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cleo-fox · 11 months ago

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Conquer

Part 1 of 5

Series Masterlist

Summary: The king intends to take a bride.

You just never thought it would be you.

(Soulmate AU where Loki won)

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Tag List: I don’t have a tag list for this fic, sorry! The best way to hear about updates is to follow me on Tumblr or subscribe to the fic on AO3.

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, enemies to lovers, dirty talk, praise kink, oral sex (fem receiving), teasing, p in v sex, vaginal fingering.

A/N: I’m kind of fascinated by the concept of a soulmate AU where Loki wins and this is just another take on that thought. If you've read my fic Surrender, this one is a different universe (an AU of an AU? Is that a thing?)

I am indebted to @infinitystoner, who was kind enough to talk me through some of my doubts about this fic. This one is for you, K. (Also, everyone should go read her work, it's fabulous).

The king intends to take a bride.

At first you think it’s just a stupid rumor, but with time, it becomes clear that it’s not merely a stupid rumor, but a true rumor about a stupid plan. He hasn’t found his soulmate; the speculation is that this is about producing an heir or something similar. Which is also stupid because he’s the one who took over your fucking planet. He can make new rules for succession if he wants to. He doesn’t have to make other people suffer.

You, like most people, still harbor a lot of anger and resentment toward Loki.

You don’t know who he’s going to rope into this plan, but you feel bad for her already. Imagine not only having to be married to that monster, but being in this weird second place to whoever is unfortunate enough to be his soulmate. Imagine having to fuck him, to try and have his kid, all the while knowing you’ll be discarded once he finds his soulmate. Imagine having to go along with all of this and never being able to say what you really think.

The only person you feel sorrier for is whoever turns out to be his soulmate.

Later, all of this will strike you as absurdly ironic.

But you don’t know any of that yet.

You took a job at the hotel because you needed a change of pace after Loki took over. It was just a front desk job—you checked people in and out, answered questions, and said “let me get my manager” whenever there was a serious problem with a guest. It wasn’t glamorous or fun, but it was straightforward and you never had to bring work home with you.

The one thing that you never really considered was whether you were inadvertently choosing a job that would bring you into closer proximity to the man you were trying so desperately hard to not think about at all.

You probably should have considered it—you knew when you took the job that he did a fair amount of travel. You never really understood why—he conquered the entire fucking planet, you think he’d be content to just chill in his palace or whatever. But no. He was constantly on the move, constantly showing up and demanding to be accommodated, and people put up with it because what else are they supposed to do? You can’t exactly persona non grata the guy that successfully took over your planet and made himself king. If that worked, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

You kind of assumed that he wouldn’t show up to your hotel—it wasn’t conveniently located to anything useful and while it technically had a five star rating, you didn’t think it offered the same caliber of accommodations as the places he was known to stay.

As it turns out, you were wrong on all counts. Hilariously wrong. Because now his steward is here in your hotel lobby. Or his…emissary? You’re not sure what this guy’s official title is. You recognize him from the news—he can often be spotted in the entourage of guards and staff that accompany Loki everywhere, but you don’t know his name. He is rattling off a monologue of sorts—the king requires accommodations, only the finest rooms, and so on. You feel as though you are having an out of body experience as you click through the booking software and confirm that the penthouse is available. You breathe an inner sigh of relief—it would have been manageable to evict whichever rich person had booked it, but it would have fucked up the cleaning crew’s scheduling for at least the next week and you know that corporate is already up Marisol’s ass about your location’s overtime.

You don’t really expect him to show up during this transaction. If you had, you would have said “let me get my manager” and washed your hands of it—you don’t get paid nearly enough to deal with self-proclaimed kings. But as you are booking the room (who the fuck are you supposed to list as the guarantor on the invoice? This wasn’t covered in your training), Loki storms in, followed by a cadre of guards.

You’re not really prepared to see him in person—that’s partly why you freeze. He’s so tall and well…real. It sounds stupid, but it’s jarring seeing him in front of you instead of on a screen or in a picture. He’s not exactly more frightening, but looking at him makes your pulse quicken.

He’s scolding the steward (emissary?) about something—you’re so distracted that you miss exactly what it is that has him so annoyed.

And then you realize that the mark on your left wrist is burning.

You swallow hard. No. Not him.

Loki looks up and his eyes lock with yours.

Fucking hell.

The wedding is a spectacle, to say the least.

Your dress is fucking ridiculous. Instead of the traditional white, you are draped in yards of green fabric covered in thousands of emeralds and diamonds and painstakingly embroidered with thread made of real gold and silver. It is very much a statement about who you are and who you belong to. You don’t care for it, but you don’t really have a choice—the details of the ceremony have been largely left to other people to decide. Part of you thinks they must have been planning for this for years, based on the number of things that are already prepared. Or maybe having access to magic negates the need for planning ahead.

You are much too angry to actually ask Loki about any of this. Not that you see much of him before the ceremony anyway.

You go through the motions of the ceremony, trying to keep your cool. It’s only been a week since he found you at the hotel, so the fact that you haven’t consummated your soulbond is more akin to an annoying itch than anything more disruptive, but when he kisses you at the conclusion of the ceremony, it's…intense, to say the least. The mild ache that settled itself between your thighs last week seems to swell, sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core. When he slides his tongue past your lips, all you want to do is release a wanton moan directly into his mouth and rub yourself shamelessly against him. The fact that you’re standing on a platform while the entire world looks on is really the only thing that stops you.

The fact that this is your immediate reaction scares you a bit. You know it’s biology—soulbonds are meant to be consummated isn’t just a saying—but there’s part of you that feels like you should have a stronger handle on that impulse. You are mad at him, you remind yourself. He took over your entire planet, installed himself as king, and then had the audacity to be your soulmate. Focus. Be angry.

You wonder if your family and friends are watching. Your phone ran out of battery the night after he found you and you haven’t had the heart to charge it. You’re barely managing your own emotional reaction—you’re not ready to invite anyone else into it just yet.

The rest of your wedding day is a blur. You meet a bunch of important people and retain exactly none of their names or roles. There is an elaborate multi-course feast and you manage to eat without spilling food on your dress, which feels like a small miracle. You meet more important people and somehow retain even less information. You dance—a few dances with important people whose names you’ve forgotten, but mostly with Loki. The sun sets. They bring out an elaborate dessert course. You dance again. Loki’s hand on your waist fans the flames of desire that you’re trying so hard to ignore.

Finally, you’re whisked away to prepare for bed. It took three people to get you into your dress, and it takes just as many to get you out. They help you into a nightgown that you also didn’t get to pick out—and in fact, it’s the first time you’re seeing it at all. It’s almost too pretty to sleep in, though you suppose that’s the point—you’re supposed to fall asleep naked and sated in the arms of your new husband (god, it’s so weird that you have a husband). You’re not so sure that this is the specific fate that’s in your cards, but you anticipate the nightgown will be coming off at some point this evening. In the interim, you look stereotypically virginal in white lace and chiffon, a glittering emerald pendant resting in your cleavage.

You’ve been staying in a guest suite since he found you, but tonight, they bring you to his rooms. Your rooms, you suppose. Somehow, you doubt he’s the sort who believes that husbands and wives should sleep separately.

The lights are on, but it’s quiet. You wonder if he’s even here.

You approach the couch that sits in front of the floor to ceiling windows that overlook the city. You can see fireworks and twinkling lights of different celebrations and your stomach clenches like a fist. It’s supposed to be in honor of you. Earth’s new queen. A title that shouldn’t even exist, let alone belong to you.

You turn away from the window and sit down on the couch. You stare at the wall, hands twisting the delicate fabric of your nightgown in your lap.

You hear a sound in the other room—his study, you think—and your heart leaps to your throat, practically buzzing with an emotion that feels like the strange cousin of anxiety and anticipation.

You keep your eyes locked on the wall as you listen to his footsteps draw closer.

“It’s customary to announce yourself when you enter someone’s quarters, you know.”

You pause for a moment before letting your gaze trail to him. It’s a conscious, obnoxious power play on your part—you are trying to show him that you still have agency, that he has not yet won your respect or admiration.

You’re not even sure that it registers, which only serves to irritate you further.

He is still wearing most of his wedding clothes, though he’s taken off the fine surcoat from the ceremony, exposing the soft tunic he was wearing underneath. He is smirking—that seems to be his expression of choice, you’ve noticed.

“Aren’t these my rooms too?” you ask. “Is it customary to announce myself in my own space?”

You are trying to be rude, but it doesn’t seem to matter: he simply laughs.

“You are spirited,” he says, looking you over appreciatively, stirring a wild and burning need in your hips, slickness collecting in the lacy white underwear that had been chosen for you.

“And you intend to break me, is that it?” you snap with more venom than is perhaps wise.

“Of course not.” His answer surprises you, though you are determined to not let that show in your face. “Your will is part of your appeal. I’d no sooner crush a rose beneath my boot.”

You are skeptical of this claim given the amount of damage he did to New York City, but your traitorous cunt throbs at his words nonetheless.

“I’m not happy about any of this, you know,” you say, hoping that your anger will act like roiling floodwaters on the firestorm of lust that’s continuing to build in your hips.

It doesn’t, of course. What’s worse: he laughs. Again.

“I’d gathered,” he says. “You are wonderfully unsubtle when you’re angry.”

“I mean, are you surprised?” you say irritably. “I didn’t even get to pick out my own wedding dress, for fuck’s sake.”

“This is the burden of the office, I’m afraid,” he says. “Your wants and desires are often secondary to the needs of the crown.”

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from screaming at him. “I think you’re missing the point.”

“I think you’ll find I��m not.”

You let out one long breath. “Are you trying to irritate me?”

Another smirk. “I’m afraid I simply have a gift for it.”

You finally give in and scowl. “Great. This is going about as well as I had expected.”

His eyes drift down the column of your throat to the emerald pendant resting in your cleavage and then to the bodice of your nightgown. “Perhaps it’s time we concern ourselves with activities that require less talking.” He licks his lips and brings his gaze back up to yours.

“I’m not entirely convinced anything would stop you from talking,” you say.

“I suspect letting me bury my tongue in your cunt might do the trick.”

For the first time today, you are entirely speechless. The fire burning low in your hips roars into an inferno, like someone has poured accelerant along your nerves and Loki has struck a match. You take in one shaky breath, your heart thrumming in your throat.

“That’s what I thought,” he says with a dark sort of smugness. “To bed, wife.”

You steadfastly ignore the way your stomach jumps when he calls you ‘wife.’ Why is that hot? It shouldn’t be hot.

You’re tempted to argue with him some more—you don’t like giving him even the vaguest impression that you’re following his orders or anything like that—but one smoldering look from him has your heart pounding and another wave of fresh arousal flooding between your legs. You follow him to the bed, trying to keep your expression neutral and indifferent.

He pulls you firmly against him and you wonder if he can feel your heart pounding in your chest. There’s no space between you—you can feel his stomach muscles expand and contract with every slow intake of breath, the press of his slowly hardening cock against your stomach.

He tilts your face up to his and claims your mouth in a devouring kiss, and this time, the moan that you’d held back during the ceremony slips from your lips almost immediately. He makes a low growling noise in return, his hands sliding to the row of small pearl buttons that hold up the back of your nightgown.

You suspect that beyond aesthetic and functional value, the purpose of these buttons is to facilitate a slow, sexy reveal; Loki undoes exactly two and a half buttons before roughly pulling the edges of the fabric apart, the remaining buttons snapping from their threads and pinging against the floor.

You pull away from him, immediately annoyed. “Do you make a habit of ruining other people’s things? What if I wanted to wear that again?”

He laughs, tugging the fabric off your shoulders. “Perhaps you forget the extraordinary powers I have at my command,” he says, staring greedily at your breasts as he tugs the nightgown down your waist, pulling it off your hips so it falls to the floor. “I could tear this gown off you every night and remake it every morning with no more than a click of my fingers.”

Fucking magic powers undercutting your goddamn fucking point.

“Yeah, well, you’re still a jackass,” you say sourly, unwilling to concede the point any further.

His smile is sharp in a way that makes you shiver and he slips his hand into your underwear, his smile growing as he feels how slick you are. “It doesn’t seem to bother you all that much, does it?”

You try to keep your expression stern, but his fingers find your clit and you can’t help the moan that falls from your lips.

“Your sweet cunt is so ready to come.” He slides a finger into you and you whimper. “It’s obscene how wet you are for me.”

You bite back a plea and kiss him instead. His mouth is rough on yours, teeth nipping at your lower lip, tongue plundering your mouth. He slides a second finger into you and you keen.

“Yes,” he groans against your mouth. “Take it like a good girl.”

You clench around his fingers and your hands seek purchase in his hair. You tug on it lightly and he growls with pleasure before he pulls away, his hands moving to the waistband of your underwear and tugging it off your hips.

“Get on the bed.” His tone brooks no arguments. “Now.”

It’s tempting to talk back, tempting to resist. You are still angry about every aspect of this relationship and this stupid fucking wedding. But you know you need this—the dull ache in your hips is only growing more pronounced with every passing moment and the brief feeling of his fingers on your clit was nothing short of heaven. Soulbonds are meant to be consummated and your body seems to be doing everything it can to propel you toward that end.

You kick your underwear the rest of the way off before sitting down on the bed and lying back on the pillows.

He pauses for a moment to look you over, his gaze trailing lazily over your bare skin, his hand absently moving to palm his cock through his trousers. “Spread your legs,” he says. You do and you catch a breath of a groan from him as he stares at you. Your cunt throbs in response and you bite your lip to keep yourself from whimpering.

He allows himself one moment before he crawls on the bed to join you. He kneels between your legs, staring greedily at your exposed cunt, running a thumb along the edge of your folds. Your hips rock upward involuntarily, chasing his hand, seeking friction.

“Such a pretty cunt,” he murmurs. “So soaking wet, so desperately needy for my touch.” He pauses again, licking his lips. “I think I might need a taste.”

Your breath stutters in your chest and he kisses the inside of your thigh, slowly licking and sucking his way upward in a tantalizing preview of what’s to come. You’re already soaking and you can feel yourself growing wetter as his sinful mouth draws closer and closer to your aching need.

You’re not entirely sure whether it’s a moan or a whine that passes your lips when he finally licks that first long, lazy stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit. He groans low and wanting against your cunt, his tongue rolling over your clit once more before he catches it between his lips and slowly begins to suck.

There is no getting around it: Loki is a pro at eating pussy.

It would be easier if he wasn’t, you find yourself thinking somewhere in the haze between orgasms. If he were mediocre, it would make it so much easier to be angry at him, to resent your current situation. This is not to say that you’ve abandoned your anger at all—you are still mad. But your anger feels so much less effective when he’s spent a solid ninety minutes with his head between your legs and you’ve lost track of the number of times he’s made you come.

He is—predictably—infuriatingly smug about all of this.

Your first orgasm arrives so quickly that it seems to take you both by surprise. And indeed, he lifts his head moments later, already smirking.

“That was awfully quick, wife,” he says. The glint in his eye tells you that he absolutely noticed how you reacted to that name earlier and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from scowling.

“Maybe you’re out of practice,” you say. Even as you say it, it doesn’t sound convincing (it doesn’t even make sense when you think about it later) and Loki laughs outright.

“I think not,” he says, carefully sliding one long index finger inside of you. “I think your poor cunt has been sorely neglected, either by you or some subpar lover you took to ease the ache of missing me.” He adds a second finger and you bite your lip to keep in a moan. “I think you’ll be begging for me before the night is out.” His fingertips press teasingly against that spot inside you and you take in a sharp breath.

He starts lazily moving his fingers in and out of you and while it feels good, you know it’s not going to be enough to get you there. You suspect, from the way that he’s smirking, that he knows this, too.

“Do you want my mouth again? I don’t think you’re done.”

“You’re trying to be a jerk and I don’t like it,” you say.

He laughs and draws his thumb briefly over your clit. “Darling, I only want you to tell me what you want.”

Your eyes narrow. “Why?”

“I think you can understand the appeal of hearing a beautiful woman beg for your touch.”

His compliment immediately clashes with the suggestion that you begging for him is a possibility.

He smiles, catlike, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“You need my mouth again,” he says, fingers curling inside you. “You need more. I can feel how wet you are, sweet thing.” His thumb presses against your clit and retreats as soon as your breath hitches.

“I could keep you like this for hours. Days, even,” he says, lazily stroking his fingers inside you. “I could keep you right on the edge, begging for your release. But I don’t think you want that. Even I don’t want that. I think you want to come again right now and I think you want my mouth.”

“I’m not begging you for it,” you say.

“I’ve only asked you to tell me what you want,” he says. “I’ve merely expressed that I find the idea of you begging very appealing.”

You want to smack him. With your luck, though, that would turn out to be one of his kinks and then you’ll really be in for it. Your fingers flex against the sheets.

“Do you want to come, darling? Do you want my mouth again?” he asks with a feigned innocence that suggests it’s not a loaded question, even as the glint in his eyes tells you it is.

You’re silent for a beat and then his thumb returns to your clit, pressing and stroking as his fingers curl inside of you. Your hips rock with his hand and you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from moaning aloud when he stops a few seconds later, his eyebrows raised like he’s expecting your answer.

This exchange repeats four more times. On the fifth, you finally break.

“Please,” you whimper. You sound more desperate than you would prefer, but your overwhelming need to come has quickly superseded whatever shreds of decency you have left.

“Please what?” he asks, radiating smugness.

You’re not quite so far gone that you can’t manage a scowl, which he only laughs at.

“I’m waiting…” he says, his fingers curling in a teasing way.

You know there’s no getting around this. “I need to come.”

He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, like he’s expecting more.

You resist the urge to sigh. “I need your mouth. Please.”

He barely spares a second for a wicked grin and a growl of praise that only elevates your need before he’s lowering his mouth again to your clit.

Your second orgasm is somehow even quicker than the first, only this time, you’re already whimpering for the next one as soon as you catch your breath.

Mercifully, he doesn’t lift his mouth from your cunt this time, though he does give you a wicked look that more or less says the same thing.

His fingers are wonderful, but you know they’re no substitute for his cock. And while he has made you come so many times already, the need to have him inside of you continues to grow, settling into a dull ache in your hips.

“I need you to fuck me,” you finally breathe as the aftershocks of your latest orgasm fade back to that ache.

He lifts his head for a minute. “I intend to, but I don’t think you’re done yet.”

Your eyes widen as he seals his lips back around your clit.

“I mean, I’ve just—fuck—I’ve just had more…c-consecutive orgasms than I’ve ever had before in my life, you’re—oh my god, yes—you’re not exactly leaving me wanting—oh fuck.”

He stays silent, but it’s because his tongue is working over your clit. You, on the other hand, are in the process of undercutting your own point. A few more strokes of his tongue and you are coming again, your hips jerking hard against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop after that, either—he draws more orgasms from you, groaning into your cunt when you pull on his hair.

Your pleas for him to fuck you become increasingly desperate with every orgasm, until he finally lifts his head.

“What was it that you wanted?” he asks with a smirk that tells you he needs absolutely no clarification whatsoever.

“Fuck me, please. I need to be fucked, I need your cock,” you say. You feel restless and desperate, the ache inside you growing with every passing second.

“Oh, darling, all you needed to do was ask,” he says, his tone overly cloying.

You’re not quite so far gone that you can’t manage a scowl. “I have been asking. Repeatedly.”

He laughs and begins to undress. You suspect he’s doing this to torture you—you know he could remove his clothes in one go if he wanted to.

He peels his shirt off first and your lips part involuntarily as you take in the firm expanse of muscle of his chest and abdomen, your fingertips itching with the need to touch him. You grip the sheets instead in the vain hope that it might make a difference (it doesn’t).

But even the enticing expanse of his chest is no match for what’s to come.

He removes his trousers with achingly precise slowness. You expect him to be hard; what you’re not expecting is the primal response that it invokes in you. His cock is long, thick, and hard, the head already slick with pre-come. It’s not just for you—it’s because of you.

You swallow hard as he turns to face you fully. You’re so distracted by his cock that you almost miss the smug smirk, which he makes no attempt to hide. He knows he’s hot, he knows he has a beautiful cock, and he knows that you are absolutely aching for him. It is profoundly irritating.

He wraps his hand around his cock, wetting his lips as he casually strokes himself once. “Do you want me?” he asks with the sort of tone and expression that tells you he absolutely knows the answer.

You could yell at him. The prospect is certainly tempting. But you’re not sure that it’s worth it, not with the way your cunt is throbbing with the need to be filled with his beautiful, thick cock.

“Loki, please.” It comes out as more of a whine than you’d like, but you decide that you can live with it.

You are treated to a particularly wolfish grin before he starts stalking towards you.

There’s a large part of you that expects him to flip you over and take you from behind, rough and fast and impersonal. But instead, he climbs on top of you and draws you into a kiss. It’s deep and slow and heightened by the heavy weight of his bare cock pressing against your belly, drops of pre-come smearing against your skin.

Your back arches and your right leg snakes around his waist, trying to pull him closer, urging him to finally ease the ache inside of you. But he takes his time, kissing you slowly, running his hands over your breasts and hips, rocking his cock against you, but not inside of you.

You don’t like begging—it feels too much like offering up a vulnerability—but it becomes increasingly difficult not to give into the urge the longer he stays on top of you like this.

“Loki,” you finally say when he starts peppering sharp, sucking kisses against your throat.

“What is it, my love?” he asks with a faux confusion that you can see through right away.

“You know what I want,” you say as evenly as you can manage.

“Mmm, let me hear you say it just once more,” he says.

“Please fuck me.”

