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buttercupblu · 5 months ago

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Satoru's Psyche|Surfacing

"Power dynamics, they're fluid."

Session 1 of 10|Next Session

🗂️Patient Chart Update: Routine patient visit and care performed. Patient is stable, mostly corporative, and only mildly rowdy today. Vitals are clear, appetite is normal, nothing of interest to report other than slightly abnormal behavior resulting in the [REDACTED] incident, pending Nurse deliberation on how to proceed with patient disciplinary action. 📋 Length of Session (w.c): 5.2k out of "we will cross that bridge when we get to it 🤠" 💊Intake Chart (tags): this is a full-blown AU with a slowww build-up, yandere-ish behavior, pet names, angst, compulsive flirter Gojo (he literally cannot help it), mentally unstable Gojo, Nurse!Reader ✏️doctor's angel’s note: there’s something very, very special about how this story was born. extended author’s note at the end of this chapter if you’re curious|kk I'm done talking - enjoy Satoru’s Psyche. 🎼 Waiting room music: Child's Play|SZA

They all worshipped the strongest.

But no one saw the man; no one noticed the cracks until it was too late.

The first appeared after the Star Plasma Vessel mission—Gojo's near-death experience and first awakening.

Then, it was his best friend, Suguru Geto. His betrayal, death. Murder.

The blood on Gojo's hands left such a deep mark.

Devastation. Irreparable damage.

No matter what Gojo did after that, death followed him like a loyal dog.

And when the final crack happened in the Prison Realm, with no distraction from his own thoughts and burdens and painstakingly harsh reality, Satoru Gojo bent..then snapped.

He can't remember what happened after being unsealed.

All he knew was the blood that came afterward.

Apparently, he went on a rampage, but in his psyche, it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

And he didn't feel guilt—not in the slightest.

They must have gotten what they deserved, right?

The thoughts were deafening.

But Gojo’s natural tendency to play the hero was even louder and got the best of him. The realization of what he’d done was haunting—plaguing and persuading him like a Devil in his ear until he turned himself in to shut the voices the fuck up.

Once again, good ruled over evil and the world was safe.

In Gojo's own sick and twisted way, he had once more saved the day.

And as a thank you? He's here, in a fucking straitjacket, seals all around to make his cursed energy dormant. At least, that's what those old fools believe…

Gojo can't help but scoff, recalling all their nonsense.

“You're unstable. The mind needs to be healed.”

Blah fucking blah. What a load of bullshit.

However, society never took too kindly to a little mass murder, so fine.

Gojo will play nice... for now.

And for the most unexpected reason why.

His grin only deepens, a borderline predatory look as he hears those familiar footsteps.

Ah...how wonderful.

“There you are.”

The man waits by the door, shoulder framing your entrance and leaning on the wall. Welcoming, warm and expectantly, before the locks can disengage.

Like many times before, your eyes meet through the window pane. A dull blue under snowy white lashes, heavy and following yours, but barely piercing the plastic—small and artificial—only a thin layer of careful separation, but you both see right through it. Neutrality on your face but wavering sharpness in your eyes. And a glint in his as the familiar buzz! ushers you into his world.

“How’s my favorite nurse?” he asks like a broken record. All casual-like, as if his arms aren’t meticulously tucked into tight restraints that work hard against his muscled frame. “Missed your favorite psychopath?”

He couldn’t sound more arrogant, but still has to smirk watching you brush past him—expecting nothing less—but feels a different air.

There’s a pep in your step, carrying you into the stark white room and making it impossible to miss the subtle sway of your hips and dangling supply bag on your arm. Naturally fluid as if you’re oblivious to its sensual nature.

Gojo rarely saw you wear any emotion on your sleeve, let alone what he thought was hints of joy, but something was slipping through the cracks.

And what’s that? A slight grin on your face?

What exactly do we have here?

This attitude is foreign. Better than the blank slate or frequent exhaustion you usually walk in with, but this was a side of you that was unfamiliar.

What’s got you in such a mood, he wonders? And what else could it be, if not him?

It’s all because today is an “okay day”. And in places like your ward, “okay” is as good as gold.

Rounds have been fairly simple in the usually chaotic hospital—a small win if you put things in perspective, but it’s enough for you to feel good about it.

Hell, with the way things usually go around here, it feels like Christmas came early and you got just what you wanted.

A big, whopping present called “all of your co-workers showing up to work”. The standard for most workplaces but here, such miracles only exist in your daydreams to get through your usually fucked schedule.

But not today. Today, the angels personally visited your ward to carry your burdens and lighten your load. For the first time in months, you didn’t groan the second you saw your patient roster for the day and instead had to do a doubletake because the list was surprisingly short. Only your regulars sat on it and that could only happen if the ward was fully-staffed.

You thought it was a mistake when you checked the schedule this morning, but no, everyone’s name sat prettily on the sign-in sheet at the front desk—a sight you hadn’t seen since orientation and was confirmed with every familiar and slightly foreign face you passed in the halls.

There were no call-outs, no extra work, and the best part, no unexpected shift changes.

Overtime would not get its hands on you today and the thought alone made you feel lighter because enough time is spent in these melancholy walls as is.

With thoughts on the week’s end, you found yourself drifting through the day on autopilot. Wondering if you should make plans—doubtful you’ll see them through—and time seemed to be flying by with your thoughts. Following the rarely-seen routine you know like the back of your hand helped you blaze through the morning and grow closer to sweet rest for your already aching feet.

Miracles were coming in left and right, proof that today just might be your day. It’s still early, but no one had broken out of their room or flung any property around yet. Guards sit comfy and reclined at their posts, lounging around more than they’re being called, and you haven’t even had to run off to the lockers to change your scrubs that are usually ruined by now. Luck is keeping you high and dry—free from accidents or patient tantrums, both of which are all too common. And always seem to have your name on them.

But the cherry on top, second to none, pièce de résistance.

Is a possibility.

Just the teeniest, tiniest, sliver of a chance…to walk out of these doors early.

Be still your beating heart.

Early release?? Unheard of. You almost skipped through the halls thinking about it. Dreaming of the reclaimed time—the deliciously healthy heap of rest.

With no signs of trouble, aside from forcing yourself to chug a wildly unhealthy energy drink to fight off tendrils of sleep, you just may be in the clear.

Things seem steady in the sleepy ward today. So sure, you’re in a relatively good mood.

But is it good enough to deal with Gojo?

It puzzles you, how he always knows you’re coming before he sees you. How he sort of announces your presence before you get the chance. Like the honor belongs to him.

The psychopath.

Your head tilts at the diagnosis, hearing it come from his lips for the first time. Even if unseriously.

He’s self-aware, at least. Not that the confession makes your visits any easier.

Over time, after working so closely with a personality like Gojo’s, you’ve learned to take everything he says with a grain of salt. Especially when it comes from such shameless lips.

Answering his question with an eye-roll, you set your supplies down to pull out your clipboard and check his vitals. Something that once upon a time made your palms sweat and throat dry, but never showed on your face. You knew what the role required, what it would need for you to survive—intimidation and cowardice were not a part of it—and eventually, after you banged that into your head enough, even if you had to fake it til you made it, you became used to the routine.

As has Gojo, complying with each step on the checklist like it was second nature. Walking over to his favorite spot to be taken care of, the bed. Lifting his tongue to take his temperature. Offering his arm to check his blood pressure. Noting that his eyes aren’t bad today—not needing to wear his blindfold due to the security system. Doing it all without needing you to say a word. All within his control.

But the one thing he can’t get a grip on is how his heart begins to beat. Every time like clockwork the moment you lay a hand on his back to listen to it. Racing in his chest—thumping through your stethoscope—while he wears the calmest face.

Curiosity called you after noticing it a few times once you determined it wasn’t a condition. Guaranteed to start up with the gentlest touch that he was surely used to.

So, what exactly goes on in his mind in these moments? Despite hiding it so well?

What could possibly be making Tokyo’s most unhinged, mass-murderer, so flustered?

You never have much time to think about it because it won’t matter in the next few seconds anyway. Sitting still enough to get through vitals was as serious as Gojo gets, making the quickest part of your visits with him the easiest.

Everything that follows the second you put your kit away is pure…surprise.

“So…are you gonna undo the straps this time, sweet nurse? My arms are sore.”

He pouts. Sweetly. So devilishly charming. As he did so often with a flash of those cerulean, blue eyes that could make and break hearts.

You sigh. One could almost forget that by society’s standards, he’s a “dangerously unstable individual.”

Something you’re acutely aware of. And trained for. Which is why you don’t mind the coquettish jabs he throws your way—and why he keeps on throwing them.

You aren’t aware but these hourly visits, along with his agreement to stay put, are the only reasons why he’s still here despite being Satoru fucking Gojo and simply walking out. It’s not like anyone could stop him if they really wanted to, and he knew that.

Truth is—it pissed Gojo off, being stuck here. Cooperative. It was fucking irritating, to say the least.

He’d rather be tortured than bored and might’ve second-guessed his decision to surrender if he knew the punishment would be…this.

But lo and behold, here you are. Relief in the flesh while he bides his time. One that he wasn’t expecting.

“You sure are possessive today.” You hide a smirk, draping the stethoscope around your neck, his heartbeat returning to normal after losing your touch. “Am I really your favorite?” The leather straps hug his pale skin a bit tightly, but his mobility is good enough to ignore his request to loosen them. That would be suicide.

He tsks, eyes sparkling at your words—a warning glimmer hidden beneath the icy gaze.

Chilling. But the least bit surprising.

Gojo and cattiness go together like love and war—and he wears it with his whole chest.

Even when unprovoked, he’s known for being….testy. Trying his hand again and again until he gets some kind of reaction. Waiting to see what makes someone bite.

But there was something disingenuous about this petty quirk. The repetition and how it seemed to lack a goal. How he seemed almost…desperate for interaction—attention—any attention.

Eventually, once you sat in his face long enough to learn how to disassociate with a straight face, you figured out that he just loves to hear himself talk. Like that one kid in class who’s always inserted themselves into every conversation and made it about them.

He rarely gives you a hard time though—less than most of your other patients in fact—and usually sends more kisses than cuts. Occasionally, when you find them…okay, or tolerable enough, you indulge him and this charade between you two—like the high school crush it resembled. Strict. But harmless.

And you’re only entertaining him now because he’s one of your last patients for the day. A fact not lost on him, but disregarded nonetheless. Even if you were just playing along, he knew there had to be more depth. All the masks in the world couldn’t hide that smile on your face.

His laugh breaks the tension. “I'm a yapper, not a liar...Am I yours?” He raises a brow. “You didn’t answer me earlier.”

His low tone carries an unspoken weight. Cryptic. Eerie. Needy. Almost calling you like a possession more frequently than ever.

It isn’t lost on you that his affections have blossomed as you’ve spent more time together. Visits are supposed to be 10, 15 minutes tops—collect vitals, serve meals, give meds, and avoid accidents. But Gojo? He drinks up your time. Going on 30, sometimes 45 minutes of routine maintenance and “extra care”. This wasn’t standard practice, but they didn’t tell you that, among other things when you accepted the position.

Every time you cross Gojo’s threshold, you’re reminded that you’re not actually supposed to be here. You’re just a nurse after all, not a therapist, and lacked the credentials to even begin to handle a patient like Gojo. But in the end, qualifications don’t matter when his staff has a famous history of running away.

A fate shared by his previous nurse and therapist. Both fell victim to Gojo’s whimsical and relentless personality and suffered a mental breakdown from hell before quitting the ward. Capacity for hospitality completely shot, they nailed the coffin shut by ditching the healthcare industry altogether.

And that was after only a few hours.

In the beginning, you had absolutely no faith in yourself. Swore it was a sick joke as you couldn’t begin to fathom why they would even consider you for the job.

You??

Gojo the Psycho’s nurse? It would’ve been easier to turn in your resignation right then to avoid living in hell.

You wondered how your life would change as you got to know the world’s most hated man.

How long you would last—if he would let you.

Anxiety and nausea gnawed at the back of your throat as time grew closer to meeting him. But eventually, after running the scenario in your head a million times over and trying to come up with some sort of plan or plea for your life, the day came, and you stood before the unpredictable man who looked like he saw right through you.

Just the idea of being in Gojo’s presence is enough to let you know it’ll be unnerving.

But the moment was…odd.

Naturally, you wanted rely on book smarts and previous patient experiences to get you through what you knew would be a short and traumatic failed attempt at connection. But then you took a second to really look at Gojo, not study, but a kind of look that catches something…a conflict in his eyes—and instantly knew he was no ordinary patient.

He was something you’d never met before, and any attempts to use a cookie-cutter facade would quickly be chewed up and spat out.

So, you went with your gut—hoping to escape with some remnants of your sanity at least.

Who knew you’d end up surprising not only yourself but also the Director and all the other staff in the ward who watched with held breaths?

Gojo practically welcomed you with open arms. Flashing his pearly whites and dimples in a closed-eyed smile. You could hear a pin drop.

He didn’t bark, he didn’t bite. Only teased, feeding you sultry words with cunning lips until your face visibly flushed with blush. They didn’t warn you about charm. Debatibly the “worst” part about working with the blue-eyed lady-killer. Or that his devilishly handsome face would make you second-guess his sanity and guilt.

But you knew what this was. Or at least what it wasn’t and quickly put on blinders to every distraction he threw. Holding your breath the whole way through and surprising yourself every time you walked out his room. After your trial period had run for a few days with no mishaps—the opposite, really— you were promoted. And given a big, fat new check (certainly not for collateral).

You didn’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or concern.

Congratulations! You were now in charge of Gojo’s physical AND mental health.

Which meant longer, more thorough visits.

The idea was nerve-racking for weeks, to say the least. And because he has the nerve to be a karate-chopping ��sorcerer’ or whatever it is that makes the man so dangerous, he needs careful safeguarding. Which means having his very own wing and accommodations in the ward. The only barriers between Gojo and doing whatever the hell he wants is one guard stationed near the entrance and some type of security system they can’t disclose to you. It’s supposed to suppress his abilities or something, you don’t quite understand itself yourself, but most importantly, it keeps him tame.

Still, choosing to grace his space almost daily always feels like tempting a snake.

But somebody has to do it.

And in a way, by his own means, offering a satisfied grin and all, Gojo had chosen you.

Even in the confines of a cell, with seemingly nothing left to live for and no room for emotions, you, this wonder, have managed to catch his eye. In a way that made him want to sink his teeth in and soak up your attention. For reasons you couldn’t be more unsure of.

“It would break my heart if it weren’t true,” he continues, sitting in the only chair in the room, “You’re my entertainment, you know? My doll to play with.”

You scoff, arms folding. The word doll echos in your ear like a chamber. That was a new one.

“You sure talk a lot of game for someone in your situation.”

“I love games.” He leans, eyes drinking in his favorite powdery blue scrubs that hug your frame in an all too professional manner. “Play with me, Nurse.”

Time belonged to Gojo, and he chooses to bide it with a little fun until release—or escape. His ever-changing mind hasn’t decided yet but it was far from a concern. Because the truth of this truce was painfully obvious. He knew he wouldn’t be here forever. And is quick to mention that he’d love to take you with him.

“If you can handle me.” He licks his lip. “Unless I’m too much for you.”

And there it is. That cool smile that sends shivers down spines. Irresistibly stirring your core every time he parts his lips.

You hated it—no one could deny his charm or his intimidating presence. Even in chains, shackled and restrained, he maintains some kind of control: crumbling walls with his charisma, waving around his amorous, overassertive reputation like a big red flag.

But you’ve already proven to not be like the rest, easily swayed or reduced to puddles. Your wall is firm. Solid. He baits you time and time again—a smile here, a sinful gaze there—only to be met with dismissive yawns. Rousing something inside of him that deemed you a challenge. Something worth exploring. You were…difficult.

You’re the one who laughed this time, shaking your head and tucking a hair behind your ear. He oozes confidence from every fiber of his being—and bores you.

“Are you going to tell me what you’d like to lunch today or just keep bothering me?”

And goddammit he has the audacity to grin. To tuck his lip under his teeth slow enough to make you catch it.

Your insolence is adorable, yet maddening; a cocktail he drinks with delight before realizing how much he loves the taste.

You were becoming really good at it, beating up his ego and turning a blind eye to his silly little flirts, but interest never faded from his gaze no matter how careless you seemed. Or were trying to.

He tsks. “C’mon, Nurse. If I can’t have fun here, where can I? Besides,” Sunlight streams in from his barred window as if on cue. “You’re the only thing here worth talking about.”

Butterflies? Knots? Maybe both fill your stomach.

Neither can be good for you in a situation like this.

The dreamy words whisper sweet nothings into your ear, and stroke your ego with a delicate thumb. Soft and gentle—and from a shell of a man.

A good turned evil.

And you don’t have to look too far to remember how he got here—to remember why the enchanting man before you is dressed in heavy white restraints and public enemy number one.

Guilt tugs at you for even joking around with him sometimes. You picture his victims. The lives forever changed. And how he didn’t seem sorry for it.

Besides, even if Gojo wasn’t a basket-case, it’s hard to look past how childish he is anyway—something you heard has always been a part of him. Something you couldn’t imagine dealing with for too long, even casually. It certainly wasn’t your taste, and under different circumstances, you’d no sooner fall for him outside of these walls than you would now.

But above all of the boundaries, restrictions, and pep-talks you give yourself, is the simple fact that you aren’t the day-one nurse he once knew. Now, you have a backbone and don’t hesitate to remind him.

“You’re such a flirt, Patient Gojo.” You make sure to catch his eye when you say it, “But compliments only get you so far.”

Patient.

It hangs in the air. Brisk and stale. A bit sour on the tip of your tongue. And acid in his ears.

With that, Gojo sits back, resting his cheek on a propped-up arm, gaze long and longing. Breathing slow as he thinks and nerves buzz between you two. Then his request comes, simple and direct.

“How about sushi? Raw and fresh.” And a psych ward delicacy.

He’s the only patient in the entire facility with such privilege—envy-worthy and used to his heart’s content. With full-scale unlimited access to all the gourmet treats and fine dining he could ever want, his meals are often better than the ones you bring to work. Gojo is above common hospital dishes, of course, and his indulgent appetite would accept nothing less.

But it wasn’t just about the food, no, negotiating that was too easy and barely worth mentioning.

