#what happens when you fight for change and it never ends

[byfulcrums]

I hate the third movie so much!!!! Like a lot!!!!!!!

Prepare for a rant (under cut bc it got a bit long, sorry!)

First of all, here's a thing I always complain about when talking about HTTYD 3: the designs, and the characterization

The designs as in, the armor, is cool as hell, I'm not complaining about that I love the armor so much. But I hate how they made Toothless a literal puppy. His head is literally a square!!! They changed his personality too, when he's always been more similar to a cat than a dog

There's also the light fury. I have no words for this. The fact that they only made her Like That because they needed her to be "feminine" says enough about her

It was weirdly sexist for a HTTYD movie, considering how well done the female characters are in this series. They only made this character to be Girl Toothless, and being a girl was her only character trait

Besides that, they gave some of Toothless' mannerisms to her! The more cat-like behavior, at some points, for example. Toothless in the first movie was more graceful, stealthy, moved silently, etc. They gave all of his different, elegant ways of moving to her, because they wanted to push the golden retriever agenda on him (that's a joke btw. Like they did do that but "golden retriever agenda" isn't a thing)

Ruffnut was far too stupid too. She would NEVER in rtte

Now; let's move on to why the ending is shit

First of all! Toothless is not an Alpha. He is king, yes, but king of Berk's dragons specifically. When he defeated Drago's Alpha, he did not suddenly gain telepathy powers; the dragons under the Alpha's control went to Toothless when he won, and it was a willing decision. They listen to him, yes, but not every dragon will, because HE'S NOT OF THE SPECIES THAT HAS LITERAL DRAGON MIND CONTROL POWERS

That being said!! If Toothless isn't an Alpha, then why the hell did all the dragons leave when he did? And why did all the dragons in the Hidden World immediately bow down to him? Maybe they recognize his status as King (of Berk), but that doesn't mean he's the king of them

There's also no way all the dragons wanted to leave. Just no way. I know I wouldn't!

Then, there's the Death Song problem

There are multiple cannibalistic dragon species. If they go to the Hidden World with the rest, they will try to eat everyone else, and if they can't do that, they'll starve. These dragons can't just change their entire biology and start eating fish, plants, boars, or whatever thing you have in mind. They have to eat other dragons, or they'll die. Sending them all to the Hidden World means that either they'll eat all the other dragons and eventually they'll be one of the few species left standing (highly unlikely) or they'll just go extinct (most probable)

Along with that, there's the fact that many dragons are extremely territorial. if stuck in the same place for the rest of their lives, there will be fights, and dragons don't have medicine! They can only heal naturally, there's no outside help. So many will die, far more than necessary

Now, I do like the ending of the dragons leaving. In the books

And sure, dragons die every day; no one can stop that (no matter how sad this makes Hiccup), but putting them all in a big cave will result in losses that are WAY bigger than necessary and than what they're used to

Plus, what about the species that can't fly? The Speed Stingers, for example? The mutation in RTTE was a thing that only happened with that one group. Only they would be able to reach the Hidden World

I understand that they were trying to end the sagas the same way the books did, but it doesn't work in the movies! Also, (I haven't read all the books yet, it's a work in progress, so correct me if I'm wrong, but) as far as I know, in the books the dragons were basically slaves to the Vikings. It makes sense that they would want to leave. In the movies, it's not like that. Berk's dragons are friends, not servants! They have no reason to want to leave!

And even then, I'm like 99% sure that in the books Toothless still didn't leave Hiccup. And even then, apparently leaving (or when to leave, most likely) was left to be each dragon's choice, not something a random telepathy powered Toothless told them to do

The villain also sucks. I didn't like his design, but I'm not gonna complain about that

It makes no sense for just one person to wipe out an entire species! And besides, Grimmel wasn't scary, wasn't interesting, wasn't anything at all. He's as bland as the Light Fury

Also also also. Toothless would never leave Hiccup for a girl. I'm not talking about a "bros before hoes" thing (I hate that phrase) I'm talking as in, Toothless would never leave Hiccup. Ever. No matter the circumstances. ES MÁS, he wouldn't have let the Light Fury get close to him after she attacked Hiccup! He would've defended him! That's his friend. HIS FRIEND. He's his best bud, his soulmate!!!!!