You’re expecting another negotiation, another battle of wits, but instead, he gives you a rather sharp grin and adjusts his hips so he can rub the tip of his cock up and down the length of your cunt. And then, to your surprise, he lines his cock up at your entrance and slowly begins to ease inside of you.

There’s a part of you—a large part of you—that’s surprised by how careful he is. He’s gentle, slowly pressing into you, giving you time to adjust, his movements careful. He does this all in such a way that you might not notice if you didn’t think to look—he wants you to think that he’s not doing any of what he’s doing. He wants you to think he’s not thinking of you when he is, that the care and precision of his movements are merely a pleasant coincidence. You’re not sure how you know this, but you feel certain.

He waits to kiss you until he’s pressed fully inside you, and you realize this is another illusion, another cover so you don’t realize that he’s giving you another moment to adjust to him.

It’s oddly considerate—irritatingly so. The coals of your anger still burn bright in your heart, but they flicker for just a moment.

But then he begins to move and coherent thoughts flee your mind entirely.

He feels so good. You’re not sure if it’s the soulbond itself, the dopamine and serotonin, or if he just knows the perfect way to move, but the first thrust has your toes curling and that warm heat stirring in your belly. You’ve already come so many times tonight that it feels impossible that your body should be capable of more, but you know immediately that he’s going to bring you right back over the edge if he keeps moving the way he is.

And he’s showing no signs of stopping, either.

“Norns,” he breathes, pressing a kiss against your neck, “you feel perfect. So warm and tight.”

You shiver, your cunt clenching reflexively around his slowly stroking cock. He grins and presses his lips up against your ear.

“Do you like hearing how your snug little cunt fits me like a glove?”

You would prefer to be able to lie in this particular moment—instead, your body immediately betrays you and your legs tighten around his waist as your cunt shudders around him.

You can practically feel his sharp, hungry smile as he nips at your earlobe. “I can feel how much you do,” he murmurs. A devastating swivel of his hips has you uttering a gasping whine that you are not at all proud of.

“That’s it.” He’s swiveling his hips on every other thrust now and you know the moment he switches to that exclusively, it’s all over. “You’re so close,” he purrs with confidence that annoys you just a little, even in your pre-orgasmic stupor.

But then he swivels his hips again and you shudder before you can hide it and he notices…and does it again.

And again.

Fuck.

Your orgasm starts barreling toward you at an impossibly fast pace and his eyes glitter because he knows.

“You’re going to come for me.” It’s not even a command—it’s just a statement as he rolls his hips in those devastating thrusts.

You whimper, your back arching.

“Give into it. Let me feel you.”

One more push of his cock against that sweet spot inside you and you can’t fight it any more. Your muscles tense one last time and you cry out as you come hard on his cock.

“Oh, beautiful,” he groans, his eyes closing as he fucks you through it.

It seems to last a long time, drawn out every time the head of his cock drags against that sensitive spot that sent you over the edge in the first place. He pauses briefly to bring your legs up over his shoulders, which makes his cock hit a spot even deeper inside you that feels so good it pulls a strangled sob from your throat.

Loki groans, his pace increasing, one hand falling between your legs to rub at your clit. It’s so much, but it feels better than anything. You feel another orgasm rising in your hips and you whimper.

“Good girl, fucking take it,” he slurs. You can tell that he’s getting close from the way his thrusting is becoming more frantic, how he tips his head back and grips your hips even harder.

“Come for me,” he growls. “I’m going to fill your lovely cunt with my seed. Come for me.”

Your vision whites out and your back arches as you come. If you were capable of rational thought, you would be angry that your body simply obeyed this simple directive; as it is, it’s hard for you to process anything other than how good he feels inside of you.

You can tell he’s approaching his end and he’s utterly captivating to watch. His eyes are screwed shut, brow furrowed and lips parted as he lets out a low groan that makes your toes curl.

His eyes open in the final throes and he surges forward to kiss you. He moans softly into your mouth as he comes, his whole body shuddering.

You feel dreamy and sated as he slows to a halt, lowering his head to the crook of your neck. The restless ache inside you is finally quiet—at least for now.

You expect him to roll off you and fall asleep—the portrait of a cliche. Instead, he stays with you, the warm heat of his breath ghosting over your shoulder. You can feel his cock still throbbing inside of you.

You should push him away, reclaim the distance between you. You’re angry at him, after all.

But also…it feels nice.

It’s just the endorphins, you tell yourself. It’s hormones. It doesn’t mean anything.

You can feel the lie prickling at the edges of the thought, sharp and needling, like ground glass pressing against bare skin. It means a lot of things; you just wish it didn’t.

Be angry.

His lips brush against your shoulder. More of your muscles relax. It’s nice.

Be angry.

You’re tired though. It’s been a really long day and the bed is soft and the weight of Loki on top of you is oddly reassuring.

Maybe just for tonight. Maybe just this once you’ll allow yourself to fall asleep in his bed.

“I’m still mad at you,” you say. It feels too sharp, too strident. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. He doesn’t know you, though, not really, and so you can only hope that he misses the subtle catch in your voice, that little note of uncertainty.

“I’d expect nothing less.” His voice is slightly muffled against your shoulder.

Goddammit, why does this have to be so comfortable?

He shifts slightly, easing out of you. You feel the resulting mess vanish before it even hits your thigh. At least he’s considerate.

You scowl at the thought.

“Sleep,” he says after a moment. “You’ll need your strength to rage at me in the morning.”

“I can rage at you in my sleep,” you say as your eyes slide shut.

“I’m sure you can,” he says. “Sleep.”

And despite all your complicated feelings—your anger, the inherent feeling of ease you get from his embrace, your unease with your new title, your homesickness—you find that the pull of sleep is too tempting to resist and the world slowly fades away.

Next chapter

#loki smut #loki x reader smut #loki x reader #loki x female reader #loki x female reader smut #loki fanfiction #loki laufeyson smut

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icyg4l · 9 months ago

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PAC: what should you put on your bucket list for the summer?

hello beautiful people! i am starting my summer 2024 series right now and i am so excited!!!! i wanted to bring something new to everyone so i am creating specialized playlists for each group. they consist of six songs i’ve channeled during your reading. i hope that the group you chose resonates. i also hope that you all book a reading with me! :)

without further ado, please select your pile.

top left-to-bottom right: (1-4)

PILE ONE:

this pile may be newly single or fresh to the dating scene as a whole. you seem introverted, maybe covid messed up your social skills? it’s time to bring some life back into you! i think the main message here is to be more open to exploration.

cards used: the tower, 10 of discs, king of swords, the star, queen of wands, the hanged man, princess of cups.

learn how to swim

flirt with a stranger at a festival/concert

ride as many amusement park rides as you can

go on a picnic date

join some type of organization, or maybe even create one!

be as comfortable in your skin as you can; even go skinny dipping or to a new beach (only if you’re of age though!!)

go to a metaphysical shop

go on a group/double date with your friends

PILE TWO:

i feel like you’re insecure and you’re trying to work on that. this is the best summer to do so. i feel like this pile gets easily embarrassed. spirit wants you to stop that lmao. i take it that you’re someone who’s probably a loner.

cards used: 9 of cups, queen of discs, ace of wands, 3 of cups, 8 of swords, 5 of wands

do as much shadow work as you can

take up a self-defense class/boxing class

jump off the diving board

conquer your fear of heights by bungee jumping or rock climbing

hypnosis therapy

wear your natural hair in different styles each day for a week (maybe longer 🙈)

embrace family traditions

spa day!

have/go to a bonfire

scrapbook!

PILE THREE:

these are my r&b loversss. i feel like you guys have some pipes on you lol. this pile is kind of goofy too. this pile has to be as free as possible. no relationships, no commitments of any kind (minus a job cause y’know the economy rn is 😔). but anyway, the point is to just relax.

cards used: 6 of discs, the devil, the magician, 2 of cups, wheel of fortune, the sun, princess of cups.

go to a skate park

host an event

meet a special someone at the bar

connect with an old friend

adopt a pet

create an alter ego for yourself and show up as that person

do a good deed for someone, pay it forward.

have a dance battle in public

obtain a FWB (be smart & use protection of course 🤫)

post on social media as much as possible

PILE FOUR:

i can tell this is the pile that likes to be organized. you like to have plans made out before the summer. that might not be the case this summer. focus on being a little more free and spontaneous. flexibility is key, babe. get out of freezeeeee mode.

cards used: 3 of cups, the hanged man, 5 of wands, queen of wands, king of swords, the star, knight of cups, ace of discs.

dye your hair red!

pass the bar exam (for those of you who are future lawyers)

receive a tarot reading from an in-person psychic

flirt a little at the grocery store

get dressed up to go to a department store/chain store

have a girls night in with ur girls!

build a fort!

change up your day-to-day makeup routine

record a song with your friends

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thewertsearch · 8 months ago

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AG: If any of my friends knew that, they would think I'm weak. […] EB: i guess i understand. i mean, i'm trying to, with the cultural difference and all. […] EB: like, trolls are more violent and angry, right? kind of like klingons or something, which is an angry race of alien savages from a human tv show. AG: We aren't savages, you dope!

Well, she's not wrong. Alternia was an empire, which is far worse than the 'savage' culture that John is imagining. Its violence wasn't wild - it was organized, and channeled into atrocities across the galaxy.

It's kind of funny that John's comparing them to the Klingons, actually. The only Star Trek series I've watched is The Next Generation, where they've allied with the Federation, and - as far as I can tell - stopped conquering planets entirely.

In other words, Alternia is a lot more violent than the Klingons I know.

EB: but i think that no matter what alien culture you are from, killing is still wrong! […] AG: This is where our cultures clash, I think. AG: It would 8e difficult to explain exactly how killing is viewed on our planet with all the nuance involved. AG: It just isn't the 8lack and white thing humans seem to think it is!

I'm sure Vriska has a million reasons why the life she's been forced into was totally fine. She needed those justifications in order to live with herself, but that doesn't make them valid...

AG: On my world, I would 8e completely vindic8ed for killing him! He is far lower on the hemospectrum than me. He managed to disrespect me time and time again, 8ut I kept letting him live! [...]

...and she's immediately proving my point.

I mean, the first justification she can think of is that bluebloods should be allowed to murder 'lesser' trolls, if disrespected. I'm sure her other 'nuanced' reasons to kill are similarly compelling.

AG: This was sort of like a test, and I'm afraid I might 8e failing.

Are you sure?

For the first time ever, you're actually considering the possibility that killing is wrong, and there are plenty of trolls who never even made it that far.

You're passing a test here.

AG: […] it was the first time I killed some8ody I cared a8out. EB: so… EB: you killed other people, that you didn't care about? AG: Yes. Sort of a lot, actually. […] EB: hm. how many? […] AG: Oh, it doesn't matter. Pro8a8ly many thousands. […] AG: God, I know how this sounds! 8ut I had to feed her. My lusus I mean. I've 8asically 8een playing this role as a slave in the food chain my whole life. […]

Yeah, you were coerced into those murders. Your FLARP killings were necessary for survival, and Doc Scratch manipulated you into killing your friends.

Tavros, however, was different. You have no lusus to feed on the Veil, and Scratch seems to have stopped whispering in your ear. Tavros was absolutely no threat to you - but for the first time ever, and without any external pressure, you chose to kill.

Are you proud of yourself?

#homestuck liveblog #full liveblog #act 5.2 #3467 #s127

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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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nadas-dirthalen · 3 months ago

Text

I Saw Solas's Origin in an Achievement Icon and It Opened My Eyes on 15 Years of Lore

— PART FOUR: if you haven't read previous parts, do it now! —

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 5 ] [ 6 ] [ 7 ] [ 8 ] [ 9 ] [ 10 ]

Welcome, friends and travelers! I wanted to get some thoughts recorded before Veilguard's release so I could see if I am right about an absolute BOATLOAD of theories I have.

In short: I saw the achievement list when it was released. I have seen the backstory hints for Solas included in said list. AND MY MIND WAS BLOWN.

You have been warned: THIS COLLECTION OF THEORIES INCLUDES SPOILERS FOR EVERY DRAGON AGE GAME AND ALL PROMOTIONAL MATERIAL UP TO AND INCLUDING OCTOBER 18, 2024.

Come sit down with me. Make a nice cup of tea (and hide it from Solas). We've got a lot of unpacking to do.

(this photo isn't the spoiler, I just like it.)

Today's Discussion: What the Chant of Light Confirms about Solas, Mythal, and the Evanuris at large.

Ohhhh boy. Here's where we're really getting into the, 'If you haven't read the previous parts, you NEED to go do that, otherwise what I'm about to say will make a lot less sense,' portion of this series. So seriously: the previous parts are linked above. Go look at those.

Caught up? Good.

Today, we're going to look at how closely the Chant of Light follows everything I just talked about with Titans, the Fade, spirits-as-thoughts, and Solas-as-lyrium-spirit. For this exercise, I'll mostly be drawing on material that I have access to (both volumes of World of Thedas, plus my knowledge from all three games) but supplementing with what the Dragon Age wiki has compiled, as well.

Rather than go through the Chant from beginning to end (as I simply lack the space here), I'm going to break it down into topics.

Our topics are as follows:

Who—and What—Is the Maker?

The Word "Forgotten" in the Chant

The Maker's First and Second Children

The Jealous First Children: Demons Seeking to Conquer the Earth

Archdemons and Titans

Yes, I Have to Talk About Shartan

Veilguard Predictions Based on the Chant of Light

Who—and What—Is the Maker?

For anyone who hasn't gone through the whole thing and read every verse, let me begin by saying: the Chant of Light is a story writ by many hands over the history of Thedas. Some of it is (allegedly) written or recorded from Andraste herself, but many verses are taken from outside sources—even adapted from other cultures' legends.

But overall, it is a story that the Andrastian faith believes in: one with approved verses that the Chantries teach all their faithful. The Chantry has been a brutal organization throughout Thedas's history, but I still find value in using the Chant to piece together different takes on Thedas's ancient lore. Whether the events happened as described is up for debate, but they are historically significant, and I would argue that they contain kernels of truth no matter if one believes in the prophecies from Andraste or not.

To properly discuss whether the Chant follows my theories, we first have to ask ourselves: what does the Chant suggest that the Maker is? To do this, we have to look closely at its creation story, and from the eyes of the one who supposedly witnessed him: the Canticle of Threnodies, and the Canticle of Andraste.

Right in Threnodies 1, it says this:

(4) From the waters of the Fade you made the world. As the Fade had been fluid, so was the world fixed.

Immediately, we can see that lyrium plays a major role in the Chant's creation story. If that's true, then the possibility exists that the Chant aligns at all with any of my prior theories. If that is the case, then the Chant of Light might aid us in predicting what's to come in Veilguard—especially with characters like Solas, so intertwined with Titan lore and lyrium.

From here, I went looking for additional references to the Maker, namely in Andraste 1.

(8) Lo! My eyes open'd, shining before me Greater than mountains, towering mighty, Hand all outstretch'd, stars glist'ning as jewels From rings 'pon His fingers and crown 'pon His brow.

The Wellspring of All said, "None now remember. Long have they turned to idols and tales Away from My Light, in darkness unbroken The last of My children, shrouded in night."

"World-making Glory," I cried out in sorrow, "How shall your children apology make?

Of course, we cannot forget one of the Chant quotes that Inquisition made famous!

(11) Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls. From these emerald waters doth life begin anew. Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lies Eternity.

Through all of these examples (and more that I simply do not have time or space to cite, with Veilguard so close), I can tentatively conclude: the Chant of Light is likely hinting to us that the Maker is a Titan.

But to test this theory, I wanted to go one step further. I wanted to see if the Chant of Light would suggest that the Maker is one of the Forgotten Ones.

The Word "Forgotten" in the Chant

To accomplish this next piece to the best degree possible, I actually moved the entire known Chant of Light into a google doc. Here's what I found when I looked for applicable mentions of forgot/forgotten.

(4) From the waters of the Fade you made the world. As the Fade had been fluid, so was the world fixed. (8) And so we burned. We raised nations, we waged wars, We dreamed up false gods, great demons Who could cross the Veil into the waking world, Turned our devotion upon them, and forgot you. —Threnodies 4.

We'll get to those "great demons" in a moment, but for now I want to draw attention to: "Turned our devotion upon them, and forgot you." That's one mention of the Maker being forgotten, in the first stanza we know from the Chant.

The Maker appears to Andraste (7) Eyes sorrow-blinded, in darkness unbroken There 'pon the mountain, a voice answered my call. "Heart that is broken, beats still unceasing, An ocean of sorrow does nobody drown. You have forgotten, spear-maid of Alamarr. Within My creation, none are alone." — Andraste 1

This comes from the first stanza of the Canticle of Andraste, and describes the first time the Maker appeared to her. She is describing what she is seeing: "There 'pon the mountain, a voice answered my call." She is evoking mountain imagery here, and even though she doesn't mention an abyss in this verse, it does come up elsewhere in the Chant (as we have seen).

That, and the Maker speaks to her: "You have forgotten, spear-maid of Alamarr. Within My creation, none are alone."

For one, we have a mention of forgotten, again. But perhaps even more crucially, we have this concept of "none are alone" within the Maker's creation. With everything I know now, I'm thinking of the concept of Isatunoll: the hive-mind feeling experienced by Dagna, Valta, and Harding.

(13) "World-making Glory," I cried out in sorrow, "How shall your children apology make? We have forgotten, in ignorance stumbling, Only a Light in this darken'd time breaks. Call to Your children, teach us Your greatness. What has been forgotten has not yet been lost." (14) Long was his silence, 'fore it was broken. "For you, song-weaver, once more I will try. To My children venture, carrying wisdom, If they but listen, I shall return." — Andraste 1

Another mention: Andraste addresses the Maker as "World-making Glory," which references the saying that Titans were the first Shapers of the world. Then, she says: "We have forgotten [...] Call to Your children [...] What has been forgotten has not yet been lost."

Again: references to the Maker as a being that was forgotten. Another reference to lyrium, in asking the Maker to call out to people. This reference is further enhanced with the Maker referring to Andraste as "song-weaver," suggesting that these songs are how she can speak to the Maker.

And to top it all off: "What has been forgotten has not yet been lost" is answered with, "If they but listen, I shall return."

Listen, for so long, made me think of commandments. Listening to the Maker's will. But now? Now I think we're supposed to think of listening to the Maker's song.

(3) I have heard the sound A song in the stillness, The echo of Your voice, Calling creation to wake from its slumber. (4) How can we know You? In the turning of the seasons, in life and death, In the empty space where our hearts Hunger for a forgotten face? — Trials 1

Just like Andraste has heard the song, the echo of the Maker's voice, calling creation to "wake from its slumber." It could not be more deliberate than that!

Another mention, also, of a "forgotten face."

To me, these mentions of forgotten affirm that the Maker is one of the Forgotten Ones, and is definitely a Titan. That tells me that, until I am proven otherwise, I can read the rest of the Chant of Light as though Maker-as-Titan is true, and can see what other developments stem from that initial truth.

Namely: What does the Chant say about spirits and people, in relation to the Titans?

The Maker's First and Second Children

To understand the (possible) creation of the spirits and the elvhen, we are back to the Canticle of Threnodies, stanza 5. The first of the Chant's Canticles, it's an introduction not just to the text, but to the world of Thedas as understood by Andrastians.

Again: it may not be a precise literal description of events, but I maintain that if the Chant of Light truly didn't matter, BioWare wouldn't have made it that long, or paid as much attention to cadence/meter as they did.

The crux of the earlier portion of this Canticle is that the Maker produced two sets of children, and the first eventually grew envious of the second (more on that later). For now, let's examine what is said of the creation of the Maker's first children.

(1) There was no word For heaven or for earth, for sea or sky. All that existed was silence.

I am going to interpret this one very liberally. It is not said that there were no heaven, earth, sea, or sky—but that there was no word for those things. That, I interpret to mean that there was no distinction between heaven and earth. Remember that, throughout codices from ancient elvhenan, "sky" often refers to the Fade, and "earth" often refers to the Titans' domain, the Abyss, or the waking world.

Either way: there was no Veil, and so there was no distinction between the Titans' domain and the Fade.

Then the Voice of the Maker rang out, The first Word, And His Word became all that might be: Dream and idea, hope and fear, Endless possibilities. And from it made his firstborn.

There are two things worth noting here:

the "Voice of the Maker" is something I interpret to mean the song of lyrium: the song of the Titan that the Maker is.

"Dream and idea, hope and fear/Endless possibilities" sounds a lot to me like the Maker is creating his first children with thoughts. Thoughts conveyed through the song of lyrium, maybe?

Originally, these "first children" famously showed no sense of ambition. They were given the Fade, but did not do anything with it. They only reflected what already existed. (Though I do want to note that this city apparently had lyrium for cobblestones.)

He called forth A city with towers of gold, streets with music for cobblestones, And banners which flew without wind. [...] But their songs Were the songs of the cobblestones. They shone with the golden light Reflected from the Maker's throne.

The Maker apparently realizes his mistake: only giving the spirits the Fade.

The realm I have given you Is formless, ever-changing.

But the solution to that mistake?

So the Maker turned from his firstborn And took from the Fade A measure of its living flesh And placed it apart from the Spirits, and spoke to it, saying: Here, I decree Opposition in all things: For earth, sky For winter, summer For darkness, Light. By My Will alone is Balance sundered And the world given new life.

The Maker took living flesh from the Fade. That's not the thoughts existing in the Fade; that's the lyrium from the Fade. To that living, now sentient lyrium, the Maker spoke, and declared opposition in all things.

Now sky and earth are separate things. The Veil is not yet created (we'll get there), but we have this concept of two opposing schools of magic, like earthbending and airbending (to forever keep with the A:tLA examples through this series).