This is a conveniently constant reminder that he is still capable of influencing things and making decisions with ease, from those he’s allowed to have access to him, down to his choice of meal.

It intrigues you. How he subdues himself to the masses but finds meaning in smaller wins. What he finds significant.

But none of that mattered right now, you’d finally been given an order and another win, even if it felt like pulling teeth. For now, it’s time to feed him and let him believe whatever he wants.

You pick up his tray from this morning, scanning the room to make sure no cutlery or dishes are missing. “Sushi it is,” you wink and call to be let out.

None of his staff are allowed the room key as a preventative measure to keep his chances of escaping to a minimum. As if a door would stop him but a key does exist and you’ve only seen it on the day the Director introduced you two, and it looked nothing like the keys used for other rooms.

When you come back with lunch, Gojo grows curious. Noticing how your body has relaxed over time, getting used to his presence every time you come in. Little nuisances like how you breathe a little easier in his space and sometimes smile with your eyes when he tells a stupid joke. The air is…changing. He wonders just how comfortable have you gotten?

“Finally back? I started to miss you.” It’s light but he can’t possibly resist testing the waters. “Would you like to eat with me, pet?” And it takes everything in you to suppress a visceral reaction.

He’s on a roll with the names today and you wonder what his affections might have been like in his life before. Sure, he’s a talker and a flirt, that much is obvious, but you wonder what his actual love was like? How did he show it if he ever got to? And if so, if he ever left anybody behind?

“You know the procedure, Gojo.” You wait with the tray in hand, brushing the thoughts away. Though the temptation savor what you knew would be premium cuisine begs you to do it, you know better than to start breaking boundaries now.

He deflates, brows furrowing. “Is it…really so necessary?” He knows the answer, of course.

You gesture for him to turn around but he holds your gaze, having a little stare down like he enjoys the silent confrontation. You raise an annoyed brow. “The food’s getting cold,” and tap the tray.

“It’s sushi.”

You huff.

He smirks before finally facing the wall, stilling his body in the tight jacket. When you’re sure he won't move, you set his food to the side and slowly approach to attach him to the latch on the wall.

Skilled fingers reach across his waist and you have to crouch a little to glide the heavy chain towards the loop at his hip. His skin flushes at your warmth, your proximity, as he can’t help but enjoy the intimacy of the routine power shift. Even if it was a sham, it was still one he reluctantly agreed to. To play nice. To be weak.

But this exchange, giving himself over to your authority, was oddly invigorating—like placing himself in his victim’s shoes to get a minuscule taste of his own medicine.

“Well, don’t look so happy about it,” he chuckles. Relief finds your face as you gently tug on the chain to make sure it’s secure, amusing the man towering over you.

The thoroughness is cute, all a part of a job well done and strict boundaries that drive a heavy wedge between you two. But it doesn’t bother Gojo. Because he’s certain, he knows, that your guarded walls will crumble sooner than later. All it takes is patience.

“Remember, Nurse,” he doesn’t turn around, “Power dynamics….they’re fluid.”

And you can almost hear the wink—the implied warning living on his slick tongue that pokes and prods with every interaction and sends heat to your rosy cheeks.

“You have a way with words, Gojo.” Again your eyes roll as you reach for the key to his restraints. The shackles fall to the ground, shrilling in the mostly empty room to allow him to feed himself.

A mix of groans and relief escapes his lips as he relishes the freedom from the stiff leather. He sighs, “Thank you, Nurse.” and rubs his tender wrists before abruptly filling your space. Nearly knocking you off your feet, but stopping just shy of your face. The monstrous chains strain against the wall, playing tug of war with the beast of a man and the florescent lights cast a spotlight on the sudden distance between you two.

You had never been this close.

“But don’t forget, I can turn these roles around. Anytime.”

Twinkles play in his eyes, dazzling you with a shine so bright you can see your reflection. But you also see the unhinged nature behind them just as easily as he sees the quiver of your lip feeling his breath graze the curve of your neck and raise goosebumps on your skin.

This isn’t just idle banter. It’s a stark reminder of Gojo’s capabilities that you had grown comfortable enough to forget. That you thought maybe you had become the exception to.

As he steps back and leans against the wall he could’ve torn down, there’s an unmistakable silence filling with tension. Hot and sharp like pins and needles. But instead of pushing you to run for the hills, to quit while you’re ahead and savor what’s left of the life you know, for once, your unrelenting mind dares to wonder where this twisted ballet will go.

It kills you to admit that their is something interesting about cat-and-mouse game he thinks you’re playing. Just as his affections have grown, your thoughts push you to imagine what could happen if you were actually…caught..

It’s idiotic, you know. You don’t need a sign telling you not to play with your life.

This is Satoru fucking Gojo, for Godsake. The murderer. The villain. A literal stain on the face of humanity.

Forget about what he may have been before. You never saw that Gojo, and he’ll never be seen again.

Your motto has always been that everyone is redeemable—but these types, Gojo’s type, are so beyond saving that it feels more like babysitting than redeeming a mentally unstable murderous toddler who could destroy a city in seconds.

Even for a man who speaks so carelessly, but teases a sugary-sweet tongue, it’s easy to see how and why he ended up here. Life had made him an example.

Proving that too much of a good thing will always spoil.

And as you watch him turn a wink and begin to casually snack on his meal, completely unconcerned with you or your reaction or response, it’s plain to see that his “affections” spare no one. Not even you.

You clear your throat and steady a breath. With the lightest voice you can muster, you remind him, “Empty threats are the best you can do, patient.” And turn to leave.

“I’ll be back later for your bath. Or maybe send someone else. Since you’re so excitable today.”

He pauses. “Oh?”

Is that a challenge?

His laugh echoes around the room like something out of a cartoon, fading away just as quickly as it came. He leans back, hair blending into the wall as he licks bits of rice off his thumbs—gaze sharp despite the jest.

Because the stakes are clear and you’re both aware.

But in case you don’t know the consequences he asks, “Do I seem threatened to you?”

You shift your weight. If Gojo is anything, he’s always playful. The man does not have a serious bone in his body, which makes him damn near intolerable sometimes, but it’s something you’re used to it. But not this tone. This tone has rocks in it, hard and heavy as he calls your bluff.

“Because my threats—,” he continues eating, “—are never empty.” He pops the last roll into his mouth. “You sure you wanna do this?”

There’s no denying the chill running up your spine at those words—playing out like casual banter over lunch instead of the battle royale it was.

As if the question were rhetorical, he adds, “Okay but like,” and coughs up another laugh, as if finding the entire idea ridiculous. “Who’d be dumb enough to replace you?”

To feed or not to feed? Now was a chance to bail out.

“Don’t worry about that.” And you don’t as you call to the guard, hoping to catch your break on time. “Just behave yourself.” Gojo would keep you here playing 20 questions all day if he could.

A bemused smile settles on his face and he shakes his head at your antics.

You were becoming increasingly enjoyable to interact with. And steadily digging yourself into a hole. You’ve been sitting front-row to the darkness within him enough times to be sure it is, in fact, very real, but still it’s impossible to ignore that there’s something driving you to pick up the shovel.

It isn’t just his pretty face and boyish charm. No.

It’s like he wants to get under your skin. In the best way.

Yeahhhh, this death wish is turning you every way but loose.

It’s silly, so stupid to even think about. Giving Gojo a smidge of an inch just because you feel there may be something more. Like there’s depth to his pretty words and clashing ways. Who's to say any of it is “real” anyway? He is insane after all.

Your mind and the door shut behind you, and you turn to peer at him through the small window. A mischievous yet bored look rests on his face.

You think you actually will send someone else. Just to show him what happens when he crosses the line. To reinforce business and boundaries.

You could also use a break yourself—Gojo is starting to feel… claustrophobic these days and if you aren’t careful who knows what could happen.

“Choose wisely,” came his voice from within the room,. “Every move you make counts. And cheating has consequences.” Footsteps approach the door. “You may think tagging out is all it takes to avoid our game, but let me tell you something…” He stops. “...you underestimate how quickly I can escape confinement before I’m noticed.”

And suddenly, this isn’t just a game anymore. And Gojo isn’t just some harmless tease.

Your throat is too tight to swallow and you fidget with your lanyard as if responding to his words.

Of course, he’s capable of breaking free. That’s not what’s worrying. But if it was because of you poking the bear, you trying to get on even ground with him and have the upper hand, would you be responsible if he did?

“No matter where they send you or who they send instead—” And Gojo’s comment makes it crystal clear.

“—I promise you, you’ll end up right back here.”

extended angel's note: first and foremost, just to give credit where credit is due, this is a chatbot i turned into a short story🧍🏾‍♀️. it was actually my first time dicking around with janitor a.i. back in like...april? and i came across this gojo bot with a suuuuper interesting prompt. [all of the prompt idea and calibration credit goes to the original creator.] i didn’t decide to actually get serious and start creating a story until around the end of part 2 - i realized i was having too much fun and was in too deep 🙇🏾‍♀️. SO after my decision to indulge madness, i didn't want to run up 10000 messages on janitor a.i. and decided to create the rest of the story on my own from there. everything after the prompt are my own words and i've had to weave every last bit of part 1 and 2 into a coherent story but everything afterwards is all me.

you can find the chatbot and play around with it yourself here but i strongly recomment doing so after finishing this short - think of it as a choose your own adventure afterwards in case you want my head on a stick after the ending 🤠.

tags list p.1: @reddiamondjazz @blkkizzat @kiwismoother @rune1920 @suguwife

@xerroe @enthyn @gloomuri671 @startatdawn @heijihatsutori

@inluvkai @ixqiix @strawnanamilk @rosso-seta @05-simply-06-simping

@sims-4lifers @bratidol @hyunsuks-beanie @luna-v-roiya @neteyamsluvr111

@supsiii @natadecoco30 @chiyokoemilia @ririoutspoken @kyoxko

@strawberrymilkshakes-posts @nen-nyy @cinnamorochiroll @kazeniya @maybe7tommorow

#bluuharem #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk imagines #jjk smut #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #gojou satoru x reader #gojo smut #jjk gojo #satoru x reader #satoru x you #satoru x y/n #Satoru Psyche

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bornwholocker · 5 months ago

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Reading flatland and obviously Bill’s home dimension and flatland aren’t exactly the same, but like. Since we don’t know which parts are different I’m just thinking. This is really unorganized and all over the place and probably doesn’t make any sense but

In flatland, it takes a LOT of planning for an equilateral triangle to be born. I’m talking like generations of interbreeding and methods for the fathering isosceles to get as close to equilateral as possible. It’s a huge deal. When an equilateral is created, it’s celebrated by pretty much everyone (for a miriad of different reasons but I won’t get into that). And being “irregular” in any respect is one of the worst things you can be. If you don’t “fix” your irregularity enough, you’re executed.

So imagine Bill’s family working their triangular asses off to have an equilateral kid, to give him a better life, and when they finally do it, he’s got that eye. From what we’ve seen of his parents, they seem to have taken care of him as best they could, but again, it’s been a whole ordeal just to have him, involving the whole community and family, and he came out wrong.

I imagine that’s probably why his parents took him to see the doctor and drink the “juice” that messed with his vision. They thought they were doing what was best for him. They didn’t blame him for his eye, didn’t hate him for it, but they felt the need to fix him, either to please their families or even just bring him to their own standards. The idea of irregularity being wrong is seen as natural and obvious, so they wouldn’t find an issue with trying to change him.

Another thing about flatland is that the mention of any third dimension or any idea close to that is pretty much criminal. (Spoilers i guess) The narrator of the story, a square who saw the third dimension for himself, is eventually locked away for talking about it.

So Bill was supposed to be a sort of miracle baby, I guess is the best way to put it. And when he came out just slightly but irreparably wrong, it was devastating. And then he starts spouting about 3D and the stars and he just wants people to understand, to see that it’s not dangerous, that it’s beautiful. But his parents don’t want him to get imprisoned or worse, so they try to keep him quiet. They give him his juice and his silly straws and wave away any ideas about the third dimension.

Bill was born a disappointment, one of the lowest life forms imaginable, and the only way he was gonna get anywhere in life was by losing his stars forever. He was told that the thing right in front of him wasn’t real, that he should stop talking about it, that he could get in trouble. So he had to show everyone that he was right. He would be a hero! He would be the kid who finally discovered where the light came from, something no scientist had ever gotten close to figuring out!

But in the end his parents were right. It was too dangerous. God bill tragic backstory is so ougrhhhhj grabs alex hirsch by the shoulders and shakes him

#another rant post which surprises nobody #tbob #the book of bill #bill cipher #gravity falls #baby bill cipher #thisisnotawebsitedotcom #the book of bill spoilers #sort of??#la la la la la #flatland #I guess #evil triangle you’re doing things to me

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tales-from-elysivm · 10 months ago

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★。／can i be a hero too?＼。★

ask: "I have a really cute request, Bakugou from Bnha with a little sibling reader. They weren't able to get a babysitter and Bakugou bring his little sibling to school, the reader is the complete opposite of him though"

pairing: bakugo x gn!sibling!reader

fandom: boku no hero academia

word count: 1,196

tw: none! purely some platonic, wholesome fluff. of course, a bit of cussing from bakugo but that comes with the territory

notes: thanks for being one of my first requests anon! it was really fun to get back into writing fanfic, and bnha is one of my favourite animes so writing this was a lot of fun - i just hope i did it well and you enjoy reading! i used primarily they/them pronouns for the sibling just in case ;)

! this is a repost from my other blog !

‘Can’t we just hire that old fucking neighbour?!’

Mitsuki doesn’t even bother smacking her son this time, too busy fixing up the bento box she has already begun making in the kitchen. Rice and egg and soft pretzels which [Y/N] always insisted on. The same thing everyday, which Katsuki found increasingly frustrating. Their name is painted on the lid, which sits on the sink.

It’s one of the only memories that Mitsuki repeatedly brags about to her mom friends. How her son eagerly decorated a bento box for his anticipated sibling, and how he ended up despising them when born. That’s what it looked like anyway

‘She’s too old for [Y/N], you know this.’ Mitsuki snaps, snapping on the box lid. ‘They’ll get bored if they have to sit in her living room all day.’

‘The place smells like shit too.’

‘Katsuki!’ This time she does hit him.

‘It’s just one day. All you have to do is keep them busy for a while, and they’ll find a way to occupy themselves for the rest of your classes.’

Mitsuki packs the bento box and several colouring books and pencil sets into a tiny school bag that’s been sitting open on the dining room table. Just as [Y/N] comes skipping into the room in an All-Might tracksuit that they demanded they ‘had to have’ when they saw it at a convention a while ago.

‘Aren’t you so pretty, hun?’ Mitsuki coos at - arguably - her favourite child. ‘Guess what?’

[Y/N] mumbles something around a mouthful of a soft pretzel. Where’d they even get it from?

‘You’re going to school with Katsuki today!’

Oh shit their face got a fuck ton more bright when he looked down again. Even the mention of U.A on any given day made them bounce around while babbling about how they’d love to be a hero when they got their quirk.

‘Really?’ [Y/N] attaches themself to his leg, bouncing up and down to make sure they’ve heard Mitsuki just right.

She glares at him when [Y/N] looks away.

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’

No one’s expecting anything entirely different when Aizawa starts class that morning. The only thing that seems slightly out of the ordinary is Bakugo being late. Kirishima is counting through the minutes and soon enough a whole half hour passes without him being there to yell at anyone. Even Midoriya is having a particularly stress-free morning!

However, no one was expecting for him to parade into the class an hour later with a six year old sitting on his shoulders, because (as he said) “they didn’t want to use their damn legs”.

‘Bakubro,’ Kaminari is already laughing his ass off in the back corner. ‘Ya got a hitchhiker there.’

Bakugo is almost fuming by the time he drops off the child at his desk, standing by Aizawa to demand - or ask - that he ignore the situation. Number one, [Y/N] got a day off school because of a downtown villain attack, and Mitsuki couldn’t find a babysitter after their current one caught the flu. With no other options and both of his parents going to work early that morning, he had no choice but to drag them along as long as, and quote:

‘You don’t make a damn noise, and no questions, and no playing around, you sit down and shut up.’

Did [Y/N] listen? Nope. Not really.

Halfway through the first lesson of the morning, and little [Y/N] is sitting in the lap of half of his classmates, messing with Hagakure’s invisible hair in utter curiosity, and playing heroes with Midoriya and Kirishima. At which point they all stand on their desks and put their fists in the air yelling ‘Detroit Smash’!

Katsuki just stands and watches as [Y/N] jumps from person to person, playing with quirks and planning out their future hero name. Kaminari is the most excited to stand on his desk and create a fake hero mask out of tape and paper, and theorise all the new quirks that could be made for [Y/N].

‘[Y/N] sit down for God’s sake!’ he growls at them, and they do so as they nestle themselves into a corner of his desk. Katsuki squeezes on with her. ‘No more talking to these... damn extras during class, ok?’

Mitsuki would skin him alive if he even thought about swearing properly in the same room as her “precious angel”.

‘But why?’

‘’Cause it’s annoying.’

[Y/N]’s eyes widen a bit, but then they beam at him and nod again, picking up a pencil as if they actually are a student and begin doodling a picture while others begin homework. Aizawa doesn’t collapse into his sleeping bag this time, instead keeping an eye to ensure he isn’t sued later for the death of an unrelated child. Midoriya and Iida are the first ones to finish of course, followed by Katsuki, who has to steal his pages when [Y/N] isn’t looking, handing it across the teacher’s desk with glitter flowers and stars in the margins.

The bell goes to signal the beginning of their hero training, and [Y/N] clutches Katsuki’s hand as they shyly approach the scary-looking racoon man to hand him a (“professionally signed”) artwork by [Y/N] Bakugo. A misshapen house with a cat and a very dead looking racoon.

(Aizawa does frame it later, like a dad of course.)

(Katsuki does call his teacher roadkill exactly three times after that.)

For hero training All-Might stands with his hands on his hips with [Y/N] at his side to help conduct the lesson. Together they order drills and [Y/N] gets to practise their hero voice and pose. The class ends with the whole group playing games and kicking a soccer ball around so they can pretend that [Y/N] has to save it from various situations. Which they do so successfully - “a top-rate hero” in All-Might’s words.

For Katsuki, he’s glad to get home and die in bed when 8:30 rolls around. It’s been non-stop questions and poking and prodding even though he told [Y/N] not to, but they wouldn’t listen! And when they got home Mitsuki hounded him to make sure they hadn’t done anything stupid while at school.

