart.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes, but this time they’re tears of gratitude. “Thank you, Charles,” you say, your voice choked with emotion. “I needed this.”

He smiles, his eyes filled with warmth. “We all believe in you, Y/N. And we’re here to help you every step of the way.”

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The days that follow are still hard, but the nights are a little easier with Charles by your side. One night, as you’re lying in bed, exhausted from another day of therapy, Charles sits beside you, his hand gently stroking your hair. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said,” he begins, his voice soft and contemplative.

“About what?” you ask, your curiosity piqued.

“About racing being your life, your dream,” he replies. “I get it. Racing is my dream too. But I’ve realized something important. Dreams can evolve. They can grow. And sometimes, when one dream ends, it makes room for a new one.”

You look at him, your eyes searching his. “What do you mean?”

He smiles, a small, hopeful smile. “I mean that no matter what happens, you’re not defined by this one thing. You have so much passion, so much drive. If racing isn’t in the cards anymore, I know you’ll find something else that lights that fire in you. And I’ll be there to support you, every step of the way.”

His words are like a balm to your soul, soothing the deep wounds of doubt and fear. “Thank you, Charles,” you whisper, your voice filled with gratitude. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he replies, his voice filled with unwavering conviction. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

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The days continue to blur together, but with each passing week, you begin to see more progress. The pain is still there, but it’s no longer as overwhelming. The therapy sessions remain challenging, but you start to look forward to them, eager to see how far you can push yourself.

Your friends and family continue to visit regularly, their support a constant source of strength. Max, Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, and Charles all make it a point to check in on you, their encouragement lifting your spirits.

And through it all, Charles is by your side, his presence a comforting reminder that you’re not alone in this fight. His unwavering support, his quiet strength, his deep love—they’re the anchors that keep you grounded, the lights that guide you through the darkest nights.

As the months continue to pass, you begin to see more and more progress. The pain is still there, but it’s no longer as overwhelming. The therapy sessions remain challenging, but you start to look forward to them, eager to see how far you can push yourself.

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It's been six months since the accident. Half a year of relentless therapy, sleepless nights, and countless tears. But today, as you sit in the hospital's discharge room, a sense of cautious optimism fills the air.

Dr. Yang, your psychiatrist, and Dr. Miller, your orthopedic specialist, sit across from you. Dr. Miller adjusts his glasses and smiles warmly. "Y/N, I have to say, your progress has been remarkable. You're officially discharged."

You exhale, a weight lifting off your shoulders. "Thank you, Dr. Miller. Thank you, Dr. Yang."

Dr. Miller nods. "Remember, Y/N, this is just the beginning. You'll need to continue with your physical therapy and workouts to strengthen your body. We also need you to come in for your planned appointments. But if you keep up the good work, we're hopeful you could start racing again by next year."

Dr. Yang chimes in, "In about a month, you can begin to slowly train with your racing trainers to get back to racing. We know how much this means to you."

The relief washes over you. The thought of getting back behind the wheel, even if it's just in training, ignites a flicker of hope.

"Thank you both," you say, your voice trembling with emotion. "I can't wait to get back to it."

As you leave the discharge room, your heart pounds with a mix of excitement and nervousness. The past six months have been a rollercoaster of emotions, but today, you feel a renewed sense of purpose.

When you step out of the hospital doors, a loud cheer erupts. There, standing together, are the boys: Charles, Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, and Max. They hold up a large banner that reads, "Welcome Back, Y/N!" and they're all grinning from ear to ear.

Charles is the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight hug. "We knew you could do it," he whispers.

Lewis steps forward next, a proud smile on his face. "Told you, didn't I? You're stronger than you think."

George gives you a high five, his excitement palpable. "Y/N’s back in action!"

Lando and Oscar cheer loudly, their enthusiasm infectious. "We missed you!" they say in unison.

Max, usually so stoic, actually looks emotional. "You had us worried for a while, but we never doubted you'd be back."

You laugh, wiping away happy tears. "Thank you, guys. I couldn't have done this without your support."

Charles takes your hand, his eyes shining with pride. "Let's get you home."

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The drive home is filled with laughter and lighthearted banter. The boys recount stories from the past six months, filling you in on all the racing drama you've missed. It's comforting to know that life has continued on the track, even as you've fought your personal battles.

Once home, you step into your apartment, which has been kept in perfect order by your parents. The familiar surroundings bring a sense of peace. Your parents are there, tears of joy in their eyes as they welcome you back.

"You're home, sweetheart," your mom says, hugging you tightly.

Your dad smiles, his pride evident. "We're so proud of you, Y/N."

Over the next few weeks, you settle into a routine. Physical therapy sessions continue, and you push yourself harder than ever, determined to regain your strength. The boys visit often, their presence a constant source of encouragement.

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A month later, you're cleared to start light training with your racing trainers. The anticipation is overwhelming as you step into the familiar surroundings of the training facility. Your trainer, Tyler, greets you with a wide smile.

"Welcome back, Y/N. Ready to get to work?"

You nod, your heart pounding with excitement. "Absolutely."

The training is rigorous, but the thrill of being back in the environment you love so much drives you forward. The first time you sit in a simulator again, your hands tremble slightly, but as you grip the wheel, a sense of calm washes over you. This is where you belong.

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

As the months pass by, your progress is nothing short of extraordinary. Your body grows stronger, and your confidence begins to return. You start to believe that racing again is not just a distant dream but a tangible reality.

One evening, after a particularly grueling training session, you go to visit Charles at his apartment, you sit with Charles on the balcony, looking out over the city lights.

"I was so scared," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Scared that I'd never feel this again. The rush, the passion."

Charles wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. "I know. But look at you now. You're doing it, Y/N/N. You're coming back stronger than ever."

You smile, resting your head on his shoulder. "I couldn't have done it without you, without all of you."

He kisses the top of your head. "We'll always be here for you."

"Charles," you begin, your voice soft but filled with sincerity, "Thank you. Through everything that's happened, you've been my rock. You stayed by my side, through the tears, the pain, the doubt. You've been my anchor, keeping me grounded when I felt like I was drowning."

Charles reaches out, gently taking your hand in his. "Y/N," he says, his eyes searching yours, "you don't have to thank me. I care about you more than anything in this world. When I saw what happened, I was scared. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. I'm just grateful that you're here with me today."