God the Toothless characterization pissed me off sm

I'd say Hiccup was pretty spot on in the sense that if Toothless wanted to leave and could leave without, like, dying, he would let him; he'd be sad about it, but he would let him. There's other things I don't like about the way he was written, of course, but that wasn't too bad. WHAT WAS BAD IS THE FACT THAT TOOTHLESS LEAVING WAS EVEN A POSSIBILITY IN THE FIRST PLACE

And, to add something: doesn't the "oh I built a new tail and now he can leave forever because it's like basically his old tail! It's like it was never missing at all!" thing feel a bit ableist? Idk that's just a hunch, I'm not disabled so I can't talk about it, but. Just leaving that there

Still, even without the ableism, it's still shitty. The tailfin would never hold that long. It'd need repairs. Things like that can't be permanent, and I know Hiccup is a great inventor, but he's not a god, come on. He can't do everything

Toothless can fly on his own now, yes, but if the tailfin breaks (which is a thing that can happen, either because of an accident or simply because of time), there's no one to fix it. In a place like that, he'll be stranded. It's dangerous!

Also they made Snotlout, Hiccup's cousin in the books, be attracted to Hiccup's mom. HIS AUNT

The HTTYD universe's ecosystem must've been so damaged when all the dragons dissappeared.

"but people wanted to hurt them!" people want to hurt wolves to, but we don't send them all to an isolated cave because it would destroy the ecosystem.

In fact, "dragon" is just a collective word for multiple species so they really fucked themselves with that one.

In conclusion, the third movie was stupid.

[helvegen-s]

ten millimeters

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: for ten years, they were rivals—pushing, challenging, never backing down. But one night, after a race that changed everything, the line between them finally shatters. Now, with nothing left to hide behind, they’re forced to face the truth. Because this was never just about racing—it was always about them.

Word count: 12k (patience, my friends, patience)

TW: car crash, strong language, sexual content

A/N: enjoy this because I’ve pulled out all my hair trying to write something, and this is what came out. I wanted to be consistent with my updates, but my peanut brain doesn’t seem to agree… I LOVE OSCAR WITH ALL MY HEART

other drivers content will be coming soon...

have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find

masterlist

Lena Bauer had learned to navigate a world that had always seemed determined to challenge her. For as long as she could remember, her life had revolved around a single purpose: winning. Not for recognition, not for glory, but because victory was the only language she understood. She grew up on the circuits, under the scorching sun of karting tracks, with grease-covered hands and her heart pounding in her throat every time she put on her helmet. She never knew how to be anything other than a racer. And she never wanted to be.

Oscar Piastri, on the other hand, was the kind of driver who made speed look effortless, who turned precision into an art form. Always methodical, always analytical. His talent wasn’t explosive but constant, like a sharpened blade that, over time, became a lethal sword. While Lena raced with fire in her eyes and fury in every maneuver, Oscar was all calculation and patience. He was the cold storm that swept through without ever raising its voice.

They met as children, on a karting podium where Lena, holding her trophy high with a fierce smile of satisfaction, turned to find him watching her. The second-place finish didn’t seem to bother him. There was no anger, no envy in his expression—only a silent acknowledgment: she had been better this time. Only this time.

From that moment on, their paths became intertwined with the inevitability of a storm and the certainty of an impending collision. They grew up together, chased each other through every category, overtook one another in championships that carried them across continents. And when they finally reached Formula 2, their rivalry became something heavier, sharper. There was no room for two drivers like them. Not when both were willing to risk everything to win.

That season, the incident happened. Silverstone. Final laps. They were fighting for victory in a battle anyone else would have called suicidal. But neither Lena nor Oscar were the kind to back down. She forced him to the limit, leaving barely ten millimeters between his car and the barrier. Ten millimeters that decided a race, a championship… and a wound that never quite healed.

Oscar was out. She won.

And when she stepped out of the car, she didn’t look for him. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew what she would find: the icy fury of someone who never forgets.

Now, in Formula 1, the world celebrated her arrival. The first woman in decades on the grid. Red Bull’s great promise. The one person Oscar Piastri couldn’t simply ignore. And when they faced each other again at the pre-season press conference, he knew nothing had changed.