But 9 rolls around and [Y/N]’s socks cast shadows over the door frame, and the door handle jiggles. Katsuki waits and doesn’t move to help them with it. They come padding in with a stuffed Midnight plush, and crawls onto his pillow.

‘Kat, can I come to school with you everyday?’

And god-fucking-dammit, they look so damn excited to go to school with their big brother that all he can do is turn off his lamp and pull the covers up and pat their hair. He can feel his chest swell with pride, because his sibling wants to come and watch him become a hero.

He can’t help but wonder what kind of hero [Y/N] will be. What would their quirk be?

Oh, Mitsuki would kick his ass if he even thought about surpassing his own sibling.

He smirks at the thought. His sibling would be the best hero at U.A, not like those fucking extras.

‘Yeah, whatever.’

i really enjoyed writing this!

let me know if you want to request anything, and i'll try my best to get to them as quickly as possible.

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franzkafkagf · 4 months ago

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Targaryens love to glorify the fire, the conquest, the dragons—constantly obsessed with being the blood and seed of Aegon the Conqueror. But what if Aenys didn’t come from Aegon at all? What if the entire dynasty they’ve been killing each other over was founded on the union of a queen and a simple bard who just loved to hear her sing while he played his lute?

What if Aenys wasn't the trueborn son of Aegon, but instead the product of something completely unexpected—genuine, human love? Think about it. While Maegor embodies everything about Valyrian supremacy, bloodlines, strength through fire and blood (and let's be honest, probably born from blood magic because Aegon was infertile and Visenya wasn’t about to let the dream die), Aenys was... different. Aenys was soft, “weak”. But he was so profoundly human—he loved stories, the stars, music. If Maegor was a blade forged in black fire, Aenys was a quiet song lingering in the air.

And isn’t it fitting? The Targaryens repeat the same mistakes over and over again because they are obsessed with the idea that they’re descended from Aegon the Conqueror, when they are really all descendants of a queen and a lowly bard. That’s the irony—this family that prides itself on Valyrian superiority and divine right is actually the product of something far more humble and human. Their “destiny” wasn’t fire. It was songs. Stories and songs are the lifeblood of Westeros. People remember through stories. The histories, the legends—these aren’t forged in blood, they’re passed down through mummer’s plays, puppet shows, songs sung at taverns. What are we told over and over in ASOIAF? That songs are how history survives.

Aenys was born of love and song. And that matters because look at how their dynasty ends. Egg grew up loving stories of knights and heroes. He wanted to be one of those heroes from the tales. He wasn’t drawn to power or conquest, he was drawn to the stories of honor, of justice, of doing what’s right. He thought that the return of dragons would be the salvation of the realm, that it would fix everything, and what did it lead to? Summerhall. A tragedy.

Look at Rhaegar. He wasn’t some warmongering conqueror—Rhaegar loved his harp, not his sword. He could make people weep just by playing a few notes, by singing a song. His magic was in music, in creating something beautiful in a world constantly obsessed with destruction. But what did Rhaegar do? He gave it all up to chase a prophecy. He abandoned his harp and took up the sword, convinced that the answers lay in some ancient, cryptic vision of three-headed dragons. He died in the mud of the Trident, not as a poet or singer, but as a fool chasing a doomed prophecy.

They thought their destiny was fire, but it’s always been about the songs—the things that outlive the fire. That’s what Aenys represented, what Rhaegar embodied, what Egg loved as a child.

But the Targaryens were too busy chasing dragons to hear the music.

#valyrianscrolls #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #infertile aegon + bastard aenys my beloveds.#aenys i targaryen #aegon the conqueror #rhaenys targaryen #a song of ice and fire #rhaegar targaryen #aegon v targaryen #visenya targaryen #ales.txt #my words #teeheeee

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clockwayswrites · 1 year ago

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A Broken Sort of Normal- Part 19

WC: 2134, Masterpost

Danny sit up straighter in his chair as he states his name, but Wally can see the wince that Danny tries to hide. Absently, Wally runs through Danny’s schedule of care and when the other will be able to have more pain medication.

“Were you born with powers?” Bruce continues.

“No.”

Wally wants to go to Danny. He wants to tell him that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that Danny has powers. It doesn’t mater how he got them. It doesn’t matter that Wally didn’t know. None of it matters to Wally; he’s just glad that Danny is still here.

“Are you comfortable explaining how did you got your powers?”

Danny runs his hand through his hair. He’s nervous. “Some of it. The broad strokes. It was a lab accident, because of course there was. My parents are ecto scientists, they study ghosts. They’re not… let’s just say don’t read their research into ghostly behavior. They are brilliant engineers though. They managed to build a portal to the Infinite Realms—”

“Minging knobheads,” John curses quietly.

“—and I was sorta in the portal when it turned on. Which, um, killed me and revived me at the same time. I was electrocuted while my system was flooded with ectoplasm.”

Killed.

Danny had— Danny had died. Again, before, Danny had died. Wally closed his eyes and swallowed around the catch in his throat. He almost never got the chance to know Danny. A hand fit into his and Wally knows instantly that it’s Dick’s. He grips it back tightly. At least he isn’t listening to this alone.

“It’s not so much that I got powers, as that because I’m half dead, I’m half ghost and I can do the things that ghosts can do. Invisibility, intangibility, flight… things like that. Long story short, someone had to stop the ghosts that the portal let through—”

John is up and pacing now. Zatanna doesn’t even try to stop him.

“—so I sort of became the town hero. I went by Phantom. It was… well, you’ve all been there.”

God, Wally wishes Danny didn’t know how that was.

“Kid… did you even have anyone to help you?” Barry asks.

Danny shrugs. “Two friends and eventually Ja… my older sister.. There are a few ghosts that were sometimes allies but ghosts…”

“Ghosts aren’t good or evil, they’ve got obsessions,” John explains into the silence. “Sometimes those obsessions motivate the ghosts in a way that seems one way or another. It only works out for you as long as your needs aligns with their obsession.”

Wally’s mind spins.

“Danny,” Bruce asks with very careful words, “do you have an obsession?”

He searches back through his memories of Danny.

“Yes.”

It couldn’t be anything anyone would see as bad or dangerous.

“Protection. My obsession is protection. It’s not as compelling to me as it is for a full ghost. For me it’s more like a hunger craving or itch, but it is there. It’s a good part of why I became a paramedic.”

Oh. That made so much sense.

“That’s our Danny,” Danna says, softly, from in their group.

“Why did you not simply join us as a hero?” Diana asks.

“Before, well, things were… complicated? There’s this government agency that considers ghosts non-sentient and—”

Danny jerks back in his chair at all the exclamations that rang out in the room at that. It isn’t just a reaction to the sudden noise, Wally realizes, Danny looks startled at being defended.

It breaks Wally’s heart.

“It’s okay!” Danny says over the din. “They were always pretty incompetent, really, even when working with my parents. I never even ended up vivisected or anything!”

Gar clamps a hand over his mouth and mutters. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Danny,” Dianna says his name gently, “have your parents ever attacked you?”

“They don’t know I’m a halfa. They don’t know I’m Phantom,” Danny says. There’s a pleading note to his voice that makes Wally agree with Gar; he’s going to be sick.

“But they’ve attacked Phantom,” Dianna says. It’s not a question, but Danny nods anyways. “Danny, do we need to set up protection for you from your parents?”

“They don’t know—”

“Kid,” Barry interrupts, “what you did was on the news. Like, every news station across the world. I think they know now.”

Danny sits back in his chair. He picks at the already frayed edge of the hoodie. Suddenly he looks small in a way that Wally’s only seen when Danny’s been in the middle of a panic attack. Any strength Danny’s gathered the last few days seems to leave him as his shoulders slump. “Maybe. I guess… I don’t know how they’ll take the news. It’s… maybe. We’ll, um, more than that someone needs to make sure the portal stays closed down. If the ghosts start coming through again…”

The hand Danny presses against his chest shakes. “I’m not as strong as I used to be. I don’t know if my powers will come back still or if this… is what I am now, but my core is weaker than it used to be. If this the way I’ll be now, I won’t be able to fight them off.”

“Are they dangerous?” Bruce asks. “Beyond the morality of their obsession, are they actively dangerous to you?”

“That’s not an easy question. Mostly the ghosts used Amity Park as a new way to fulfill their obsessions. Lunch Lady wants to feed people, which is good, but if you don’t want to eat things can get nasty. Obsessions are like that, they can twist quickly. The ghosts also just like to brawl, a lot of them at least. Some of them would understand if I can’t and back off, but there are others… take Skulker,” Danny says with a wave of his hand, “his obsession is hunting rare game and, well, I’m rare game. He wants to mount my pelt to his wall.”

With an unpleasant noise, Gar dashes from the room. It makes Danny wince and mumble an apology.

Wally is already mentally calling favors to call in to safeguard their apartment, not that he thinks anyone will say no to protecting Danny.

“We’ll make checking on the portal a priority as soon as this meeting is done,” Bruce assures Danny.

“Thank you. I don’t want anyone to be hurt if it gets turned back on.”

“Why has it been off? If it’s off, why would they turn it back on now?” John asks, still pacing.

Danny looks away from the table again. “Because they remember now.”

“The curse?” John asks at the same time Bary asks, “What do you mean remember?”

“I mean they forgot, because, yeah, the curse,” Danny says. He’s back to picking at his sleeve. Everyone gives him time to try and find his words, which he does with a wet laugh. “I was stupid. I mean, I was young, but I still should have known better. I was just… I was having a hard time. My parents were working on a new GIW contract and my friends… team were going off to college… I was going to be alone to deal with the ghosts. I still should have known better. I just wished I could be normal.”

“That’s not wrong, Danny,” Barry says. “We’ve all felt that sometime…”

Danny’s shaking his head. “You don’t understand. You don’t wish in Amity Park.”

“Because of this Desiree?” Zatanna asks.

“Because of Desiree,” Danny confirms. “Some ghosts have very specific powers and those are usually strong powers. For Desiree, it’s… it was reality altering based on wishes. I forgot to never say ‘I wish’.”

After a moment of comprehending silence, Diana asks, “She had the power to make you fully human?”

“No, even borrowing power like I think she did, Desiree couldn’t do that. But that’s not what she needed to do. Normal isn’t a real thing, it’s just societal, you know? She just had to make sure no one remembered I was half dead and, tada, I had a normal life.”

John finally stops pacing and leans against the back of his chair. His cigarette is a mangled mess dangling from his lips. “What was the catch?”

“I wanted to be normal, so I had to stay normal. I couldn’t be noticed using any of my powers or being too ghostly or tell anyone I had died or what things used to be like. If I did— well you all saw what happened,” Danny looks up, finally, right at Wally. “It’s why I couldn’t tell any of you, even if I wanted too. It’s why I couldn’t use my powers to help. As soon as I did, I was good as dead.”

More than ever Wally wants to rush over to Danny’s side. He wants to let Danny know it’s alright that he kept this secret. It doesn’t matter. He settles for what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“I still don’t know how I survived. As soon as Desiree appeared and took my powers, that should have been it for me. My ghost half can’t survive without them and my human half isn’t alive enough to last by itself. It would be like cutting off a normal person’s oxygen. I should have been ended.”

“We overloaded her,” Zatanna explains.

“Forced all your power— which there was a fucking lot of it— into her at once,” John finished. “She popped like a balloon with too much air.”

“Did you have to describe it that way?” Hal grumbles.

“Oh.” Danny blinks a few times as he took that in. “I guess, okay. I mean, yeah, I was more powerful than a lot of ghosts; something about being a halfa and my state being mutable still. I didn’t think though… right, okay. But how am I still here?”

“When she popped,” John says with a smirk towards Hal, “the air was full of ambient ectoplasm. Flash zapped you, re-started your heart, and the cloud went up like a match in a fart.”

Danny’s face wrinkled up at that. “Ew. But, alright. I mean it was my power first. I guess that…” Danny’s hand comes up to press over his sternum. “I guess that means this is my power level now.”

“And the rest of the curse?” Zatanna asks, leaning forward in her seat.

“Gone. People remember now.”

Wally thought to all the phone messages Danny had been getting in a new light.

“That’s why we need to make sure the portal is closed.”

“As well as that the GIW are shut down and that your parents do not try to harm you,” Diana says with that firm certainty of hers.

“Right,” Danny says after a beat. It’s hard to see how clearly Danny doesn’t consider himself a priority. “And… for the rest of it all?”

Diana tilts her head in question. “The rest of it?”

“I didn’t tell anyone my status. I lied to some of you. Is that…”

“You did what you needed to stay alive and hurt no one.” She holds up a hand to stop any protests from Danny. “While I have no doubt with your heart as it is you do not wish you could have done more, it would have never been asked of you at the cost of your life. You are a hero, Danny, and have been since you joined the Response Team in Central City. You have only continued to prove it by your willingness to act and the honor with which you did so. The Justice League is proud to still have you as your post, as soon as you are recovered.”

Finally the last of the tension drains Danny’s shoulders. “I’ll be happy to get back to it.”

Wally tunes Diana out as she wraps up the meeting.

“I’m going to ask him,” Wally says to Dick, who still has his hand.

“What? Now?” Dick hisses.

Wally watches as Danny shakes Clark’s hand. “Why not? Everyone’s here, like you said had to be.”

“Because it’s a debrief! That’s not exactly the most romantic moment.”

The other Titans are standing around them, waiting for their chance to see Danny. Even Gar is back.

“I almost missed my chance, N. I almost never got to ask,” Wally pleads. “I don’t want to miss it again.”

Dick just sighs and pulls a small case out of his belt. He presses it into their clasped hands before releasing his grip

Wally can feel the smile stretching across his face. “You know me so well.”

Dick just shoves Wally off his chair. “Go get your man. Ghost? Man ghost.”

Laughing, Wally fumbles to his feet and towards Danny.

“Danny!”

Danny who’s still here and alive.

Who smiles like the sun as he turns towards Wally.

“Yes?”

---

AN: I don't know, is it too cruel to end right there? 😇 Don't worry, we'll get an epilogue to hopefully tie the loose ends up in a bow! But this is the last half of the last full chapter! They know! And they still respect and love Danny. He can stop worrying~

You can subscribe to the masterpost here.

#dp x dc #abson #quick death ship #danny/wally

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ednygmasbowlerhat · 26 days ago

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Bruce Wayne is canonically Jewish and we don’t talk about this enough. Obviously the representation would be amazing and as a Jew i would love my favorite hero to be Jewish but also it would just add so much to the character. Just like cultural flavor and personality. And of course plot lines. Like just imagine the entire bat family getting together for Jewish holidays or like batman making torah or rabbinic references all the time. Like what if he’s giving one of the bat kids a lecture and is just like “that reminds me of this story I learned about hillel and shammai in hebrew school blah blah blah”.

Also this just makes so much sense because superheroes were created by Jews like Superman literally has the most Jewish story ever but aliens can’t be born Jews and the kents aren’t Jewish so he’s not canon Jewish so having bats as Jewish is just too iconic.

#it’s canon because Kate Kane is Jewish and her dad is also Jewish which means Martha Wayne is Jewish which makes Bruce Jewish #because Judaism passes down through the mom #jewish batman #jewish bruce wayne #batman #bruce wayne #dc comics #dcu #the batman #superman #clark kent #jewish #jewblr

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theemporium · 1 year ago

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here's the second instalment! i know i made the poll but i decided i was doing both options because i am indecisive, and i love max and trouble too much to abandon them

series masterlist

Max tapped his foot against the wooden floor, his eyes focused on some random poster on the wall of the cramped dental office.

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like any of this. He didn’t like the idea that he was going to be put under. He didn’t like he wouldn’t be in control of anything for the next few hours. He didn’t like the fact that when he woke up, he would be woozy and unable to control the words that passed his lips.

He didn’t like the lack of control.

But the pain had reached a point of unbearable and he knew if he didn’t get this done, his mother would fly over and drag him into the dental practice by his ear—and that was something he certainly didn’t want. He would never live it down if journalists caught pictures of the three time world champion being berated by his mother like a whiny child.

He hated the fact his stupid wisdom teeth were causing this many problems in the first place.

“Did you know that thirty-five percent of humans are born without wisdom teeth?”

Max’s head turned to look at you, his brows furrowed together. “What?”

“A third of the human population aren’t born with wisdom teeth,” you repeated as you leaned back in your chair next to him, your knees brushing when you did. “Isn’t that weird?”

“I would say they are lucky,” he grumbled honestly.

“And in Korea, they call them love teeth,” you continued, ignoring the confused look Max shot you. “Because they start to come through around the age people typically experience their first love.”

“Does that mean it’s your fault I’m in pain?” Max teased, a hint of a smile on his face for the first time since he woke up that morning.

“Love is pain, baby,” you grinned back at him. “And did you know that the oldest record of wisdom teeth being impacted goes back almost fifteen thousand years ago—”

“What’s with all these fun facts?” Max questioned.

“It’s what keeps you calm, no?” You said, looking at him with a fond expression he was still learning to not instantly blush over. “You maxsplain all the time and it helps you relax. I thought maybe maxsplaining wisdom teeth would help ease your nerves.”

“So you learn a load of facts for me?” He asked, a giddy smile fighting its way onto his face.

“I did,” you said as you reached over to gently squeeze his knee. “I know you’re not gonna say it but it’s okay to be nervous. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He gulped, nodding his head slightly in thanks and you knew better than anyone else that the nod was his own way of thanking you.

…

“Trouble? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me, baby,” you grinned as you reached for his outstretched hand, trying not to snicker at the way he cuddled your palm to his chest. “How are you feeling?”

“They drugged me,” he mumbled out, his eyes blinking slowly as he ignored the dentist and nurses in the room and kept his focus on you. “Not the good drugs. The bad ones. I think they are trying to kill me.”

You snorted. “Nobody is gonna kill you while I’m around. Promise.”

“My hero!” He laughed, a little short lived as he seemed to realise the gauze in his mouth. “Baby, I don’t like this candy.”

“It’s not candy,” you said to the boy and watched as he instantly frowned.

“I want candy,” he huffed out.

“Max—”

“Trouble, they tried to kill me! I’m a hostage!” He said, sounding exasperated and you had to lift your hand to cover your mouth in hopes he didn’t realise you were laughing. “I at least deserve some candy.”