Tears well up in your eyes as you squeeze his hand, overcome with emotion. "Charles, you mean everything to me. I don't know what I would do without you."

He brushes a tear from your cheek, his touch gentle and comforting. "I love you, Y/N" he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've loved you from the moment I met you. And now, seeing you here, stronger than ever, I know that my love for you will never waver."

You meet his gaze, your heart bursting with love. "I love you," you say, the words spilling from your lips like a prayer. "With all my heart and soul, now and forever."

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

It’s a new year, the new racing season buzzed with anticipation. Rumors swirled like wildfires about Mercedes’ new driver. Speculation ran rampant—some said it could be Sebastian Vettel, making a surprise return, while others thought it might be another seasoned veteran. Few dared to hope that it could be Y/N, the driver whose crash had left a deep scar on the hearts of fans worldwide. Yet, the more optimistic whispered her name with a sense of defiant hope.

As the Australian Grand Prix approached, Mercedes remained tight-lipped, stoking the fires of speculation. The paddock was electric with curiosity, journalists and fans alike desperate for any clue. The suspense reached a fever pitch during the free practices and qualifying rounds, as an anonymous driver in the silver arrow of Mercedes set blazing lap times, ultimately securing third place on the grid.

Race day dawned bright and clear, the air humming with excitement. The stands were packed, and millions of eyes worldwide were glued to their screens, waiting for the moment of revelation. As the clock ticked down to the start of the race, the Mercedes garage was a hive of activity, the tension palpable.

Then, the announcement came over the loudspeakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to meet Mercedes’ new driver.” The garage doors opened, and out stepped Y/N, her familiar figure met with a moment of stunned silence before the crowd erupted into deafening cheers. The roar of support was overwhelming, a testament to the impact she had made in her career and the resilience she had shown in her recovery.

Sky Sports' David Croft, commonly known as Crofty, was almost speechless as he watched her walk to her car. “What an incredible moment, ladies and gentlemen. Y/N L/N, a name synonymous with tenacity and talent, has made her triumphant return to Formula One. After everything she’s been through, to see her here, ready to race, is nothing short of miraculous. Welcome back, Y/N.”

You waved to the crowd, heart swelling with emotion. You climbed into the car, focus shifting to the task at hand. You were back where you belonged.

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

As the lights went out, signaling the start of the race, your heart pounded with adrenaline. You launched off the line, holding your position through the first few corners. The car feeling like an extension of yourself, every movement precise, every decision calculated.

“Alright, Y/N, keep it steady. We’ve got a long race ahead,” Amaria’s voice crackled through your earpiece. Her calm tone was a steady anchor in the chaos of the race.

Lap after lap, you pushed the car to its limits, the memory of your accident a ghost that spurred on rather than holding you back. You were in the zone, overtaking with surgical precision and defending your position fiercely. On lap 15, you made a daring move on Max, slipping past him into second place. The crowd went wild, the roar echoing in your ears even through your helmet.

“Great move, Y/N. You’re doing fantastic,” Amaria cheered, her voice filled with pride.

As the race progressed, you found herself closing in on Lewis. You knew the pit stops would be crucial. On lap 28, you dove into the pits, the crew executing a flawless stop. You rejoined the race in third but quickly reclaimed back second position, setting your sights on first place.

“Pace is looking good, tires are optimal,” Amaria updated. “Keep pushing, you’ve got this.”

Your focus was razor-sharp, every muscle in your body attuned to the car’s movements. You chipped away at the gap, each lap bringing you closer to the leader. By lap 45, you were on Lewis’s tail, and with a brilliant maneuver, you overtook him, claiming the lead.

The final laps were a blur of speed and strategy. Lewis was close behind, pushing hard, but your determination was unyielding. Your hands gripped the steering wheel, eyes scanning the track ahead, your mind calculating every possible outcome.

“Just a few more laps, Y/N. You’re almost there,” Amaria’s voice was a lifeline, keeping you grounded.

Lap 56 came, and the crowd’s anticipation was palpable. You held your ground, defending your position with the skill and tenacity that had earned you a place among the best. As you crossed the line, the checkered flag waving, the realization hit you—you had won. You did it.

The crowd erupted in applause, the noise almost deafening. You parked the car at the P1 sign, the enormity of your achievement washing over you. You climbed out of the car, tears streaming down your face as you celebrated with her team. They lifted you up, their cheers of joy echoing through the paddock.

David Croft’s voice echoed through the stadium, capturing the essence of the moment. “Ladies and gentlemen, today we have witnessed history in the making. From a young girl in her hometown, driven by an insatiable passion for racing, to being the only girl in her karting races, lovingly supported by her parents. She defied the odds to become one of the first women to race in Formula 1. She survived a horrific accident in Suzuka, a nightmare that could have ended her career and dreams. Yet, she faced her darkest fears, battled through unimaginable pain and doubt, and today, she has overcome those scars to win the Australian Grand Prix. Y/N’s journey is nothing short of inspirational, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. Welcome back, Y/N. We could not be any prouder. You have shown us what true courage and determination look like."

Other drivers came to congratulate you—Lewis, Max, Lando, Oscar, and more. Each hug, a testament to the joy and respect they had for your journey and your victory.

You ran towards Charles, your heart bursting with pride. You found each other in the sea of people, and you jumped into his arms, hugging him tightly. “You did it, baby, you did it! I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you. You’re a winner! You did it! I’m so proud, baby. I love you so much!”

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice choked with emotion.

You stood on the podium, the weight of your journey settling on your shoulders. You have faced the darkest moments and come out stronger, your love for racing and the support of those around you guiding you back to the pinnacle of the sport. The crowd’s cheers were a testament to your resilience, a reminder that no matter how difficult the road, you had found your way back home.

© 23victoria 2023-24 I all rights reserved. do not republish, steal repost, modify, translate or claim my work as your own

[ponderingmoonlight]

how would yuta react to his crush telling him he’s pretty while she’s injured and like delerious ig? 😭

Yuta’s heartbeat pumps through his ears, makes it impossible to focus on anything but you.

You, laying right in front of him.

You, laying in a puddle of blood.