Lena smiled, tilting her head slightly, radiating that overwhelming confidence that challenged him without the need for words. Oscar held her gaze, impassive, but Lena saw what others couldn’t: the spark of defiance in his eyes, the shadow of Silverstone still lingering in his expression.

They weren’t done. Not even close.

The calendar marked the beginning of a new season. And with it, the restart of a war that had never truly ended.

Oscar had been through enough qualifying sessions to know that the real battle was never against the stopwatch, but against one’s own limits. But that Saturday, as he adjusted his gloves inside the cockpit and his engineer’s voice crackled through the radio, he knew his fight went beyond that.

His fight had a name. Lena Bauer.

The engines roared with the restrained aggression of caged predators as the cars rolled out onto the track. Bahrain was always treacherous in qualifying—the temperature dropped at night, the wind carried sand onto the asphalt, and finding the perfect balance between speed and control was a game of absolute precision. But Oscar wasn’t worried about that. His focus was on the Red Bull number 95.

From the first flying lap, he knew. She was there.

He didn’t need to check the times to understand it. He felt it in every corner, in every fraction of a second flashing on his lap delta. The way his McLaren glided over the asphalt with surgical precision, chasing a shadow that always seemed just out of reach.

Lena.

She had always been like this. Infuriating in her brilliance. Relentless in her determination. She never raced to be among the best, never to collect points or secure a decent result. She raced to win. And that, though he would never admit it out loud, was what drove him insane.

In Q2, as the sun fully set and the track reached its peak, the battle became a silent duel. Red Bull versus McLaren. Lena versus Oscar. Just like so many times before.

On his final attempt, he gave it everything. Every apex traced with a surgeon’s precision, every gear shift perfectly timed. The car danced on the asphalt, the engine roared in his ears, and for a few fleeting seconds, he thought it was enough. That this time, finally, he had been faster.

Until he saw the screen.

Lena Bauer – P1 – 1:29.771Oscar Piastri – P2 – 1:29.784

Thirteen milliseconds.

He let out a bitter laugh inside his helmet—a mix of disbelief and resignation. Lena wasn’t just fast. She was ruthless.

When he stepped out of the car and walked toward the media pen, he saw her.

Lena removed her helmet with that effortless ease that always got under his skin, golden strands of hair falling onto her forehead, a lopsided grin that spoke of victory without a single word. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and Oscar felt a rush of frustration and adrenaline pulse through his chest.

"Almost, Piastri."

Her voice carried that teasing lilt that had haunted him since karting—provocation wrapped in feigned lightness.

Oscar shook his head, running a hand over the back of his neck, suppressing the smirk threatening to surface.

"Keep an eye on your mirrors tomorrow, Bauer."

Lena arched an amused brow.

"For you? Doubt it."

She turned before he could reply, leaving him with the retort stuck in his throat and a certainty seared into his skin.

The race hadn’t even begun. The season had only just started.

But his war with Lena Bauer had been going on for years.

Sunday morning.

The Bahrain paddock had been awake since early, humming with the charged energy of the season’s first race day. The desert breeze carried the distant roar of engines in warm-up, the ceaseless chatter of engineers fine-tuning strategies, and the omnipresent presence of cameras, ready to capture every moment.

Lena Bauer walked with the natural confidence of someone who belonged in this world. Dressed in her Red Bull race suit, the sleeves tied around her waist, the team’s logo gleaming under the sun, she looked exactly like what she was—the pole sitter for the first race of the year.

Everyone greeted her as she passed. Mechanics, engineers, members of other teams. The other drivers, gathered near the interview area, welcomed her with grins and playful remarks. Charles Leclerc said something to her in French that made her laugh, Lando Norris held up a hand for a high-five that she returned without hesitation, and even Fernando Alonso gave her an approving glance.

But not everyone seemed thrilled about her presence.

Oscar Piastri watched her from across the group, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set tight. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t greet her.

And she, as always, noticed.

Lena loved it. The way he was the only one who didn’t smile, the only one who didn’t treat her with that easy camaraderie she shared with the others. The way he seemed incapable of ignoring her, no matter how hard he tried.

Before she could tempt him any further, someone approached with a microphone.

"Lena, no one expected you to take pole in your first-ever F1 qualifying. Did you?"

She smiled, tilting her head with an almost insolent ease.

"Yes."