So far, this is lining up with my previous theories. But, what, exactly, are the Maker's second children made of?

(5) And no longer was it formless, ever-changing, But held fast, immutable, With Words for heaven and for earth, sea and sky. At last did the Maker From the living world Make men. Immutable, as the substance of the earth, With souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear, Endless possibilities.

Now, the waking world is immutable, and there is opposition in magic. And from that opposition, the people are created. Not humans, but people. Their bodies are "immutable, as the substance of the earth" (meaning lyrium, I believe), "with souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear/Endless possibilities."

The exact same phrase: the Maker's thoughts are the souls of his second children, just as they were the first children's entire being. This proves that the people of Thedas have spirits for souls, but also that all spirits come from the Maker's thoughts.

When I tell you I almost choked, realizing that.

But I still want to ask the Chant of Light: in all this story, where do we find the Evanuris?

And the Chant has answered in full.

The Jealous First Children: Demons Seeking to Conquer the Earth

When I first read the Chant of Light, I had not pieced together that heaven and earth were synonymous with Fade and Abyss. Now that I have, I see the Evanuris plain as day in Threnodies 5.

(7) Now, with their Father's eye elsewhere, the firstborn At last created something new: Envy. They looked upon the living world and the favored Sons and daughters there, covetous of all they were. Within their hearts grew An intolerable hunger. Until, at last, some of the firstborn said: "Our Father has abandoned us for these lesser things. We have power over heaven. Let us rule over earth as well And become greater gods than our Father."

In the codices of the Trespasser DLC and the Temple of Mythal, there are constant references to the Evanuris wanting to tame or dominate the Titans, the "Void," or the "land." The ancient elves ask Elgar'nan to help them "tame the land." Mythal is praised for "striking down the pillars of the earth." The Evanuris, namely Mythal and Elgar'nan, carried on an endless war with the Forgotten Ones.

The Chant goes on.

(8) The demons appeared to the children of earth in dreams And named themselves gods, demanding fealty.

Remember part 2 of this series? Remember the Mythal lullaby from the Deep Roads portion of Trespasser? (I was lovingly informed about a small mistranslation, which I shall correct here.)

Ir sa tel'nal Mythal las ma theneras Ir san'a emma Him solas evanuris Da'durgen'lin Banal malas elgara Bellanaris, bellanaris. Isatunoll Mythal grants you dreams Lyrium within Becomes Solas evanuris Little stone boy Never granted (connection to many spirits) Forever, forever

Cole says, "He didn't want a body, but she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face."

It sounds exactly like the Chant describes: Mythal feeding dreams to Solas, only to bring him into a body he did not want, and apply vallaslin (a geas?) that he did not ask for.

Therefore? The Evanuris are the Maker's first children, as far as the Chant of Light is concerned.

But I've still got questions. Namely: What came next?

Archdemons and Titans

As for the Evanuris's eventual fate—being imprisoned at the same time as the Veil was created? They've employed interesting wording.

And a mighty voice cried out, Shaking the very foundations of heaven: "Ungrateful children! I gave you power To shape heaven itself, And you have made only poison. As you crave the earth, the earth shall be Your domain! Into the darkness I cast you! In tombs of immutable rock Shall you dwell for all time."

I question who this "mighty voice" belonged to. I do not believe Solas is the maker, but I do wonder: was Solas acting in conjunction with his Titan here? During the exact moment of the creation of the Veil, he still would have had access to his non-sundered Titan. Would he still have heard the song/call, and made the Veil at the Titan's behest?

Regardless: this piece of the Chant speaks about the imprisonment of the archdemons in the Abyss, the same domain as the Titans.

It goes on to specify what happened next:

(11) Those who had been cast down, The demons who would be gods, Began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth. And the men of Tevinter heard and raised altars To the pretender-gods once more, And in return were given, in hushed whispers, The secrets of darkest magic.

This serves to confirm a theory that I'd held for a long time: that the Evanuris whispered to the priests of old Tevinter through their archdemons. Trapped in their fade-jail, they could not act themselves, but may have used their archdemons as puppets in order to convince the Magisters to come open the door to the Golden/Black City, that they might be released.

Overall? It sounds like the Chant of Light exactly confirms every one of my theories on the Titans, the Forgotten Ones, spirits-as-thoughts, the Evanuris, and the Archdemons. I may not have been able to examine the entire Chant here (can you imagine how long this post would be if I did?) but what I have presented so far exactly aligns with my theories from the last instalment.

Now, the question you're all here for...

Yes, I Have to Talk About Shartan

I know, I know. Shartan is one of the most widely debated figures in the Chant. And I'm sorry to say, I'm no more sure than the rest of you.

But I've never quite believed that Solas himself is Shartan. He says he slept for millennia after the creation of the Veil, after all. But I cannot deny all that we know of Shartan: that he freed elven slaves, that he held fast in his convictions, and that he is rumoured to have been Andraste's lover.

It seems damning, doesn't it? Surely someone so invested in freedom must be Solas, especially an ancient elf who looks so much like Solas himself.

But what if Shartan wasn't one person?

(3) My Maker, know my heart: Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride. — Transfigurations 12

We can guess that the Maker is a Titan. We know Solas came from a Titan. We can guess that Solas was still able to hear his Titan when the Veil was created. We also know that there were many lyrium coffins in the Deep Roads during the Descent DLC. The Maker's first children whispered to many stone-spirits just like Solas.

We also know the Forgotten Ones are named by their qualities, just like spirits and demons.

The Maker instructs Andraste to carry wisdom to the people, that he might return. Who is to say that the Maker is not the ultimate Wisdom/Pride aspect, and we just haven't seen it confirmed yet?

And if there are many wisdoms and prides that are tied to the Maker-Titan, then there is absolutely reason to believe that any of those lyrium-spirits-turned-corporeal elvhen could strongly resemble Solas not just in appearance, but in convictions.

Two elven translations point me to this conclusion, as well:

Ar-melana dirthavaren. Revas vir-anaris: this is Fen'Harel's secret password for the spirits in Trespasser. I believe it loosely translates to, "I now promise knowledge. Freedom for we-Anaris." • This translation GREATLY interests me, because Anaris is the name of one of the Forgotten Ones. "We-Anaris" implies that there are many elvhen that come from Anaris, and these specifically may be the slaves Solas was trying to free.

Shar•tan: I believe, as with all the Evanuris, this name is actually a title. While I could not guess the meaning of the word "Shar," I do know that the word "tan" means "three." • I wonder if Shartan, therefore, is a collection of three people, potentially all from the same Titan as Solas. Anaris, maybe?

Veilguard Predictions Based on the Chant of Light

Whew! I have a lot of Veilguard predictions, but to keep this post from being tumblr-breakingly long, I'll keep this list to the ones that come strictly from the Chant of Light.

I believe we will find out more about the Chant of Light by not only being in Minrathous and knowing Neve, but by seeing the Chant's events referenced by the ancient elves and even in Solas's memories.

I believe we'll get, if not confirmation, at least a hint on whether Solas's Titan is the Maker.

I believe that, since Veilguard is all about prophecies coming true, that we will hear the "Voice of the Maker" ring out to us in Veilguard—likely through a Titan waking. • I'm going to bet that this is in or near Kal'Hirol, the thaig closest to Kirkwall, which is near where the red lyrium idol was found in DA2.

I believe we're going to find out more about the potential link between Andraste and Mythal (there are bajillions of theory posts out there about them; I didn't have time here!)

I believe we'll see an Archdemon's old prison and see how that (potentially) affected Titans and/or their hearts.

I believe we'll see someone who remembers being made out of lyrium—even if that someone is Solas.

---

As ever, if you got this far, thank you!! All your engagements on these continue to make my week.

Also: I am trying my hardest not to consume full-game-review spoilers! As these reviews go live tomorrow (10/28), you may see me not reading my notifications/replies, and appearing here only to continue posting my theories.

But if you feel like sticking around anyway, stay tuned for: The Evanuris Story So Far, As Best As I Can Guess It.

#dragon age #dragon age: the veilguard #veilguard spoilers #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age: the veilguard spoilers #datv spoilers #da:tv #da:v #da4 #da4 spoilers #dragon age theory #dragon age meta #da theory #da meta #solas #the chant of light #evanuris #mythal

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celestesinsight · 7 months ago

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Kalki 2898AD Release Trailer - Bhairava Character Analysis!

There are many theories circulating about Bhairava's character and its importance in the movie. Here's my two cents regarding this. And to be honest, it isn't entirely my views too. It's what we came up when discussing in the Varadeva Discord Server.

First of all, there's a huge chance that Deepika's baby is red herring and Bhairava is the real Kalki. Ashwathama will realise this at the end of the movie and change his stance.

But my favourite theory is Bhairava being Lord Shiva. When Bhairava called himself the 'living legend in Kashi' in the Bujji & Bhairava series, it kind of stuck with me. Who's more legendary than Lord Shiva in Kashi? And the story goes that Shiva gave Kalki the divine weapon, the all-knowing talking parrot and the white horse. Bhairava have all the three; we saw the weapon in the first promo and Bujji's brain and body are the talking parrot and white horse equivalent. if Bhairava is Shiva, he's actually protecting the baby while pretending to hunt him for the Complex as well as testing Ashwathama's determination for redemption. In Mahabharata, Ashwathama was born after Dronacharya performed several years of severe penance to please Shiva as he wanted a son who possessed the strength and bravery of Shiva. So, it would make sense that Shiva aids him in his journey of redemption.

What if Bhairava is neither Kalki nor Shiva? Then what is his character doing in the movie?

"Despite the endless opportunities spanning over the generations, man fails to redeem himself and he never will."

I think this quote by Kamal Haasan's character, Kali is the key to Bhairava's significance in the movie, if he is not the titular character 'Kalki'.

There are many worlds in Hinduism, but our Puranas predominantly talk about the Swarga (abode of Devas), Prithvi (abode of humans) and Patal (abode of demons). There are also three worlds in the film: Complex, Shambala and Kashi. Unlike Puranas, where there were three races inhabiting the three worlds, in the film, the three worlds are inhabited by the humans only.

The Complex is the place where God is banned. They treat Supreme Yaskin as the God. They have conquered the world and taken all the resources for themselves. In appearance, the Complex gives the illusion of Swarga, but it actually embodies the demonic qualities of Patal.

Shambala is the place where they still believe in God and hope for his return to save them. They fight the Complex and their unjust actions. They are safe haven for anyone who wants to escape the hold of the Complex. In appearance, they are an underground society (Patal), but they are actually the forces of righteousness in the desolate world, fighting on the side of God and thus symbolises Devas of Swarga.

Then there is Kashi, the last surviving city. They are neutral. They are neither the evil conqueror nor the righteous warriors. They are humans who are trying to survive in an unfair world. They are not on anyone's side, but their own side. They represent the humans of Prithvi.

"In this world, there's only one side to be on. Your own side."

Bhairava and the bounty hunters of Kashi are the representation of the man in Kali's quote. They embody the qualities of selfishness, greed, and going to any extent to accomplish their goals, without caring about the consequences of their actions.

To be fair, Bhairava isn't doing anything wrong. He's trying to survive in a world which has lost all hopes. But he's so caught up in this mode of survival that he can't recognise this new hope for a better tomorrow, that Ashwathama and the people of Shambala are seeing in Sumati and her baby. All he sees the 5-star bounty that is his one shot at entering the Complex. He's not realising that he's fighting for the wrong side, that he's fighting to keep the old hierarchies intact that had made this world a hopeless place for him and others like him in the first place. He's helping the people who are the cause of all his problems under the illusion of becoming one of them.

Bhairava represents the man who is given numerous chances by the God, but he's so trapped in the Maya (worldly illusion) that he fails to recognise him and hence, is forever doomed to be trapped in the cycle of suffering.

Will Bhairava recognise the truth before it's too late? Or he will handover Sumati over to the Complex?

Bhairava's action would decide if the world is worth saving or not. If God should keep his promise and take birth to save all the humans? Or he should just let the humans rot in the hell, they have turned the Earth into.

The movie is not just about Ashwathama's redemption, but also the redemption of the mankind, represented by Bhairava.

As Kali said, humans have given numerous opportunities by the God to redeem themselves, but they have failed each time. Like Duryodhana failed when he refused to give even five villages to Pandavas, when Krishna asked, leading to his defeat in the Mahabharata war. Maybe that's why Ashwathama is having flashbacks of Mahabharata when fighting with Bhairava. He is seeing his past self in him. When he went against the Lord himself, blinded by his ambition and loyalty for Duryodhana.

Humanity is given another chance. Kali is sure we will fail this time too. It's up to Bhairava now, if humans fail again or they finally succeed in redeeming themselves this time.

#kalki2898ad #prabhas #deepika padukone #amitabh bachchan #kamal haasan #nag ashwin #bujji #bhairava #desiblr #desi tumblr #indian cinema #telugu movies

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lovelyatomicpeace · 4 months ago

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Insecurities

Some problems during the marriage

Hawkins was in the middle of his estate, the heat enveloped everything like a hug and the sounds of laughter mixed with the smell of barbecues. Steve and Y/N’s wedding had been a celebration of joy, where friends danced as if time didn’t matter, and the promises made mixed with toasts. The bright lights hanging outside their small house had created a magical atmosphere; everything seemed perfect.

The first months of marriage had been a whirlwind of emotions. The honeymoon, spent among the golden beaches of the French Riviera, had given Y/N the feeling of being in the world of fairy tales. The two abandoned themselves to days made of explorations, laughter and confessions under the stars. But it must be admitted that the weeks before the wedding with Steve, the excitement had been accompanied by a subtrail of frustration and anxiety. Preparations were progressing, but there was a shadow that stretched over every happy moment: Steve’s mother in whose words there was a sense of disapproval that seemed to weigh like a boulder on her heart.

The first meeting took place when both of Steve’s parents decided to visit Y/N’s house, where they would both settle down, to discuss the details of the wedding

“Y/N, can we talk for a moment?” He asked suddenly, interrupting Y/N’s thoughts.

Y/N nodded, moving to follow Steve’s mother into the bedroom, leaving father and son in the living room alone. Once the door was closed, the lady turned to her “I have to be honest with you, Y/N. I don’t think you’re the right person for Steve,” he began, his voice lowered. “He is a sensitive boy, he needs someone who knows how to manage a house, who can create a harmonious family environment. I’m not sure you can do it.”

Y/N felt the world collapse on her. “But...”

“It’s not that I don’t accept you, Y/N. But family is a serious commitment. There are responsibilities, dedication, and if you can’t guarantee certain things... then maybe you should rethink all this,” he continued pressing without letting you explain

“Steve deserves better. You’re not able to manage a house, but I think having a family is too much for you,” some simple words that, like shards of glass, had been fixed in his mind S/N tried to chase away those rumors, to live in the present, but sometimes doubts were insnaked like snakes in his thoughts. leaving the room once finished. After that day, Steve’s mother’s words rumbled in his mind like a mantra. She had never been that perfect girl, but she had always thought she could do it. But what would Steve have thought? What if his mother was right?

One morning, while Steve was getting ready to go to work, Y/N decided to show him that he was really trying to take his place as a wife. “Today I want to try to cook something for dinner,” he announces with a forced smile. Steve looked at her with those sweet eyes that had conquered her. “Do you need help?” He asked, but Y/N shook his head with determination, making a gesture with his hand to move him away.

“No, I want to do it alone!”

While he was leaving, Y/N ventured into the kitchen. It wasn’t exactly a place where he felt comfortable, but that day he wanted to try to turn his dreams of a family into reality. He decided to prepare a lemon chicken, a dish he had seen in an online cooking video.

Things didn’t go as he hoped. The chicken had become a nightmare mess: the marinade had been excessive, the lemon too sour. When Steve served him, his smile became a little forced, but he looked at her with affection. “Love, hats off to courage,” he said. His gentle laugh was mixed with the terror that he was taking possession of Y/N.

Thus began his series of attempts. One day, I decided to wash my clothes. It shouldn’t have been difficult. But the colors mixed, and the only result was a shocking pink Steve T-shirt that, before, was white. When he came home and found her crying in front of the washing machine, he just hugged her. “Don’t worry, Y/N. It’s just a dress. It’s remedied” But inside, Y/N feared that it wasn’t just a dress.

Each incident seemed to confirm the words of Steve’s mother. “Are you able to manage a future? A son? A house?” The sentences rumbled, igniting irrational anxieties. And Steve’s laughter, which made the situation all the lighter in his eyes, seemed to hurt her further. Was it just allowing him to be disappointed?

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. Every time T/N tried to prove to Steve how capable he was, he came home disappointed, with a heavy heart. His self-esteem was slowly crumbling, and the fear of not being up to it turned into an oppressive presence. That presence followed her to Hawkins, among friends and parties, like a tireless shadow.

One day, decided to organize a surprise dinner with friends for Steve’s birthday, with the intention of proving that she could be a good wife. He spent hours preparing an elaborate meal, but when his friends arrived, the kitchen was in a disastrous state. The steaks were burnt, and the dessert was a disaster. Yet, seeing Steve’s face light up with attention, it was impossible for her not to feel a little ridiculous and, at the same time, a little proud.

“You clearly put your heart into this,” he said, caressing her arm. Y/N couldn’t hide his smile.

“But don’t you understand? I’m not capable! I only did disasters,” replied the trembling voice.

With his hands on Y/N’s shoulder, Steve looks into her eyes, letting the silences speak. “It’s not the perfection I love about you. It’s your spontaneity, your ability to make us laugh even in the midst of chaos. You are part of that life I want to build, and you will do it well, even when you don’t feel it.”

It was at that moment that Y/N understood that failures did not define its value. Love wasn’t perfect, and neither was life as a couple. There was growth, pain and, above all, a lot of fertility. There were days when she would be tired, and days when the world would seem oppressive, but it was all part of being a family.

The kitchen remained a battlefield, but in their hearts, love grew, ready to embrace all the imperfections of life.

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rawliverandgoronspice · 2 years ago

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THE GERUDO POST

(aka an attempt at a critique of how gerudos were handled in BotW and before)

Oh no. TOTK being right around the corner, it might finally be time for the Gerudo Post.

(aka half of the reason why I made a Zelda sideblog in the first place)

So I want to preface all of this by saying that, as you could probably tell already, I’ve always adored the gerudos. They have fascinated my small child brain when I was 7; then the obsession made its comeback when I was 14, and now, here we are, almost 28, and I’m still thinking about the gerudos. I think they might be among my favorite fictional cultures for their potential and their understated storyline. I guess growing up in a very Arabic neighborhood, coupled with being bi-culturally latinx (?? does Brazil count?? you tell me), also always made them feel like home to me –especially when I was very young and there was not a lot of cool female representation flying around that managed to involve fiercely independent PoC women, flaws and teeth included.

This whole weird-essay-thing tries to do two things. First: analyze the place gerudos have occupied in the series, their initial problematisms and their subtextual narrative arc during the Myth Era coupled with their relationship to Ganondorf. Second: tiptoe to Breath of the Wild and poke it with a stick to see what happens –and in doing that, explain why I believe a lot of their characterization was defanged in service of smoothing their past with the hylians instead of deepening the culture on its own terms, and why I’m a little apprehensive about what that might mean for TotK even though I adore seeing the best girls at it again.

Those are the uhh terms of service??

And now, we must go back to 1998.

OCARINA OF TIME ERA

There’s so many things about the gerudos that are noteworthy and rich, and they’ve made for a complex piece of Zelda lore ever since their introduction –and when I say complex, I don’t 100% mean it as praise. The very racially charged decisions made about their inclusion have been discussed at length by the fandom, especially when it comes to orientalist and Islamophobic tropes being deployed pretty thoughtlessly in Ocarina of Time (their sigil being literally a crescent moon and star originally, the parallels are pretty obviously there).

We’re talking about a band of amazon-like, big-nosed brown women from the desert ruled by a single Scary Evil Man born once every hundred years hellbent on conquering Hyrule who they apparently worship like a god, characterized primarily as thieves, decked in jewelry and orientalist-inspired harem/belly-dancing clothing, hostile to the white good guys of Hyrule (especially men), unblessed by the Goddesses and so deprived of elongated ears (this is true for OoT –we’ll come back to that), also known as a demon tribe with their deity straight-out described as evil-looking by Navi (on my way to cancel you on twitter Navi you watch out), and secretly led by evil twin witches who can turn into a single seductress and, as two mothers, raised their Scary Evil Guy king who happens to basically be the devil.

In so few words, gerudos are the future that liberals want.

It’s worth notice, also, that Ganondorf’s characterization in this game is… kind of relentlessly uncomfortable to play through, especially before the 7 year skip. The utter assumption of depraved and evil intents from every character surrounded by dialogue that does little to hide its biases in spite of having generally very little proof to back them up –even though, in the game’s context, every character is correct to call his eyes evil and the darkness of his skin a moral judgment in on itself. The scene where Zelda demands that we believe her conclusion that the sole and only brown guy in the entire kingdom is evil and will do harm, and the game straight out refuses to progress until we concede that her dreams are prophetic and that this man must be stopped at any cost even though she has no more proof than her discomfort… hits different on replay.

I’m restating all of this not to pretend I’m making a novel and thought-provoking point, but to bounce back on a tumblr post I saw a while back (that I can’t find anymore!! I’ll link it if I find it again) –and so express what it is that gripped me with the gerudos in spite of their pretty damning depiction… and actually maybe thanks to it.

There’s a surprising amount of texture to Ocarina of Time’s worldbuilding that exists folded within the things introduced and left hanging, or in its subtext –and whether on purpose or not, I believe it is why people keep coming back to this iteration of Hyrule.