A lot of blood. Too much, to be exact. He kneels down, inspects your gaping wounds. If he came here sooner, if he only arrived in Shibuya earlier, maybe none of this would have happened.

“I’m…so tired”, you mumble, lids threaten to flutter shut.

“Focus on me, okay? We need to get you out of here, (y/n).”

You furrow your eyebrows, concentrate your foggy vision on the person in front of you. He seems so familiar, like someone you haven’t seen in a long time. If your eyes would just focus on him…

“Yuta….Yuta, is that you?”

He smiles at you gently, cups your cheek like he always imagined to. You were always on his mind. No matter where he was, no matter how late in the night. All he could ever think about was coming back to you.

“It’s me, (y/n). You have no idea how nice it is to finally see you again-“

“Come closer”, you instruct him with weak voice.

“I need to see you…closer.”

Yuta swallows hard. Even though you’re covered in blood and probably delirious, you look just as stunning as you did back then when he left.

With your eyes and lips only inches away from his face, he suddenly feels insecure again. No matter how well he trained, he will never be good enough for someone like you. You are like an angel walking on this earth, so gorgeous that you turn heads on a regular basis. But not only that, you are also incredibly smart and talented. Why would you fall for someone like him? Why does he still chase after a dream that will never come true?

“You look so beautiful, Yuta.”

He lets out his breath, widened eyes staring at your tired smile. You didn’t just say that, right?

“You’re a little delirious because of the blood loss, let me get you out-“

“You are beautiful. I always thought so. And that new haircut really suits you”, you mumble.

You are beautiful…When was the last time he heard someone say this to him? No, it doesn’t matter when or who someone said this so him. His eyes take in your sight along with your words while his cheeks turn bright pink.

“Come on, (y/n). I will carry you out of here”, he finally manages to press out, threaten to fall over with his knees wobbly like pudding.

“I’m asking for it.”

“Yuta…”, you mutter again while he carries you over the debris and death.

“What is it?”

“Did I tell you that you’re beautiful already?”

"Y-Yeah..."

[altgojo]

Love always make itself known. (a katsuki Bakugo/reader…)

Summary : you knew that you will always be there for him, no matter what happens, because you know that you love him. But what you didn’t know is that he does too, and he would do anything for you… wc: 1,6 k Author note: you know how I started from a Drabble? Now I wrote a whole ass oneshot😭, I originally wanted to do this with a prohero!tomura/reader but I fear that I didn’t know how to construct such thing in one single part 🤕, butttt if you want it then maybe I could do it😇. Anyways, I hope you like it :3

Warnings: a little tiniest tiny bit of angst, but it’s a happy ending, fluff, they are both in love with each others to the point when it HURT like just confess😭, but they do eventually, f!reader, clingy katsuki because why tf not?

The sunshine was seeping through the glass panels of the window, gracing the room with a newfound warmth after a long cold night. As the sun rises up, the bright light slowly arose you from your sleep. 

As you get your own self accommodated to waking up, you notice that you were wrapped into a strong embrace, you try to slowly turn around, then as you look at their face, you remember all the things that occurred the day before.

      He saved you.

He saved you. You thought you were doomed for, your back colliding with the brick wall behind you, grunting in pain as you try to move, but to no avail. Your eyes were getting blurry and your mind was foggy, the only thing you can see is his face.

      You wished that you confessed.

      You wished that you had the guts to. 

You were ashamed, you wanted to be strong alongside him, you wanted to be with him. But you couldn’t, because you were a coward, and we all know cowards get nothing. 

      He sees you.

 And all that flashes into his mind as he sees you there, all sprawled with your back to that wall, is pure unfiltered rage. He wanted to be strong enough for you, he always trained so hard to do so, but there he is, he lets you get severely injured. Like the weakling he is. But he doesn’t have time to think about such things, he has to save you, as fast as possible.

      So he does. 

As flashes of your memories with him race in your mind, you feel large arms encapsulating you in his embrace, holding so tightly, but you don’t feel anything, so you just bask in his warmth as he shouts at you to talk to him. He finishes the villain off with you in his arms, you feel his rage and his anger as they escape his body, with an intensity that can rival the biggest waves crashing onto the shore . Then you smile, you smile because you are glad that you set your sights on him from the beginning, because to you, even if he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings, you still won’t stop loving him. 

    He is everything to you.

    But you are also everything to him,

    You just don’t know it.

That’s why, once you opened your eyes, he instantly appeared in your field of vision, he held your hand right away as he spoke.

“If you had died, I would have killed you”

You held his hand tighter. You realised that you missed him, even when he was right there, with you, in the hospital room, you missed him and you are glad you are here with him. You don’t realise that you were crying until you felt his hand wiping your tears away. His hand feels slightly different than when you were both teenagers, soon to be pros. But, even so, they still held the care and the warmth that they always did. 

 “Why the hell are you crying? I’m right here.”

‘I am right here, I am not going anywhere.’ That’s what he wanted to say, but he knows that you will understand him anyway, you always did, that’s why he was always at ease with you. You didn’t just dismiss him as an “angry aggressive person with no other feelings” like all people did, you saw right through him. You understood him, and that scared him at first. He tried to push you away, but you remained still, even when you both fought, he always found his way back to you. Because he realises that his future lays with you, with nobody else but you.

You look at him as he is deep in thought. With a relaxed smile on your face, you softly spoke, finally meeting his eyes.

“You can’t kill me if I already died, katsuki.”

As you finished, you realised that you just broke his train of thoughts, he looked slightly shocked for a second before he mutters :

“I don’t care, I will if you did.”

You muse back with a soft laugh :

“Then I won’t, never dreamt of doing so.”

You both stare back at each other for a while, silently looking at every detail on each other’s face, both trying to reserve this as one of the plenty of memories that you both shared. 

  You got discharged from the hospital two days after. Fortunately, you only had one severe injury that was nearly healed thanks to recovery girl (she came just after the villain attack because katsuki urged her to come. You made sure to thank her profusely for healing you.)

As you were about to leave the hospital, you found katsuki right outside waiting for you. As he sets his sights on you, he rushes to your side, and helps you get onto the car, his car.

You both sat in silence, listening to the low sounds emitting from his radio that acts as some sort of white sound in the car. That’s until katsuki turns it completely off and starts talking:

“I already talked to your agency and told them about your condition and the physical state that you are in, you need a lot of rest so I better not see you there until you fully heal, understood?”