“I’ll get you some on the way home,” you told the boy, unable to even pretend to act annoyed as he cheered in his seat as his head rolled back.

“See, Janet!” He turned to the nurse who was standing on the other side of his chair and winked with both eyes. “Told you my good looks would work. She gave in.”

Janet laughed, shaking her head. “You were right, sweetie. You’ve got quite the catch there.”

Max sighed dreamily. “She’s the best.”

#max verstappen #formula one #f1 #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen fic #max verstappen one shot #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one x y/n #formula one fic #formula one one shot #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 fic #f1 one shot

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maliciouslove · 2 years ago

Text

𝕍𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕠𝕦𝕤 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕟

NSFW, dark content, aged up characters (21+)

ʚ pairing ɞ scumbag villain!izuku midoriya x morally corrupt hero!reader

ʚ word count ɞ 2.7k

ʚ summary ɞ izuku grew up with all power taken from him, so he became the type of person that enjoys making others feel powerless. nothing feeds his ego more than a cute girl crumbling under his touch and feeling powerless to stop him from sliding his hands all over her body in the packed train. until he meets you—a peculiar, equally fucked in the head girl that actually enjoyed the things he was doing to her. enjoyed the thrill of almost being caught. enjoyed having power taken from her. a debauched, morally corrupt hero in disguise.

ʚ tags ɞ frotteurism (fetish for groping people in crowded places), tw dubcon, tw noncon, tw sexual assault, tw sexual harassment, tw exhibitionism, tw power imbalance, pussy job, public sex, creampie, cw degradation, use of “whore” once

Just like any other child, Izuku Midoriya grew up wanting to be a hero, however, despite his aspirations, the boy never manifested a quirk. Still, he never gave up and never lost hope—that is, until he failed the UA entrance exam and was brutally made fun of by everyone else.

“Look at this loser, thinking he could pass the exam without an actual quirk, what a joke.”

“Jokes are funny, this guy is absolutely pathetic. Go home kid, become a policeman or fireman instead, leave the hero work for those with quirks.”

“Maybe if you take a swan dive off a roof, you’ll be born with a quirk in your next life.”

Some heroes they were going to be.

And that was when his mind started getting corrupt. Izuku went down a different, darker path than the one he had envisioned as a child. He mixed with the wrong people and little by little he shed off his hero dream, discarding it alongside his morals, being perfectly content being a scumbag villain instead.

All power was stripped away from him once the world learned he was quirkless, so he sought ways to make others feel even more powerless than he did. Nothing stroked his ego more than making cute girls squirm and crumble under his touch in paralyzing fear, as his hands wandered over their bodies on a packed train. He enjoyed the way their eyes would shut tightly as if to avoid confronting the reality of their own powerlessness in the situation. The way their bodies stiffened the moment he leaned in closer to take a whiff of their perfume.

Why aren’t you saying anything, pretty girl? You have a quirk, don’t you? That already makes you more qualified than me to be a hero. So why are you letting me touch you? Why are you keeping your eyes shut? Why are you giving me so much power?

Every little squirm, every hitch of their breath, every shake of their hands, and the way they would hope somebody would notice—it made Izuku feel powerful.

Do you know why you’re weaker than even me, sweetheart? Because you’re waiting for someone else to save you, you’re waiting for a hero.

That’s how his days went by—hop on the train, find the weakest target, the insecure girls, the quiet ones, the ones whose eyes still sparkled with hope that a big strong hero will always be there to protect them. Once he found his victim, he moved in, ready to prove them wrong—show them how little heroes actually care. Towering over them, he would stare down their cleavage, letting his imagination run wild as his hands slide up the side of their hip. An accidental grind against their ass, a swift trace of his index finger down the inside of their thigh. His ministrations would make his targets shrink even further, the thrill of being found out feeding his power hunger further and making his cock painfully hard in the confinement of his slacks.

It became routine until he was able to pick out the perfect targets with a single glance, until he was able to predict what each girl would do and how everything would play out. What he wasn’t expecting, however, was to find someone equally as debauched as him one day.

With your car being in the repair shop for the next week, you had started using public transport to get to work. That of course meant having to travel during peak hours, more often than not finding yourself pressed against strangers, sometimes absolute creeps, and yet some very dark and hidden part of you enjoyed that, the unwanted attention making you buzz with excitement.

And today was no different—you found yourself pushed in the very corner of the train car facing away from the other passengers. A large green-haired man stood right behind you, muscular arm holding onto the ceiling rail as his entire body loomed over your much smaller one.

The train was fully packed and everyone was minding their business— some sleeping, some listening to music, and others glued to their phones. Yet, the man behind you seemed to focus all his attention on you. You could feel his gaze travel down your nape, studying the curvature of your spine, eyes moving downwards to your ass and legs. It felt like prickles on your skin, like an invisible hand stripping you of all your clothes and the thought made you rub your thighs together.

The lack of space forced you both to stand very close to each other, the motions of the train pushing you into his chest every so often. You could tell he was using every opportunity to smell your hair, craning his neck downwards to also look down your shirt. You wonder if he could see what color your bra was, if he could see the lace poking out from under the collar of your shirt.

The train changed tracks again and you found yourself pressed against his chest once more. This time his large hand found purchase on your hip, thumb gently stroking the bit of skin that was showing above the hem of your skirt. In the reflection of the window, you see his green eyes staring into yours, full of lust and hunger. His aura threatening to consume you entirely and for a second, your body filling with fear, a heavy feeling settling in your chest.

You look away, quickly.

Your heart is hammering in your chest and you fear he can hear it, taste the blood that’s currently coursing through your veins.

The train shifts and you can feel his hard cock pressed against your ass, his fingers on your hip tightening their grip. Your body feels paralyzed under his touch.

But not by fear.

Excitement.

You let your body be swayed by the motion of the train, making sure to circle your ass back onto his cock, licking your lips and buzzing with pleasure when your skirt hitches on his bulge, lifting and revealing part of your panties. You take a swift look around to see if anyone is looking your way, but as usual, everyone is consumed in their own thoughts, too absorbed by their own miserable existence to notice anything else.

You’re dragged out of your momentary haze by his breath on your neck.

“What do you think you’re doing there, sweetheart, has your mommy not taught you any better?”

His voice is deep, feigning concern for you while his eyes ooze vile lust and need for control. His presence devours you, it feels like sludge covering you from head to toe, sliding down your throat and filling your lungs with dread, making you unable to talk, unable to even look him in the eye.

His hands move down your hips, hiking your skirt up even further, fingers tracing the delicate lace of your underwear. Your clit is throbbing with anticipation so perfectly masked as fear. For Izuku, your heightened pulse meant paralyzing fear, but only you knew the truth about how this made your blood boil in excitement. How much you wanted him to slide his hands between your legs, to fucking take you right then and there, amidst the people that could see the pleasure blooming on your face any second now.

You faintly hear the unzipping of his slacks and feel the warmth of his cock on your bare skin—it’s thick and heavy against your ass cheek, smearing pre on your skin and panties. You’re feeling dizzy, body going limp in his strong arms as his hand sneaks around your waist and cups your pussy under the frills of your skirt.

For a brief moment, his movements pause as his mind processes what he’s feeling—you’re soaking wet, panties completely drenched, arousal practically dripping down your thighs. He was used to women’s bodies reluctantly reacting to him, but this was rather different. His eyes dart forward, inspecting your features more closely now—your heart was erratic, but not because of crippling fear. He leans in, noticing how blown your pupils are, consuming all the color in your eyes. Lips parted and chest heaving, he finally finds the piece of the puzzle that seemed to be missing, the explanation behind the odd feeling of being unable to predict what his prey will do next—your eyes had the same fragmented madness behind them.

You were just as sick as he was.

Without a second of hesitation, the hand that’s cupping your sex moves your panties to the side, thick and calloused fingers running through your wet folds, spreading your arousal and circling around your clit with tender motions.

A whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it—your skin is on fire and your insides are melting under this stranger's touch. You close your eyes in an attempt to compose yourself while the hand on your hip travels up your sides to squeeze your breast, teasing your nipples over the fabric. The green-haired man’s breath is almost as erratic as yours, his hard and leaking cock evidence of how turned on he was by your compliance, by the fact you were actually enjoying being used like this in public.

His cock now rubs between your thighs, his hot skin meeting your sticky one, and your insides beginning to knot just by the thought. You’re letting a complete stranger get off on you. You secretly hope that someone else on the train has noticed and is maybe even enjoying the show.

Your insides are aching for relief so you push yourself against his cock, the mushroom tip spreading and gliding between your folds, clit rubbing against the veins on his shaft.

Holding yourself with one hand by the ceiling rail and slightly lifting yourself onto your tiptoes, feeling the tip of his cock pushing against your entrance. Biting your lip you sink back onto his cock, taking two inches past your entrance, grazing your soft walls. The adrenaline coursing through your veins makes you experience every sensation trifold, makes you want to shamelessly grind against him and moan in ecstasy, but you are in public, therefore you compose yourself and relish in the slow feeling of being filled up by this man.

Izuku’s hand grips your waist harder, fucking himself into your tight, greedy cunt, feeling himself being sucked in by your plush walls. You are practically dripping onto his cock, the natural lubrication allowing him to smoothly fully sheathe himself inside you, putting his other hand over your mouth to prevent to moan that was about to escape your lips.

He holds you there, flush against him, the tip of his cock pressing against the deepest, most delicious spot inside you, subtle hip movements rocking you back and forth, the slow motion allowing him to massage that sweet spot he currently finds himself pressed against.

His eyes briefly scan the train cart, confirming that every passenger is still oblivious to what’s going on, continuing to push you off his thick cock, only to slide back in, softly, as though not to make a sound.

He’s big in every sense. His large frame hiding you from any onlookers, big hands easily maneuvering you onto his fat cock, splitting you open and pushing through the resistance of your tight hole. Your body jolts as he stretches you out almost painfully, but every time he thrusts inside you, you see stars in your vision from how deep he was.

You feel snug and warm around Izuku’s cock and he could stay buried inside you forever. He’s never met anyone this fucked up who would let him use them for his own pleasure. In a fully packed train nonetheless. You were sick and twisted just like Izuku, making him relish in the feeling, sensing that you’re not going to cause a scene and opting to let go of your waist in favor of sliding his hand down the front of your pelvis and playing with your puffy clit.

The moment he started drawing soft circles around your sensitive nub he felt your knees give in and your insides clench. God, you were going to come undone for him.

He watches your eyebrows pinch together as you bite your lip, slowly increasing the pace of his thrusts. You look so pretty, trying to keep your pleasure hidden, but shamelessly moving your hips to match his own.

For the first time during this train ride, you look into his eyes and maintain eye contact instead of shyly breaking it off. There is pure sin set ablaze in your eyes, a lustful need, a burning desire that he feels he needs to quench. Just your eyes alone could make Izuku cum on the spot, seductive and debauched, deprived and full of the same madness as his own.

Your eyes beg him, so he obeys.

With one final, rather harsh thrust Izuku buries himself to the hilt, emptying his load deep inside your gummy walls, spurting thick white ropes of cum while nuzzling his face in your neck—committing your scent to memory.

The train slows down as it approaches the next stop and the strange man gently pulls out. Your hands quickly fix your panties and skirt, hiding any evidence of his ministrations. His load slowly trickles down, soiling your panties, and yet the feeling brings you nothing but joy, as if you were currently on cloud nine.

The train comes to a halt, an alarm signaling the opening of the doors blares out.

The mass of people began leaving the train, the tall green-haired man seamlessly blending into the crowd and disappearing.

Avoiding eye contact and swiftly walking past clusters of people, Izuku was assured he was out of danger, turning around the corne—

“Where do you think you’re going, handsome?” You cut off his path and look into his eyes, a smile that didn’t reach your eyes plastered on your lips. “I’m not quite done with you yet.”

“Aw, I don’t think anyone’s ever come for seconds before.” Izuku places his hands in his pockets, giving you a smug smile and shamelessly tracing every curve of your body with his eyes, imagining what you look like without all those pesky clothes on.

“Aw, you know, you’re kinda cute, Izuku Midoriya,” The green-haired man's smile faltered. From the inside pocket of your jacket you pull out a card that he immediately recognizes. A card he was destined to never ever obtain. “Too bad I’m gonna have to arrest you.”

Before his mind could assimilate, you had easily pushed him against the wall with his hands behind his back, placing handcuffs on his wrists.

“Y-You can’t arrest me, you whore, you literally let me fuck you, what kind of hero are you?” He spits out in shock, words laced with venom, growling in attempting to shake you off, even though panic rises in his throat like bile. “You’re no fucking hero, you’re just like me.”

“Mm, I probably am… but see, I have a quirk so I can get away with being a morally corrupt hero.” The words spoken in a sickly sweet voice rang in his ears, deafening, despite being whispered, meant only for his ears to hear.

Izuku opens his mouth to argue, to threaten to expose you, but you shush him with an index finger over his lips.

“Don’t bother, who do you think they are going to believe? A pro-hero with a quirk and a squeaky clean record, or a quirkless scumbag that we have hundreds of reports on for sexual harassment and assault?”

With no affection or remorse you yank him by the hair and lick the shell of his ear.

“I had fun, Izuku. Find me when you get out of jail.” You place a final feather light kiss to his cheek and lead him through the crowds to bring him into the nearest precinct.

No man would ever make you feel as alive and exhilarated as he did, the memory of what you did being something you often revisit when you get yourself off late into the night after patrol, thinking of his villainous green eyes, while your words would haunt Izuku and play on a loop each night as he plotted ways to find you once he had served his time.

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑! I do not own any of the characters or people mentioned in my work. these are works of pure fiction that do not reflect the views, opinions, or actions of any person, real or fictional. Furthermore, all characters I write for [thirsts, drabbles, fics, etc.] are aged up to 21 or older – they are adults with adult characteristics presented and written in adult contexts.

all rights reserved © by maliciouslove. my work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. all fanfics belong to me, please do not copy, translate nor repost the fics or files seen above as this is strictly prohibited.

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ehlnofay · 3 months ago

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Martin thinks that he always kind of knew he was going to die today.

But by Akatosh, he didn’t think it would be like this – like Kvatch all over again, Kvatch folded in on itself, the streets overrun with monsters triple-time as thick, all metal and sulphur and blood. They were supposed to make it in time. He was supposed to light the fires. He was supposed to be crowned, and let some new, less visceral kind of horror begin – they were supposed to make it through – they were supposed – they supposed – but the streets are shaking with Dagon’s footfalls, and Martin can’t take a step without kicking a corpse, and the Hero of Kvatch is heavy-too-heavy against his shoulder, and it was always going to be like this. It never could have ended any other way.

He can feel prayer bubbling up from his scraped-raw throat, bitter as bile, held behind his teeth. O Akatosh, first of the gods, steady my hand… He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t mouth it. Tries not to think it, though it’s a rhythm born of years of habit, once a comfort, now just – empty. But it unspools in his head all the same. Pax is leaned heavy against his shoulder, one arm hooked loosely around his, hand pressed against the sticky-dark spot on their armour; they’re short, but they’re not light, and Martin’s arms burn as he tries to hold them up. The sky flares red. His eyes sting with smoke. Grant me the strength to endure. Onward, onward, onward.

Pax’s feet skitter uselessly against the blood-slick cobble. Martin almost trips over a leg, its silver-polished greave shining in the hellish light. The rest of the body is not there. He can taste smoke. He can taste bile. He can see the stained glass, the altars, the prayerbooks, his throat flayed raw begging for a salvation that would never be granted; this is not Kvatch, this is not Kvatch, but the sky burns and the streets are filthy with bodies and there is too much noise to talk, and Pax is damn near dead weight against his side, still holding out their blunt little excuse for a sword. Martin drags her on through the street. Just to the temple doors – just to the temple doors – the side of her head presses fierce against his ear. Martin’s knuckles are white with effort. There is blood on his fine silken robes.

Again, the streets shake; Pax staggers at his side. Akatosh, protect us. Martin doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the red-stained sky blurring against body – he can already see the cobbles cracked under the weight of feet too massive for his mind to make sense of it, a body – man or monster, he doesn’t know – crushed beneath the heel. Pax is gesturing at the colossus’ ankle with their sword as if they could possibly do anything at all. They’re bleeding.

“Come on,” Martin says, shallow and jagged; it stings to speak, and there’s so little point, his ears so filled with the clashing of metal and horrible, inhuman screams that there’s not room for anything else. His grip tightens around Pax’s shoulders. Her face is set, stubborn and pale – and she’s so stupidly young – and Martin –

There is an emotion so large it threatens to split him at the seams, and they don’t have time for that, so Martin runs. Staggers past the barely sketched-out shape of the devil menacing the skies, child hero in tow; every breath stinks of fear and ash. His throat prickles. If he doubles over with coughing, Pax will fall, there, onto bloody cobblestone, with their toothpick of a blade and their empty quiver, their sharp-spined bow slung carelessly over their shoulder, pearl-grey gambeson slowly darkening with blood, so Martin doesn’t cough. Blessed are we, the faithful…

They don’t fall, and they aren’t crushed, darting around the earth Dagon stands upon, slow and sluggard and so astonishingly lucky, and Martin gasps, and he does not cough, and Pax kicks at a scamp that gets too close and waves the sword at it just enough to slice a shallow cut down its scrabbly little arm. Martin’s so focused on holding them up that he can’t even cast. It isn’t even the one prayer running inescapable through his head – it’s a mess of them, all twisted and torn to pieces, shreds of one, half a sentence of another. He nearly trips over on the stairs. In the crowd, armour flashes, bright as steel and thoroughly outnumbered. He should pray for the Blades, too; he would, if he thought it would do anything. But it didn’t, last time. And this time, he has something better up his sleeve than prayer.

“Almost there,” he says through the din, and Pax keeps their sword arm raised even though they don’t know how to use the bloody thing, and there’s blood on their Kvatch gambeson, and there’s blood on Martin’s regal robes. (It was going to be him – that dremora’s blade whip-thin and wicked and dark as soot, jabbed thin as a sewing needle through the slippery-soft fabric, hooked under his ribs or pierced through the soft meat of his gut. Pax, empty-quivered, still drawing his sword, angled his own body to intercept; caught it in the thick pillow of his armour, in his own skin. Martin spat a spell from his fingers that sent the thing crashing to the ground and grabbed Pax well before they began to follow.) The earth shakes, again, and Martin’s shin hits the edge of the next step. He can’t hear anything over it all, but he sees Pax suck in a breath, sharp and pained. She takes another step. He follows.