What was that about the king of Hyrule unifying a war-torn country? Why did the gerudos break the bridge connecting them to the rest of the kingdom during the 7 year timeskip while still worshiping Ganondorf, and why are the carpenters trying to rebuild it against their apparent wishes? What was that about gerudos imprisoning hylian men trying to force entry into their lands? What was that about the secret death torture chambers right next to the Royal Family’s tomb and connected to the race of people who were, apparently, born to serve them?

Nothing? Oh okay… okay… okay….

The same can be said about this strange depiction of this hostile tribe, consistently described as wicked yet suddenly friendly once you prove you deserve their respect once you... defeat them, so you now have joined them? Ocarina of Time isn’t very consistent when it comes to characterizing them as their occupation (thieves) or as a proper culture, with a king and a strange system of rulership that seem to involve at least 5 people: Ganondorf, the Twinrova, Nabooru and the unnamed random woman who decides you’re now part of the gerudos because you slashed enough of them with your sword and hookshot, which, uhh ok.

They’re but a ragtag and negligible group when discussed next to gorons and zoras and hylians, but they also clearly have their own religion and at least a 400-hundred years old history (probably far longer than this) and hints of a written language of their own. I’m not sure the game itself knows what it wants them to be, beyond: intimidating and hot and cool, but also wicked and, because of Ganondorf and the way you barge in their forbidden fortress (heh) with the explicit intent to dismantle their king, in apparent need to be saved from themselves.

Speaking of rulership and the Spirit Temple, let’s have a quick tangent about Nabooru: I always found her characterization when meeting with Child Link pretty strange. I refuse to mention the promised reward, which feeds into everything orientalist mentioned above, but I always found her moral compass so extremely convoluted for someone coming from gerudo culture. Nabooru says that, despite being a cool thief herself, she resents Ganondorf for killing people as well as stealing from women and children. Stealing... from women. Nabooru. Why are you this pressed that he steals from women!!! This feels so out of place, that the only girl of that hostile culture that betrays her king and befriends you, is the one that upholds moral values that only a hylian could possibly hold.

Either way: the strange unquestioned contempt of the game for them as a culture, mixed with the occasional bouts of heart, friendliness and badassery, makes it hard not to consider their depiction as pretty biased in favor of the hylians finding them at once exotic, scary and exciting, and could hide a more complex reality you might only get one side of –especially when you know there were originally plans for Ganondorf’s character to be more gray and motivated than what the campy final version ended up being. To be blunt: even in the context of a game for children, and maybe because of that fact, it all reads like a reductionist and imperialist/colonialist reading of a more complex situation.

This might seem like A Lot coming from a game where the actual game writing can be this overall flimsy and simplistic due to the standards of the time (it’s rough, it's so rough). But I would have never dwelt on that thought about a little children’s game if not for the mainline entries that came soon after, because... ooo boy.

The sense you’re not getting the whole story was certainly not helped by the introduction of Wind Waker Ganondorf, and the chilling emptiness of Gerudo Desert in Twilight Princess.

AFTER THE TIMELINE SPLIT

(I’m skipping Majora’s Mask, not because I dislike them in the game or think they’re not worth talking about, but because it’s a parallel universe and they’re never even called gerudos and their reality seems extremely different from their sisters in Hyrule so I think it’s okay to call them tangential and not dive too deep in this particular depiction)

Here’s something I want to highlight about gerudos and how they were characterized before BotW came along: their absence. Not only their physical absence, the lack of any gerudo character that calls themselves gerudo, but their absence from the text itself.

It’s not that Wind Waker and Twilight Princess retroactively scratch them off existence: we can clearly see Nabooru’s stained glass art in WW as well as recognize them being mentioned in Ganondorf’s final boss soliloquy, and WELL there’s quite a lot to say about their imprint over the world of TP. They are there –or at least they... were there. But nobody ever talks about what happened.

In Wind Waker, there was the deluge. It’s assumed lots of people died then, and those who survived scattered across the Great Sea. Are they sealed under the waves? Have they drowned? Is Jolene, Linebeck’s ex-girlfriend in Phantom Hourglass, a distant relative of one of the rare survivors? It’s unclear, beyond the fact that Ganondorf is the only living gerudo we see in this entire branch of the Timeline split.

In Twilight Princess, the desert which bares their name is empty. The hylians never mention that it used to be the name of a tribe: they’re not even named when Ganondorf is introduced for the first time, reduced once again to a mere band of thieves. We learn his plans to steal the Triforce in OoT were foiled, and that he may have turned to war. Then he lost the war, and was executed in Arbiter’s Ground: a strange structure in the desert, a mixture between a temple, a prison and a coliseum. What looks like gerudo writing coexists with hylian symbols, which often look much fresher. This dungeon is the Shadow Temple of TP: a prison hosting the worst criminals the kingdom has ever known, now haunted and cursed. Besides the locations, the only character that vaguely look gerudo in the entire game besides Ganondorf is Telma, a character with pointed ears that never seems to identify as anything but a hylian. What happened? Who’s to say. Nobody ever says anything. Not even Ganondorf bothers to mention them the way he did in WW –and though the game’s story is quite focused on another exiled tribe seeking revenge and dominion over Hyrule as retribution, the parallel is never explicitly drawn. So who’s to say what happened there. Who’s to say.

And in A Link to the Past and the games forward? The only mention of other gerudo characters are Koume and Kotake, resurrecting their son in the Oracles games through their own sacrifice and failing to bring anything back but a monstrosity incapable of making conscious decisions. Granted, most games in that extremely weird Fallen Timeline predate OoT and therefore had yet to make gerudos up at all. Still: canonically, between the gap of OoT and ALLTP, whatever it may be, gerudos disappeared here as well.

I think there’s something subtle and a little heartbreaking about the fact that no matter what Ganondorf does, the gerudos always end up dying out. His yearning for Hyrule, its gentler wind and the Triforce blessing its lands always costs him the kingdom that he does have already.

Now, does he care? A lot of people would argue that he doesn’t, that he used them like pawns for his own ambition and saw them as servants more-so than sisters, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Nintendo’s official opinion, but… One very powerful thing about most of Ganondorf’s incarnations (focusing on the human ones) is that he never seems to reject his cultural heritage. They could have gone for him wearing more kingly hylian stuff given the whole underlying theme of envy and pride surrounding his character, but never once does he try to look more hylian, beyond the ear situation that seems to be tied to the Triforce of Power? Either way: he is gerudo. Several of his outfits reference his mothers, as well as general gerudo patterning and jewelry. His heritage is something he proudly displays, even hundred of years in the future when there is no one left to remember what it means but him. I think it’s a very potent piece of characterization, an arc that crosses over multiple game and says something pretty intense about this character’s fate and his inherent destructiveness over the things he touches –starting with the Triforce, all the way up to his very own body and mind. His mental breakdown by the end of Wind Waker, when the king of Hyrule himself forces him to give up on the thing he sacrificed everything for, takes a new kind of weight with the whole picture taken into account.

(not to excuse genocide or general egomania-fueled madness and violence, but one thing doesn’t mean the other isn’t also relevant)

Regardless of whether this is a tragedy for Ganondorf as their uhh complete failure of a king, honestly, it is undeniably a tragedy for the gerudos themselves: a once-in-a-lifetime joyful event turned into a never-ending nightmare from which there seems to be no escape, their legacy now condemned to fade to black, leaving nothing behind but a demon boar forever laying ruin upon the world.

One may say I’m taking on the bleakest explication for the gerudos’ absence when there could be others. It’s true! Perhaps the gerudos are just chilling off-screen, completely fine, not interested in whatever is happening in the kingdom nearby and their disaster child having yet another temper tantrum about not being the Goddesses’ favorite boy. It’s possible! But regardless, what little elements we do possess as players doesn’t seem to support this, even if it remains possible –and regardless of actual gerudo lives, gerudo culture is definitively a goner in every single timeline.

Even if they did survive... Hyrule still won its unification war.

(I won’t mention Skyward Sword as they are not really a thing there, except for a butterfly that seems to suggest the Gerudo Province was a thing before the gerudo people –I don’t know what to do with this honestly– and the whole Groose situation, which, I’m not sure what to make of either beyond the fact that he may have gotten cursed by opposing Demise? And then went on to start the gerudo tribe, which ended up being an all-women group for some reason? Maybe? It’s not confirmed? I feel like it’s more of a fun tidbit than a central piece of the gerudo puzzle, so I’ll leave it there like I would a cool rock I brought back from a walk and that I don’t know where to put in my house)

Then, Breath of the Wild happened and changed things.

BREATH OF THE WILD

(Additional short note, but: while I won’t mention Four Swords Adventure, since it’s a weird one that almost nobody has played and severely messes with the Timeline, we kind of see the beginnings of what is about to happen in Breath of the Wild in this game –gerudos coming back without much explanation, then distancing themselves from Ganondorf to become friends with hylians because he was too hungry for power and now they are nice and have good reputation because they are our friendsss)

I was actually so happy to learn gerudos were making a comeback in a mainline Zelda game, and this got me more excited about Breath of the Wild than basically anything else the game involved. And getting to explore the Desert once again, meeting this new batch of impossibly tall buff girls, getting more about their language and their culture, Riju and the rest of the little girls are adorable, the grandmas are so cool, the sand seals??? sign me the fuck up??? And above it all, hanging around Gerudo Town at night and feeling as warm and cozy as little me liked to imagine how freeing it would feel, to stay there and watch the desert behind the safety of their walls in OoT… This was great. I loved it.

It was a huge compensation for the criticism I’m about to make, but did leave me with… questions regarding how their culture was going to be handled moving forward.

I’ll start with something small yet deeply revelatory, then work my way from there.

So... gerudos’ ears are pointy now.

This is pretty significant. Lore-wise, it’s been said that the elongated ears of hylians are there so they can better hear the voices of the gods. It’s considered a sign of holiness in-universe. There's a bunch of really thoughtful analysis on tumblr over that whole Ganondorf ear situation, which is a mess but also very interesting, but the short answer is: I think the absence of pointy ears was a clear design choice to originally signify them as Less Good. Even when Ganondorf gets pointier ears, they never get as long as hylians’. Worth noting: not every non-gerudo character has pointy ears: gorons, zoras and ritos (among others) do not possess this trait, and there are even some humans that have regular rounded ears in the series –though they always seem to be of lesser relevance, if not downright peasants in Twilight Princess. Pointy ears always tended to implied a strict hierarchy in the series: basically, the more pointy, the more Protagonist you become.

(also their eyes becoming green instead of the traditional yellow/golden, which looks more wicked and demonic --and cooler also tbh)

The pointy ears imply two things. From within the game, this could be interpreted in two ways: either that gerudos… converted, for a lack of a better term, and are now considered holy through their worship of the Golden Goddesses and/or Hylia, or that their mingling with hylians through tens of thousands of years had them acquiring this trait out of sheer genetic override (though they have kept their mostly-women birth rates, their big nose, darker skin –for the most part– and red hair). Probably a healthy mixture of both. Design-wise, it signifies something quite simple to the player: they are on hylians’ side now. They are good guys. We can trust them, even if they still have a little spice in them. They aligned themselves with us and against Ganon in all of its manifestations (even if he’s but an angry ghastly pig being parasitic to everything it touches in this iteration). They are on the side of Good, definitively, and will fight evil by our side.

On that note, I think it’s worth bringing out another major change from their initial iteration, which is their overt friendship with Hyrule as a whole, and with the Royal Family in particular. Despite not allowing any voe inside their walls (we’ll come back to this), their relationship with hylians is pretty neat. They have booming trade roads, travel and meet with the rest of the cultures, and are fierce enemies with the Yiga clan, who are renowned for being huge Calamity Ganon supporters. The tables certainly have turned. I want to bring out, in particular, Urbosa’s friendship with the queen and her role as the cool aunt taking care of Zelda and protecting her from evil (to be noted: I am not familiar with Age of Calamity so if I’m mischaracterizing her in any way, please let me know). The gerudo sense of sisterhood has been extended to the royals they used to fight against. I would go on and say the cultures peacefully coexist, but I think that what we’re looking at here is a case of vassal behavior, just like we used to have from zoras (in the non-Fallen Timelines) and gorons. This is a huge departure from gerudos being openly rejecting of Hylian culture in their initial iteration, and something that is worth returning to later.

Okay. Now it’s time to mention the weird obsession BotW gerudos have with romance. I didn’t take notice of my issues with their writing until I realized how prevalent of a theme that was. Now, the reason given for gerudos to refuse entry to males (of every race) has much more to do with preventing young gerudos to make mistakes than anything else, and is actively being put into question by the younger generations –which would make sense. But the amount of NPCs that either lament their lack of match, talk about their husbands (because they marry now apparently) or are invested in romance, and a very limited understanding of romance at that (heterosexual, closed, etc), makes for much more of the population that I initially expected. There’s no mention of what’s going on with their males, if there are new males being born and either exiled or abandoned, or if Ganondorf being technically still alive have have cut them off male heirs. Either way: no more kings, only girlbosses chiefs.

To have the gerudos so interconnected with Hyrule, not only through trade but through extremely coded romance where they have to make themselves palatable to a future male partner and enforce fidelity, was… a choice. The extremely brief and skippable mention of gerudos sometimes going to Castle Town in search for boyfriends in OoT became half of their personality traits in this game. We went from a race that was fiercely independent and mocking of the unworthy men who tried to mingle with them, to… this. Now I’m not saying some of the sidequests aren’t cute, or that I didn’t like the wedding, or that the grandma near the abandoned statue of Hylia (so she was worshipped at some point) clocking us and talking about her love life wasn’t one of my favorite gerudo conversations. I’m saying that the vibes have definitively changed. For the better? I’m not sure.

I once stumbled upon an article that said that Breath of the Wild gerudos were a huge improvement compared to their original introduction, because they were no longer presented as evil and hostile thieves groveling at the boot of a single man, but as a full culture allied with the protagonist and actively involved in the story, while still getting their Cool Girl Badass moment (again can’t find it anymore, I’ll link it if I stumble upon it again). I see where this comes from, but I honestly can’t help but consider it a reading that assumes something pretty major (though through no fault of their own, as the games tend to hammer this down as hard as they can), and that being hylians as the unquestioned anchor of Good.

Which, in spite of what the games want me to believe, I… feel uncomfortable taking at face value.

To me, regarding how gerudos are being incorporated in that goodie narrative, this is kind of a case of surface-level feminism trumping over colonialist/imperialist concerns. It becomes more important to perform the aesthetics of being cool and friendly and independent than scratching at any deeper problem that would risk making people uncomfortable. This is kind of Green Skin Ganon all over again: oh wait, isn’t it a little icky to have the evil bad guy being brown while faced by the most aryan-looking ass heroes of all time? Okay, then let’s take the brown guy and make his skin green so we don’t have to feel bad anymore that the conflict has racial undertones!! Solved!! There’s nothing questionable about changing a PoC's features to make it more monstrous and less human, right?

To me, it’s kind of the coward option: instead of accepting the messy reality those initial choices created (and their interesting nuances if taken at face value), let’s just… rewrite the PoC culture’s history to make it feel less uncomfortable for the white heroes. In many ways, it is an extension of what hylians have always done: scrubbing the weird and messy things about the past and shoving them deep down into the spooky well and far into the desert prison and away in alternate hellish dimensions, and then make up a very simple story where they get to feel good about themselves –except this time, it’s the fabric of the games, the literal reality, bending backward to make it happen. Which, in my opinion, makes it much worse than before. Now, there’s no conversation. The fabric of reality is changing their own history so that there is nothing to discuss anymore. Ganondorf was always evil incarnate. He never had any point. It was always 100% his own fault, his own hubris, his own fated wickedness. He was always demonic (and green, very important –having a flashback to people on twitter accusing artists restoring the TotK green skin to the original brown of wanting to make Ganondorf black, and like….. how do I put it gently…..)

And, above all else: gerudo are to distance themselves from his legacy so they can stay in the club of the Good and Just and Holy.

Because here’s the messy thing: as much as I love seeing the gerudos again in Breath of the Wild and as much I love for them to have survived the Era of Myth (??? somehow ???), this… kind of changes Ganondorf’s character arc. No longer do we have the story of a king who wanted more, either for his people, for himself or both, and led his culture to its destruction in his search for absolute Power, while remaining ironically incapable of maintaining what little he already had. This starts from him kneeling to the king of Hyrule in OoT and leads to the deluge, Arbiter’s Ground, his own mothers dying for the sake of his failed resurrection. Breath of the Wild changes this: now, the gerudo were apparently fine without him? They apparently did their own thing and became suddenly and inexplicably disconnected from his actions? I know it’s kind of implied they side with hylians at the end of OoT, but it’s honestly never really explored why they would cheer for the death of their king while never seeming to resent him before except for Nabooru –there are mentions of brainwashing for those who resist him (as well as “other groups in the desert”, tho they are never mentioned again), but it’s hardly a proper plot point for the majority of the tribe, aaaand they still die by Wind Waker in the Adult Timeline, in spite of their potential alliegance…

(again, this shift towards submitting to Hyrule actually started with Four Swords Adventure, getting crisper with each iteration)

There used to be this polite blur regarding Ganondorf’s relationship to them, how much he used them and how much he acted in their name (with arguments for both sides), and I think this messy and debatable question mark was one of the most compelling aspects of his character. Gerudos rejecting their relationship at a near-cosmic, reality-bending level, removes a huge layer of complexity to both parties… all for the benefit of making hylians come out cleaner out of this whole exchange, their moral grayness barely a whisper in the distance.

I’ll kind of go on the record and say that I suspect the addition of Demise to the canon to serve a similar purpose (at least in part): if Ganondorf becomes but the manifestation of a demonic curse, and is no longer an extremely messy character brimming with agency and drive, forcing the heavens to reckon with said agency in a way he was never meant to access, born from a complex set of circumstances from which we clearly get only a limited and biased perspective, then it becomes extremely clear that he’s a Bad in a way that isn’t worth exploring further. Even if he does have some points, he is a Bad. It’s what matters most. Not to say I even hate what this angle can bring to the table or that I want him to become Good (I don’t –I’ll talk more about why I dislike most takes on him being a helpless victim to the curse), but once again, who benefits from adding another Unquestionned Baddie to the equation to rest upon? Not him, and not the gerudos, that’s for sure.

So. Why did I, me, personally, like the gerudos in the first place?

Beyond the inherent coolness factor of their culture and the fascinating mysteries of what is merely suggested, I think… I think I loved gerudos because we were obvious outsiders. Because their rejection of Hylian culture was so sharp and extreme, their value system so different, and their writing, their religion, their relationship to power and hierarchy and worth wanted nothing to do with hylians. They didn’t need hylians, beyond them having potential resources to steal. In fact, the threat of hylians influencing their culture was such that the entry to the Fortress was forbidden to everyone (I don’t think men were ever singled out, by the way, even though they are mocked relentlessly). I think there was something inherently hopeful about this semi-matriarchy resisting the outside world, and especially its notions of what girls were meant to be –it was 1998, and every other girl character in OoT, besides Impa and Sheik that?? is another can of worms entirely, is either helpless or someone to save. For them to reject this narrow vision of femininity was, in my opinion, much more radical than what we got in BotW. Less nuanced, more problematic perhaps? But also much more powerful. Gerudo Valley is home, not to a town, but a Fortress.

Hylians were worth being resisted.

In Breath of the Wild, their refusal to let men enter their town is kind of boiled down to a fading tradition over-focused on romance, a meek little game of chase. Their entire goal seems to be finding a hylian to settle down with. Say what you will about the single man and the many girls (never explored and completely open-ended in its implications, btw), but at least it wasn’t… that. At least it opened the way for different ways for people to exist and imagine culture and civilization, outside of the heterosexual couple, the christian-infused patriarchy and its trickling down implications. What I want to say is: let my girls tell hylians they ain’t shit!! That they aren’t the end all be all of reality! This is what made gerudos so compelling in the first place! Where is that bite now? Where is that self-definition?

It’s gone, because hylians need to be Good. So we tee-hee at the creep running laps around the town, we disguise ourselves to breach their trust and infiltrate their town (though there is nuance to be had there, gender be complicated etc), we watch them pine after shitty dudes and take classes to become the perfect approachable woman and make love soups with ?? strange ingredients honestly, and we witness them get very friendly with the Royal Family they used to conspire against, dying to protect the princess against the manifestation of their ancient king reduced to a raving puddle of Bad Boar.

Hyrule, unified against him.

TEARS OF THE KINGDOM

For posterity’s sake: this post was made before the game was released. I’ll probably update my thoughts on a separate thing later on.

I don’t think gerudos allying with the hylians and burying their own legends about Ganondorf as deeply underground as they can until it blows up in their face is a bad setup at all. It’s actually pretty juicy, and there’s a ton of fascinating stuff that could happen here –even some involving gerudos taking a firm stand against him while still reconnecting with their past and the choices they made once. This is my hope with the title of the game: Tears of the Kingdoms. Let’s examine them all, account for the damage, and decide how we move forward from there with the full knowledge of where we come from.

What I am afraid of (and I already made posts about that) is the scenario where gerudos rallying against Ganondorf, which I expect will forcefully try to take back his place as their king, is used for cheap feminist points that completely fail to examine, well. Everything mentioned above. Where reality bends itself out of the way of the Goddesses, and hylians’ responsibility in any of this mess, so that everything bad is 100% Ganon’s fault and so he must be cast aside and torn away from the Cool Gerudo Girls and this is 100% justified and deserved because we are Independent Women Who Take No Shit from No Men (unless they are the king of Hyrule or any random hylian they wish to marry apparently).