Just based on his keen, stoic tone, you knew you couldn’t argue with him. So, you just sank further onto the cushioned leather seat of his car, opting to look out the window instead. Katsuki kept stealing glances at you from time to time, checking if you were okay. After some time, you reached your front doorstep. As you turned around, ready to unbuckle your seatbelt, you were outrun by katsuki as he unbuckled the belt for you, and then his. sensing your confused glance onto his back as he opened his car’s door, he quips:

“You need assistance, so you’ll better let me accompany you without being such an annoying brat.”

And that’s how you find yourself being tended by him all afternoon, never leaving your side, and if he does by chance, he keeps you near him or steal glances at you to make sure you are doing good. You know why katsuki is acting like this, you saw his face once you woke up on the hospital bed. He was scared, afraid of losing you. That’s why you don’t complain nor tease him about his clinginess, you just let him be, plus you always like it when he gets clingy, even when it comes with a tinge of guilt. Because he always gets clingy whenever something bad happens between you two. You brush that thought off as you remained on the couch while he is making dinner, reminding you of your time in UA common rooms, when you and all your friends lounge together in the living room while katsuki cooked , but now, it’s just you and him. 

When katsuki finishes up making dinner, he beckons you over to the table, almost acting like he owns the place and that the house is his , not yours. As you sit down, you both eat in silence until he starts to glance at you, that’s when you know he wants to initiate a conversation, so you look up and he begins:

"Just what the hell was going through your mind when you decided to face that villain?"

You look straight into his eyes, your posture radiating confidence even when you really don’t feel it at that moment, fake it till you make it I guess.

"What do you mean? I am a prohero katsuki, of course I would go against a villain. What do you want me to do? Watch you defeat them yourself?"

Katsuki scrunches his face as he starts to get mad. His expression is a clear indication of that.

"I know that you are a prohero, but that does not mean that you should just jump infront of villains with no plan whatsoever and take their blows."

You lowers your eyes and look anywhere but katsuki’s face, all the initial confidence in you blew away after his perfect response, damn he caught me!

Katsuki sees your look as a signal to continue, probably because he knows that he caught you right where he wanted to.

"I know that you want to beat as many villains as you could, and I have always appreciated the dedication that you have to beating villains asses, but you should be careful so they don’t beat your ass up instead. I won’t always be there with you on missions to save your ass so you better not do this anytime soon, I want you to use your brain and think before jumping to action, got it?"

Katsuki then stops to analyse your reaction, glancing right through you, your eyes widen for a second as you process his words, and then, you look up and smile at him. His heart melting at the sight of it, he never wants you to lose your smile, he never wants to lose you.

As you look up at him, you smile, your heart melts with his words, even if he talks in that way, you always see right through his words, he cares about you, and you do too. You trust him with your life. 

So you decided it’s time. 

It’s now or never. 

You look straight at his beautiful, ethereal crimson eyes and say.

"I love you, katsuki.”

That’s how you find yourself, as a new day begins, under your sheets, with the man whom you have always and will pour your love into, and he will do the same if not more. 

As you look at his sleeping face, he is slowly arising from his sleep, almost in command. 

    because whenever you look at him, 

    he would always be there, 

    at your service. 

And then his eyes meet yours and the first sentence he utters is:

"I love you most."

copyright © 2024 altgojo. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works, you can reblog it but do not reupload on any platform, thank u.

[newbornwhumperfly]

no one will feed you anymore...

oh, y’all know what time it is by now, don’t you? 😈🥺😈 i stretched the definition of this delightful prompt - @whumpmasinjuly day 12: caught - and it really stirred my creativity! so it's time for morja to sufferrrrrrrrrr...😭😭😭

(sidenote: this training scenario was heavily insp. by this incredible art by @elgrajaz cause it gives such whumperflies 😍)

title insp. by this concept art quote by jenny holzer - "if you're considered useless, no on will feed you anymore."

~

Your job today is to run. 

Until, anotèros?

There’s a blister on his ankle already. The friction of the shoe against skin, the rub-rub-rub, burn, burn, heat, sore, heat, foot falling flat against the ground, push off, spring forward, burn. 

Until you catch up.

Morja blinks wet into his eyes and it stings, blurs, his feet pound their rhythm still. Can’t wipe it away. Keep going. He knows where he’s going and he doesn’t need to see. Just run. 

Chase the buggy. The small white cart and the whine of the wheels as it speeds ahead, the anotèros driving, the anotèros with the stopwatch in his hand, the black glasses, don’t watch his face, just run.  

He has caught the buggy before. Dog with rabbit in his teeth. Grab the bar, swing himself into the backseat, stopwatch clicking stop. 

But it is so hot.

What is this track made of, anotèros? 

His trainer’s eyes had squinted, slitted sideways down at Morja, and the skin of his palms itched. 

The burn is all over. Heat. Heat in the legs, the thighs, the feet, the pulse of fire through each foot. 

Raw, sharp, prick of fire, as the blister peels. Heat. Blood. Blood in the sock. Bad. Wash later. Run. 

Keep going. 

Keep going.

The heat is inescapable. It’s the worst part, really, of anything. He’s lived in heat. Used to heat. Born in it, raised in it, put in it day after day and still, it is the most inescapable. 

Polyurethane, mostly. Does that answer your question, diathèsimòs?

Morja’s palms itched harder and he squeezed them into balls behind his back.  

Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. 

Good. Now get out there and run. 

Fire jars through his chest with each breath, breath dragging sharp across his lungs, filling up with knives, throat a razor trap, chest a dozen blade tips. Breathing out is an ache but better, better than swallowing the fire of air. 

Back straight. Drag air through the nose. Thick, rubber-scented, hot. It’s so hot in the building, foggy, every window had fog on it when he walked in today. 

Polly-your-a-thane. Rubber. That’s the smell. Mixed with latex. The stuff that sticks to skin. Poured over asphalt. Bouncy over solid. 

Knowing why your shoes stick to the track in the rain, in the heat, in the cold, doesn’t make you faster. It doesn’t help. 

Morja sees sweat gleam on his trainer’s head, wrist swiping it away, the stopwatch gleaming bright, pinpoint-sharp, and the lights are bright. Big bulbs in the ceiling that hum against his skin they’re so blue-bright-sharp. 