The journalist hesitated, as if expecting a more modest answer—something more typical of a rookie in the category. But Lena saw no need to fake false humility. Why should she?

"So, did you have a perfect lap last night?"

"No," she replied naturally. "It was a good lap, but not perfect. I can find more pace."

The journalist's eyes widened in disbelief, and out of the corner of her eye, Lena caught Piastri's movement. He had heard her. And even though she couldn't see his expression, she could imagine the tension in his jaw, the irritated disbelief in his eyes.

She didn’t turn to look at him. Not yet.

"And how are you approaching today's race? You'll be starting from pole, but Red Bull and McLaren have been pretty evenly matched all weekend."

Lena tilted her head, letting the question hang in the air just a second longer than necessary. Then, she smiled with the same unwavering confidence.

"The good thing about starting from pole is that I don’t have to worry about what’s happening behind me. I just have to be the fastest. And I already am."

She felt Oscar's gaze on her profile like a sharp knife.

Oh, how she loved this.

The starting grid was a perfectly orchestrated chaos. Engineers and mechanics moved around the cars in their final preparations, photographers captured every expression on the drivers' faces, and the air buzzed with the anticipation of the first race of the season.

Lena was at the center of it all.

Standing next to her Red Bull, her helmet still tucked under her arm and sunglasses covering her eyes, she radiated absolute calm. While everyone around her talked, gave instructions, or checked data on screens, she remained still, unaffected by the noise. Only when Helmut Marko approached to say something in a low voice did she nod slightly—but even then, her expression barely changed.

A few meters away, Oscar Piastri watched her.

Unlike her, he wasn’t still. He rolled his gloves between his hands, rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath. Not because he was nervous, but because his body had felt ready for battle from the moment he stepped out of the car after qualifying.

He knew he shouldn’t be looking at her. He knew he should be focusing on his own race. But he couldn’t help it.

He saw her shake Christian Horner’s hand, smile at someone from the FIA, wave Lando off as he passed by. All of it with that infuriating ease, as if this wasn’t the first race of her life in Formula 1, but just another Sunday.

The contrast to his own energy was suffocating.

Oscar was tense, alert, his pulse already racing before even getting in the car. Lena, on the other hand, seemed immune to everything. As if the pressure didn’t affect her. As if starting from pole on her debut meant absolutely nothing.

And the worst part was that he knew it wasn’t empty arrogance. He knew she meant it.

By the time he realized he had been staring at her for too long, he quickly shifted his focus back to his McLaren, trying to regain his composure. But just then, Lena turned around.

She found him instantly.

With a lazy movement, she pulled off her sunglasses—just enough for him to catch the playful spark in her eyes.

"Nice view, isn’t it?" she said casually, tilting her head toward her own car. With her sunglasses in hand, she pointed to the number 95 engraved on the Red Bull’s carbon fiber. "I hope you dream about it tonight."

Oscar clenched his jaw.

"And I hope you enjoy the scenery while it lasts. In a few laps, the 81 is all you’ll be seeing."

Lena smiled, and it was worse than any verbal provocation.

"Oh, I will enjoy it."

And with that, she turned away, handed her sunglasses to an engineer, and put on her helmet with the ease of someone who had no doubt she would still be there when it was all over.

Oscar, for his part, couldn’t remember ever wanting the starting lights to go out this badly in his entire life.

The lights went out.

The force of his McLaren propelled him forward, reacting on instinct, every fiber of his body focused on the first corner. He knew that if he wanted to win, if he wanted to snatch victory from Lena Bauer, he had to do it now.

He saw her move quickly, shutting the inside line with relentless determination. But Oscar wasn’t a rookie. He knew she expected him to back off, to take the corner from the outside and settle for second place.

He didn’t.

He planted his foot on the throttle, keeping his car glued to hers until the very last millimeter before braking. He downshifted at the exact right moment, slid his car to the absolute limit, and emerged from the corner with his front wing just inches ahead of hers.

For a second, he thought Lena would squeeze him out, that she’d return the favor at the next turn. But she didn’t.

His engineer was shouting something over the radio, but Oscar barely heard it. All he saw in his mirrors was the Red Bull clinging to him, Lena refusing to give up even a fraction more than necessary.

The race was a war of attrition.