I’ll say this here because it’s been burning my mouth every time I see discourse about Ganondorf and the gerudo: gerudos declared him as their king. To make a really bad comparison that I dislike: he didn’t run around to assemble girls and make a cult around himself, he was born with the cult already formed around him (and it’s not a cult, it’s just a different mode of governance –hylians also revere the Royal Family like gods, don’t they?). This heavily changes the dynamics at play. Not to remove any agency from him to do a little invasion about it, but chances are the ancestors to BotW’s gerudos fully expected him to behave in this way, at least to a degree –in OoT you see very plainly that they value physical prowess, feats of thievery, witchcraft and general violence. It’s more complicated than him being a Bad and making the poor helpless women go along with the plan uwu –even taking the brainwashing into account, AND Koume and Kotake counting as gerudos too, even if they might not be not fully innocent in shaping the culture and the man himself. If manipulation and forced servitude is the explanation given, I’ll be genuinely mad –because, once more, all the nuance and messiness would be flattened for the sake of making Ganondorf Bad and the gerudo Good (= on hylians’ side).

It bears to be said: I think feminism stances that require, not to criticize (which is fair), but to fully dehumanize and bestialize men of color to make any sense are uhhh bad, and it's worth questionning who they end up serving in the end.

The flip side of this would be to make Ganondorf a poor little meow meow that was secretly controlled by the evil Demise all along, and... I’ll be real. I really don’t think it solves our problem at all. It might even make it worse.

My problem with how gerudos have been handled thus far, being mostly connected to how they behave in relation to hylians Good, is that they’ve been systematically defanged not to threaten the status quo as much as they used to. I think it’s pretty clear why I’m not a fan of Ganondorf being a mere victim of cosmic circumstances; I have a post that goes more in depth about this, but to simplify: my man has legitimate grievances. To make him a mere puppet to Evil Incarnate would, to me, be just another attempt to erase the despotism of the Goddesses, the unjust hierarchy of the world, what hylians have historically done to the races they were in conflict with (looking at the Yiga for the most recent example…)

I’m not saying his fight is clean or even legitimate, that he isn't driven by his own sense of self-importance above anything else, or that he should win (he has no plan beyond domination and victory, that's not a future). But I think there’s something really important about having someone being willing to fully consume himself and everything around him for the simple fact that someone should resist the order of the world. Even if that makes him a heartless, cruel, and egomaniac demon-pig. Even if there’s no Hyrule left to rule. Even if his own people despise him, or are long gone and forgotten.

Is it a little heart-wrenching? Uhh yes to me yes most definitively. This is why Wind Waker Ganondorf hits so hard, and remains (I think) his favorite entry in the series so far. But… I still find this fate of eternal resistance more resonant and empowered, and far less grim, than if Hyrule’s lore absorbs his hatred and rage, gives it to another entity that would be Badder (= more opposed to hylians and the goddesses), and scrubs it off anything icky and uncomfortable, rendering it completely domesticated and non-threatening to hylian domination; rubbed of his skin color, of his complexity, of his own emotions, even made... kind of sexy now, in the same way his sisters have been made before him? I am very, very afraid of him being turned from furious and an unapologetic subject in his own legend to a "redeemed" (according to whom??) and palatable object in somebody else’s, that you now end up having to… save from himself.

Again, I want to trust that Tears of the Kingdom can walk that line and preserve everything sharp and contrasting and profound and thrilling about this fascinating setup. I don’t expect a philosophy course, this is a game for children –but it doesn’t mean Nintendo didn’t do an astounding job with similar setups in the past. Again, I’ll invoke the Wind Waker conflict, but Twilight Princess did a lot of great things as well (Zant’s speech, if you can get past the weird stretches and stumping and NNHYAAAs, is pretty fantastic) –and the subtle writing of Majora’s Mask is also proof enough this series can be complex without being impermeable.

So this is where my hope lies. Not really with BotW’s writing, which, I’m sorry to say, but I found to be below what the series has done in the past (I have no problem with the setup and how the story is explored, I think it was a great idea, but wasn’t ever sold on the actual writing the way I may have been with previous titles –it felt… very tropey to me overall, with a couple of highlights). But Nintendo has shown to know how to write compelling stories for children that know where to sprinkle its darkness and how to preserve its hope, and this is this side I’m relying on for this delicate storyline moving forward.

And now? Now… I suppose we wait and see.

(thank you for reading my impossibly long essay what the actual hell, at least I got it all out of my system, see you in part 2 for when TotK comes out I suppose aaa)

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mrcompass · 4 months ago

Text

A critic of the Legendary Bladers concept.

The concept of the Legendary Blader is central to Beyblade: Metal Fury, playing a significant role in shaping the third part of the MFB series. Through this, new characters, themes, lore, and ideas were introduced. In this analysis, I will explore the Legendary Blader concept by focusing on three key points.

The star fragment and bey obsolescence

The Star Fragment is obviously a central element for the Legendary Bladers, as it is what sets them apart from other Bladers. The Star Fragment serves as a convenient excuse to evolve the Beys of pre-existing characters: Gingka, Kyoya, Ryuga, and later Kenta. Evolutions in the MFB anime are actually quite rare. Unlike the manga, characters don’t evolve their Beys through progress or special events. In fact, it’s more common for a character to change part of their Bey (like Chaoxin), and sometimes characters even change them entirely (like Zeo and Toby). However, the latter case was due to their need for a fresh start after being subjected to Hades Inc. Masamune received an evolved version of his Unicorno thanks to Coach Steel’s modifications, but he did this precisely because he learned Gingka’s Pegasus had evolved and wanted to become a Legendary Blader. Finally, Ryuga was able to evolve Lightning L-Drago into Meteo L-Drago by conquering the dark power.

This illustrates that in the Metal Saga, Beys are an essential part of a character’s identity, and they don’t often change them. Beys are considered partners and are too deeply intertwined with the supernatural and the characters themselves (after all, the characters’ designs are based on their Beys) to be modified on a whim. For example, it would be strange for Kyoya or Gingka to ask Madoka to modify their Beys, given the values they hold for them.

This is actually a disadvantage for MFB, as the goal of the anime is to sell Beyblades. As a result, whenever you introduce a prominent Beyblade that you really want to sell, you have to create a new character. This might cause issues with character development, considering the number of characters already in the show and the limited number of episodes.

This is where the Star Fragment is a genius move: it allows the Beys of previous characters to evolve into the new 4D system. This way, they can present the new system as special. Additionally, it was already established that Beys are made of meteorite material, so a fragment of the same thing powering the Beys seems logical.

This doesn’t mean the concept is perfect, though. The first problem is that it is reserved for only a select few, and the evolutions only apply to pre-existing characters. This actually limits the new system to a handful of people: the Legendary Bladers, the Nemesis Bladers, Ryuto, and Masamune. The second issue is that it clearly sets these characters apart from all the others. Even though some of the Fusion characters were outclassed by Gingka and his group, as demonstrated in Battle Bladers, there was still hope for them to come back stronger and remain relevant in the show. After all, Tsubasa and Yu maintained consistent roles in later seasons, and Tobio even returned during the Destroyer Dome.

But now that we have a group of Bladers certified as the "strongest in the world" thanks to the Star Fragment, the hope for other characters to shine, surpass the Legendary Bladers with their own skills, or even create tension in a match has been demolished. The proof is that no Legendary Blader has ever lost to a non-Legendary Blader, and no holder of a 4D Beyblade has lost to a Blader with a non-4D Bey. For example, Yuki was able to beat Cycnus, and Johannes was able to outplay Dashan.

This perfectly illustrates what I call "Bey obsolescence," which refers to a new kind of Bey or system eclipsing the others within the same generation. For example, in Fusion, characters with Beys using plastic fusion wheels played a relevant part, yet in Metal Masters, these Beys are reserved for background characters. This kind of Bey was used by Kenta’s friends, whom we don’t see anymore after Fusion, as well as Hikaru and Hyoma. The latter two were strong enough to defeat Kenta at one point and participate in Battle Bladers, but they are the only participants of that tournament who have given up competitive Beyblading.

Of course, there’s the factor of their trauma, but Tsubasa overcame the dark power, and they could have had their roles switched with others in Battle Bladers. However, it didn’t happen, and I think the explanation is that it was simply convenient to reduce the presence of two characters using an obsolete system to make more room for new Bladers and Beys. As conspiratorial as it might sound, if you look at any team in the World Championship, none of them—not even Team Desert Blaze—used plastic wheels. This obsolescence is real, as seen in Zero-G, where the generic Beys use the Ray and Spiral fusion wheels, which were once used by prominent characters.

I think Metal Fury is painfully aware of this and tries its best to counteract it, mainly by showing close fights, like Gingka vs. Kenta in Beyster Island or Kyoya vs. Yu. In a way, it works. It’s almost impressive how these characters can hold their own with their Metal Fusion Beyblades against Legendary Bladers.Another point the anime insists on is that Gingka and Kyoya needed to learn how to use their new 4D Beys. Before their defeats against Ryuga, they often relied on mode changes, much like Johannes and the rest of the Nemesis Bladers did. It’s notable that Johannes, Pluto, Hershel, and Cycnus don’t have a special move, and for the latter three, they don’t even have a Bey-beast or aura. These are characters who over-rely on their Beys’ abilities rather than fully utilizing their potential. This is presented as the “wrong way” to use a 4D Bey. It’s also noteworthy that Kyoya and Kenta created their special moves by defeating one of these Bladers. So, in a way, the anime tries to tell us that while it’s great to have a powerful new Bey, if you just rely on mode changes, you’re not going to get very far.

So, even though the Star Fragment is a great idea for changing the Bey system, it kind of limits the possibility of characters benefiting from it. Especially considering that only four characters received drastic evolutions. It also confirms the tendency to leave characters behind, depending on their beys. Nonetheless the series finale addresses this issue by having all the Bladers transfer their power to Gingka.

The Legendary Bladers and Character Development

The second point that needs huglight is the legendary blader themselves and how they perforemd as characters. This is not about critizing the choice of these charcters for the legendary blader postion but rather seeing if there is more to them than their title and if they are developped. Now characters developpment is all well and good but it is better if a charatcers is fleshed out so they can stand out more.

Gingka, Kyoya, Ryuga and Kenta

On the eleven people that received a star fragment only four were introduced in a previous season: Kyoya, Gingka and Ryuga and Kenta. All fo them were well established charcters and they all had their time to shine in the season. Kyoya had his little arc, Gingka put an end to Nemesis thanks to all the blader ijn the world and Ryuga and Kenta built a bond with each other. We actually saw more of Ryuga, how he trains and how he lives thanks to his tribulations. For Kenta this was the occasion to grow stronger but also distance himself from Gingka and the rest of the group, which allowed him to stand out more and gained independance. Bulding a relationship between Kenta and Ryuga was obviously surprising and welcomed. As the two had never really interacted with each other and are actually very different. We have Ryuga who was always strong and narcistic and Kenta who built slowly but surely his strenght and tries his best to help friends whenever he can. His journey with Ryuga is actually refreshing and unexpected. In my opinion it is the most succesfull things metal fury did. Reagarding their selections as legendary blader I think it what obvious they would be selected. Kyoya, Gingka and Ryuga are the strongest blader in the world with a lot of achievement to their credit like battle blader and tghe world championship. Kenta succeding to Ryuga as the lengadry blader of summer is a perfect consluon to his charcters journey not only in fury but in the whole series as well.

Yuki

Yuki was introduced very early in the season, being one of the first characters to appear in Metal Fury. Much like Kenta, Yuki starts off by being attacked, unable to defend himself until Gingka intervenes. They quickly become friends. After Kenta left the group, Yuki somewhat filled his role without replacing him. Yuki has elements that set him apart—he is determined, enjoys astronomy, and uses his passions to his advantage (like when he figured out how to open the door of Dynamis's temple). He is intelligent and loyal. However, his biggest weakness is his lack of confidence in himself as a Blader.

After he became a Legendary Blader, he participated in the Tag Team tournament alongside Gingka, and his confidence improved—a trend that continued over time. Overall, Yuki was a well-developed character; he had time to be properly fleshed out, and he actually grew during the season.

The main issue comes when it’s revealed that Yuki is a descendant of one of the Bladers who fought Nemesis in the past, which allowed him to gain the star fragment. Yuki’s reaction is one of pride and joy, as one might expect. However, for me, this was a missed opportunity for introspection. He’s supposed to be a clever and level-headed character, yet he never questions the influence of destiny on his life. Was he always destined to become friends with Gingka? Are his achievements only due to his ancestors? This could have led to Yuki affirming himself—not in opposition to his fate, but as his own person. This would have been a nice way to parallel Rago and Pluto, who mindlessly follow the prophecy of their own ancestor.

Aguma

Regarding the case of Aguma, I believe he also benefited from an earlier introduction compared to the other Legendary Bladers. He is also the first to join Nemesis, which sets him apart from the others. Aguma is part of the Beylin Fist, a rebel faction of the Beylin Temple. He wishes for his faction to get the recognition they deserve, which is why he allies himself with Johannes, who promised that in the "New World," the Beylin Fist would become the one and only school for Beyblade. This integrates Aguma and the rest of his clan into the world of MFB by using the pre-existing Beylin Temple.

Though Aguma does not develop a rivalry with Dashan, he does have an antagonistic relationship with Kyoya, which plays into Kyoya's solo arc. By being one of the antagonists during Metal Fury alongside Johannes, Aguma manages to stand on his own and gain some individuality. After his successive losses to Kyoya, King, and Tithi, as well as Pluto's betrayal, Aguma faces an internal crisis about what to do next: help the Legendary Bladers, do nothing, or side with Nemesis.

This moment of introspection could have been a positive turning point, if it hadn’t been interrupted in the worst way possible. Dynamis reveals that Aguma's ancestor sided with Hades in the past, before switching sides to join the Legendary Bladers after an encounter with Tithi's ancestor. Because of this, it feels like all of Aguma's choices have been dictated by fate, as he ends up replicating the same mistakes his ancestor did. This makes him seem more like a puppet of fate rather than a fully developed character.

King

King was introduced around the middle of the season. Like Yuki and Aguma, he participated in two tournaments, showcasing his performance to the viewers. The most important aspect of King is the friendship he built with Masamune. In my opinion, they complement each other very well, as seen during their battle against Hershel, and King quickly became a part of Team Dungeon.

Of course, King suffers from the same circumstances as the other Solar System Bladers, but what counteracts this is his genuine love for Beyblade, much like Masamune and Gingka. Additionally, his ancestry never got in the way of his actions or choices, and he didn’t seem to place much importance on it. Even if he wasn’t a Legendary Blader, he still had a unique Beyblade, Variares, that can spin in both directions, which already makes him stand out.

In summary, King is a very unique, iconic, and well-integrated character.

Dynamis

Dynamis first appeared in the arc just before the Beyster Island tournament, and he didn’t participate in it. Just like in the manga, he doesn’t have much screen time compared to the previous Legendary Bladers. I think this is due to the fact that his primary purpose is to deliver the lore behind the Legendary Bladers, making it harder to dissociate him from that role.

Later on, Dynamis gets possessed by a dark power, which might be an allusion to Tsubasa’s dark power arc. This is fitting since Zeus, represented by Dynamis's Beyblade Jupiter, has an eagle as its symbolic animal.

Dynamis’s main problem is that he doesn’t have any real meaningful relationships with other characters, making him feel more like a plot device.

Chris

Chris was also introduced fairly late in the season, but fortunately, he has a backstory. He suffered a similar situation to King, being ostracized and abandoned because of his strength, which alludes to the fact that Legendary Bladers in the manga aren’t allowed to participate in tournaments due to their overwhelming power. Unlike the other Bladers of the four seasons, Chris wasn’t introduced in previous seasons, nor did he have an impressive record before winning Beyster Island. He suffered from unfortunate circumstances that prevented him from going to the World Championship.

However, Chris brings with him an interesting concept—that of a mercenary Blader. This is relatively new to the series, and it seems to fit well in a world where Beyblade holds such a significant place. It’s almost strange that we didn’t see more variations of what a Blader can do outside of just fighting in tournaments. Unfortunately, this concept was introduced far too late to be fully explored, especially considering Chris seemingly gives up the mercenary way. After he lost to Gingka and sided with the Legendary Bladers, it appears Chris turned over a new leaf, but since this happened just before the final fight against Nemesis, we didn’t have enough time to appreciate his development.

Tithi

Tithi was the last Legendary Blader to be introduced. What’s original about his introduction is that, unlike the others, he isn’t found by Gingka but by Kyoya and Yu. From the start, we get a good sense of his personality—he’s a shy kid who just wants friends to play Beyblade with, a feeling Yu understands well. Their bonding was very sweet to watch and helped reintroduce Yu into the new season.

During battle, we see that Tithi has a joyful personality. He can be unpredictable and a little wild at times. Of course, who could forget him annoying Kyoya by calling him "Tatakyo/Yoyo"? Tithi later battled Aguma, which contributed to Aguma's doubts (along with Pluto’s betrayal).

Overall, I think Tithi was fleshed out well, but the problem is that he was introduced so late in the season that it feels like he was mercilessly thrown into the Nemesis crisis. Think about it—he was just a little kid minding his own business, finally finding a friend to play Beyblade with, and less than two days later, he’s forced to face this universe's version of Satan. However, his potential was clearly wasted, especially considering he stayed with Dynamis, with whom he had almost no interactions.

Rago

Rago is one of the main antagonists of Metal Fury, and he is also the only Legendary Blader to be truly evil. He appears in the latter part of the season, which seems at odds with how the anime presents him—as the ultimate villain Gingka and the rest must face. Rago is merely the man who wields Nemesis, nothing more and nothing less. He shares similarities with previous main Blader antagonists like Ryuga and Damian by being narcissistic, boastful, and insulting. However, Rago's issue is that he didn’t have the same buildup as Ryuga did in Metal Fusion. He feels like a character pulled from a catalog, especially considering that he appears alongside the Nemesis Bladers.

Though he endangered the entire world and kills Ryuga, there’s no progression to his evil actions. The problem is that we already know he wants to destroy the planet and end all life. In contrast, Ryuga's actions in Metal Fusion became increasingly unhinged, making us fear and anticipate his next move. However, Rago has something that sets him apart from other villains—he's not Gingka's villain but Ryuga's. There isn’t much of a parallel between Gingka and Rago. The Legendary Bladers of the Solar System, much like Rago, are bound by fate, while Ryuga is different.

Ryuga wanted to bury his past in the Dark Nebula, particularly the time he was possessed by L-Drago. Then, in Metal Fury, Doji returns alongside a new Blader who controls a seemingly unstoppable dark artifact that just absorbed L-Drago’s power. Ryuga feels insulted, but the main reason he fights Rago is because he sees himself—Metal Fusion Ryuga—in him and wants to destroy that part of himself. Additionally, Rago is a threat to his supremacy in the Beyblade world, so if Ryuga wants to live up to his title, he must either fight him or die trying.

Overall, I think Rago is a pretty solid antagonist. He serves his purpose, and while his fight with Ryuga meant more for the latter’s character, it allows Rago to be more integrated into the story.

Most of the new characters who became Legendary Bladers serve their purpose well; they are unique characters. Some are more integrated than others into the wider MFB canon. However, they all would have benefitted from more time to be fleshed out, particularly Dynamis and Chris. The new lore surrounding them adds more substance to the series, but at the same time, the over-reliance on it and on fate hurt some of these characters badly (like Yuki and Aguma). The main problem is that Metal Fury was 12 episodes shorter than the previous two seasons. With that amount of additional episodes, the new characters could have benefitted greatly from further development. In summary, this is a big waste of potential, and most of them don’t succeed at being more than just Legendary Bladers.

Gingka Hagane and the concept of fate.

The concept of fate and supernatural forces has always been present in Metal Fight Beyblade. In Metal Fusion, we had Ryutaro, who had visions about the future, while in Metal Masters, Julian and Damian used a vague concept of fate to justify their positions and why they should win. Despite this, Gingka was able to beat them all and even overcame fate. Ryutaro had a vision of an apocalyptic future, but after his losses to Gingka in Battle Bladers, he saw that a different path was possible. Madoka's computer predicted that Gingka had less than a 1% chance to win against L-Drago, yet he succeeded. Finally, let's not forget that King Hades' prophecy hadn’t fully realized itself because Gingka and the whole world defeated Nemesis. The point is that Gingka has a habit of triumphing over fate and preconceived ideas. For him, being a blader is about fighting with his heart, loving his Bey, and getting back up when he loses—it’s how he becomes powerful. Yet, in Metal Fury, some of the most powerful bladers are those who have special ancestors and a star fragment in their Bey. The reason the star fragment chooses those particular bladers is related to fate, as the attribution was tied to the prophecy and is known by Dynamis. This use of the concept of fate and predetermined power in Metal Fury fundamentally undermines the themes that were built in previous seasons of Metal Fight Beyblade. Gingka’s story in Metal Fusion and Metal Masters was about defying odds, challenging fate, and rising through sheer willpower and love for the sport.

The concept of the Legendary Blader brought some fresh elements to Metal Fury but ultimately constrained the series. While it introduced new characters and deeper lore, the overreliance on fate limited the potential for character growth and reduced the tension in battles. Characters like Yuki and Aguma were overshadowed by their predetermined roles, while others, like Dynamis and Chris, suffered from lack of development due to the shortened season. While there were positive developments, such as the evolving relationship between Ryuga and Kenta or the bond between King and Masamune, Metal Fury ultimately fell into the same trap as its predecessor by superficially handling an expanded cast. The season reflects a broader fatigue with the Metal Saga, struggling to balance the introduction of new elements with the need for meaningful character development.