Keep up. 

His sides pulse. The pulse has started now and the stabbing will only get stronger. Stitch. A needle pulling air through his body on a barbed thread. Poke. Drag. Poke. Drag. 

They haven’t told you to stop.

Morja always has to remind himself his throat isn’t bleeding. It feels like it is. It isn’t. Not like his feet. Those are bleeding. 

He can’t even hear the clink of his cuffs, thick leather slick and sticking to his flesh in an itching snick-snick-snick at every jostle. The piston of his elbows at his sides is short and doesn’t yank the chains trailing behind the buggy. 

The slow whir of wheels-on-rubber is just a buzz now. Everything is a buzz, ears full of static, only the thudthudthud of blood rushing, water, past his ears, like his head is under the water, don’t think just run. 

He won’t catch up to the buggy if he doesn’t run.

(It will outrun him anyway. That’s the point. It has to. Of course it will. It’s a buggy and Morja is on foot. There is no point.)

No. He can catch the buggy. He was told to and he can. 

Keep the pace. This track doesn’t end. Run. 

Inescapable.

Run.

He is a diathèsimòs and he must keep running. 

The thud of his shoes against the track, the springing-then-solid, the reaching out with one hand, no, not close enough to reach and sweat blinds him again. Fuck. 

He should have caught them already. 

He must catch them. 

Every step burns. Every breath burns. The lights burn. The track is a circle and he rounds a corner into a corner into a corner in pursuit. 

The length of chain yanks, every step jolts his ribs against the inside of his skin, like every step jolts cuff against wrist, the chain growing tauter, the breaths shorter, harsher, dragging, razorwire, like the lungs being whipped. 

The shredded grunt of each breath can’t be coming from him, he doesn’t think, but it must be. It’s so loud in his ears, like his heartbeat, as knife of breathing stabs, stabs, stabs. 

The buggy is getting further away, inch by inch, and there is no way his lungs can bleed, like a horse. He is a diathèsimòs and his lungs don’t bleed. 

Breathing and seeing are fire. 

Hot rubber and hot copper and the itch of sweat is all he can think about. The sting of it in his open blisters. The crawl of it down the waistband of the pants, into the neck of the shirt, in his dry mouth like spit, in his dry eyes like tears. 

The track is designed to help you not slip. That’s how running tracks are made. That’s why the rubber smells so strong. 

But a stab, too-sharp, too-blinding, doubles him. He jerks against the cuffs and it’s done. The buggy keeps going and Morja doesn’t and his shoes fly out from under him and he hits the track. 

Rubber. Asphalt. Body. 

All the ragged breath is slammed from his lungs as his chest hits the ground, chin tucked against the fall, and the track burns across every inch, shoulders sharp and shocking at the jarring pull, pull, pull, dragged behind the buggy-

“Stop! Time.”

The burning stops and Morja lays there, heaving, light pulsing with every sharp heartbeat behind his eyelids, and he’s curled up on the ground, arms stretching out with their chains behind the buggy. 

Get up. 

He can’t.

Then kneel. 

Rolling, belly first, then dragging one leg, burning, stabbing, shaking, up beneath him. Another. He does kneel up and his lids, bleary, blink open as the shape of his anotèros floats from the buggy. The squeak of leather as the shape bends to crouch in front of him, a rolling smell as sharp and bright and cold as the overhead bulbs swallows him up, clean scent and sharp corners, holding up a gleaming pinpoint in Morja’s face. 

The stopwatch. 

The only cold Morja’s felt today stabs into the hollow of his stomach as numbers, bright electric lines, become clear. 

Slow. 

Fuck. 

I was slow.

“Gonna have to work on your speed, diathèsimòs. Guess you didn’t manage to catch up. You know the drill - don’t stop running until we’re caught.” 

Morja tastes blood in his mouth. Not from his lungs. Of course not. He takes his teeth out of his cheek and the smell of rubber fills his nose as he bows his head to the ground. 

Polyurethane, soft against his skin. 

“…Yes, anotèros.”

~ oooh, a little glimpse into morja's training regimen, which is very fair and achievable!! 🥺🥺🥺

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@wolfeyedwitch @whumpzone @whumping-every-day @redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain

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i hope everyone has a very merry @whumpmasinjuly! 💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[tenderhungering]

howdy howdy!!! do u have any thoughts on jack’s background? I think it’s really interesting the few tidbits we have (Illinois Boy™️, the Oh Calcutta story, getting his start in radio) + in the case of those first two its like. clearly been told time and time again for an audience. or if you’d prefer something else any thoughts on minnie 🙏😭 haunting the narrative icon

hello hello ! i so wish we’d gotten a little bit more about him but i’ve always imagined jack as being a little more introverted in his younger years? i think he really enjoys validation and this is such a difficult thing to achieve as someone as slightly awkward as jack. (don’t know why. maybe i just enjoy pathetic men but his blushing at naked bodies and his little “oh! not my chair!” has always made me feel like he has had to build up this persona he has made for himself) charming and quick-witted but very easily crumbles whenever he’s in an uncomfortable position (he seems to almost dissociate often?)

i think he might’ve been in some sort of college radio and broadcast (i’ve discussed this with a friend before!), and he was just so happy to build an audience. there’s no mention of his parents (my memory is foggy!) so part of me thinks that they’re either not in the picture or he’s lost them? so you know,,, mommy and daddy issues galore despite either one. maybe even one of them didn’t think being someone on television would maintain a steady flow of income. regardless, it might make him more interested in gaining that connection with the audience, getting validated for his feelings. getting praise for it. no you’re so cool please continue to make your show! i’m such a big fan!

he doesn’t know who is there for him as Mr. Midnight and who is there for him Jack Delroy so he blurs the line and vents to his audience, looks at the camera with every intention to impress.

i imagine meeting minnie was very sweet though. they were both sort of up and coming and it’s nice to have someone who understands that struggle! i imagine minnie being in theatre makes her the more extroverted out of the two ! (she was the one sharing stories and jack getting shy about them!), but also a lot more open about her emotions. jack seems like someone who keeps to himself and doesn’t quite understand how to communicate well (he does hide a lot from others when they ask what’s going on. might just be that 70s toxic masculinity upbringing that makes him unable to express these,, daddy issues? who knows!)