Lena was never too far. She kept the pressure on at all times, making him fight for every tenth of a second, every corner, every lap. When McLaren told him to manage his tires, he barely held back a disbelieving laugh.

Managing tires with Lena Bauer breathing down his diffuser was like asking a lion to share its prey.

But he did it.

Against all odds, against everything he feared, against the constant threat of her presence in his mirrors—he crossed the finish line first.

He won.

The victory cry he let out over the radio was pure relief.

When he returned to the pit lane, when he jumped out of the car and let himself be swept away by the adrenaline of the moment, he felt that all the effort, all the anger, all the desperate need to beat her had been worth it.

Until he saw her.

Lena was already out of her car, pulling off her gloves with an expression that was…

Happy.

No frustration. No anger. No trace of the bitter sting of defeat he knew so well.

She was smiling, radiant, as if finishing second had been exactly what she wanted. As if the fact that he had beaten her didn’t bother her in the slightest.

And that, more than anything else, infuriated him.

Because if it had been the other way around—if he had finished second—the poison of defeat would have eaten him alive. He would have replayed every tenth he lost, every mistake, every moment where the race slipped through his fingers. He would have obsessed over it until he could fix it.

But Lena Bauer didn’t.

Lena Bauer was celebrating.

Lena Bauer was laughing with her team, joking with Verstappen, flashing a dazzling smile at the cameras.

When she stepped onto the podium, when she shook his hand with exasperating ease, when she offered him a casual "Good job" with not a hint of resentment, Oscar felt victory crumble in his hands.

Because if she didn’t care about losing…

Then how the hell was he supposed to defeat her?

Melbourne, on a thursday night.

Oscar hated these kinds of events.

It wasn’t just the formality, the uncomfortable suits, or the forced smiles. It was the feeling of being trapped in a place where performance didn’t matter, where it didn’t matter how fast you were on track if you didn’t know how to play the other game—the one of image, politics, public relations.

And Lena Bauer knew exactly how to play it.

Since she had arrived, he had watched her move through the guests with an irritating ease. She greeted journalists by name, laughed with other drivers, answered questions with that mix of boldness and charisma that made her impossible to ignore. Meanwhile, Oscar stuck to the bare minimum—interviews, sponsor photos, the occasional neutral comment. But he couldn't help feeling like a shadow in comparison.

Of course, the press wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to put them together.

“Oscar! Lena!” A journalist called out. “Can we ask you a few questions together?”

It was inevitable. Ever since Lena had joined F1, their rivalry had been exploited to exhaustion. It wasn’t just that they had both been rookies at the time—it was the fact that they had competed against each other since they were kids, that they had clashed in every category they had raced in. The narrative wrote itself: two exceptionally talented drivers, destined to fight side by side for their entire careers.

People loved it. Oscar… not so much.

“Of course,” Lena replied without hesitation, smiling with exasperating ease.

Oscar had no choice. He stepped up beside her, adopting the neutral expression he usually wore in these situations.

“It’s been a few races since Lena made her F1 debut, and it seems like the story remains the same between you two—always fighting each other. What’s it like to meet again in the top category after so many years of competing together?”

“Fun,” Lena said with a grin.

Oscar let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Oh, absolutely thrilling.”

Lena shot him a quick glance before continuing.

“Actually, it is,” she insisted, turning back to the journalist. “We’ve always pushed each other to the limit. I expected nothing less from Oscar in F1.”

“Would you say your rivalry is the most intense on the grid right now?”

Oscar was about to give a diplomatic answer, but Lena beat him to it.

“Oh, without a doubt. Don’t you think so, Piastri?”

Oscar looked at her. She was still smiling, but there was a glint in her eyes he couldn’t quite decipher. Was she enjoying the moment, the attention, the story the media kept feeding? Or was she enjoying how much it annoyed him?

“If by intense you mean the most annoying, then yes,” he muttered, earning laughter from the journalists.

Lena placed a hand over her chest, feigning offense.

“How cruel. And here I thought we were almost friends.”

Oscar clenched his jaw.

The interview continued with the same dynamic—Lena allowing herself bold answers, comments that bordered on provocation, while Oscar remained more reserved, letting her take the spotlight. It wasn’t that it bothered him exactly. It was more that he found it frustrating how effortlessly she navigated this world, as if she had been born to be in the spotlight.