#metal fight beyblade #mfb #gingka hagane #metal fury #kyoya tategami #ryuga beyblade #chris mfb #tithi beyblade #dynamis beyblade #kenta yumiya #yuki mizusawa #aguma beyblade #king beyblade #masamune kadoya

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feivelynart · 9 months ago

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Cosmic Horror out of Boredom

So I'm playing Stellaris and since the new dlc was about machines I thought I'd do a Driven Assimilator (think: Borg) playthrough again. To make it a bit harder on myself because I tend to extremely spiral completely out of control once I get the ball rolling with DA (and I hate managing a 200+ system empire), I decided to do a One Sector Challenge, meaning I can't settle or defend anything that isn't in a 4 jump radius from my Capital World. Claiming/Conquering is Ok, since that is unavoidable as DA when going on assimilation raids, though I won't build starbases or habitats, nor settle or occupy any planets outside of my core sector (Warfare only through nihilistic aquisition raiding bombardment).

So there is this pre-ftl civ just one jump outside my sector, that I haven't bothered with conquering/assimilating, since it is outside my designated area of expansion. I also just defeated the Grey Tempest and cleared the L-Cluster (which was not the cakewalk I was expecting since the midgame crises now scale along with the crisis strength setting, (finally, hooray!))

So I decided to grab the whole cluster along with the unoccupied gates, terraform the nanite worlds to the preference of the pre-ftls, sprinkle in some infrastructure and habitat complex hubs for good measure and wait until they reach FTL-travel to gift them the whole cluster, because I can't see it just sit there empty not being used since the AI empires are very much occupied in a War in Heaven right now, but I won't settle it myself for my self imposed limitations.

Ok, so now imagine: your planet just made the jump to FTL travel, the stars are yours to explore, the universe opened up, then there is that unknowable machine/cyborg hive-mind empire just chlling right outside of your system, or in fact they have watched you grow and develop for hundreds of years, and immediately make contact once the first FTL drive was a success. And they offer you this paradisic cluster of stars, with a dozen habitable planets made to the exact specification of your species. And then once it becomes known that there are is a whole galactic ommunity, you realize that your alien neighbors are usually regarded with suspicion or outright fear by other aliens, having brutally conquered other primitive planets like yours within their space, and emptied whole planets of other spacefaring nations on raids outside their territorry. And you can't shake the thought: Where is the catch? What are we to them? Cattle? Why do they need us to settle this start cluster?

One could probably write a series of novels on that idea.

#stellaris #2am thoughts

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alvinflavored · 8 months ago

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MADE TO CONQUER THE STARS ִֶָ

PROLOGUE— in an empire where the sun never set on it's dominions & the stars seemed to bow to it's might, a single figure stood to reshape destiny.

"you were born to inherit the stars."

the first born and heir to the throne, (name), in an empire that despised the very notion of a female ruler, bore the weight of an ancient prophecy on her shoulders. the gods had decreed that she alone would lead the empire to victory in an age-long war against it's rival empire and conquer the heavens.

despite the divine proclamation, her oath to the throne was fraught with obstacles. the imperial court and even her own siblings were a bastion of patriarchal tradition who conspired ceaselessly to cause her fall, with each nobleman convinced that a woman could never command their empire's might.

"how can a woman lead us?"

this all changes, however, when a knight enters her life. presented as a sword to protect (name), william was tall yet seemed weak, eyes that seemed to hold a thousand secrets. yet, as weeks turn into months, the lines between duty and desire began to blur.

the walls that the heir had built around herself crumble at her affection, but why is it so that for william, this soon became a torment? every smile, every secret and displays of affection drove a dagger deeper, and deeper into his soul. mysteries unfold, betrayal occurs, tears are shed, fury swallows.

"you—of all people—you do this to me."

and at the end of it all, the prophecy had come to pass — the stars were finally (name)'s to command, her throne besides the celestial titans guaranteed.

yet why does victory taste of ash and blood?

love in the end, is eclipsed by shadows of her destiny.

"i have been too late in my confession."

you fall to your knees. tears, blood & grime stain your face as you gather the fading man into your arms.

"i can see the stars, (name)."

you smile; yet your lips are quivering and pained. you must stay strong for this person. "yes. everything is fine now, my dear. get some rest for me."

"it has been a long time since i last saw the stars."

and as the twinkling lights of the empire came into view of the night sky, your's disappeared forever.

— inspired by 'THE TITAN'S CURSE'

#★ : alvinflavored #william james moriarty #william james moriarty x you #william james moriarty x reader #moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty x reader #yuukoku no moriarty #★ : alv. mtcts series #made to conquer the stars series #mtcts series

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laryna6 · 1 year ago

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Can you tell me about Miles Vorkosigan? (And also which book to start with)

"Welcome to Barrayar, son. Here you go; have a world of wealth and poverty, wrenching change and rooted history. Have a birth; have two. Have a name. Miles means "soldier", but don't let the power of suggestion overwhelm you. Have a twisted form in a society that loathes and fears the mutations that have been its deepest agony. Have a title, wealth, power, and all the envy and hatred they will draw. Have your body ripped apart and rearranged. Inherit an array of friends and enemies you never made. Have a grandfather from hell. Endure pain, find joy, and make your own meaning, because the universe certainly isn't going to supply it. Always be a moving target. Live. Live. Live."

— Cordelia Vorkosigan to her newborn son Miles, Barrayar

Sci-fi series by Lois McMaster Bujold where the world of Barrayar was cut off from the rest of the galaxy for a long time and also the native plant life is mutagenic, so it became a mother's duty to kill her child at birth if it was a mutant. Also the tax collectors become a military aristocracy.

After recontact (and after a star empire tried to conquer Barrayar and threw a bunch of nukes around before getting finally kicked off the planet, not helping the local fear/hatred of mutations) is the first chronological book in the main series, Shards of Honor, about a survey (and later military) captain from the very liberal Beta Colony. Cordelia ends up marrying a Vor lord, but while she's pregnant there's an attempt to assassinate him with a chemical that as a side effect screws up fetal bone development that hits her too. She refuses to let her kid die and fucks shit up during a civil war to accomplish this in the second book where she's the viewpoint character, Barrayar.

"You're a Betan! You can't do—"

— Vidal Vordarian to Cordelia Vorkosigan, just before she does. Barrayar

However, Miles is still born very short with fragile bones, looking like a mutant despite not technically being one, as a member of a warrior-aristocratic caste, and becomes a master of the Indy Ploy/Xanatos Speed Chess ending up in crazy situations and trying to improv his way out of total disaster and among other things (non-late-arrival spoilers under cut)

takes over a mercenary fleet while pretending to be a clone of himself. The Warrior's Apprentice is the first book about him and the first book published. I love the Cordelia books so I'd start with them, but it's up to you.

They followed me home, Dad. Can I keep them?

— Miles on his new Dendarii Mercenaries. Warrior's Apprentice

Someone actually clones Miles to use the clone to assassinate his dad: by Beta Colony rules on family this makes the clone his brother and Mark is eventually Assimilated. You WILL be unconditionally loved and trusted in this family~

"Miles, what have you done with your baby brother?!"

— What Miles imagines his mother will say about his clone. Brothers In Arms

Miles is kind of manic and it's a lot of fun to see what crazy ploy he's going to go with next. Cordelia sees herself as the Only Sane Woman but between her and Aral it's very obvious where Miles got it from ("Every Vor woman goes to the capital to shop" XD).

"Shopping? That's an offer seldom made to the son of my mother..."

— Miles responding to Ekaterin's invitation. Komarr

#miles vorkosigan #vorkosigan saga #cordelia naismith vorkosigan

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twohearts-hs · 6 months ago

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Always & Forever Sixteen - Marshall Mathers x Reader Series

Words: 3.7k

Pairings: Marshall Mathers x Fem!Reader Series

Synopsis: They loved each other with every fibre and being. They knew that they were meant to be together, but it seemed like every obstacle came in the way. She was twenty-one, he was forty and they knew that it would be hard. Therefore, they promised forever and always as they were meant to be together despite every turmoil that came their way.

Warnings: Swearing, Alcohol, Cannabis, Arguments & Angst.

|| Masterlist for Series ||

Hope you enjoy :)

Marshall’s arm was wrapped around her, holding her tight as Y/N looked at her phone. They were public. Her name was in the public. Her name was tied to Marshall’s. Her relationship was public. Closing her eyes she took a deep breath. Her life, her privacy, her secrecy is all gone.

Everyone knew Y/N Y/L/N now:

‘Eminem’s Heart: Marshall Mathers and Y/N Y/L/N’s Romance Goes Public:

"Rap Icon in Love: Marshall Mathers and Y/N Y/L/N's Relationship Revealed!"

"Marshall Mathers Finds Love: Meet Y/N Y/L/N, the Woman Who Stole Eminem's Heart"

"Love in the Limelight: Marshall Mathers and Y/N Y/L/N's Relationship Exposed!"

"Eminem's New Muse: Inside Marshall Mathers and Y/N Y/L/N's Blossoming Romance"

Y/N swallowed and looked over to her boyfriend who was asleep. He did not know, but he would soon. They were public. Everyone knew and just as she was about to take a breath, her phone rang.

It was her mother…

Y/N took a breath and pulled Marshall’s hand off her as she answered the phone in the bathroom.

“Y/N, you’re plastered over the internet,” she stated with sympathy. “Your relationship is public.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “I am now known as Eminem’s girlfriend.”

“You went through this with Jake-“

“Jake,” Y/N interfered, “was a no one in this big world with just subtle hums. He was just getting know… Mom this is Eminem. 2000s rap star…Eminem. I am now known. Everything will be public. We are public.” Y/N felt the weight of her mother’s concern through the phone as she stood in the bathroom, away from Marshall’s slumber. “I know, Mom,” she murmured, her voice betraying anxiety. “It’s all over the internet now. Everyone knows.”

“I’m worried about you, sweetheart,” Ree’s voice crackled with emotion. “This kind of attention, it’s not easy to handle.”

Y/N leaned against the bathroom counter, her mind racing. “I wasn’t ready for this. I thought I was. My Instagram has hundreds of thousands of requests… I thought we could have kept it private longer. But I was the fool who made him go to the art show.”

“You’re with Marshall because he is Marshall, not Eminem. Fame finds a way of exposing everything. Just take care of yourself. Don’t let this overwhelm you or your relationship.”

Y/N nodded and agreed. “He is asleep, and I don’t know how to tell him as I will get angry Marshall.”

“Love conquers, sweets. Love conquers.”

All Y/N could do was hope that their love could conquer. Y/N exited the bathroom to see him sitting up.

“Where did you run off to?” he said voice filled with sleep.

“My mom called… Marshall,” she began as she stepped forward, “you should look at your phone. Paul will be calling you soon if he hasn’t already. Our names are plastered all over the internet. We are public.”

Marshall rolled over to his phone where there were several messages from Paul. He got off the bed and walked away to call Paul leaving her there in silence. He wandered to the bathroom and closed the door before a grumpy Marshall began. Y/N sat on the bed looking over the headlines and seeing all this information about her…they knew her name, her career, her hometown…

Marshall’s muffled voice filtered through the bathroom door as he talked to Paul, the frustration evident in his tone. Y/N could not hear the exact words, but the intensity was clear. She scrolled through her phone, reading more headlines and comments, feeling her heart race with every new mention of her name. The world now knew everything about her.

After what felt like an eternity, the bathroom door opened, and Marshall stepped out, his face a mixture of anger and concern. He walked over to the bed and sat down beside her, rubbing his temples.

“Paul’s losing it,” he said, voice strained. “He thinks this is going to be a PR nightmare. We were supposed to keep it lowkey, and now this…”

Y/N reached out and took his hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m sorry, Marshall. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I thought that the media would not be there or-“

“The media will always be there. However, it’s not your fault. I went to this event; I should have known better.”

“I am glad you came though. Supporting me makes me happy,” she mused, kissing his cheek.

He sighed. “I just want to protect you from all of this. The media, the scrutiny, it can get brutal.”

Y/N nodded and leaned her head onto his shoulder and he cupped her cheek, kissing the top of her head. “Paul wants us to issue a statement,” Marshall said finally. “Something to address the situation and try to control the narrative.”

Y/N nodded. “Ok. What should we say?”

Marshall thought for a moment, then said. “We’ll keep it simple. Just acknowledge our relationship and ask for privacy. We don’t owe them our entire story.”

Y/N took a deep breath. “I can do that. We can do that.”

Marshall walked off, grabbing clothes on the way and pulling them on before going downstairs. Y/N grabbed her robe and followed him, watching him put a pot of coffee on. A few moments later, Hailie came then Alaina.

“Have you seen the media?” Hailie asked as she sat on the barstool.

“Yeah,” Marshall and Y/N said at the same time.

“Well, what are you going to do? Because you and Y/N are serious. Then there’s the fact that Y/N is leaving so then they might think it’s a break-“

“We aren’t breaking up,” Marshall stated loudly. “Y/N is going to New York, but we are not breaking up,” he said sternly.

“Dad, for two years you two will do long distance? At least two years…what if Y/N goes over the two years for school or gets an internship-“

“Hailie,” he barked, “enough.” He held his hand up. “My relationship is my business.”

“I don’t want your relationship to be like mom,” Hailie admitted. “You two were awful to each other and the media had a frenzy with, twisting it and altering it to make it chaotic.”

Marshall sighed, grasping the counter as he looked over at Y/N who poured two cups of coffee.

“Y/N and I’s relationship,” he began calmly, “is nothing like your mother and I. It will not be like your mother and I. I will make sure of that.”

Hailie fell silent, her expression a mix of concern and frustration. Alaina, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke. “Dad, Hailie has a point. Long distance is tough, especially with all the media attention now. Y/N will be haunted in New York City. It’s not going to be easy for either of you. Once they figure out you two are doing long distance, they will make Y/N into this possibly cheating or untrustworthy person. Anyone she is with they will twist,” Alaina said.

Y/N put the mug of coffee in front of Marshall as she leaned into him. He was still gripping the counter.

“What are you suggesting, Lainy?” he spoke.

“Maybe not go public. Y/N is moving in August. That is six months away.”

“Thank you for reminding me of the ticking bomb on my relationship,” he bit as he turned to grab sugar and milk for everyone’s mugs.

“Marshall,” Y/N tried.

Marshall turned to look at Y/N, his eyes blazing with anger and frustration. “No, Y/N, they need to understand,” he snapped. “This isn’t about the media or long distance. This is about us and what will work for us.”

“We have six months…can we please have this conversation in July?” Y/N said holding his bicep.

“I don’t like this. I don’t like any of this. I need to be alone,” he stated, taking his coffee and walking to his studio.

Y/N watched at her boyfriend walked away from them. She glanced over to Hailie and Alaina who gave her looks of pity. Y/N shrugged and then went to her mug of coffee.

“I should leave. I have work at noon,” she muttered walking up the stairs to the bedroom to have a shower.

Y/N entered the diner to see all eyes on her. Ted, Miranda and Gavin all had looks of pity as she walked to the back. Marshall had not emerged from his office therefore, Y/N bussed to the diner and sent a message to Marshall stating she was going to work. She heard nothing.

Y/N was in the back, putting on her apron when Miranda approached.

“Hi, lovely,” she hummed rubbing her back. “I saw the tabloids. Kind of can’t escape the media when you’re with such a big name,” she stated.

Y/N sighed and turned to her. “I know and I don’t know what to do. I want Marshall but I don’t want Eminem.”

She gave her a small smile and rubbed her back as Y/N grabbed her notepad and looked at her phone.

11:59 a.m.

From Marshall <3: Sorry I could not drive you. Have a good day at work. Will I see you later?

To Marshall <3: I am going out with Meira later for dinner.

From Marshall <3: Oh. Ok. Wanna come over after?

To Marshall <3: 8 am class tomorrow and last time when I had one, you complained so I will go home.

From Marshall <3: Ok. When can I see you next?

To Marshall <3: Friday? Wait I am going to a art event with Dr. Beau. Saturday?

From Marshall <3: An art event with Dr. Beau? I did not know about that, but that’s ok. How about I pick you up after the event?

Y/N pocketed her phone and decided to deal with that later. She needed to get to work. She did not have time for Marshall’s insecurities. Throwing her hair up in a ponytail and wiping under her eyes to get rid of mascara flakes, she left the back and proceeded to go to work.

Y/N wiped down the counter at Ted’s Diner, the rhythmic motion of her cloth against the laminated surface providing a momentary distraction from her swirling thoughts. The lunchtime rush finished, and the evening was just beginning. She glanced at the clock on the wall and noted she had another four hours of her shift before she could head home.

As she straightened up, her phone buzzed in her apron pocket. She fished it out, her heart skipping a beat when she saw the caller ID:

Steve Richardson (Lawyer)

Taking a deep breath, she walked towards the back of the diner, seeking a quiet corner near the storage room. “Hello, Steve,” she answered, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Y/N. I hope all is well. I have some bad news. I have been going over the case details regarding Jake,” Steve began, his tone serious. “It’s a really complicated case. Sexual assault is very hard to win especially in your situation.”

“I have evidence. I got a kit done. I-“

“It’s your word against his and he is bringing up mental health and stress-“

“That is ridiculous,” she states, “he is not mentally ill. He’s a rockstar addict.”

“Jake’s lawyer is using his mental health issues, his drug problem, and the stress he’s been under as an excuse for his actions,” Steve explained. “They have medical records and character witnesses who are willing to testify that he wasn’t in control of his actions and that he is seeking help now. With the evidence we have, it’s going to be tough to prove our case beyond reasonable doubt. The defence is painting a picture that evokes sympathy for him.”

Y/N closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “So, what are you saying? We can’t win?”

“I’m saying that odds are against us,” Steve replied gently. “It’s not impossible, but it will be a long, drawn-out process with no guarantee of success. It could take a toll on you, both emotionally and financially.”

“Marshall is paying for you,” she whispered. “I don’t want this to be longer than six months to deal with as I am going to New York. I don’t want him paying thousands and thousands for your services. No offence, Steve.”

“None taken.”

“Have you talked to Marshall?” she asked.

“No, he may be paying for my services, but this case concerns you.”

Y/N nodded. She bit her lip and took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can do this and go through with this if it’s going to take a long time. I have already been through enough.”

“They subpoena your medical records too and they know about the pregnancy and abortion therefore, Jake is trying to hit you from that side that you kept it-“

“It was not his baby,” she interrupted.

“Yes, but you never got a paternal test, and he was your partner then.” Y/N groaned. “I understand your points, Y/N,” Steve said softly. “Sometimes, the best decision is to let go for your own peace of mind. Dropping the charges doesn’t mean you’re conceding defeat; it means you’re choosing to move forward without the burden of this case weighing you down.”

She nodded, even though he could not see her. “I will drop the charges,” she stated.

“You sure you want to do that?”

“I don’t want to relive all of this. I don’t want my future to be impacted. I want to move on.”

“Of course, Y/N. I will proceed with this. Thank you for your time.”

“Likewise. Bye, Steve.”

Y/N ended the call and stood there for a moment, staring at her phone. The familiar hum of the diner filled her ears, a stark contrast to the turmoil in her heart.

“Everything ok, Y/N?” Ted’s voice came from behind her.

“Yeah, just some personal stuff,” she whispered, wiping her eyes away from tears. “I will be out soon.”

“Take a few minutes if you need to. We got it covered out front.”

“Thanks, Ted,” she replied, grateful for his kindness. A deep breath was taken and she looked at herself in the mirror.

Dropping the charges felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, yet at the same time admitting defeat. However, this was for the better.

Y/N returned to the counter, her steps a little lighter and picked up her cloth to continue wiping down the surfaces.

The door chimed and Y/N did not even look up before saying, “We’re closed.” Footsteps were taken before the figure in front of her stopped. “I said, we’re close-“ she looked up and spotted her boyfriend in front of her. He sent her a small smile and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I know. Thought to pick you up,” he stated with a smile.

“Thanks,” she said as she looked back down to the receipts she was counting. “However, I want to go home tonight. I need some space.”

What she really meant was: that she wanted to drink a bottle of wine and smoke a joint and pass out on her couch. She knew Marshall was not part of that scene.

His brows furrowed. “Oh, ok. Well, do you want me to stay at your place then?” he asked as Y/N took off her apron and took the till out.

She looked at her boyfriend. “I love you, but I want to be alone. I just got told some news and I need time to think it through,” she said full of honesty.

He nodded. “What kind of news?”

“I will tell you when I am ready, Marshall,” she said and walked off with the till to the back.

Marshall watched as she walked off. He sat down on one of the chairs waiting for her to come back. Y/N came out five minutes later, apron off, jacket on and bag over her shoulder.

"Do you want me to still drive you home? We can share something to drink and-“

Y/N looked at him with this sad face, however she reached out to cup his face. She leaned down and kissed his lips. “I love you. Drive me home and maybe we can do something. Depends on my mood.”

He nodded, but he could not help but feel pushed away slightly. Y/N got some form of news, and she will not share it with him. Y/N took his hand, holding it as she bid farewell to her coworkers before getting into the Aston Martin.

They drove in comfortable silence as Y/N cancelled her plans with Meira for that evening. They were going to go dancing and she did not tell Marshall as the last time she went dancing, he got all mad.

His hand was on her thigh.

“You’re making me worried about this news. Can you give me a hint?” he asked.

“Marshall. It’s fine. No one is dying or hurt.”

He nodded as they drove the fifteen minutes in silence and Y/N caught up on some emails and scrolled through social media. Her inbox was flooded but she did not need that right now. Her account was private, and she was planning on keeping it that way.

“Can you stop at a liquor store, please?” she asked.

He nodded.

Y/N ran into the liquor store, buying herself a cheap but good bottle of wine before getting back into the car. Marshall looked over and saw it.