i do fully believe he loved her though! younger jack probably never dreamed of finding a girl like minnie. maybe a bit of idealization for her occurred earlier on but minnie was so fresh and bright and full of life even during her time spent ill that i always thought she just good humor and a knack for just being naturally talented at the arts.

which is a big difference between the two! minnie just had that spark of life, she was always going to end up being someone big, she knew how to capture a room. jack was awkward and had to find his voice, he had to learn what people liked, what good jokes landed and how to deliver them, he had to work hard (and i don’t mean this as minnie not working hard! jack just had to work to become this persona while minnie was able to become her characters almost immediately, she’s able to understand their emotions and feel for them immediately. i think it makes her a much more empathetic person while jack is a lot more sympathetic. jack needs to be verbally told what people are feeling which might be why ratings are so comforting. they’re either good or bad! they’re easy to read.) and become who we know as Mr. Midnight. something of an artist obsessed with not their craft but what their craft will mean to others

sorry if this wasn’t exactly background stuff pfft! i more so focused on how their personalities were! i do think that minnie was possibly in dance, and has that ability to be able to play a song after she hears it on time on the piano. i think she has to teach jack how to pick up on it though, he’s sort of stumbling and his keys are sour baha. he probably used to stay up late studying little mannerisms talk shows had. i think he has a natural charm to him but that charm is a lot more meek than what we see? i love them both dearly,,,

[schoenpepper]

Homie your writing is so good and unappreciated like wtf why aren't like at least 1 million people following you???

lmfao thanks bro 🙏🏻

as a side note i'm working on the last event req (which is yours) and it's so funny i'm going so off i can't even 😭

here i'll show you the stuff because i'm gonna rewrite it

fair warning tho it's depressing and gory and half written so there's a lot of stuff not there yet

You’d always been a good kid.

You were bright and cheerful, running around energetically with no care in the world. Your parents were lovely people who always held you in their hearts. You had many friends who loved to play and sing with you at kindergarten. You wanted nor needed for nothing.

You’d been a good kid.

(Because you could be.)

The weather one day foretold your upcoming misfortune. As you looked up through the window panes of the neon yellow school bus you were riding home from kindergarten one day, you saw the sky. The sun was swallowed by gray storm clouds and a heavy rain began, beating down on the pavement. It was so loud you could barely hear the driver yell out your stop.

You come home soaked because your parents didn’t pick you up from the bus stop.

Your parents are dead.

You were five when you came home in the pouring rain to a bloody house. You dropped your backpack on the floor and ran to the phone.

Mommy always told you to call smart adults for help. You remember her words.

There’s vomit climbing up your throat at the sight and the stench, even if you’d been older, nothing would have prepared a person to smell the rotting bodies of their own loving parents. Mommy’s head on the kitchen counter, daddy’s is on the table; there was an arm by the phone that you had to kick away through tears and choked sobs.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

It’s all a blur after that. You were taken away to a government facility that houses orphaned children.

After the storm, the night was quiet and so, so very dark.

(Your childhood is a foggy mess, but the memory of coming home that day—you can still remember it so clearly. You will never forget it, not until the day you die.)

You grew up in different homes.

Your first home had a lovely lady and her cat. But her cat was almost injured by your flashbacks and nightmares (and the screaming and the yelling and the thrashing around and—).

Your second home had enough money for a psychiatrist. It’s PTSD, she said.

You didn’t know what PTSD was.

(But every time you close your eyes, you can see daddy’s, wide open.)

The system is a major fuck up. Your second foster home sent you back after another horrid anxiety attack and you stay in a little room with four other kids, going to a nearby public school. You sleep 12 hours at a time. You feel tired after waking up, but you force yourself to do your homework.

You used to like doing homework.

Learning was fun.

You force food down your throat even when you really don’t want to eat. You take one hour showers and get yelled at for using up all the hot water. You try your best.

At twelve, you stop trying.

You sleep and when you wake up, you stare at the ceiling and do nothing. When you go to school, you cut after your first class just to lay down on a bench on the rooftop and sleep some more. There’s nothing to do. Or rather, there’s nothing worth doing.

You sit down on the bathroom floor one day with the scissors you use to cut open shampoo packets.

You can’t feel anything anymore.

But pain, it’s practically family.

You hide under long sleeves and baggy clothes and try to find ways to feel anything again. Alcohol is a nice way to drown out your thoughts (mommy used to drink wine on Friday nights), cigarettes become a constant in your life (daddy hated smoking with a passion), and getting high is routine (drugs are bad drugs are bad drugs are bad—).

And so you were a bad kid.

(Because you’re forced to be.)

At sixteen you’re barely a shell of a person.

Scars decorated your arms and climbed up your wrists, even to the palms of your hands. There are some on your thighs too—the blood and the pain gives you a different kind of high that your vices never could. To be honest, you were almost a hundred percent sure you weren’t going to make it to adulthood, or even your 18th birthday.

(If only because you were so, so tired.)

You fall asleep one day and wake up in the middle of an orientation ceremony.

A different world.

(The same old fucking story.)

You’re distracted away from your thoughts by having to rebuild Ramshackle, but Grim makes for a nice cuddle buddy at night. The living conditions don’t bother you when you used to sleep under bridges in your old world. In fact, having a roof over your head and a regular allowance, albeit paltry, is good enough for you.

Ace and Deuce become really good friends.

So does Riddle.

Heartslabyul accepts you with open arms.

(You haven’t had friends since kindergarten.)

Jack makes you feel safe, and it’s comforting to have him close when your days are harder on you.

Ruggie and Leona are like the older brothers you never had.

(Is this what having a family is like?)

…

The sun was covered by storms of gray, but the night that followed was not the eternal darkness you had thought it to be.

It was calm and peace.

It was a starry sky.

It was Jade.

[izvmimi]

“Hello, my beloved.”

The first words Izuku mutters to you this morning are delivered with his chin resting on your robe clad shoulder. His body is wrapped tightly against the back of yours while you stand in front of your lighted bathroom mirror smearing on sunscreen and moisturizer, his arms crossed over your torso to keep you from moving a single inch. He gently rocks you back and forth, eyes still half closed.