When they reach the dark-stone door, someone screams, high and terrible, and there is no time to stand on ceremony; Martin throws himself at it, shoving it with all his weight behind his shoulder, and together, they stumble inside the temple, ash blowing in behind them to scatter itself on the sacred, stagnant floors.

The door swings closed again; the sound is swallowed up, faint and muffled. Martin can hear them both breathing, ragged, loud. Pax hasn’t lowered their sword. It looks even more dull, here, contrasted against the stonework. They’re so quiet. He hates that he’s learned how they act when they’re in pain.

(It’s holy ground. It won’t be enough – it barely was in Kvatch, it’s nowhere near it now – but it’s not nothing. There’s blood spilling over the tile.)

Martin sucks in a desperate, dragging breath. He doesn’t let go of them.

There’s not much light in the Temple, but it’s enough; it’s clear of smoke and that all that burning reddish tint, outside, and now that Martin has a moment to look them in the face Pax looks awful. His skin is ash-pale and slick with sweat, fringe sticking to his forehead, brow creased as if with concentrated effort and jaw taut. Every breath rattles in his chest and whistles out between his teeth. One palm sticks to the place in her side where her armour is dark and sodden; Martin is afraid to peel it away. It can’t be a wide wound, the cut not even enough to tear more of the gambeson than is covered by her hand, but shit it’s a lot of blood. It’s so much blood. He was never an especially good healer and he can’t even begin to accurately estimate it but it’s too much; it’s entirely too much. And it was because she was protecting him. It’s enough to make a man sick; but there’s no time, so Martin isn’t.

It's so much blood. Pax’s eyes are unfocused, drifting somewhere over his shoulder. His face is so clammy and so young – by the Nine, he’s a child. He’s a child and a hero and Martin’s friend and he’s bleeding out on the Temple floors. Martin hates himself, a bit, for going along with any of this in the first place, for letting them send a fifteen year old child out to risk killing themselves, only to get them here – this place, bleeding out onto sacred marble, where they always would’ve ended up anyway. All roads lead to this.

Inevitability. It’s an idea that showed up often in the sermons Martin used to help give. The Amulet is blood-warm and heavy round his neck.

“Pax,” Martin says; one arm is threaded under her armpits, and he lifts the other to press gently to her cheek. Just under her eye there’s a dark spot of ash; he swipes it off with his thumb, watches the slow, sticky blink she gives in response. “Hey. Are you with me?”

“Always,” she mumbles; her voice is sludgy, like it’s caught in treacle, but the word comes without delay – like it’s instinct, like there’s nowhere else she’s ever imagined being, and doesn’t that just make a man want, a bit, to throw himself off a cliff. (She’s gone to hell, on his word, who knows how many times over; Martin doesn’t need her half-dying drive to affirm her loyalty to him. He knows. He knows. He thinks he might be sick.) She blinks again, and then her eyes sharpen; she throws a tired look over her shoulder at the cool stone of the door, the world beyond muted, as if this moment occurs on its own; like they’re flies, frozen in amber. She says, “It won’t keep them out forever.”

Holy ground was barely enough in Kvatch; it will be barely anything here.

Martin’s arm is aching. He’s not that strong. “Long enough,” he says, with far more brusque certainty than he feels, and he casts a glance over the smooth marble floors, the well-wrought stonework of each plinth and pillar. “Come on. Sit down.”

Arms burning, he helps them to the side of the room, leans them against the leverage of the smooth white wall; still, they don’t sit, and Martin has to help lower them down. Pax grunts like a shot animal as he slowly sinks down to the ground, Martin’s hands still bruising tight on his shoulders, sword slipping from his sweaty grasp to clatter on the floor. His bow, slung over his shoulder, presses awkward against the wall; his empty quiver lies at his hip, useless. His hand is still pressed to the stain on his gambeson.

Martin watches him breathe out through gritted teeth, his tongue pressed ragged against the gap behind his lower canine. His head tips back against the wall. His gambeson, blood-spattered, barely protective, is tied with a row of neat leather cords; Martin reaches for one intricate knot and begins to tug on the ends.

Maybe it’s because he’s a bit frantic, that he just can’t get it to untangle – maybe it’s that the whole world is ending outside the door and they have a minute to stop it, if they’re lucky. Maybe it’s that Pax’s head is lolling, a little. Maybe it’s that it’s all on his head – has been on his head since any of it began, since he knew any of it at all, and now another city is falling, and he can still smell smoke, and he has a minute, if he’s lucky. He feels like they should have more time. He needs to undo the gambeson. He needs to make sure they’ll be all right. Martin was always going to die today – he feels it, settled comfortable and hazy over him, an unerring certainty in the very marrow of his bones, a knowledge passed down from the man they call his father – but Pax sure as shit isn’t. Not if he has anything to say about it, which he does, because it’s been on his head since the beginning and he’ll shoulder it all but he won’t bear this. His fingers scrabble, desperate, at the ties; every moment he waits is a murder, but leaving them here would be murder, too, and Martin won’t have that blood on his hands. And the knots won’t just come easy. He’s lost so much time and he hasn’t even gotten half.

Pax is looking at him, her eyes blood-dark. “You’re not going to get it,” she says, and her voice slurs, a little, in her mouth; pain or blood loss or shock, almost definitely, but Martin was never a particularly skilled healer and the magic he spent to get them through that horrible crush outside has left him too tapped to be able to probe. “They’re tied too tight.”

Martin can hear the ringing of metal outside. The earth is still shaking.

“Fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the vowel, and turns to rifle through their quiver. He hears them exhale, long and shaky, as he searches.

They don’t even have any fucking potions – he’d take anything, at this point, anything at all, he’d take the foulest cheapest draught as long as it would slow the bleeding, or even just a bandage, but there’s no bottles or flasks and no loose cloth. There’s one salve, pale and sticky in a purple-stained pot, but that can’t be used without access to the skin and probably can’t be good in an open wound in any case. There isn’t anything. There isn’t anything at all. Time is slithering away between his fingers. There are broken bits of prayer sticking like glass shards under his tongue, again. He doesn’t want to say any of it; it sticks in his throat, anyway. Lord Akatosh, sacred dragon, walk ever with me; under your gaze I will not fall short. Pax is looking at him, brow creased, face the very picture of dedicated focus; their hair, done in a long, simple braid back when they were just supposed to be speaking to the Council, has come half-loose, looping strands hanging about their face and trailing over their eye. Martin lifts a hand – notes, with detached interest, that it is shaking – and brushes it out of the way.

“I’m sorry,” he says – and he is, by the Nine, it settles with all the rest of the guilt in his gut, all to be burned soon enough – “there’s not time for me to heal you properly. How are you feeling? Are you all right?” Their skin is still clammy to the touch, sweat-damp wherever he touches; their eyes are more focused now but still screwed up with pain.

Pax gives a short puff of air. It’s not a laugh, not in his state, but it’s not all that far off; his voice is gravel-rough. “Got stabbed, Martin Priest. ‘S not great.”

Stabbed in the gut, while protecting him – bleeding all over the sanctified floors, the grout will never recover, and why is he thinking about that when the blade could have caught an organ and Martin would never know because he’s never been that good a healer. The ground is shaking again. They’ve been in here a minute, maybe, and he already feels like they’re stealing time. The seconds are slipping away quickly. He’s digging his fingers fiercely into the cloth of Pax’s shoulder; if he doesn’t hold onto her somehow he thinks he might fall down.

(He’s glad she’s here, and he hates himself for being glad. She’s bleeding. It should be his blood.)

His face must be doing something truly impressive, because Pax cracks a grin, wide and crooked and sticky-mouthed. “Calm down,” she says, the words thick as treacle in her mouth, “I got at least ten more minutes in me. What’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Martin echoes. That statement is nowhere near as reassuring as she seems to mean it to be; he shakes his head. Looks back at the doorway, still closed – noise of battle still raging, earth still trembling, but none of it imminent, probably, not within the next three seconds – and surges forward to wrap their shoulders in a fierce hug, careful to keep away from their abdomen, his cheek pressed against their hair. They smell of sweat and smoke and blood; he takes a deep breath, anyway. “I’ll do the rest, Pax, just – rest.” His voice cracks, again. “Be okay.”

(There’s more prayer pressed into those two words than in anything else he’s thought today.)

Pax reaches a hand up to pat his sleeve; her head, still, is resting against the stone, the set of her shoulders a little tauter, a little more alert. “I can still help,” she insists. The sword – blunt little instrument that it is – lies on the floor, tacky with monstrous blood; she doesn’t even try to reach for it. The bow slung over her shoulder is jabbing him in the collarbones. Martin pulls back enough to shake his head.

“No,” he says; because they can’t. The rest is for him and him only, so no-one else has to get hurt. Pax got him this far – got him out of the wreckage of Kvatch – got him out of the stagnant mire in his head – got a blade in the gut, for their trouble, and even if Martin had anything else to ask of them he couldn’t ask for more.

Pax glowers, at that, the crease reappearing between his brows; Martin could laugh, if it was another day, if they had another moment. He presses his face to the top of Pax’s head, instead, nose dug sharply into his hair; and he breathes, and he breathes, and he breathes.

He’s not an orator, but the way Pax talks they seem to think he’s accustomed to giving grand speeches; he’s certainly had enough practice lately. His breath shudders. He dredges up what words he can. They’ve been in the Temple a minute already; he doesn’t think they can ask another.

“I,” he says, and breathes; “I cannot stay to help rebuild Tamriel – that must fall to others.” He couldn’t have been Emperor, not ever – he’s never been able to fix things, not on this scale. The weight of the Empire would have run him into the ground. He would have hated it. It would have killed him. (Didn’t it?)

Pax’s hand skims the fine cloth at his elbow again. Voice slow, they say, “What –”

“I know now what I was born to do,” Martin says, and he tries to smile. He doesn’t know if they can feel it. His hands clasp the sides of their face; their hair is tickling his nose. They feel cool to the touch, dead-fish clammy; but it will be all right, because once it’s all over the healers will come in, better at flesh-craft than Martin’s ever been, and they’ll fix it. They’ll fix it all. And the Blades are here, however little Pax usually chooses to engage with them, so he won’t be alone. And the Elder Council, the whole Empire, will owe him a debt of such gratitude – he won’t be alone, again. He’ll have options. He’ll miss him – but he’ll live. And Martin will, for once in his sorry life, have actually fixed something.

His friend’s hair smells like smoke. Their skin is shining with sweat and grime. “You’ve been such a good friend in the short time that I’ve known you,” he says, and he’s smiling, he knows it, a melancholy thing pressed into their hairline. His voice is shaking, just a little. “I’m sorry I couldn’t – I couldn’t stay to know you better.”

“Martin,” Pax says, and he pulls back. Their face is creased, ash and blood smeared over their cheekbone. Suspicion lines the tilt of their brow.

Martin smiles, still. His palms, rough and dry, cradle her face. “But now I must go,” he says, gentle; “The Dragon waits.”

And Martin, for one, is done waiting.

He pushes what magic he has left into his hands, sunshine-bright; Martin is no great healer, particularly not when his reserves are tapped, particularly not when he can’t even see the wound, but he can at least soften the edge, dampen the overwhelming pull of the pain. His hands sting with the effort, his head spins, the ground shakes; and one of those has nothing to do with expending himself. Right on time, it seems; the Amulet of Kings hangs warm and heavy around his neck.

Martin stands, though his legs shake; stumbles a step backwards; turns to face the dais in the middle of the room, the shallow marble dish of it lying cold, the pillars around it as stark and foreboding as the bars of any cage. He runs.

“Martin!” he hears behind him, because Pax is Pax and of course they won’t let him go easy; the earth shakes, anticipation winding up into a wiry coil in his gut. The Amulet is hot enough to burn, bright as the sun – he heaves himself up onto the raised platform, reaches to unloop it from around his neck –

The ceiling caves in, and Martin throws an arm over his eyes, closing them against the implosion of dust and grit, scraping in a breath thick enough to choke. His ears are ringing. He manages to squint up, catches a glimpse of a massive fist swiping the rubble away from the hole, the glint of a battle-axe, a silhouette against the burning red sky, roiling and howling like a column of storm. Martin can’t even make out a face, but he knows, somewhere deep and solid, that it’s looking at him. He meets its gaze, the Amulet raised high in his hand.

All prayer has deserted him, now, all the rote lines and careful patterns he leant on for so long slipping away from his fingertips as if they were never there at all. All he has is please, weighty, guttural, and he thinks it might mean more than any of the rest of it. Please. Please. You owe me this. The Amulet of Kings burns in his hand.

“Martin!” he hears again, hoarse and desperate; he looks. Just once. Pax has dragged himself across the dust-coated floors, bow and quiver abandoned somewhere behind him; his face is covered in dirt, hair come half-loose, eyes stubborn and fierce and wild. He feels his eyes crease, the lightest echo of a smile. He’ll miss them, wherever he goes next. Pax screams, “Don’t!”

Martin Septim was always going to die today. It is, perhaps, one of the first things he’s ever done right.

Martin smashes the Amulet of Kings on the cold marble dais, and the world erupts in gold.

#most guilt-ridden guy who is experiencing like 5 different crises resolves them all by killing himself (do not try this at home)#(also a teenager is experiencing the beginnings of hemorrhagic shock nearby. for flavour)#I generally try not to reproduce game dialogue verbatim much but for this one I felt like I Needed to. yk. made a couple tweaks but #he talks with such a specific odd energy in this scene and I wanted to be true to that #my writing #fay writes #oc tag #pax #tes #the elder scrolls #oblivion #hero of kvatch #martin septim #tesblr #will post the follow-up piece. soonish #I've reread this Too Much and can't even tell if it's good anymore so.if you like it lmk. if you think it sucks also lmk but be nice with i

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orbweaverspidergirl · 1 month ago

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Chapter 1: i was born waiting for that something

summary: Orbweaver, Gotham's one and only spidergirl. A hero for only a year, she's easily recognizable from her brown spider suit, and six-eyed mask. But, without the mask, she's Nicole Lawson, the "unwanted" daughter of Bruce Wayne. She didn't mind it, not too much, but after the death of her mother and the exposure of her identity, her life is in shambles.

tw: mentions of blood, mentions of a bruise, mentions of being bit by a spider, low self-esteem?

You always smell the blood first before you feel it. It rushes through your nose, as it splatters onto the ground. Then, you feel it. It squelches against your suit, making you wince. You take out Joker’s goons, right and left. A punch, a kick, a spin, repeat. There was no time to breathe through the blood and sweat, you could only fight, you could only protect. There was nothing in the moment except you. You are, Orbweaver, this world’s one and only Spiderwoman.

You felt the aftermath of last night as you woke up. Your knuckles were still covered in blood, and you feel a big ass bruise covering half of your face. You groan as you sit up, and you heave, trying to breathe. Fuck, you might’ve broken your ribs. You try to shuffle to the bathroom, everything hurts, but you’re successful. Your hair was frizzy and unkept, and the plum curls lacked their original shape.

You hastily open your cabinet and grab the makeup bag. It’s messy inside, its continents spilled. You sigh, digging through to grab your foundation and concealer. You pull them both out, but your hand is now caked with glitter and varying eyeshadows. You make a face in disgust and wash your hand away. Damn, you wish you had makeup wipes, but water will have to do. Soon after you conceal your face the best you can with the makeup.

You close your eyes and breathe in, then out. Today’s Friday, the last day of the school week. You just have to get through today, and then go to work, and finally patrol. You’re tempted to skip, but you remember your truancy letter and push the thought aside. You walk out of your room and head to the kitchen. Your mother is crashed out on the couch, and you smile. She looks peaceful, you think, as you put a bagel in the toaster.

Your thoughts take you to today’s assembly. Bruce Wayne and his kids are supposed to show up, and you feel a touch of jealousy. Bruce Wayne was your father, and he left your mother after a one-night stand. He takes care of you and your mom, more than you could ask for. But you can’t help but be envious when you see him with his other children. You’ve met some of them before, Dick and Jason, Damian as well.

They’re alright people, but they aren’t your people. You pull the strawberry cream cheese out the fridge and smooth it onto your bagel halves. That’s what you remind yourself, that the Wayne family isn’t your family, and that’s okay.

You were fifteen when you first got bit by the Butterfly Orbweaver. You were in the school’s gardens, skipping your math class. You were happier then, you think. You didn’t have to worry about the blood of innocents, not then. Butterfly Orbweavers are not known to have a strong bite, they’re harmless, and yet...

You felt its poisons merge with your DNA. Your eye, a lovely shade of blue, now a corroded brown. You remember how much pain you were in, you felt as if you were on fire. You tried to leave the garden, but every damn thing stuck to you. Web came out of your hands, like it merged with your skin, and you couldn’t breathe.

You remember calling out for help, but no one came. No one heard your pleas of desperation. You got up eventually, and you began to run. Your legs carried you faster than ever, and you felt as if you could hear everything, see everything. You felt changed, different than before, and yet, you still felt like nothing. It was never enough; it never would be enough.

But you felt like it was. For once in your life, you felt like you were worth something. People began to notice you. Maybe not Nicole, you, but Orbweaver. They began to notice her, and that was nice. It was nice to be seen, to be loved. You waited for so long to be good enough. For Bruce, for the press, for your mom.

But nothing is for free. You suffered, too. Orbweaver became targeted. You became wanted by the worst villains in fucking Gotham. Joker, Scarecrow, Poison Ivy, Bane, you could go on. Hit after hit, blood and bruises, skin removed from scars. You were hollowed out when you learned to be Orbweaver. If you were lucky, the other vigilantes would be merciful. They’d watch out for you, and you them. But mercy was a privilege, and not one you often allowed, not anymore.

You saw him, Bruce. He nodded at you when entered the gym, and you nodded back. You felt weird because he was being weird. He never even looked at you before, so why now? Not just him, but Dick waved at you, Jason as well. You didn’t know them, not well enough anyways, so why are they being kind? You didn’t like it. Something was wrong, and you didn’t need your spider senses to tell you that.

“Nicole, I love you, but don’t you think you’re being extra? I mean, your family acknowledged you. Y’know, like families do.” Your friend, Katie, says with her mouth full of green beans from the school's lunch.