“Going to drown your sorrows or something?”

“Honestly, Marshall, I know you are not about this stuff, but I desperately need to get drunk and high while in the bath.”

He sent a curt nod. “Just be safe.”

“Always am.”

They pulled up to her new apartment and Marshall followed her up the elevator to the tenth floor before unlocking her door. It was bigger, nearly a thousand square feet with a bedroom, office and bathroom. The kitchen was bigger and the same with the living room. She was happy here. It was a shame she had to leave at the end of the summer.

Y/N placed the bottle on the counter, walking around to get a glass and popping the bottle. Marshall stood watching her.

“Do you want to take a bath with me?” she asked.

“Will you be smoking dope?” he asked.

“I won’t do that until you leave.”

He nodded before walking to her bathroom and turning the taps on for the bath. Y/N came, setting her glass of wine on the counter before stripping off her clothes. She stood across from him naked as he tested the water.

“Thought you were going out with Meira tonight?” he asked.

“I cancelled. We were going dancing, but I am not in the mood.” He nodded. She would tell him when she was ready. “I am just so tired. Of everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. School is exhausting, work is exhausting, this relationship,” she muttered but he heard it.

“What about this relationship?”

“We fight a lot. You know that?” she asked as she got into the bath and bringing the red wine to her lips.

“I mean, sure we have our disagreements, but we don’t fight.”

“I yelled at you last night,” she responded.

Marshall sat on the edge of the bath, hand in the water as he watched her. “You had every right to yell at me last night as I was being an ass.”

Y/N licked her lips and looked at her boyfriend. “I got a call from the lawyer,” she began.

His brows perked up. “And?”

“I am dropping the charges,” was all she said, and Marshall’s face instantly fell.

“You’re doing what?” he barked.

“Fuck,” she whispered, “I knew you would be mad.”

“I am not mad….I..I-I am furious,” he explicitly said. Marshall’s fury surged through him, his jaw tightening as he stood up abruptly. “How could you even consider dropping the charges, Y/N?” his voice was louder now, the intensity filling the small bathroom. “Jake hurt you. Hurt us. He needs to pay for what he did.”

Y/N sighed and took another sip of her wine, trying to gather her thoughts. “Marshall, can you sit and calm down, please.” He sat down on the edge of the bath again. “It’s not that simple. The case is complicated, and the odds aren’t in our favour. Steve explained everything to me. Jake’s lawyer is painting him a victim of his own issues. It could take years and there’s no guarantee we’d win.”

“So,” he snapped, “you’re just going to let him get away with it. He’s a piece of shit who deserves to rot in jail.”

“I know that,” she replied, her voice softening. “But I can’t keep reliving this, over and over again. It’s killing me, Marshall. I want to move on with my life, and focus on my future. I don’t want to be tied down by this anymore.”

Marshall looked at her, eyes filled with anger and pain. “This isn’t just about you, Y/N. He hurt you. He hurt us. I can’t just stand by and do nothing. I wasn’t there to protect you then and I will be here now.”

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat as she looked up at him. “I don’t need revenge, Marshall. I need peace. Please try to understand that.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his every movement. “I can’t let this go.”

“I am not saying we let it go. I say we move on. We have a whole future together. I met the love of my life at twenty-one, you know how lucky I am. I get to spend the next fifty years with you.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I love you, but this is my story and this is how I want it written.”

He nodded. “Ok. Move over I am coming in.”

Y/N chuckled watching him strip.

Marshall did end up staying over that night while they made love over and over again. The passion taking control of their bodies as they held onto one another as if they needed each other more than anything.

Yay! Hope you enjoyed!

Let me know your thoughts and opinions!

Almost done the series...crazy.

Much love,

Ava <3

#eminem series #eminem #eminem angst #eminem fanfiction #eminem imagine #eminem x reader #eminem fluff #marshall mathers #marshall mathers angst #marshall mathers fluff #marshall mathers imagine #marshall mathers fanfiction #marshall mathers x reader #slim shady

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icyg4l · 11 months ago

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PAC: Maternal Messages

In honor of Women’s History Month, I will be posting readings that celebrate, uplift and/or relate to women. I will consider the experiences of all types of women in this series. In this particular PAC reading, I will present messages that your maternal figure has for you. This could be your biological mother, adoptive mother, stepmother, grandmother, aunt, etc. Without further ado, select pick your pile!

*** trigger warning: addiction is mentioned

Left-to-Right (1-3):

pile 1: you’re refusing to see beautiful you are. you��re so patient and gifted in the arts. i admire how kind you are. you are the light in the dark room. how could i have given birth to such a wonderful human being? i want to be more present in your day-to-day life. tell me what goes on with you. i enjoy the small moments that we have together. i enjoy the memories we’ve made in shopping malls, coffee shops and even simple car rides. i wish i could spend more time with you, love. i wouldn’t trade it for the world. i love you more than life itself. and you’re still my baby, even though you aren’t a baby anymore. :)

[cards used: 8 of swords, 2 of discs, the empress, king of cups, prince of cups, six of swords & ace of cups]

pile 2: i miss how close we used to be. i will always have love for you. i am proud of the person that you’ve grown up to be. you are doing a great job. when you come back home, i want to be the first person you see. i tell my friends and your grandma about how proud i am of you. i keep pictures of our most cherished moments in my bible/wallet. i hope that you’re making the right decisions for yourself. be a leader, not a follower. when you come back, bring home whoever you want. gender does not matter. i just want what’s best for you.

[cards used: ace of cups, six of cups, three of discs, eight of cups, temperance, 7 of cups, two of cups, ace of swords and four of wands]

pile 3: i know i messed up. i was immature and i’m sorry for subjecting you to the pain that you’re in now. please forgive me for all that i have done. addiction is no joke. i’m still struggling to forgive myself. i hope that we can repair our relationship, my little air sign. i’ve been doing better. you have my eyes. you can conquer the world. i see the moves that you’re making and i always knew that you would be something big. you came from some bad circumstances and built yourself from the ground up, you did that. now, could you give me a call, please?

[cards used: queen of cups, the moon, the star, judgment, princess of discs, justice, the tower and princess of swords]

#law of assumption #manifesting #neville goddard #hoodoo #tarot #tarotreading #astro notes #pick a card #pick a pile #divination #tarot deck #spirituality #tarotcommunity #pick an image #pac reading #Spotify

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onceuponaoneshotfanfic · 1 year ago

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Something There (Chapter 4)

7.6k words

Roy Kent x Reader

Warnings: Language, more enemies-to-lovers, some sexual references, Roy Kent starting to realize he's a pining fool

Series Masterlist

As I sat at my desk, I stole a glance into the Greyhounds’ office. There was Roy, sitting at his own desk, arms crossed, staring up at the tits drawn by an eight-year-old child, although I could tell by his stony expression that he wasn’t really looking at the drawing. He was thinking.

It had been almost a week after the team retreat, and he still hadn’t really looked at me or talked to me, not since we sat on the floor of that little shed and talked about “fairy tale shit”. Part of me had thought that something was about to happen as we sat there, something I hadn’t realized I could even be interested in, but Roy had ruined whatever that was. After we left the shed, he avoided me in a way that made the prior weeks seem downright warm and friendly.

During the rest of the retreat, he’d pointedly leave the table when I sat down for meals, completely shut down in our small group unless directly spoken to by anyone that wasn’t me, and on the bus ride home, without Rebecca instructing us to sit with anyone in particular, he’d made a beeline for the Greyhounds’ bus and sat with Jamie Tartt, who I heard looked both surprised and pleased to have his coach next to him for two hours.

Being back at the Dog Track was just as bad. If I walked into a room, he found a reason to leave. When we passed each other in the hall or when rotating use of the pitch, his phone was suddenly incredibly interesting, even if all he was staring at was a black screen. And he was no longer running next to me in silence after work while Lust Conquers All played overhead; instead, I caught him pulling up to Nelson Road an extra hour before his usual arrival time to use the empty weight room.

But I didn’t care. Not at all. Nope, not me. Roy Kent could do whatever the fuck he wanted. It didn’t matter to me one bit.

I turned my gaze away from the Greyhounds’ office and refocused on the email I was writing, letting Keeley know that a local paper, The Richmond Star,wanted to do profiles on some of the Whippets and asking her what I could do to help.

“The Richmond Star?” Lucas hummed, hovering over my shoulder. “That wouldn’t happen to be the newspaper of one George Willows, would it?”

My cheeks suddenly felt warm. “It might be,” I answered coyly as I hit SEND on my email. I turned my chair around to face my assistant coach.

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Interesting.”

“Why’s that so interesting?” I snorted, knowing exactly what he was about to say.

Indeed, his smile turned wicked. “Oh, just that I keep seeing that particular name light up your phone every five seconds. And your interview with him was supposed to only be about a half hour, but the two of you sat in here for like two hours.” He leaned forward. “And I heard a certain coach hates him.” His wide eyes told me that he was relishing sharing that bit of gossip.

“Beard? Nate?” I asked, playing dumb, as if I hadn’t watched Roy Kent confront George in the hall the day of that two-hour interview. “They’re too nice to hate anyone.”

Lucas shrugged, glancing through the window I’d been staring at earlier; Roy was typing now, hopefully completely out of earshot of this very childish conversation. “All I know is that if you go out with George Willows, you might be ruining your chances with Kent.”

My face was now on fire with annoyance. “Oh no, whatever will I do? The guy who hates me won’t want to go out with me if I go out with a nice guy?” I hissed as I turned back to my computer, opening a spam email so I could look anywhere but at Lucas or Roy Kent. “Besides, it’s not like George Willows has even asked me out. And as for Roy fucking Kent-”

I stopped talking when I saw him get out of his chair. As he exited his office through the locker room, his eyes shifted towards our office, landing on me. For a fraction of a second, I saw that look I’d seen in the shed in the woods, the one when I swore his gaze flickered to my lips. The soft expression was quickly replaced with an icy glare and matching scowl before he disappeared into the locker room, his gruff voice commanding his players to hurry out onto the pitch.

My point proven, I looked at Lucas. “Oh yeah. That man is dying to go out with me.”

Roy stared at his phone with a deep frown. He hated having her phone number; more than once, when he was home alone with a drink in his hand, he found his thumb hovering over her name, tempted to text her or- even worse- call her. He wasn’t sure what the fuck he would even say, but he knew one of these days he was going to fuck up and hit that button.

Not that there was a single text between the two of them; they were, however, in a couple of group chats together. Right now, there was a new message for the two of them from Rebecca: Come to my office please.

Without a word, he showed the text to Beard, who simply nodded, immediately understanding that Roy wanted him to take charge for a bit. Wishing he had an excuse to avoid this meeting, maybe even meet with Rebecca one-on-one instead, Roy trudged back into the building and began to make his way to Rebecca’s office, grateful that he could at least walk alone.

Alone until he felt someone fall into step beside him. He didn’t need to turn his head to know it was her; and if he did, he didn’t know what he’d say. Unfortunately for Roy, she decided to fill the silence.

“We’re not in trouble, are we?” she asked, her voice almost light. “I mean, we haven’t even been in the same room long enough for us to argue.

Roy didn’t even give a grunt of acknowledgement. Instead, he picked up his pace ever so slightly, hoping she’d take the hint. Instead, she sped up as well, walking entirely too close for his comfort. When her shoulder bumped into his, he swore his whole arm felt like it was on fire.

Two incredibly long minutes later, they arrived at Rebecca’s office, where their boss sat at her desk, looking, for the first time, happy to see the two of them together.

“My managers!” she greeted, gesturing for the pair to sit down across from her. “For once, no one is in trouble,” she assured them with a wink, as if she knew what they were thinking. “The exact opposite, in fact.”

Roy tilted his head, relieved he could focus his attention on Rebecca. “Everything alright?”

Rebecca nodded enthusiastically. “Everything is great.” She turned to the other coach. “You feel ready for your first match?”

There was that cocky grin. “Oh absolutely. Next Saturday, we make history. The first of many Whippet victories.” Her voice was so confident, so sure. It managed to be simultaneously infuriating and attractive.

“That’s my girl,” Rebecca chirped with a wink. She turned to Roy. “And you fellas?”

Roy cleared his throat and sat up. “Yeah, feeling good. Got Crystal Palace here at home, should go in our favor.”

Rebecca nodded. “Excellent. Should be a good opening weekend all around.” She twiddled her thumbs, clearly wondering how to pivot to whatever she wanted to talk to them about. “I don’t want to add to your workload,” she started slowly, clearly intent on adding to their workload. “But at the retreat, I was watching your teams play that silly little game after their practice time. The one-on-one scrimmages?”

“Oh, that was great.” The American turned to Roy. “We should try that here sometime.”

Not wanting Rebecca to see him ignore his fellow manager, he nodded with a small grunt. Apparently enough of an answer to satisfy both women, since Rebecca went on.

“It was fabulous to watch. Really reminded me how much talent we have here, on both sides.” Her smile began to grow, green eyes sparkling. “So, I sent Keeley a video and we began chatting about how fun it was to see both teams together like that…” She shrugged. “And we’ve decided to have a little exhibition match.”

Roy leaned forward. “An exhibition match?” he repeated incredulously.

Rebecca nodded. “We’ll split each team and half and combine them so it’s a mix of Greyhounds and Whippets. You’ll each manage one of the teams.” She glanced at her computer. “You’ve both got a weekend off in five weeks, so that’s when it’ll be.” She was beaming, that same proud smile she’d worn when she first told the Greyhounds about the women’s team. “And Keeley thought we could make it a charity event. Half the proceeds to my foundation for underprivileged children, the other half to a charity of the winning manager’s choosing.” Her eyes shifted between the two gaffers. “So?”

Roy wasn’t surprised when the Whippet’s coach broke out into a grin. “I think that’s incredible,” she gushed. “It’ll be a great opportunity for the community to see us as one team.” She glanced at Roy. “What d’you think, Kent?”

Her asking for his thoughts was surprising. “I think it’s fine,” he blurted out. “I mean, good. Good idea, Rebecca.”

That was exactly what she was hoping to hear. “Excellent! I’ll have Keeley and Higgins get right on advertising and tickets and just-” Her smile looked like it hurt, it was so wide. “This’ll be fun. So fun.” She cleared her throat, composing herself. “Right. You two just have to worry about creating the teams and choosing your charity, then.”

“The Women’s Sports Foundation.” Roy had never heard someone answer so quickly.

Rebecca nodded. “Of course,” she chuckled. “Roy, just let me know when you’ve picked-”

“BMA Charities,” Roy blurted out. Rebecca blinked at him. “I mean, I’ll probably check in with Beard and Nate, but…” He shrugged. “I like ‘em.”

Next to him came the sound of someone clearing their throat. “BMA?”

Reluctantly, Roy turned his head, his eyes finding hers as if by magnetic force. “British Medical Association,” he clarified, pretending he didn’t feel like there was an elephant on his chest. “They do shit for doctors and med students.”

“Oh.”

Why did Roy want more than “Oh”? Why did it matter what she thought of his charity?

And why, once they were dismissed from Rebecca’s office and had walked down the hall to head back to their respective trainings, did Roy wish they could’ve walked together just a little bit longer?

For nearly a week, my first Game Day outfit hung up in my bedroom. The entire week before was spent selecting each piece carefully. My most flattering jeans, Richmond-blue blouse, white blazer, and the white low-tops I’d bought especially for the occasion.

As I cuffed my jeans, I looked at myself in the mirror. Yes. Good. Professional, sporty, and- dare I say it?- pretty. My first few months in England had been a blur of soccer, soccer, and more soccer, which hadn’t left me any time for… extracurricular activities, as Lucas put it.

In fact, the closest I’d gotten to dating would have to be at the club when Roy Kent thought I was hitting on him. Yeuch. Maybe Lucas was right, maybe I should get on the apps or something.

I shook my head at my reflection with a groan. Seriously? The morning before my first game in England, and there I was thinking about dating? Good Lord, Gloria Steinem was going to revoke my feminist card if I didn’t focus.

Determined to keep my eye on the ball, so to speak, I finished getting ready, throwing my hair into a ponytail and saving my red lipstick for last. I had worn this bright red lipstick my first time coaching a professional game and had won 5-0; it had become my good luck charm after that. Never went to a game, or a press conference, or an interview without it.

“Look at you,” Lucas greeted when I opened my door, looking at me over the top of his sunglasses. “Soccer Coach Barbie.”

I gave a little twirl, laughing at my friend’s praise. “You feel like winning, Luke?”

We walked into Nelson Road with smiles on our faces and Whippet water bottles in our hands. There was an electric buzz in the halls, and I couldn’t help but notice the particularly bright smiles on the faces of the women who worked for A.F.C. and W.F.C. Richmond. The biggest smile was on Keeley’s face, which we saw as soon as we walked into our office.

“Big day!” Keeley squealed as she pulled me into a hug. “You excited?”

“Very,” I confirmed, giving her a squeeze before letting go.

Keeley stepped back and looked down at her phone. “So, we’ve got a bit of pomp and circumstance before the match. Introduce the team, and you, little speech from Rebecca.” She winked at me. “A few words from our fearless manager. Then we go out there and kick some ass!”

After Keeley’s little itinerary, the rest of the time before the match was a blur. Players strutted into the locker room, pride on their faces when they looked up and saw their names above their lockers- a change made to celebrate our first match. After today, they’d be changed to reflect both players who used the locker, but today the Greyhounds insisted on letting the Whippets have their moment to shine.

Lucas and I spent some time in our office, reviewing our starting lineup and plays we wanted to keep in our back pockets. I did my best to ignore the goosebumps that formed every time I looked at the clock and saw the time inch closer to game time, but I found myself beginning to bounce on my toes.

I almost confused the buzzing of my body for the buzzing from my phone.

My office please.

Normally, Rebecca’s texts made my heart freeze, but not today. Today was a good day. The best day. I practically skipped to her office, feeling weirdly aware of the feeling of my sneakers hitting the ground. My eyes travelled over the photos of the Greyhounds’ history, of the men- coaches, players, owners- who made A.F.C. Richmond what it was. And it dawned on me that we would someday be on that wall- me, Rebecca, Keeley, Lucas, the magnificent women who were now changing into their Whippets kits for the first time.

By the time I reached Rebecca’s door, tears were threatening to fall.

“You wanted to see me?”

It was the millionth smile I’d seen that morning, but it was easily my favorite. Rebecca looked as if she was about to explode at the sight of me, looking glamorous as ever in her dress and coat- a coat that I noticed bore a little W.F.C. Richmond pin.

“Are you ready?” came her whispered question as she approached me.

“More than ready,” I assured her, a tingle going through my whole body as she took my hands in hers.

She gave my hands a squeeze. “I just… needed to say thank you,” she said. “Thank you for taking such good care of this…” She blinked a few times, her eyes shiny with tears. “I feel as if my child is going for her first day of school, I’m just so proud. I love the Greyhounds, but this is the very first thing that has ever been mine. All mine.” She shook her head. “And I am so happy that you are our manager.”

“Oh, Rebecca-”

Rebecca released my hands in favor of pulling me into a hug. “We’re going to win,” she hummed. “We’re going to win the whole fucking thing.”

I carried Rebecca’s words with me back through the building as I returned to the locker room, where my team would be waiting for one more pep talk. People nodded and waved to me in the hall, each moment of acknowledgement adding just a bit more weight to my shoulders.

“Oi.”

Just outside the locker room, I turned around. Roy Kent was a few paces behind me, hands in the pockets of his Greyhounds jacket. He gave a nod as he walked up to me.

“Good luck out there.”

It was probably the kindest thing he’d said to me since we’d met. Maybe the second kindest, after our moment in the shed.

“Thanks,” I stammered out. “You getting ready for your match already or something?”

To my surprise, he shook his head. “Here for your match. Rebecca asked us to come, show solidarity or some shit.” He shrugged. “So, I just thought I’d wish you luck.” He paused, glancing at the wall beside us, one that held a photo of him in a Greyhounds kit, running on the pitch. “It’s kind of scary,” he mumbled. “Your first match as a manager.”

“I’ve managed a team before,” I reminded him, giving a little cough into my closed fist. “But, you know, new country and all. Still scary as hell.”

“Right. Right.” He gazed at me for a moment, his eyes locked onto mine. I wondered if the shiver I felt was from the air conditioning or the intensity of his stare. “Well. Go get ‘em. Or whatever.” With a small grunt, he turned and walked away. Before I went into the locker room, I turned to look at him again. At that same moment, he turned his head and glanced back at me. As soon as our eyes met, he whipped back around and picked up his pace.

Weird.

But I couldn’t focus on that. My concentration needed to be entirely on the game.

“Alright Whippets!” I called as I entered the locker room. “Are we ready?”

I had rehearsed this speech for weeks. In bed before I fell asleep, in front of the mirror as I brushed my hair, in the shower while I avoided getting shampoo in my mouth, even to Lucas on a couple of occasions. And now I stood in front of twenty-seven talented women, ready to hear it.

“Alright, here it is,” I started. “Our moment. You are the first women to call yourselves Whippets. Wear it proudly.” I took a deep breath. “Never forget why you’re here. Never forget that feeling you had the moment you fell in love with this sport, when you knew that nothing else would make you as happy as being out there on that field.” I saw some wistful smiles appear. My own mind wandered to that afternoon my grandfather had taken me out to the backyard, the afternoon I knew I wanted to play soccer forever. “Remember that little girl who fell in love with the feeling of the ball at her feet. And go out there and play for her. Because today, we’re going to help the little girls of Richmond fall in love too.” I stretched out my arm, watching my players follow suit until all of our hands were in the center of the locker room. “Let’s go show them how the Whippets do it.”