“If you’re gonna use me as a mattress you can go lay back down,” you joke, turning your head to be greeted with his profile. His perfect nose, his strong jaw, those freckled cheeks you have never quite been able to get enough of that make him look perfectly boyish. You lift your day cream coated finger tip and gently tap it against the tip of his nose, his eyes opening to look up at you. “Also, why beloved? Where did that come from?”

Your husband chuckles, the rumble in his chest making your shoulders shake thanks to how closely he’s holding you, the pair of you as close to being one whole unit as you’ll ever come yet somehow still not close enough. He readjusts his grip to hold you tighter, chin still propped on your shoulder though he gradually lessens the weight he’s holding down on you as he wakes up.

This isn’t the first time he has ever called you this term of endearment though you’ve never asked him where it came from before. He thinks back, mind still a little foggy with sleep, but he smiles recalling exactly where he saw it.

“In a book I read a really long time ago the main character kept talking about this woman who was his beloved.”

His voice is low and still thick with sleep and each of his breaths puff out of him right below your ear, against your neck. You can hear him run his tongue across his lower lip to wet his sleep dry mouth which causes you to instinctively reach behind you to rest your hand against his hip, glancing downward at him.

“The way he described her made me think of you so I think the association just happened and now I can’t stop saying it.” His mouth closes and he presses his lips against your neck, all too aware of the way he towers over you even crumpled around your form. “My beloved.”

You giggle, fully awake and ready to ask more questions, to keep him on his toes, to welcome him into the land of the vivacious and bright with you.

“Oh yeah? How did he describe her?”

Another chuckle from your husband, another kiss pressed against your neck.

“She was described as so beautiful that any person would be stunned enough to stop speaking when graced by her, as brilliant as the sun and twice as driven to make the world warm, and bold enough to do just that.” He kisses your neck again, this time trailing from beneath your ear toward the front of your neck, near your throat. “Reminds me almost too much of you.”

You try to fight back your smile at his insistence that you are all of these wonderful things and he spots you, glancing at your paired reflections in the mirror. You are both enjoying the quiet intimacy of your morning together and it shows. You are a pair of happy faces reflecting back at him, and you have a little glimmer in your pretty eyes that he is proud to have put there.

“Any other questions?”

Beaming down at him, you shake your head.

“No, but I do need tea.”

Izuku kisses your neck and groans as he untangles himself from you partially, deciding at the last minute that he doesn’t wanna waste any of the morning and picking you up to be hauled around in his arms. You yelp and playfully swat at him but your arms still cradle the back of his neck while he holds you across his chest.

Ncjfkfkfkkggfigh you treat me so well i swear kendall i’m sorry i keep hoarding your asks but every time i look at my inbox i reread them and I’m like life is so good i am loved 😭 thank youuuuu

[mirahuyooo]

Your Grace | myg

[Min Yoongi as a Duke]

— Unseathe your sword, warrior. You are home. in which, once upon a time, there lived a duke of the north and his wife

word count: 1,216 pairing: min yoongi x reader content/s: fluff, romance, angst, mentions of trauma from war, hurt/comfort, implied smut 👀 ambigous place names bc i can’t think much rn lol, possible nobility hierarchy inaccuracies (dont come at me, come after the manhwas i read lol), min yoongi as a husband in aNY AU IS A WIN, Historical Fantasy AU, Marriage of Convenience AU

[masterlist] | more [reactions & headcannons] &  [moodboards]

A/N: excuse me, i need something fluffy to get me through life rn 😭💖 also when people started calling these pics of yoongi as a duke, my brain went “haha, duke of the north male lead type of shii” and i just rolled with it lmAO AHWHAHHA i also thought to make some drabbles out of this AU! Let me know if y’all would like that?? Enjoy!

Also, send me ur headcannons for a duke min yoongi bc i’D LOVE to hear em 🤩💘✨

min yoongi, who is a young duke that took the title after his late father abdicates to travel the known world lol

min yoongi, who governs the coldest region of the kingdom (absolutely hates the climate, but loves his people)

min yoongi, who is a prodigy of the sword and one of the best swordmasters in the kingdom

min yoongi, who is renowned as a war hero that greatly contributed to winning the war against an enemy kingdom

min yoongi, who suffers from night terrors of the people he killed, of the people who betrayed him in battle, of all that blood and gore

min yoongi,  whose hands shake whenever he has to hold his blade, but knows he has to get ahold of himself to do his duties

min yoongi, who hates politics and is known to have a tongue as sharp as his sword in slandering nonsensical members of the court

“Frankly, I think this whole proposal of yours, Lord Lee, is a sham that I’m wasting my precious time on.”

min yoongi, who is very close with the crown prince, and thus, much to his chagrin, is one of his most trusted advisors that’s involved with even more politics and shenanigans

“No, I’m not helping you sneak out, Taehyung. We’re here as a foreign delegation—”

min yoongi, who definitely complains about all of the paperwork he has to do, but does so anyways (he does a fantastical job with it, thank you very much)

min yoongi, who spends a lot of his free time either sleeping, or reading in his enormous library to digest knowledge (he's a curious cat sometimes ok)

min yoongi, who is very much fond of tangerines and imports it whenever its in season (his mother used to peel them for him as a child)

min yoongi, who plays the old piano in the east wing whenever he can’t sleep and learns different music from all around the world, but always tends to play his mother’s lullaby

min yoongi, who is pressured to take a wife and is constantly flocked by lords intending to sell their daughters to him

min yoongi, who, to the shock of the entire court, offers marriage to the eldest daughter of a count to a fairly small province that hosted him during the war—you

min yoongi, who swears it’s only because your family wouldn’t have enough power to interfere with his and definitely not also because you were pretty and nice and helped him through a panic attack all those years ago

“I don’t know much about being a husband, but I do know how to be a man of my word, and I swear no harm will come your way.”

min yoongi who marries you on a beautiful summer day, because he thought it'd be nice for you to have a warm and bright wedding in the capital since you'll be living with him in the north where it's constantly foggy and the winters are harsh

min yoongi, who promises to make the wedding night as comfortable and as quick as he can for your sake (but why can't he help but crave for more?)

min yoongi, who is a pretty chill and attentive husband, actually

min yoongi, who made sure to arrange you lessons that'll help you adjust to your title as duchess in the north and in the social circle as well

min yoongi, who always does his best to eat his meals with you (it’s awkward, maybe you should strike a conversation or two?)