Nylah, your girlfriend, chimes in, “I understand where she’s coming from Nic. I mean, how long has Bruce been ignoring you and your mom? It’s about time he starts to care. Also, Katie stop, that’s nasty.” She glares at the ginger.

You scoff, mushing your fork into the lasagna. “It’s just weird, he never cared before,” you sigh, “Also Katie, that is nasty.” You point your fork at her, smirking.

She rolls her eyes, “What? Is it hate on Katie day or something?!”

Nylah snorts, “Obviously.” You admire Ny. She’s pretty, you think. The sun shines off of her dark skin, and her studs go well with her larger nose. Her lips are full and pink, and you catch yourself staring at the girl. She catches you staring at her, and she smiles. Her pearly, white teeth, coming out.

Katie looks between the two of you and rolls her eyes once more. “Oh my god. You two are so fucking gay.” You and Ny chuckle, and you lean your head on her shoulders.

“Just because you are single and lonely, Kat, doesn’t mean we have to be.” You say, and then you press a kiss to your girlfriend’s cheek.

“Boo, y'all hate just because I’m ginger.” Ny giggles, and you feel good again. This feeling won’t last forever, but you’re okay with that.

A/N: Merry Christmas or happy holidays! Thank you all to those who have liked and followed! Also, the first divided (the one that separates the chapter and the first paragraph) should have a link for the song of the chapter. Also, this will eventually be yandere. Not extreme, but it will be there.

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dreamauri · 1 month ago

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♪ — 𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗕𝗟𝗘 - chapter four max verstappen x fem! driver! reader ( angst ) series summary . . . a mortal who dared to defy the impossible. Of grit forged in fire, and dreams that refused to yield. In a world where heroes are born, and few rise to become legends. You are a force to be reckoned with. Unshakable. Unstoppable. Indomitable. (11.4k words)

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests ) ( previous | next )

III - THE DEVIL WEARS LOUBOUTIN . . . ( your eighth year in Formula one, 2019 ) content warning . . . ( contains non-descriptive smut, Yn is 27 years old in this chapter, really fucking longer ass chapter, mention/allusions to sexual assult/r*ape, 2 seconds of angst brocedes)

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The days after Fernando Alonso left McLaren felt like stepping into a void. The garage, once alive with his sharp wit and unshakable confidence, now seemed eerily quiet. Every corner of the space felt haunted by his absence—the chair he used to sit in during debriefs, the mug he left behind on the engineering desk. You’d known it was coming for months, ever since he began hinting at conquering Le Mans and the WEC. Still, hearing him say it aloud in his dry, matter-of-fact tone had been like a punch to the chest.

For the rest of the 2018 season, you soldiered on, but the fire that once drove you began to flicker. Fernando was the anchor that had kept McLaren steady, the mentor who had guided you through the turbulence of F1. Without him, you felt unmoored. Every debrief, every race weekend, every night spent with your engineers tinkering with setups felt like a shadow of what it used to be.

Zak Brown had noticed.

“You’re still one of the best, Yn,” he told you during an end-of-season dinner, leaning forward in his chair as if his intensity could will you to stay. “We’re rebuilding, yes. But you’re the cornerstone of that rebuild. The team needs you.”

You swirled your glass of wine, staring at the liquid instead of his face. “The team needs Fernando,” you said softly. “But he’s gone.”

Zak didn’t have an answer for that, and deep down, neither did you.

“You're the one winning the championships. Not him.” He reminded you before giving up.

It became clearer as the season wrapped up that staying wasn’t an option. Fernando’s departure left a hole too vast to fill, and every race weekend reminded you of that. The cheerful new recruit, Lando Norris, was a spark of hope for McLaren, his youthful enthusiasm infectious. But it also made you feel like an outsider, like a relic of an era that had already passed.

“Yn, you’re leaving, aren’t you?” Lando asked one evening during post-season testing. His voice was softer than usual, his typical banter replaced with genuine concern.

You sighed, giving him a small smile. “I think so. It’s not you, Lando. It’s just . . . not home anymore.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I’ll miss you, you know. I was looking forward to having you around.”

“I’ll miss you too, rookie,” you said, ruffling his hair playfully. “But you’ll do great here. I know it.”

When the time came to recommend someone for your seat, you didn’t hesitate. Carlos Sainz had been a rising star, consistent, quick, and brimming with charisma. Over dinner with Zak, you brought it up.

“I think Carlos is the right fit,” you said, setting your fork down as you leaned forward. “He’s got the experience to help guide the team, but he’s young enough to connect with Lando.”

Zak nodded slowly. “He’s on our list, but . . . are you sure you want to leave? There’s no guarantee you’ll get the same support somewhere else.”

“I’m sure,” you said firmly. “Carlos will thrive here, and so will Lando. I’ll be cheering from somewhere else.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The moment your departure from McLaren was announced, the calls started rolling in. Ferrari, as always, was the loudest voice in the room. You met with their representative in a sleek, understated restaurant in Maranello, the ambiance a reflection of their reputation—elegant, timeless, but cold.

“We’ve wanted you for years,” the representative said, his hands clasped on the table between you. “This is your moment to become a legend. The Scuderia needs a driver like you, someone who understands the sport at its core. Youll wear red—be the first female in red.”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening around your glass. “It’s a tempting offer, but I need time to think.”

His expression wavered for a fraction of a second, a crack in the polished veneer. “Think carefully, Yn. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

But something in your gut felt uneasy. Ferrari had an aura of greatness, yes, but also a suffocating intensity. They weren’t just offering you a car; they were offering a cage gilded in red and gold.

Instead, you found yourself drawn to Sauber. The quieter and caler sister team, more unassuming, but it felt right. Fred Vasseur welcomed you with open arms, his down-to-earth demeanour a stark contrast to Ferrari’s high-stakes negotiations.

“You’ll have space here to grow,” he said during your first meeting at the factory. “And we’ll have the Ferrari engines next season. It’s the best of both worlds.”

That had sealed the deal. Joining Sauber allowed you to keep Ferrari at arm’s length while finding your footing in a team that wouldn’t smother you with expectations, but still having the ability to detach from sauver when you deemed you were ready to dive into the pool of red.

Carlos, now officially confirmed at McLaren, called you the day after the announcement.

“You recommended me, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice warm with gratitude.

You chuckled. “I might have mentioned your name once or twice.”

“Well, thank you,” he said sincerely. “But I’m still going to miss you in orange.”

“You can't stay that.” You warn him laughing. “It's papaya now,” you remind him, smiling to yourself.

“I’ll miss it too,” you admitted after a minute. “But you’re in good hands. Lando’s a handful, though, so watch out.”

“I think I can manage,” he said with a laugh. “Good luck with Sauber, Yn. And thank you—for everything.”

As you hung up the phone, you felt a weight lift off your shoulders. The next chapter was uncertain, but for the first time in months, you felt ready to face it.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The moment you crossed the finish line in P2 in Australia, everything slowed down. You stared at the steering wheel, half-expecting someone to say, “Just kidding.” But instead, your engineer’s voice crackled over the radio, a mixture of disbelief and triumph.

“P2, Yn. That’s P2. Incredible job. Take a bow!”

Your breath caught, then escaped in a shaky laugh. “No way. Are you sure? P2?”

Your voice quivered, a mix of disbelief and pure, unfiltered joy.

“Affirmative,” your engineer confirmed. “You earned it.”

The cooldown lap felt surreal, the cheers from the crowd overwhelming even through your helmet. As you pulled into parc fermé, the reality of your achievement hit you full force.

Standing on the second step of the podium, champagne dripping down your face, you beamed at the roaring crowd. Your teammate, Kimi Raikkonen, had finished just—a bit—behind you in P8. He strolled into the garage after the race like it was just another Sunday drive.

“Not bad,” he said, barely looking up as you ran toward him, trophy in hand.

“Not bad?” you gasped, holding the trophy under his nose like proof. “Kimi, I’m carrying this team already. What’s your excuse?”

His lips twitched ever so slightly into what could only be described as a Kimi smile. “I’m happy for you,” he said in his signature deadpan tone. “Just don’t get used to it.”

“Too late!” you teased, spinning on your heel to join the team photo.

The team crowded outside the garage, laughter and cheers filling the pit lane as they gathered for the photo. You sat front and center on the edge of the stage, your grin impossibly wide. The trophy sat on your lap, polished to a mirror shine. The mechanics hoisted your nameboard high, the words "P2" emblazoned in bold letters. As the cameras flashed, you pumped your fists in the air, yelling, “This is just the beginning!”

“Alright, superstar,” one of the mechanics called, chuckling. “Don’t let it get to your head!”

“It’s already there!” you shot back with a playful wink.

Two weeks later, in Bahrain, you shocked the world again, but this time there was no disbelief—just sheer, uncontainable joy. The moment you crossed the finish line, P1 flashing on the leaderboard, the tears came. Your engineer’s voice was nearly drowned out by your own sobs. You could never get over this feeling, no matter how many wins you've got.

“Yn, you’re! P1, we won! P1! Bring it home!”

You screamed so loud it echoed in the cockpit. “Yes! Yes! Oh my god, yes! Thank you, guys.” Even though the car had nothing to do with the win.

Your voice cracked as you made your way to parc fermé, where your team was already waiting with the Cuban flag, and an overwhelming amount of love. Climbing onto the top step of the podium was like a dream. You raised the trophy above your head, cheering with so much force your throat hurt. The champagne sprayed everywhere, soaking your suit as you celebrated like there was no tomorrow.

Kimi met you in the garage afterwards, his face the same stoic mask it always was, but his eyes held a spark of pride.

“Not bad,” he repeated, crossing his arms.

You grinned, holding the trophy aloft. “I’m sorry, do you mean spectacular? Phenomenal? Record-breaking?”

Kimi smirked—actually smirked. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, it’s already there,” you quipped, grabbing him by the arm. “Now, come on. You’re sitting in the front row of this team photo.”

When you won again in China, the paddock buzzed with your name. The cameras couldn’t get enough of you as you stood on the top step, draped in the Cuban flag, the sound of your anthem filling the air. You couldn’t stop smiling as the champagne-soaked through your suit. The cheers were deafening, but it was the sight of your team below, jumping and hugging each other, that made your heart swell.

Back in the garage, Kimi was waiting with the usual deadpan delivery. “I thought you were supposed to be figuring things out,” he said, raising a brow. “Not winning everything.”

You set your trophy on the table and leaned against it, crossing your arms. “I guess I’m just that good.”

Kimi shook his head, the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. “I’d ask you to slow down, but I think you’re just making my life easier. Keep it up.”

You laughed, grabbing your trophy again as you headed out for another team photo. You stood at the centre, your arm around Kimi, who muttered something about hating the cameras but stayed by your side anyway.

As the cameras flashed, someone from the back yelled, “Three races in, and she’s already a championship contender!”

You turned to Kimi, winking. “Looks like I’m getting used to this after all.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You had been lounging on the sofa, half-watching old race replays, when your phone buzzed on the coffee table. Seeing Toto Wolff’s name flash across the screen was a surprise. You hesitated before answering, your pulse quickening.

“Yn,” his deep, measured voice greeted you. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

“Not at all,” you replied, though your heartbeat told a different story.

Toto Wolff didn’t call drivers for casual chats.

“There’s an opportunity we need to discuss,” he continued. “We want you at Mercedes. Effective immediately.”

You sat upright, the phone nearly slipping from your grip. “Wait—what? Toto, that’s . . . I’m flattered, but why now? What’s going on?”

There was a pause on the other end, just long enough to make your stomach churn. “Valtteri’s situation is complicated,” he finally said, his words careful. “We believe you can contribute to the championship fight. You’ve shown incredible promise this season, and we think you’d be a perfect fit.”

The email notification pinged, and your gaze darted to the laptop. There it was: a contract with the iconic three-pointed star in the header. Mercedes. The team every driver dreamed of joining.

Your breath hitched. “This is . . . I mean, this is huge. But why me? Mid-season replacements aren’t exactly normal.”

“Because you’re the best option, Yn,” Toto said firmly. “And I wouldn’t offer this if I didn’t believe you could handle it.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Mercedes was the best team on the grid, and this was the kind of opportunity you couldn’t turn down. But his tone made it clear: you weren’t being courted as a rising star. You were a solution. A temporary fix.

“I’ll think about it,” you murmured, though you already knew your answer.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The paddock felt different when you arrived in Azerbaijan wearing styled Mercedes gear. The silver and black suited you, but it felt alien. Cold. The team welcomed you with polite smiles and distant handshakes, their warmth reserved for Lewis. The weight of their expectations settled heavily on your shoulders, a constant reminder that you were here to fill a gap, not to be part of the family.

Walking into the garage, you spotted Lewis chatting with Bono, his race engineer. He turned as you approached, his trademark grin flashing, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Welcome to the team,” he said, extending a hand. “Big shoes to fill, huh?”

You forced a smile, shaking his hand. “Thanks, Lewis. Good to see you again.” Was it though?

He nodded, his gaze assessing. It wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t warm either. You couldn’t blame him; you were an outsider stepping into a space that had been meticulously tailored to him and Valtteri.

Over the next few days, you threw yourself into the work, poring over data and pushing yourself during practice sessions. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. Judged. The engineers rarely approached you unless it was strictly necessary, their conversations always drifting back to Valtteri.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The car was a revelation, every corner an exercise in precision, every straight an adrenaline rush. By the time the final laps rolled around, you were leading the race. Your heart thundered in your chest as the checkered flag inched closer.

“Yn, this is it,” your race engineer said over the radio, his voice brimming with restrained excitement. “Stay focused.”

But then came the call that shattered everything.

“Yn, hold position. Let Lewis through.”

“What?” Your voice cracked, the word instinctive. You’d heard about team orders for second-seat drivers, but experiencing it firsthand was a different kind of pain.

“Team orders,” the reply came, calm and unwavering. “Let him take the win.”

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened. This was it. This was what being the second driver meant. It didn’t matter how well you drove or how hard you pushed; you were here to serve.

“Understood,” you said, the words burning like acid as you slowed just enough for Lewis to breeze past.

Crossing the line in P2 should’ve felt incredible like it did in Australia, but all you felt was hollow. You climbed out of the car, your movements were mechanical as you walked to your team, finished up your post-race interview and walked straight to the cooldown room before the podium. The crowd roared, oblivious to the storm raging inside you.

Lewis clinked his champagne glass against yours, a rehearsed smile plastered on his face. “Great job out there,” he said, his tone light. “Team effort.”

You forced a laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Team effort.”

The words tasted bitter.

Back in the motorhome, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind a crushing emptiness. You sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the wall as the muffled sounds of celebration echoed outside. Your phone buzzed with messages of congratulations, but you couldn’t bring yourself to answer.

A knock on the door startled you. It was Toto. He stepped inside, his expression unreadable.

“You did well today,” he said, his voice low.

“Did I?” you replied, your tone sharper than intended. “Because it doesn’t feel like it.”

His brow furrowed. “This is part of the job, Yn. You knew that when you signed the contract.”

You looked away, your throat tightening. “I didn’t think it would feel like this,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Toto sighed, placing a hand on your shoulder. “It gets easier,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction. “You’ll find your place.”

Find your place?

As the door closed behind him, you weren’t so sure. The echoes of the podium celebration felt like a cruel reminder of what you’d given up. You were wearing the colours of a champion, but inside, you’d never felt further from the glory you once dreamed of. And it was just a P2 finish.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The paddock felt different as you arrived at the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve for the Canadian Grand Prix. Maybe it was the heavy sky, the threat of rain mingling with the tang of tire rubber in the air, or maybe it was just you. Monaco had drained you. Back-to-back podiums were usually cause for celebration, but P2 and P3 had left you hollow. You’d walked away from those races feeling like a shadow of yourself, your competitive spirit dulled by circumstances you couldn’t control.

For once, you hadn’t dressed up. No statement heels or fitted blazers, no bold sunglasses perched on your nose. Instead, you wore your team kit, a pair of faded yoga pants, and Converse sneakers that had seen better days. You didn’t have the energy for anything else. The thought of slipping on heels and striding through the paddock with your usual confidence felt like pretending too much.

You plastered on a smile as you made your way to the autograph session, signing hats and posters for the younger fans who clustered around you. Their bright eyes and excitement tugged at something in you, something you hadn’t felt in weeks.

By the time you climbed into your car, the nerves had settled into a quiet hum beneath your skin. The race started cleanly enough, but it didn’t take long for chaos to find its way in. Lewis locked up into Turn 10, his tires smoking as he ran wide.

“Lewis is compromised,” came the call over the radio. “Yn, we need you to hold position and assist.”

“Copy,” you said through gritted teeth, shifting your focus to damage control. The rest of the race was a blur of defensive manoeuvres and calculated risks. You did everything you could to protect his position, but it came at a cost. When the checkered flag fell, he was in P3. You were in P5.

You parked your car in the back of parc fermé, far from the podium celebrations. The silence around you was deafening as you pulled off your gloves and helmet, your hands trembling slightly. When you tried to climb out of the car, your legs gave out, and you collapsed back into the seat, gasping for air. Your chest felt tight, each breath shallow and sharp like glass shards in your lungs. Panic attack, was if?

“Yn?” a voice called out, distant and distorted. A pair of hands reached for you, but you flinched away, shaking your head.

“I—I’m fine,” you managed to choke out, though it was a blatant lie. Your vision blurred as tears welled up, and the world tilted dangerously. You felt a pair of strong arms lift you from the car, the fabric of a race suit brushing against your cheek.

You barely registered the commotion as they carried you to the little ambulance that’s always on standby. Everything felt surreal, like you were watching yourself from a distance. The doctor’s voice was calm, but the words didn’t sink in. All you could hear was the pounding of your heart and the voice in your head telling you this was it—this was the beginning of the end.

Later, after they’d cleared you to leave, you found a quiet corner behind the motorhome. Your legs wobbled as you lowered yourself to the ground, your back pressing against the cold metal. You hugged your knees to your chest, burying your face in your arms. The tears came hard and fast, your body shaking with the force of them.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered to the empty air, your voice cracking. “I’m not good enough.” You whisper multiple times even if none of it was your fault. But somehow it still was your fault.

The words hung there, echoing in the small space. You didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until a shadow fell over you.

“Yn?” It was Seb’s voice, soft and hesitant. He crouched down beside you, his brow furrowed with concern. “What’s going on?”