There were cheers of agreement as a lump formed in my throat. I nodded to Kira Malone. “Captain?”

“Whippets on three, Whippets on three! One, two, three!”

“Whippets!”

Roy sat in the owner’s box next to Keeley, fiddling with the case on his phone, needing to do something with the burst of energy he felt. It only grew when the Whippets were introduced and took their places lined up on the field, bouncing with excitement as their names were called. Roy, of course, clapped along with the rest of the crowd, determined to be supportive with everyone in the box watching him.

“And the manager of your W.F.C. Richmond Whippets-”

A buzzing began in Roy’s ears. He watched as she took her place beside her team, the smile on her face evident even from where he sat. She looked gorgeous. Strong, joyful, confident. The sight set his whole body aflame.

He tried to focus on Rebecca’s speech, he really did. He knew this was a big moment for his friend. But fuck, all his eyes wanted to look at was her. And, once Rebecca handed over the microphone, he didn’t have much of a choice.

“Hello Richmond!” she began, eliciting cheers from the crowd- a sold-out crowd, much to Keeley and Rebecca’s relief and excitement. “Thank you for making history with us today. We are so proud to be your W.F.C. Richmond Whippets.” She smiled, soaking up the roars that naturally followed the team’s name. “We just want to say thank you to our dear Rebecca Welton and Keeley Jones, our incredible foundresses.” She wrapped her arm around Rebecca. “They are truly the heart of this team. We’d also like to give a giant thank you to your Greyhounds.” Thunderous applause. “Coach Kent and the team have been great housemates and have helped us to really feel at home here at the Dog Track. Thank you, boys!”

Keeley nudged Roy, whose face was on fire at the sound of his name. “She’s a fucking natural, isn’t she?” Keeley gushed. “And doesn’t she look stunning?”

Roy grunted. He was having a hard time hearing anything but her speech. “And we want to take a moment to say thank you to all the parents that brought their daughters here today. They are why we’re out here.” She turned to her team, who were watching her with admiration on their faces. “Whippets, are you ready to show them what it means to play like a girl?”

The stadium was deafening as she handed over the microphone to someone before smiling for photos beside her team. He sat quietly through the rest of the opening ceremonies before the match began. He hadn’t realized it before, but the owner’s box had a perfect view of the dugout; he spent half the game with his eyes glued there, watching her shout to her team, pacing back and forth, effortlessly cool in her blazer and sneakers. He bit back a groan when her blazer came off, revealing perfectly tanned shoulders, kissed from all the time the former athlete had spent in the sun. He wondered what those arms would feel like wrapped around- fuck.

Roy Kent really needed to get ahold of himself.

“You alright, Roy?” Keeley looked at him with genuine concern. “Your face is all… blotchy and red. Are you having a fucking heart attack or something?”

Rebecca, who’d taken her seat just before the match began, leaned around Keeley, her eyes still half-glued to the pitch. “Roy’s having a heart attack?”

Roy rolled his eyes and slouched in his surprisingly comfortable seat. “’m not having a fucking heart attack,” he grumbled.

From in front of him, Coach Beard grunted. “Oh, your heart’s doing something, alright.”

“Fuck off,” Roy growled, forcing his eyes to return to the pitch, hating the way he couldn’t help looking at the dugout every few seconds.

“What’s this?” Keeley leaned forward with more interest than Roy knew what to do with. She studied him carefully, taking in the sight of his red cheeks and shifty eyes. “Oh! You’ve got a crush, haven’t you?”

“Fuck off,” Roy repeated, sagging down further.

Instead of doing as she was told, Keeley began surveying the pitch carefully. “Hmm. Wonder who it could be… Amanda Camacho’s quite pretty… Samara Scott’s fit…” She stopped turning her eyes carefully to Roy, who was staring straight ahead, refusing to let his eyes land anywhere incriminating. “Unless…”

“Unless?” Rebecca repeated; the woman should have been holding popcorn in her hands, she was so invested.

“It’s not a player, is it, Roy?” Keeley leered at Roy. “Maybe it’s a coach?” She nudged him. “And I don’t think Lucas is quite your type.”

Roy knew his bright red ears were a dead giveaway, but if he couldn’t admit it to himself, he sure as hell wasn’t admitting anything to Keeley Jones, ogling at him with those fucking eyes of hers. “Keeley, I’m getting real fucking annoyed,” he warned her. “I was basically ordered to come to this game, I’ve got my own season opener tonight, so I don’t need you acting like we’re fucking thirteen making up imaginary crushes and shit, alright?”

Keeley’s squeaky little hmmph told him that while she wouldn’t keep pushing him right now, this conversation was far from over.

The shriek of the whistle had me throwing my arms around Lucas and squeezing him tight. A 3-1 win was a pretty great way to announce W.F.C. Richmond’s arrival to the league. A blur of hugs and handshakes eventually carried me inside, where I passed a few players starting to do short interviews, their faces glowing with sweat and pride.

“Any chance The Richmond Star could get an exclusive with the winning manager?” George Willows smiled at me, one of those charming move-star smiles, the kind that a girl couldn’t help but feel grateful to receive.

“You could always show up for the press conference,” I teased, gesturing down the hall. “I promise to call on you for a question. Bet I could even get you a front-row seat.”

His smile turned awkward. “Oh, I’m not allowed in there,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his head in an attractively self-effacing way. “Your Greyhound counterpart got me completely banned from the Richmond press room.” He leaned in close, as if sharing a deep, dark secret. “He once threw a chair at me during a press conference. Since then, I’m not allowed to cover the Greyhounds or go in the press room.”

My mouth fell open at this piece of information. “That’s insane,” I hissed. “He throws a chair, and you get banned?”

George shrugged, clearly used to it. “Can’t exactly ban a manager from his own press room, eh?”

“Well, if you stick around,” I started slowly, stretching out my flirting muscles that were dreadfully underused, “I can fill you in on whatever you miss. Give you that exclusive.”

“Oi.”

Of course. Of course the moment I flirted with a guy, Roy Kent was there to interrupt, with his stupid beard and deep frown and eyes that lingered a moment too long on my face. “What?” I groaned, knowing I sounded like a petulant teenager caught kissing a boy on her front porch.

His frown deepened; if he was any other man, I’d marvel at how it did nothing to take away from his handsomeness. “Keeley’s asking for you. Says they’re ready for you in the press room.” His eyes narrowed in George’s direction. “Same rules, apply, Willows. Stay the fuck out.”

I offered George an apologetic smile. “Think we could stake a raincheck on that exclusive?”

“I’ll text you,” he promised with a wink.

There was a definite blush on my face as I turned to follow Roy to the press room. “Surprised you stuck around,” I mused as we fell into step together. “Thought you’d be long gone by now, get some rest before your game.”

“Wanted to offer my congratulations,” he mumbled. “To Rebecca,” he quickly added. “And the team. And Lucas.” His eyes flashed to my face for a brief moment. “And you.”

“Well, thanks,” I huffed as we arrived at the press room. “Meant a lot having you fellas here.” I kicked the ground, making a mental note to clean my shoes when I got home. “Hope you all win your game tonight,” I added as we stopped in front of the press room.

“Will you be there?”

Those were the last words I expected to come out of Roy Kent’s mouth. It reminded me of when my high school crush invited me to his baseball game, right down to the fidgeting and the question marks in Roy’s eyes.

Ignoring the way it made me feel, I nodded. “Uh, yeah, yeah I’ll come.” Rebecca had offered me a ticket, but said she understood if I wanted to be out celebrating. But if the Greyhounds came to my game, I should definitely go to theirs. Right? “Better get in there.” I jerked my head towards the closed press room door.

Roy shrugged, his eyes almost playful. “They’ll wait for you.”

I let out a small chuckle, unable to believe that we were having a civil conversation. “I’ll see you later, Kent.”

“See you, Coach.”

Sundays were for Phoebe. Roy would pick her up and take her to breakfast, letting her gorge herself on chocolate chip pancakes, then let her pick something to do together. Sometimes it was going to some Disney movie at the theatre, sometimes a museum, sometimes a trip to the toy shop, once in a while a beach excursion. Today, she simply wanted to go to the park for a picnic.

Of course, Roy obliged his niece. He packed up some sandwiches and snacks, rolled out a blanket, and brought a football and some cones. He might spoil the girl, but he was still her coach. Once they’d devoured their lunch and sat around for a bit, he pulled her to her feet and began kicking around the ball with her.

Being eight years old, her aim wasn’t always perfect. So, Roy really shouldn’t have been too surprised when she gave a wonky kick that sent the ball flying out of their play area.

“You kicked it, you get it!” Roy called, nodding in the direction the ball flew in.

Phoebe obediently jogged off, always eager to do what her uncle asked. Roy perked up when he heard her little voice, high-pitched with excitement.

“Oh! Do you play for the Whippets? My uncle Roy coaches the Greyhounds!”

He turned around and saw, to his great astonishment, Phoebe gazing up at a familiar pretty face.

The eyes Roy kept telling himself not to think about snapped up in his direction before looking back at Phoebe. “Um, yeah, I know your uncle Roy. I actually coach the Whippets.” She rolled the ball between her hands.

Roy walked over, watching Phoebe’s face light up. She gasped with joy. “You’re Coach Buck! My mum told me about you. You have an Olympic Gold Medal!”

That fucking medal.

She gave an awkward little laugh and tossed the ball back to Phoebe. “That would be me. Do you play…” She offered Roy a small smirk before looking back at Phoebe. “… football?”

“I do! My uncle Roy coaches my team at school. He’s very good.”

“I’m sure he is.”

Feeling his face warm at the praise, Roy tapped Phoebe on the shoulder. “Oi, Pheebs, why don’t you go set up the cones? Do some dribbling?”

Phoebe stuck her little hand out, her politeness reminding Roy of how mature she was becoming. “I’m Phoebe, by the way. It was nice to meet you, Coach Buck.”

“Very nice to meet you too, Phoebe.” She shook the girl’s hand firmly. “We’ll have to get you and your mum out to a Whippets’ game sometime, alright?” The wink she gave Phoebe had Roy holding his breath.

“Yes!”

Roy cleared his throat. “Pheebs, the cones?”

Phoebe scurried off to do as she was told. Both adults watched her for a moment before turning back to each other, exchanging awkward half-smiles.

“You coach her school team?”

Roy shrugged. “They’re good girls. Decent players, too. And they listen a hell of a lot better than the pricks at Richmond.”

She nodded, studying Roy carefully. “So, you don’t hate women’s soccer. It’s just me.”

“I don’t hate you.” She shot him a skeptical look that he couldn’t help chuckling at. “Alright fine, I fucking hate you.”

Her laugh would echo through his head for the rest of the afternoon. “Don’t worry, I hate you too.”

They both stood there, grinning and hating each other, both kind of wishing literally anyone from Nelson Road was there to witness their civility. Hell, someone might even mistake it for friendliness. Some idiots might go so far as to get it mixed up with flirting.

“So that’s your niece.”

“That’s my niece,” Roy confirmed, following her gaze to Phoebe, who had finished setting up the cones the way he’d taught her and was starting to dribble between then.

“The one that draws the…”

Roy chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, the one that draws the…” He mirrored the way she trailed off.

Her smile grew soft as she watched Phoebe. “She’s cute.”

“She’s a fucking idiot,” Roy scoffed. “But she’s my fucking idiot, I guess.”

A small hmmph escaped her lips as she tilted her head thoughtfully. “You know, for the exhibition game, Keeley and I were talking about having kids escort the players out to the field. Thought it’d be nice to have it evenly split, boys and girls.”

“Because we don’t have enough girls walking out with the Greyhounds?” His defensiveness was almost a reflex at this point. “Because honestly, we do our best, we just get a lot more boys interested, alright?”

For once, she didn’t take the bait for an argument. “Actually, I was wondering if Picasso there would be interested in being one of our kids.”

Roy blinked, feeling like an idiot for his reaction. “Oh. Yeah, I think she’d like that. Just need to ask my sister.”

“She can even hang out in the dugout during the game.” Her voice was light, friendly. “Let her see a woman coaching a team. It’s important for girls to see that kind of thing, you know? Why d’you think I keep Brandi in my office? Even if your niece isn’t interested in soccer as a career, any little girl would benefit from seeing women doing ‘men’s work’.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that would be nice, thanks.” Roy paused, kicking a rock with the toe of his sneaker. “My sister’s a doctor, by the way.”

“Oh.” She looked directly at Roy now, thoughtfulness coloring her expression. “She’s why you picked your charity. The med student one.”

Roy nodded. “Exactly.” He hesitated but decided to continue. “She’s a single mum. Things aren’t always easy. She’s stubborn as hell and refuses my help outside of babysitting. She’s, er, had to rely on BMA for help once or twice.” He stared at her for a moment. “I get the strong, independent woman thing. I respect it.”

He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the sight of her soft smile. “You must be proud of her.”

“I am,” Roy confirmed. “And of Pheobe too. She’s a strong kid.”

There was a comfortable silence as they watched Phoebe continue her drill, her blonde hair flying in her face, not deterring her tiny focus. Roy found that he really liked the way Coach Buck looked at his niece; there was a fondness there that made his chest feel warmer than it had in a long time.

“She’s why I love my job,” she finally murmured. “Girls like her. I was so lucky to grow up with heroes that made me believe that seeing my name on the back of a jersey and being an Olympian was something I could realistically aspire to. And all I wanted was to be the same for other little girls. My dream was that someday, some little girl would have my poster on her wall.”

Roy knew that feeling. “Be her Brandi Chastain,” he murmured before he had the chance to even think.

She looked surprised, almost impressed, her mouth forming a perfect O when she realized he’d remembered that name. The grin that grew on her lips was slow and gorgeous. “Be her Brandi Chastain,” she repeated softly.

Roy thought they’d get to share another moment of just looking at each other, wondering how else to fill the silence, when her eyes suddenly widened. She whipped out her phone and took a look at it.

“Shit,” she hissed. “I’m late.”

“Late?”

Her eyes suddenly became shifty as she avoided Roy’s gaze. “Got an interview about yesterday’s match,” she murmured.

George fucking Willows. “Oh. Right.” Roy cleared his throat, retreating back into himself. “Better get going, then.”

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow?” She took a step backwards, away from Roy, away from their conversation and whatever moment they were having.

Roy knew he was offering up a grimace rather than a grin. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

The next few weeks were… peaceful. Probably the most peaceful I’d had since starting at Richmond. I wouldn’t say Roy Kent was friendly to me, but we weren’t screaming at each other, and he wasn’t pointedly ignoring me the way he had after the retreat either. He was even running silently on the treadmill next to me again. We were finally just coexisting. And I kind of liked it.

“How’s this?”

A paper was shoved in front of me on my desk, interrupting the email I was writing. I looked up and saw Roy looking at me expectantly. When I looked down, I realized it was a pair of rosters, with our teams divided up and combined.

“Oh.” I blinked. “You picked the teams already?”

“Had Isaac and Kira do it,” he corrected me. “Wanted to see what the captains thought before we did it ourselves.” He shrugged. “Did a fucking good job in my opinion. I’m okay with their picks if you are.”

I took a moment to read through the rosters; he was right. “Well, it saves us the work,” I chuckled, handing the paper back to Roy. “They’re split evenly enough to make things fair. My team’s still going to kick your ass though,” I teased.

He raised one of those thick eyebrows at me. “Care to make a wager?” he challenged.

“I mean, there’s already the whole thing with our charities,” I reminded him, twirling the pen in my hands between my fingers. “But what’d you have in mind?”

He thought for a moment. “Winner gets to pick someone for the loser to dance with at the gala.”

Rebecca’s charity gala. It was just a few weeks away, and already it was all everyone could talk about. Both teams were buzzing with gossip about outfits and dates; a couple of Greyhounds had even asked a couple of Whippets to attend with them, much to everyone’s amusement and nerves. My favorite rumor I’d heard was that one of my goalkeepers was bringing Timothee Chalamet as her date.

“Fine.” I stuck out my hand to Roy. “It’s a bet.”

His eyes froze on my hand for a moment before he took it, giving it a firm shake. “Right,” he muttered, letting go quickly. “Got to head to the pitch. Just wanted to run the teams by you.” He gave an awkward little salute. “See you around.”

He was gone before I could even say “see you”.

The morning of the exhibition game, I found myself leaning back in my chair and staring up at Brandi Chastain, thinking about how crazy it was that I, an American who had won the World Cup and had an Olympic Gold Medal, was in England, the head coach of a professional women’s team. And it was because of Brandi Chastain, and Mia Hamm, and Kristine Lilly, and so many other names that were etched into my very soul. I wondered if somewhere out there was a little girl who felt the same about me.

“Hi, Coach Buck!”

I turned around and felt my mouth immediately turn into a grin. “Well, hello, Phoebe.” The woman behind her was looking at me with interest as I shot out of my chair and strolled over. “You must be her mom.” I stuck my hand out. “I’m-”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are,” she said with a laugh, shaking my hand warmly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh.” My eyes flickered to Roy, who had appeared behind the duo.

His sister cleared her throat. “You know, from the news. Seen you on the telly, read a few articles, saw a couple of TikToks.”

I forced a smile, scolding myself for thinking Roy Kent talked about me at home. “Oh, wow, I’m on TikTok? Biggest accomplishment of my life right there.” I turned to Phoebe, who was wearing a Whippets jersey. “I hear you’re joining me on the pitch today.”

Phoebe nodded enthusiastically. “Uncle Roy said I get to hang out with you the whole game.”

“That’s right,” I confirmed. “Here, you can hang onto this for me.” I grabbed my clipboard from my desk and handed it to her. “It’s got my lineup and notes. Very important. Think you can manage?”

“Yes!”

I reached out and ruffled her hair. “Excellent. Just don’t let your uncle Roy see it, alright?” I shot her a wink before I turned back to the adults. “Your brother got you good seats, I hope?” I teased Roy’s sister.

“Owner’s box, believe it or not.” She raised her eyebrows. “In fact, I’m heading up there now to take advantage of the free booze and snacks.” She turned to Roy. “Can I leave Phee with you?” When her brother grunted and shrugged, she knelt down and began to say goodbye to Phoebe, offering last-minute reminders about behavior and listening to adults.

As mother and daughter spoke, I took a step closer to Roy. “Ready to lose?”

He snorted, an almost friendly sound. “Nope. Yourself?”

“Nope.”

By the time we were on the pitch, Phoebe was my new little best friend. She proudly stood by my side as we lined up, with Rebecca reminding the crowd that each team was playing for charity- my team for the Women’s Sports Foundation, Roy’s for BMA Charities. He and I exchanged curt nods as we turned to our dugouts, all business as the match got underway.

Phoebe clutched my clipboard to her chest and stuck to my side the entire match. I had expected her to want to sit and relax at some point, but instead she was my second shadow, mimicking the way I paced, watching me even more than the game. It was the most flattered I’d ever felt in my life.

I snuck a few glances over to the other dugout, amused at the opportunity to watch Roy Kent coach up close and in person. He was loud- unsurprisingly- and passionate. What was a bit more surprising was the compassion he carried, the way he shouted support to his players (and mine) throughout the game.

And his Greyhounds parka looked pretty good on him.

Shaking my head as I caught myself staring for the umpteenth time, I turned my attention back to the game, feeling thankful to have Jamie Tartt on my team. He’d scored two goals already, and we were all tied up. No one had brought up the idea of what to do in the case of a draw, but I didn’t want to think about that; I wanted the win. And, with less than two minutes left in stoppage time, Kira passed the ball to Jamie, who breezed by one of the Greyhound defenders to come face to face with one of my goalkeepers.

“Let’s go Jamie!” I heard Lucas shout beside me.

When the ball hit the back of the net, I threw my arms in the air. We were close, so close to the end of the game. After the kickoff, there were only a few touches before the referee blew her whistle.

“Yes!” I yelled, bumping fists and hips with Lucas. I turned and high-fived Phoebe. “Great job, Coach Pheebs.”

She beamed at me. “Thank you! That was so much fun!”

Both teams lined up on the field, exchanging hugs and high-fives as we all waited for Rebecca to come onto the pitch to announce the donation. She was absolutely glowing as she stood on the field, flanked by Roy and myself.

“What a game!” she began. “Thank you to our players for giving it their all, and of course our wonderful managers for leading these impressive teams.”

Roy stepped out in front of Rebecca and offered his hand. Shooting him a grin, I reached out and shook it firmly, keenly aware of the shuttering of cameras going off the moment our hands touched.

Rebecca went on. “Thank you all for joining us today. The proceeds from our tickets, as well as the generous donations from our sponsors and so many of you, will be going to two wonderful charities. The first is the Welton Foundation, which benefits underprivileged children in our community. The second-”

Without thinking about what I was about to do, I tapped Rebecca’s shoulder. She shot me a confused look but leaned in close. “I’d like to share it.”

“What?”

My eyes shot to Roy, who was staring at me with perplexed eyes. “The money. Split it between the Sports Foundation and BMA.”

Rebecca’s face turned soft. “Lovely,” she murmured, giving me a proud nod of approval. She returned to the microphone. “We have a slight change of plan. Our winning team has chosen to split their donation. So, all the proceeds from today’s match will go to the Welton Foundation, the Women’s Sports Foundation, and BMA charities.”

Roy Kent broke out into a full, true smile as he looked at me. “Thank you,” he mouthed.

All I could do was shrug in response, ignoring the heat on my cheeks when I saw the way his eyes lingered on me long after the cheering had died down. When I did finally turn away, Lucas was giving me his smarmiest grin.

“Oh, shut up,” I hissed as we made our way back towards the locker rooms, ignoring the now-familiar feeling that someone was staring at me.

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