“And what about this weekend’s race?” another journalist asked. “Will it be another wheel-to-wheel battle between you two?”

“If Piastri can keep up, maybe,” Lena replied with absolute ease.

Oscar exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his eyes on her.

“I’d be more worried about myself if I were you.”

“Oh, I do,” she said, her smile feigning innocence. “That’s why I enjoy it so much.”

Before Oscar could respond, he felt something on his arm.

Lena had linked her arm through his with the utmost ease, as if she had been doing it her whole life. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, but the sensation of her touch hit Oscar like an unexpected blow.

It unsettled him how easily she invaded his personal space without warning. But what truly caught him off guard was his own reaction—because instead of pulling away, instead of tensing up like he usually did in these situations, Oscar felt his body lean, almost imperceptibly, toward her.

It wasn’t intentional. He wasn’t even aware of it until it happened. But when he realized, his first instinct was to tense, to regain his composure.

However, before he could, Lena shifted slightly toward him, and Oscar felt the light tug of her grip, the way her thumb brushed against the fabric of his sleeve. There was no ulterior motive in her gesture—at least, not one Oscar could identify with certainty. Just a bold confidence, a way of reminding him—with the simplest action—that she had no problem getting close, erasing the lines between them whenever she felt like it.

And the worst part was that it worked.

The journalists, of course, didn’t let the gesture go unnoticed.

“Well, it seems like your relationship isn’t just about rivalry,” one of them commented lightly. “Clearly, you’ve known each other for years.”

Lena shrugged, as if the question was unnecessary.

“Of course. Piastri and I have been fighting on track since we were kids.”

“And we still are,” Oscar added, dismissively.

The journalists nodded, satisfied with the response. From the outside, their relationship looked exactly as it was supposed to: two rivals with years of history, who understood the dynamic between them perfectly. Friends, perhaps. Or at least, competitors who respected each other and enjoyed the challenge.

That was what everyone saw.

But Oscar… Oscar felt something else.

The light weight of Lena’s hand on his arm. The brush of her thumb against the fabric of his sleeve. The way she leaned slightly toward him when she spoke, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

There was nothing strange about the gesture. It wasn’t flirting. It didn’t have some hidden intention.

And yet, something inside Oscar clicked.

It was sudden and unsettling, a strange sensation slipping into his chest before he could block it out. It wasn’t attraction—not exactly. It was more like recognition, a realization that Lena could cross certain boundaries with him without his body reacting with the automatic rejection he usually had toward anyone who got too close.

She did it without thinking, with exasperating ease. And the worst part was that he didn’t think about pulling away either.

There was no logical reason for it.

The cameras were still rolling, the journalists were still asking questions, the fans who would watch the interview later would interpret it as just another amusing moment between two lifelong rivals. No one would notice anything unusual.

No one except Oscar.

And that was what irritated him the most.

The atmosphere in Melbourne was different.

Oscar felt it in every corner of the paddock, in every fan chanting his name, in every Australian flag waving in the grandstands. He had imagined this moment countless times, but living it surpassed all expectations.

P3 in qualifying. It wasn’t pole, but it was a solid position. He was ready. He knew exactly what he had to do.

As he walked through the paddock corridors, his mind was focused on strategy, on the start, on every detail that could make the difference. And then, as he turned a corner, he saw her.

Lena was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, gaze distant. It looked like she was waiting for him, though with her, one could never be sure.

"Ready for the big day, huh, Piastri?" she said in her usual tone, one that hovered between provocation and amusement.

"Always," he replied without hesitation.

She nodded, sizing him up for a moment that felt longer than necessary. Then, unexpectedly, her expression shifted.

"You’re going to have a great race," she said, without a trace of irony. "This is your home. Make sure you take a good memory from here."

Oscar blinked, caught off guard.

It wasn’t the comment itself that surprised him, but the way she said it. Without that ever-present edge of defiance. Without the sharpness of their eternal rivalry.

She seemed… sincere.

Before he could find a response, Lena continued, her voice carrying a casualness that didn’t quite match what she had just said.

"And well, it’s a bit surreal, isn’t it?" she added. "We went from fighting in karts on forgotten tracks in the middle of nowhere to this. You, at your home race. P3. In front of thousands of people cheering for you."