You wiped at your face hastily, trying to compose yourself. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe you. Of course, he didn’t. “Bullshit,” he said gently. “Talk to me.”

Your shoulders sagged under the weight of his gaze, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I’m so tired, Seb. I’m tired of giving everything I have and feeling like it’s not enough. Like I’m not enough.”

He sat down beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Yn, you’re one of the best drivers on this grid. Don’t let one bad weekend make you forget that.”

“It’s not just one weekend,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s everything. The team, the politics, the constant pressure. I feel like I’m losing myself.”

Seb was quiet for a moment, then placed a hand on your shoulder. “Then find yourself again. Do what makes you happy, not what everyone else expects of you.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You dragged yourself into the paddock, your exhaustion visible in the slouch of your shoulders. Gone were the days when you strutted in with perfectly styled hair, bold sunglasses, and a confident smirk that dared anyone to question you. Today, you barely managed yoga pants, an oversized team shirt, and a pair of worn running shoes. The sheen of confidence you used to wear as armor felt too heavy to carry, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. Still, you forced a smile on your face.

“Yn! Yn!”

The excited voice of a child pulled your attention. Turning, you saw a young boy—no older than seven—bounding toward you, clutching a miniature diecast of your car in one hand and adjusting a bucket hat identical to the one you often wore. His cheeks were flushed with excitement as he stopped in front of you, practically vibrating with energy.

“You’re my favorite driver! I want to be just like you when I grow up!” His words came out in a single breathless rush, his wide eyes gleaming with adoration.

Your heart clenched, the heaviness you’d felt earlier lifting ever so slightly. Crouching down to his level, you took the diecast from his hand and signed it with a practiced flourish.

“Just like me?” you teased, ruffling his hair. “You’re going to be even better than me. And when you are, I’ll be the one asking for your autograph.”

His grin stretched impossibly wide, and you booped his nose, chuckling softly when he giggled. Waving him off to his parents, you stood and watched him bounce away, a bittersweet ache spreading through your chest.

I have to win this race, you thought, steeling yourself. You weren’t entirely sure who you were trying to prove yourself to—your fans, your team, or maybe even yourself. But one thing was clear: failure wasn’t an option.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The race was brutal. Every second behind the wheel demanded your full focus. You’d clawed your way to P1 with sheer grit, defending your position against Lewis with everything you had. The car was teetering on the edge, but so were you, digging deep into reserves of energy you didn’t think you had.

“Yn, defend harder!” your engineer barked over the radio.

“Don’t tell me what I already know,” you snapped back, your voice tight with exertion as you fought to keep Lewis behind you.

You thought you had it. The checkered flag was so close you could almost taste the victory champagne. But then, Toto’s calm yet firm voice came over the radio.

“Yn, swap positions with Lewis. Team orders.”

Your hands froze for a fraction of a second on the steering wheel, the world around you dulling as the words sunk in. Team orders. They were stripping P1 away from you.

“No,” you replied, a sharp edge in your voice.

“Yn,” Toto’s tone brooked no argument. “Swap positions. Now.”

Every fiber of your being rebelled, but the weight of the team—of your career—pressed down on you. Grinding your teeth, you eased off the throttle and let Lewis pass, watching P1 slip from your grasp.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

That evening, you found yourself at the bar in your hotel, nursing a drink that did little to numb the sting of disappointment. The bartender was chatty, spinning stories that you barely registered. You offered the occasional nod or hum of acknowledgment, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying the race in a relentless loop.

“Mind if I join you?” a familiar voice asked, breaking through your haze.

You turned to see Lewis sliding onto the stool beside you.

“What do you want?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Easy there. Just wanted to check on you.”

You snorted, turning back to your drink. “I’m fine.”

Lewis signaled to the bartender, ordering a drink for himself. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You don’t look fine, Yn. You’ve had too much to drink. Let me help you to your room.”

You hesitated, your head fuzzy from the alcohol but not enough to ignore the exhaustion weighing you down. With a reluctant nod, you allowed him to guide you toward the elevator after he downed his glass and tossed a 100 bill on the counter.

In the hallway leading to your hotel room, you fumbled with the keycard, your fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. Lewis took it from you with a soft chuckle, opening the door and stepping inside with you.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, expecting him to leave.

But he didn’t. The door clicked shut behind him, and he lingered, his presence suddenly feeling oppressive.

“You know,” he began, his voice soft but laced with something darker, “I see the appeal.”

You frowned, turning to face him. “What are you talking about?”

His fingers brushed the straps of your dress, and you instinctively stepped back, your heart hammering in your chest.

“I’ve heard the stories,” he continued, his tone almost mocking. “Jenson, Fernando… you’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

The words hit you like a slap, your breath catching in your throat. “What—what are you saying?”

He smirked, leaning in closer. “Do you sleep with all your teammates, Yn? Or is it just the ones you think can help you get a seat? Are you going to sleep with me too?”

“Stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

But he didn’t stop. The next moments blurred together, your protests weak against the haze of alcohol clouding your mind. You felt trapped, your body frozen as tears streamed down your face. A deep sense of shame and helplessness overwhelmed you, leaving you feeling icky and used.

When it was over, you curled up on the bed, tears soaking the pillow as Lewis left without a word. Alone in the dark, the weight of what had happened crushed you, the vulnerability you’d tried so hard to hide now exposed for the world—or at least one person—to see.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, stabbing at your eyes and forcing you awake. For a fleeting moment, you felt disoriented, your body heavy and your head throbbing. But as the memories of the night before came flooding back, it felt like a freight train had slammed into you at full speed.

You gasped, sitting up abruptly, the sheet pooling around your waist. Your chest heaved as the shame and disgust clawed at your insides, twisting into an unbearable ache. Tears spilled down your cheeks uncontrollably, your hands trembling as you tried to pull yourself together.

Why didn’t I stop him? Why didn’t I fight harder?

The thoughts spiraled, each one cutting deeper than the last. You hugged your knees to your chest, rocking slightly as sobs wracked your body. Your heart felt like it was tearing itself apart, and your body felt hollow—violated. Swallowing a plan B pill that you kept in your suitcase and never thought you’d use.

By the time you returned to Monaco, your sadness had curdled into something sharp and hot. The despair was gone, replaced by a fiery dripping red anger that consumed every thought. You couldn’t let him get away with this.

Without hesitation, you picked up your phone and dialed a familiar number.

“Nico? It’s Yn,” you said, your voice clipped and cold.

“Yn?” Nico sounded surprised. “What’s going on?”

“Can you let me into your building? I need to deal with something,” you replied, not bothering to explain further.

There was a pause before he sighed. “Fine. Just . . . don’t make me regret this.”

Armed with a metal baseball bat, you stormed into the garage where Lewis stored his prized car collection. The sight of his flashy vehicles—the Pagani Zonda, the McLaren P1, the custom Ferrari—only fueled your rage.

Without a second thought, you swung the bat with all your might, the satisfying crack of metal meeting glass echoing through the space.

“You bastard!” you screamed, smashing the windshield of the McLaren. The shards of glass scattered across the floor like glittering confetti.

Gripping the bat tightly, you moved to the Ferrari, scratching the word “CHEATER” with a key—that you had bought for this occasion—across the hood in jagged letters.

“Yn, what the hell are you doing?!”

Lewis’s voice rang out from the entrance of the garage, frantic and disbelieving. You turned to see him rushing toward you, panic etched across his face.

“Stop! Stop this right now!” he yelled, reaching for the bat.

You stepped back, swinging the bat threateningly in his direction. “Don’t you dare come near me,” you spat, your voice venomous.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Nico standing near the entrance, his arms crossed as he watched the chaos unfold. He didn’t move to stop you, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t get to tell me to stop,” you seethed, your grip tightening on the bat as you moved to the McLaren. “You don’t get to tell me anything after what you did!”

“Yn, listen—”

“LISTEN?!” you cut him off, your voice breaking. “You didn’t listen to me last night, did you? So why the hell should I listen to you now?”

With another swing, you knocked off the side mirrors of the Zonda, the metal clanging as it hit the floor. Lewis lunged forward, grabbing the bat this time and yanking it out of your hands.

“Stop this!” he shouted, his voice desperate. “You’re acting crazy!”

You stepped back, glaring at him with a fury that burned hotter than the Monaco sun. “Crazy? You think I’m crazy? You’re lucky this is all I’m doing! You were trying to get me pregnant, weren’t you? Three fucking rounds, huh? Trying to get rid of me, are you?!”

He looked at you, his chest heaving as he held the bat in one hand. “Yn, I—”

“Don’t.” Your voice was low, trembling with barely contained rage. “Don’t you ever think about laying your hands on me again. You hear me?”

His face fell, guilt and shame flickering across his features, but you didn’t give him a chance to respond. You turned on your heel and stormed out of the garage, the echoes of your words hanging heavy in the air.

As you passed Nico, he raised an eyebrow but said nothing, simply stepping aside to let you leave.

“This is like 2016 all over again,” Nico sighs to Lewis. “Only apparently you two are worse and you did something to really piss her off.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The German Grand Prix had been a disaster. Every detail of the crash replayed in your mind on an endless loop—the way the car spun out, the helpless slide into the gravel, the sickening thud of the barriers stopping you dead. The team radio had been a cacophony of voices—panic, disappointment, and commands you’d barely heard through the pounding in your chest.

And then there were the fans. Thousands of them, who had traveled across the world to see you fight for glory. Instead, they saw you fail.

You let out a shaky breath as the hotel room walls closed in around you, your mind racing with guilt and frustration. You couldn’t sit still, not like this. Grabbing your jacket, you left the room and wandered to a small, dimly lit bar tucked away from the chaos of the city.

It wasn’t the kind of place you’d usually go—not a noisy club where you could lose yourself in the crowd, but somewhere quieter. Somewhere where the whiskey could speak louder than your thoughts.

The amber liquid burned as it slid down your throat, and you welcomed the discomfort. Staring blankly into the depths of your glass, you listened to the muffled hum of conversations around you. It wasn’t enough to drown out the self-recriminating voices in your head, but it helped.

“You look like you’ve had a hell of a day,” a familiar voice cut through the haze.

You blinked and turned, startled to see Max Verstappen easing onto the stool beside you. His hair was slightly mussed, his usually sharp demeanor softened by weariness. He didn’t look smug or gloating, just . . . tired. A half-smile tugged at his lips as he raised his own glass.

“To twinks,” he said, his tone light but edged with an amused challenge.

It was so absurd, so unexpected, that a chuckle escaped you before you could stop it. Shaking your head, you lifted your glass to meet his. “To twinks,” you echoed, your lips curving into a faint smile.

The clink of glasses rang out between you, and you took another sip. For the first time all day, the knot in your chest loosened ever so slightly.

“Rough race?” Max asked after a moment, his eyes flicking over you knowingly.

You snorted, setting your glass down with a dull thud. “That obvious?”

He shrugged, leaning an elbow on the bar. “I saw the crash. Looked like hell. Thought you might’ve murdered someone when you stomped off the track.”

“Not yet,” you quipped, swirling the ice in your glass. “But give me five minutes and another drink.”

He chuckled, the sound low and genuine. “Let me guess—you’re blaming yourself.”

You turned to him, your brow furrowing. “I’m not blaming myself. I just . . .” You trailed off, biting the inside of your cheek. “I feel like I let everyone down. The team, the fans . . . myself.”

Max studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned closer, his voice softer but firm. “It’s racing. Shit happens. If the fans are real, they’ll stick by you. If they don’t? Screw them.”

You blinked, taken aback by his bluntness.

“Seriously,” he continued, his gaze unwavering. “You think I haven’t screwed up? We all do. What matters is how you come back. And knowing you . . .” He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “You’ll come back swinging.”

His confidence in you felt like a balm on a wound you hadn’t realized was so deep.

“Thanks, Max,” you murmured, meaning it more than you could express.

He shrugged, finishing his drink. “Don’t mention it. But if you really want to feel better . . .” He paused dramatically, his eyes glinting with mischief. “We could keep drinking and talk about how much we hate Lewis.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Oh, that’s a long conversation.”

Max grinned. “I’ve got all night.”

Hours later, the two of you stumbled into his hotel room, tipsy and laughing uncontrollably at some story Max had told about a time he’d accidentally insulted his team principal in Dutch.

“Wait—wait,” you wheezed, clutching your sides. “He really thought you called him a what?”

“A soggy pancake,” Max confirmed, deadpan.

You collapsed onto the couch, tears of laughter streaming down your face. “You’re an idiot.”

He flopped down beside you, his grin wide and unrepentant. “Maybe, but at least I’m a funny idiot.”

Your laughter faded into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes after hours of shared vulnerability. You looked over at Max, and for a moment, you saw him differently—not as another oponent, but as someone who understood the weight of the sport.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said quietly, your voice sincere.

Max met your gaze, his expression softening. “Anytime.”

Before you could overthink it, the lines between playful banter and something more had blurred entirely, leaving the air between you charged with an undeniable tension.

It started with the briefest hesitation, the kind that comes just before a decision you can’t take back. Then your lips were on his, the taste of whiskey and a hint of something uniquely Max lingering between you. His response was immediate, his mouth moving against yours with equal fervor, igniting the tension that had been simmering all night.

His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer as if trying to eliminate any remaining space between you. The urgency in his touch was matched only by the way your hands tangled in his hair, tugging slightly as a low sound escaped his throat—a mix of surprise and need.

At some point, you’d ended up straddling his lap, your legs bracketing his thighs as he leaned back against the couch. The world outside the dimly lit hotel room faded away, leaving just the two of you, caught in this reckless moment.

His hands hovered at your hips, fingers grazing your skin through the fabric of your shirt. There was a hesitancy in his touch, almost as if he was waiting for permission—waiting for you to decide where this was going.

“You’re full of surprises,” you murmured against his lips, breaking away just enough to catch your breath.

His lips curved into a smirk, his breath warm against your skin as he tilted his head to look at you. “And you’re bossy,” he quipped, his voice low and teasing, though his gaze held a flicker of something deeper—something vulnerable and unguarded that made your heart skip a beat.

You chuckled, the sound breathy and light as you shifted slightly, your hands trailing up his arms. “You like it,” you replied, your voice a mix of challenge and playfulness.

Before he could answer, you pinned his wrists above his head, pressing them into the couch. His eyes didn’t look t you in surprise or defiancy. It was more of . . . admiration.

“This what you had in mind?” he asked, his voice a mix of need and lust, though the way his chest rose and fell betrayed the effect you had on him.

“Something like that,” you said with a small smirk, leaning down to capture his lips again.

The kiss was slower this time, deeper, your movements deliberate as you savored the moment. Your heart pounded in your chest, the sensation almost deafening, but it wasn’t from nerves. This wasn’t about love or romance—it was raw, unfiltered need. It was about silencing the crushing weight of failure and replacing it with something electric, something alive.

His wrists flexed slightly against your grip, testing your hold but not resisting, as if letting you take control was part of the game. His breath hitched when your lips left his to trail down his jaw, brushing against the curve of his neck where you felt his pulse thrumming beneath your lips.

“Not what I expected tonight,” Max murmured, his voice rough as you pulled back to meet his gaze.

You arched a brow, your fingers loosening their hold on his wrists but not letting go entirely. “Disappointed?”

His grin returned, but his gaze softened. “Not even close.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was late in the evening, and the email sat open on your laptop screen, the Red Bull logo at the top almost mocking you. You’d read it three times already, and it still didn’t feel real. An offer for a seat at Red Bull Racing? It felt surreal, and yet.. . . . wrong. Especially since it came out of nowhere.

You didn’t even bother to calm down as you stormed over to Max’s suite. Knocking would’ve been polite, but this was urgent. Instead, you banged on the door until he swung it open, looking more confused than annoyed.

“What the—Yn?” Max asked, brows furrowed as he took in your frazzled expression.

You shoved your phone toward him, the email glaringly bright in the dim hallway. “What the hell is this?”

Max glanced down, his blue eyes scanning the screen. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Is this—wait, you got an offer from Red Bull?”

“No, Max, it’s a recipe for apple pie,” you snapped sarcastically, your voice laced with frustration. “Of course, it’s an offer! Did you know about this?”

His head jerked back, startled by your tone. “No! Why would I? Do you think I’d keep something like this from you?” His defensiveness was immediate, his hands raised as if to ward off your accusations.

You blinked, thrown off by his reaction. “Wait . . . so you didn’t know?”

“No! I’m not in charge of who they send offers to!” Max exclaimed, his voice softening when he noticed the confusion on your face. “Yn, I swear, I had no idea.”

Your anger began to dissipate, replaced by an odd mixture of relief and confusion. “Oh . . .” you muttered, lowering your phone. “I just—I thought maybe you— . . . put a word in for me because we slept together . . .”

“No no, I’d never—no.” Max’s lips curled into a thin, bitter smile. A moment passes and, his eyes light up with excitement as he took a step close, realization dawning upon him. “You’re going to be my teammate!”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The Hungarian Grand Prix circuit buzzed with life, and for once, the chaos of cameras and journalists didn’t bother you. Maybe it was the new team kit—the Red Bull logo emblazoned on your chest—or the knowledge that you’d just broken yet another record: three teams in a single season. The flash of cameras was relentless as reporters shouted questions, all variations of the same theme.

“Yn, why leave Mercedes?” “What led to your sudden move?” “Is this a statement about their performance?”

You kept your smile polite, offering no comment as you walked briskly toward the Red Bull motorhome. Let them speculate. The truth was your own, and for now, that was enough.

The first thing that hit you when you stepped into the garage was the warmth—not the temperature, but the atmosphere. It was nothing like Mercedes. There, everything had been pristine, clinical, and cold. The walls seemed to echo every word you spoke, and conversations felt like transactions. No one greeted you unless it was mandatory. Here, though?

“Welcome to the family!” someone called out, their smile genuine as they clapped you on the back.

Another handed you a branded bottle of water, already chilled. “You’re going to love it here, Yn. It’s about time we got you in red and blue.”

The chatter wasn’t just directed at you, either. Everyone in the garage seemed connected, laughing and talking like old friends. It felt… warm. Human.

And then there was Max.

“Yn!” His voice was unmistakable as he jogged over, his grin wider than you’d ever seen it. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was more excited than you were about this move. “You made it,” he said, gesturing grandly to the motorhome. “What do you think?”