“I, uh, heard repairments are to be done on the east wing?”

“Oh, yes, actually. There’s also a new wainscotting design I saw on the capital that I thought would suit the wall so I thought it’d be perfect to have it done as well—”

(great job! you hit the perfect topic!)

min yoongi, who asks you if you’d like something whenever he has to make a visit to the capital and if you say nothing, he'll come back with something he probably consulted someone with—a new dress? a necklace? a popular novel? (damn it, someone help him out here!)

“Here… I, uh, heard it’s popular among the ladies at the capital…”

{gives you a dress in the rest popular fashion so you stay “updated to the trends” as he says it — regrets it, because youlookbeautifulohno—}

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you shyly smile, “It’s beautiful.”

(dead. he’s dead.)

min yoongi, who becomes furious to hear about the gossip surrounding you and goes into a rant about the pretentious idiots at court

“You are Duchess Min of the north. Do not let them slander you like that. Do not hesitate to remind them of what you represent. I gave you the same power as I have when I married you.”

min yoongi who attends every ball from that season on with you by his side to rub it in their faces that the duke of the north does care for his wife, thanks : ]

min yoongi, who was pleasantly surprised when you brought him peeled tangerines to snack on while he was buried under paperwork

“Would you… would you like some?”

min yoongi, who now also peels tangerines for you whenever you two idly hang out together

min yoongi, who finds it easier to sleep with you by his side, especially after you insisted to stay by him when he had a night terror

min yoongi, who likes to take a nap with his head on your lap because you tend to play with his hair when you think he's asleep (he falls asleep right after because of it aww)

min yoongi, who keeps his hair longer than usual because you said it suits him, and absolutely refuses to let others point out or touch his hair lol

“Your hair’s gotten longer, hyung—”

“Don’t. Touch.”

min yoongi, who beams with pride every time he hears the servants praise how well the lady of the house treats them and manages the household (he's also so, so glad he doesn't have to worry about that anymore)

min yoongi, whose heart melts seeing his people love their duchess and shower you both with praises whenever you make visits to the town

min yoongi, who takes horse rides with you around his territory and will never say a word of complaint even if he’s freezing his ass off (pls make him something warm after you two go back to the castle lol)

min yoongi, who always makes sure you stay warm after he heard you go down with a fever (just how many layers do you gotta wear now? jeez)

“While I appreciate your concern, Yoongi. I don’t think I’d need a third fur coat…”

“But—”

min yoongi, who asks you one night if you, at all, regret marrying him and finds himself anxiously waiting for your response

“I find myself very fortunate to have married a man like you, Yoongi. I don’t think I’ll ever regret it.”

min yoongi, who is very relieved and enamored to hear you shyly say that (his gummy smile is unstoppable, o h n o)

min yoongi, whose heart flutters as he smiles down at your sleeping figure after your late-night talk together

Perhaps, this is a better arrangement than I thought…

𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 : @mwitsmejk @dreamamubarak @unknownwalkingobject @bloodline1632​

[villaim]

texting: riddle rosehearts

requested by: @astrea-archive

genre — crack, fluff

a/n — i didn’t proofread riddles ramble and i wrote this while sick 💀

notes — g/n reader, reader is ramshackle prefect (yuu), platonic??

riddle me this — 7:00 am

where are you? you were supposed to be in study hall by now.

yuu — 7:00 am

you cannot be expecting me to make it at exactly 7:00. YOU TEXTED THAT AY THE EXACT TIME??

you’re like an alarm

riddle me this — 7:00 am

are you on your way though? i do not have the time for this.

yuu — 7:00 am

calm down rudolph i’ll be there in 10

riddle me this — 7:00 am

fine. don’t make me wait here all day, prefect.

wait, who is this rudolph?

yuu — 7:01 am

ILL EXPLAIN LATER

god you want to kiss me so badly rn

riddle me this — 8:00 pm

goodnight, prefect.

yuu — 8:00 pm

do not tell me you are sleeping rn 💀

THE SUN IS STILL UP??

riddle me this — 8:00 pm

i do not have the time to stay here and chat. i advise that you go to bed too.

yuu — 8:01 pm

:IMG_xxxx.PNG:

shi wrong person 😭

riddle me this — 8:01 pm

why are you out with ace and deuce?! 😡

yuu — 8:01 pm

you text like my grandma

riddle me this — 8:02 pm

i’m on my way.

yuu — 8:05 pm

I THOIGHT YOU WOULD BE ASLEEP BY NOW

STOP I DONT WANT BRITS IN MY DORM

yuu — 12:49 am

ARE YOU AWAKE.

WAKE UP PELASE I NEED ANSWERS TO EHATEVRT THE FUCK CREWEL GAVE THE FROSHIES AS HW

yuu — 6:27 am

riddle i can see you typing pelase do not tell me you’re about to give me a 12 page essay

riddle me this — 6:30 am

first of all, asking me for homework answers is the same as lying; you are telling professor crewel that you conjured these answers on you’re own, in which you didn’t, they were given by me. this also counts as stealing because you are taking someone else’s work then claiming it as your own. if you were caught in the act of cheating, you would have to suffer the consequences in the near future. in conclusion, you should never ask someone for answers just because you were not listening to the lecture the day before.

yuu — 6:30 am

you must be out of your goddamn mind if you think i’m reading that

so am i getting them or what *seen*

yuu — 2:56 am

you know dasher and dancer and prancer and vixen comet and cupid and donner and blitzen but do you recall the most famous reindeer of all? rudolph the red-nosed reindeer had a very shiny nose and if you ever saw it you would even say it glows all of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names they never let poor rudolph join in any reindeer games then one foggy christmas eve santa came to say "rudolph, with your nose so bright won't you guide my sleigh tonight?" then how the reindeer loved him as they shouted out with glee "rudolph the red-nosed reindeer you'll go down in history"

riddle me this — 7:00 am

meet me in the study hall.

yuu — 7:48 am

YOU ASKED WHO RUDOLPH WAS

taglist —

@astiesgoldenberry @spadecentral @pastelmages @ventisaircurrent