You looked around, taking in the relaxed energy. “It’s… different,” you admitted, trying not to let the emotion creep into your voice. “Nice. Comfortable.”

Max leaned against the wall, his arms crossed but his grin unwavering. “Translation: better than Mercedes.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched into a smile. “Don’t get cocky. I’m still settling in.”

“Right, right.” He straightened, motioning toward the coffee station. “Want a tour? Or are you too busy signing autographs for the photographers out there?”

You laughed, nudging his arm as you passed him. “Not all of us have been in the spotlight since we were teens.”

Max followed, his expression softening. “You know,” he said, almost casually, “I grew up watching you. Back when you were still racing in juniors.”

You froze mid-step, turning to look at him. “Seriously?”

He nodded, his cheeks tinting pink as he shrugged. “Yeah. You were… impressive. Still are. It’s kind of surreal having you here.”

Your heart hammered in your chest at his admission, but you forced a chuckle, brushing it off. “You realize you’re making me feel ancient, right?”

Max smirked, leaning closer with a teasing glint in his eye. “Nah, just iconic.”

Media days with Max were a surprising mix of chaos and ease. You’d both flit from photoshoots to commercials to filming for Drive to Survive, with him cracking jokes to keep the mood light. Somehow, between the flashing cameras and rehearsed soundbites, he’d nudge you with his elbow, offering a quiet, “You’re stealing the show, you know.”

You’d roll your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “I’d say you’re exaggerating, but we both know you love the attention.”

“I’d rather share it with you,” he shot back, smirking in that infuriatingly charming way that always made your stomach flip.

It was effortless with him. Unlike anyone else.

"Okay, Max, this time can we both look at the camera?" you teased, swatting him lightly after he made yet another goofy face during a shoot.

He grinned shamelessly, leaning closer. "What? They like it when I show personality."

You rolled your eyes, unable stop the smile tugging at your lips. "Pretty sure your personality is going to get us kicked out."

Moments like these with him felt light and playful, almost childlike in a way that made your chest ache. It reminded you of Fernando—how he’d been a constant presence, a mentor, a partner in the chaos of racing. But this? This was softer, younger, unguarded. With Max, there was no need to carry the weight of years of experience or expectations. He didn’t just meet you where you were—he made the world brighter, easier to navigate, just by being in it.

And he adored you.

You felt it in the way he’d sneak up behind you in the garage, his arms wrapping around your waist as he lifted you off the ground.

“Guess who?” he’d whisper, and you’d laugh even though it was obvious.

"Max, put me down before someone sees!"

"Not until you guess," he’d tease, holding you tighter, his grin audible in his voice.

Then there was the rose. On your birthday, he’d appeared in front of you, fidgeting awkwardly with a single red flower in his hand. His ears were pink, and he avoided your gaze as he thrust it toward you.

“Here,” he mumbled.

You blinked, surprised, before gently taking the rose from him. “Max, did you… get this for me?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at you. “Yeah, well… you said you liked roses once, and I saw it, and—look, if you don’t like it, I can—”

“Shut up,” you interrupted, pulling him into a tight hug. “It’s perfect.”

You’d never seen him smile so big, his arms wrapping around you like he never wanted to let go.

Max loved you in ways he didn’t know how to put into words. He loved the quiet moments, the ones where you whispered praises after a long day, your fingers brushing through his hair as he rested his head in your lap. He loved the way you kissed him—soft and slow, like you had all the time in the world, and then playful and quick, laughing against his lips when he tried to pull you back for more.

And after podiums? Those were his favorite.

The high of a race win or even a second-place finish wasn’t complete until he was tangled up in bed with you, the night filled with soft laughter and touches that felt like promises. The mornings after were just as special, waking up to your fingers combing through his hair, your voice a gentle hum as he buried his face in your neck.

“Morning, champ,” you’d tease, your voice still heavy with sleep.

“Morning,” he’d mumble back, pulling you closer. “Let’s stay here all day.”

You’d chuckle, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Tempting, but you’ve got a media briefing in two hours.”

He groaned dramatically, but his grip didn’t loosen. "They can wait."

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The steam from the shower still clung to the room as Max sat on the edge of the bed, a towel loosely draped around his shoulders. You stood behind him, carefully drying his hair with another towel, your touch gentle as if trying to smooth away more than just the water droplets. You were too quiet, your usual spark dulled by the weight of a bad race.

“Racing is not always about winning,” Max said suddenly, his voice soft but sure.

You paused, fingers tangled in his damp hair. “Are you quoting Cars? The movie?”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced up at you. “Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But it’s true.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “That’s rich, coming from you. Mr. ‘Win or Die Trying.’”

He didn’t laugh, though. Instead, he reached up and lightly squeezed your wrist, his touch grounding. “I mean it, Schat. You’re too hard on yourself. P5 isn’t the end of the world.”

You sighed, resuming your task, the towel moving through his hair in slow, deliberate strokes. “It’s not about the number. It’s about letting people down.”

Max was quiet for a moment, his head leaning into your touch. “The people who really care about you don’t measure you by a trophy,” he said. “Trust me, I know.”

There was something in his voice—something raw and unspoken—that made your chest ache. You didn’t push, though. Max never opened up easily, and you’d learned to let him share on his own terms.

When his hair was finally dry, you tossed the towel aside and crawled onto the bed beside him. He pulled you into his arms without hesitation, his body warm against yours as you nestled into the crook of his shoulder.

You played with his hair absently, the strands softer now that they were dry. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner, and for a while, you let the stillness soothe you.

Then, without really meaning to, you broke the silence. “My parents divorced before I was born.”

Max shifted slightly, his head tilting so he could see your face. “Yeah?” he prompted gently.

You nodded, your fingers still threading through his hair. “My mom was a ballerina. She was... not the greatest. Beautiful, talented, but toxic as hell. And my dad? He was this random college dropout mechanic who probably should’ve stayed far away from her.”

You felt Max’s arms tighten around you, his quiet presence encouraging you to keep going.

“I lived with my dad,” you continued, your voice softer now. “It wasn’t easy, but he made it fun. Watching races with him—those were the best days. It didn’t matter how hard things were; seeing the cars, the speed, the drama... it made everything feel exciting. Like maybe life could be something more.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening. “But then he got sick. Cancer. And suddenly, it was just me and my mom.”

Max’s hand found yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “She didn’t make it easy, did she?” he asked quietly.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Not even close. She tried to make me into her mini-me—this perfect ballerina with the perfect body and the perfect life. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t cut out for it.”

Max didn’t laugh, but you could feel the sadness in the way he held you closer.

“I got into racing because of my dad’s brother,” you went on. “I was visiting my grandma, and he took me to a local track. I fell in love with it right away. After that, I’d sneak out every weekend just to race.”

A faint smile crossed your lips as you remembered. “Once my mom found out, she was furious. She said, ‘If you’re going to play boy sports, you might as well look the part,’ and then she chopped my hair off.”

Max’s brow furrowed. “She cut your hair?”

“Yeah. And when it grew back, she’d pull on it during arguments. So one time, I cut it myself just to spite her.”

His hand slid up to cup the back of your head, his touch protective. “That’s... awful,” he said, his voice tight.

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “It’s whatever. People didn’t make it easy, either, when they found out I was half Persian. They’d say things like, ‘Oh, that’s why you’re so exotic-looking,’ or make dumb comments about my name.”

Max didn’t say anything this time. Instead, he curled into you, his face pressing into the curve of your neck. You felt him exhale shakily, and when you glanced down, you realized his eyes were damp.

“Max?” you whispered, your fingers brushing his temple.

He blinked quickly, trying to compose himself. “I just... I hate that you went through that,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. “You didn’t deserve it.”

His sincerity caught you off guard, your heart squeezing painfully in your chest. You tightened your grip on him, your fingers stroking soothingly through his hair.

“I’m here now,” you said softly. “And I’m okay.”

Max nodded against you, his arms wrapping around you as if to anchor himself. “You’re more than okay,” he whispered. “You’re amazing.”

For a moment, the world outside the hotel room didn’t exist. It was just you and Max, tangled together, your shared wounds binding you in ways words never could.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The chill bit at your skin as you stood outside the Red Bull HQ, wrapping a thick scarf around Max’s neck. His breath came out in small puffs of mist as he shivered slightly, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. It was November, and the cold had settled into the city like an uninvited guest.

“You’re gonna catch a cold if you keep standing like that,” you murmured, your voice a quiet mix of concern and care as you adjusted the scarf, making sure it covered him properly. Max looked up at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

You took his hand without thinking, pulling him toward the street as you both crossed toward the restaurant. His hand was warm in yours, but it wasn’t enough to ease the tension that seemed to cling to you lately. Max noticed the way your jaw clenched every so often, the quiet strain in your eyes that had only deepened as the championship battle grew more intense. The race against Hamilton had been hard on you, and he could see how much it was wearing you down, how you kept it together outwardly but were quietly unraveling inside.

Max couldn’t look away from you as you led him through the city streets. The way you held his hand, the way you moved with such purpose, but also with a subtle weight—he could feel it, the pressure pressing down on you, and it made his chest tighten.

When you reached the restaurant, a little place you two had come to know well, Max let you guide him inside. The warm air hit you both like a gentle wave, but it did nothing to lift the heaviness that had followed you around lately. Max, ever so observant, studied you while you scanned the menu. He didn’t know how to help, how to ease the worry from your brow, but it killed him to see you so stressed.

His gaze shifted to the table, to the way your fingers gently tapped on the menu as if lost in thought. He couldn’t help but notice how you unconsciously brushed your hair behind your ear, a gesture so small yet intimate, and it only made his heart race.

But there was something gnawing at him, something unsettling, and it wasn’t the race. It was Fernando. He had seen the texts—those little moments when your phone buzzed with his name, when your smile softened in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in his chest. Fernando was always checking in on you, reminding you to eat, wishing you luck, and offering words of comfort when you lost. Max wasn’t blind, he saw how you responded to him, to his kindness, and it made something inside him burn with jealousy.

He never liked it, the way Fernando seemed to be in your life in a way that felt too familiar, too close. It didn’t help that there was this unspoken connection between you two, a connection that Max could feel but couldn’t quite place. It reminded him of something—something like the bond he shared with you, the way he needed you, and suddenly he didn’t want to share that with anyone else.

It was late one night, after you’d both collapsed into bed together. The air was heavy with the remnants of shared intimacy, your warm breath still mingling with his, when you slipped into the shower to clean up. Max stayed behind, still feeling the lingering echoes of your touch on his skin, his mind racing. And then, without thinking, he reached for your phone, the device you always left unlocked with no second thought. He didn’t know why he did it, but he had to know what was going on.

Scrolling through your messages, he found the ones from Fernando—text after text filled with care, support, and something else that felt too familiar, too much like his own feelings for you. And in that moment, he couldn’t breathe.

With a shaky breath, Max deleted every single message from Fernando and blocked his number, sealing the distance in a way he never dared before.

He didn’t want to lose you. You were his. You were everything.

When you stepped out of the shower, still wet and flushed from the heat, Max pretended like nothing had happened. He gave you that half-smile, the one he always wore when he was hiding something, and he pulled you into his arms without saying a word.

But as you sat together at dinner, watching you study the menu, his fingers brushed against yours, holding you tighter than before. He didn’t want to share you with anyone else. You were his anchor, his safe place. And just like that, as your laughter filled the space between you, he found himself lost in your presence once more, the weight of everything else fading into the background.

Max watched you as you looked up from the menu, your eyes meeting his with a soft curiosity, unaware of the battle raging inside of him.

“Max?” you asked, breaking the silence between you two.

He shook his head, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just thinking about how lucky I am,” he said, his voice steady, even though his heart was hammering in his chest. He squeezed your hand, the motion a promise, but also a way to keep you close.

“You’re lucky?” You raised an eyebrow at him, clearly teasing, but there was a warmth in your tone that made him feel lighter for a moment.

He nodded, his thumb tracing circles over your skin. “Yeah. I’m lucky you’re with me.”

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The sun was setting over the Abu Dhabi skyline, casting a warm golden hue over the circuit. The air was thick with anticipation, and you could feel it in every corner of the paddock. Your heart raced faster than it had all season. It was the final race of the year, and everything hinged on this moment. You didn’t need to win, you just needed to finish above Lewis in the points to clinch the championship. It was as simple, and as terrifying, as that.

You stood outside the car, your hands running through your hair as you tried to calm your nerves. The weight of the day, of the season, pressed down on you like a heavy blanket. Your mind raced, analyzing every scenario, but all you could do was push forward.

Before the race, Martin Brundle came over for the usual pre-race interview, his familiar voice cutting through the buzz of the pit lane. The camera crew was ready, the lights blinding, but you forced yourself to focus. “Yn, how are you feeling going into today? It’s been such a tight season. You’ve come so far.”

You smiled, trying to play it cool, but your stomach fluttered. The nerves were there, but you couldn’t let them show. Not now. Not today. You straightened your shoulders, looking directly at the camera. “It’s normal, it’s okay,” you chuckled, trying to calm yourself with the words. “I mean, it’s okay to feel nervous, right? It’s a big race. But I’m happy either way. Win or not, it’s been an incredible season, and I’m proud of how far we’ve come.”

You blew a kiss to the camera, your fans cheering from behind the screen. Your voice cracked slightly as you said the last part, but you quickly covered it up with a laugh. It wasn’t the first time you’d been in a pressure-packed situation, but this—this was different. This wasn’t just another race. This was the race.

As you climbed into your car, the roar of the engines around you, the scent of gasoline and tire smoke, it all felt so surreal. Your hands were steady on the wheel, but your heart pounded so loudly it almost drowned out the noise of the pit. The starting lights counted down, and when they went out, you were off.

From the very beginning, you knew this race wouldn’t be easy. Lewis was relentless, fighting you at every corner, every straight, and the gap between you was closing faster than you expected. The tension in the cockpit was suffocating, each lap feeling like an eternity as you and Lewis went back and forth, pushing each other to the limit. Every move, every decision mattered. Your thoughts were a blur of strategy, but there was one thing you couldn’t shake—the weight of the championship on your shoulders.

The radio crackled to life, your race engineer’s voice cutting through your focus. “Yn, hold your line, we’ve got this. Stay calm, we’re tracking every move.”

“I’m trying,” you replied, your voice tight, but you knew there was nothing you could do but focus. “I just... can’t let him pass.”

The battle with Lewis continued, and by the time you crossed the line, you were exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. You hit the brakes, beginning the cool-down lap, but everything seemed to slow down. It was like the world had frozen, and for a moment, all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat. The crowds blurred in the distance, the sound of their cheers faint against the rush of blood in your ears.

Your eyes locked onto the lights ahead, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to exhale. You had done it. No matter what happened now, you had done your part.

The radio clicked again, and your engineer’s voice came through, calm and measured at first, but you could hear the joy just beneath the surface.

“You’ve done it,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “Yn, you’ve done it. You are the World Champion.”

And just like that, the world snapped back into focus. Your vision blurred as tears filled your eyes, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You gripped the steering wheel, your chest tightening, and before you knew it, a few tears were slipping down your cheek. The emotion hit you all at once—the relief, the exhaustion, the joy. You had made it. You had earned it.

Through the radio, you could hear the cheers of the team, the pit crew, your engineer. You could practically feel the excitement radiating from them, even as you spoke. “Thank you. Thank you to everyone. We’ve made it... I—” Your voice cracked, and you couldn’t help it. “I’m so proud of this team. Please, please thank Max for being the best teammate anyone could ask for.”

The words tumbled out of you, and they meant more than you could express. Max had been there every step of the way, a constant support when things got tough, always by your side. He was more than a teammate. He was family.

As you pulled into the pit lane, the roar of the crowd was still loud in your ears, but the world around you felt like it had shifted into slow motion. The car came to a halt, and before you could even jump in their arms, the team was around you. The pit crew and engineers were cheering, clapping you on the back, and hugging you in a whirlwind of celebration. Your heart was still pounding from the intensity of the race, but the joy—oh, the joy—made everything else fade away.

You looked around at your team—your family, and as you stood up from the car, your eyes landed on someone. Fernando. He was standing just the othe other side of Parc Ferme , leaning against the wall, arms crossed. You didn’t have to think twice. Your feet moved before your brain could catch up, and before you knew it, you were standing in front of him, helmet and gloves in hand.

You dropped the helmet onto the ground, flinging your arms around Fernando in one swift motion. The feeling of his arms wrapping around you was instant, comforting, grounding. He pulled you into him tightly, almost as if he was afraid you would slip away if he let go. You clung to him for a moment, the weight of the season, the race, and the championship finally settling on your shoulders.

When he pulled away, he cupped your cheeks gently, his touch warm and reassuring. You leaned into his palm instinctively, your eyes closing for a second, savoring the moment of peace. Fernando’s eyes were soft, full of pride, and for a fleeting second, it felt like everything in the world had aligned just for this.

"You did it," Fernando murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve earned it.”

You smiled at him, your heart swelling with gratitude. There were so many people who had supported you along the way, but Fernando—Fernando had always been there, in ways both big and small. His presence in your life felt like a quiet strength, one you had relied on more than you ever admitted.

“Thanks, Fernando,” you said softly, your voice almost breaking, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, surrounded by the chaos of the celebration, but existing in your own bubble of shared understanding.

Later, after you’d finally caught your breath, the post-race interview called. You made your way toward the cameras, your legs still shaky but steadied by the adrenaline pumping through your veins. You stood in front of the microphone, your heart still racing, and your hand moved to brush your damp hair from your face. The weight of the moment hit you again, but this time, it was a different kind of weight—a weight of triumph, of victory. You had earned this, earned everything that came with it.

And then came Jenson, your former teammate, his smile wide as ever. “The Indomitable Yn Ln,” he said, his voice filled with admiration and humor.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light, but full of emotion. It felt like a lifetime ago when you had first earned that nickname. Now, here you were, standing in front of millions, re-earning it with every race, every challenge you overcame.

You raised the mic to your lips, ready to speak, to say something profound, to share your gratitude. But when you opened your mouth, nothing came out. Instead, a smile spread across your face, wide and genuine, the kind of smile that could only come from sheer, unadulterated happiness. It wasn’t the words you had prepared that mattered. It was this moment, right here, right now, that spoke louder than anything you could ever say.

And that was enough.

The Indomitable Yn Ln, that sounds so nice.

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