She paused, as if unsure whether to continue. But then she gave the smallest of smiles, briefly lowering her gaze.

"I’m proud of you, Piastri."

The air grew heavier in Oscar’s lungs.

He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—her sincerity, the fact that it was coming from her, or the way his chest tightened slightly at her words.

Because it wasn’t just anyone saying it.

It was Lena.

And for some reason, that affected him more than he was willing to admit.

Oscar felt his throat close up for a fraction of a second.

Lena was already straightening up, ready to leave as if she hadn’t just knocked him off balance with those words. As if she hadn’t just said something that would stay in his head for who knew how long.

He couldn’t let it end just like that.

"Lena."

She stopped, turning her head slightly, one eyebrow raised in question.

Oscar swallowed. He wasn’t good at these things, but he couldn’t let her be the only one to speak.

"You’re going to have a great race too."

His voice was steadier than he expected, though inside, he was still trying to regain balance from the whirlwind Lena had just left behind.

She blinked, surprised. For a moment, Oscar thought she would mock him, throw a sarcastic remark to break the tension. But she didn’t.

Instead, Lena smiled. Barely—a flicker of a smile, quick and almost imperceptible, but genuine.

"I know," she replied, with the certainty of someone who had never doubted herself.

And then, without another word, she turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Oscar remained there a moment longer, the echo of her voice still ringing in his ears, an unfamiliar sensation settling in his chest.

It wasn’t exactly confusion. It wasn’t just surprise.

It was something deeper. Something more unsettling. Something he wasn’t sure he liked.

And the worst part was that no matter how much he tried to analyze it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake it off when he pulled his visor down and lined up on the grid.

The lights went out, and Oscar reacted on instinct.

The McLaren catapulted toward the first corner, the roar of the engines around him creating a deafening symphony. He held firm in P3, protecting the inside as Verstappen and Leclerc fought ahead.

But there was no time to relax.

Lena was there.

Almost glued to his rear wing, waiting for the slightest mistake to strike.

Ten millimeters.

That was the space Oscar left her in every corner. Just enough not to crash—but no more than that. If she wanted the position, she was going to have to take it by force.

The pressure was relentless. Lap after lap, Lena attacked. She tested the outside at Turn 5, then the inside at Turn 9. She threw herself into every braking zone, making sure he felt her presence like an unyielding shadow.

On lap 23, McLaren called him into the pits. The stop was fast, flawless. He came out just ahead of Lena, who had stopped a lap earlier.

But she wasn’t done yet.

Turn 3.

Oscar saw the Red Bull in his mirrors before she even made the move.

Lena dived down the inside with surgical precision, with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how far they could push.

He reacted instantly.

Defended aggressively, leaving precisely ten millimeters between their wheels. Ten millimeters between keeping the position and losing it. Ten millimeters between personal victory and defeat.

The crowd was on their feet.

Side by side, they accelerated toward Turn 4.

Oscar held the line. Barely.

Ten millimeters more, and she would have been the one emerging ahead.

Ten millimeters more, and it could have ended in disaster.

But it didn’t.

Oscar kept the position.

When he crossed the finish line in second place, the radio exploded with his team’s cheers.

"Well done, Oscar! P2 at home, incredible race!"

He let out a shaky breath, a laugh escaping his lips. It wasn’t a win, but it was a solid podium—a result any driver would dream of achieving at their home race.

As he climbed out of the car, the roar of the Australian crowd engulfed him. People chanted his name, a wave of applause that sent chills down his spine as he raised his arms in gratitude.

But then, before he could fully process it, he felt an impact against his side.

Lena.

She had walked up with a grin stretching from ear to ear and, without warning, threw her arms around him. A spontaneous, unrestrained gesture, with no trace of their usual hostility.

Oscar froze completely for a second.

He could feel the fabric of her race suit against his, her arm firmly wrapped around his back.

The cameras caught everything.

Photographers fired away, the images already circulating online, ready to send fans into a frenzy.

And the worst—or maybe the best—part was that Oscar didn’t react with his usual stiffness.

He didn’t pull away. He didn’t try to escape.

Almost without realizing it, he returned the embrace.

Ten millimeters.

That was what separated them on track.

But here, there wasn’t a single one.

A couple of hours later, Oscar settled into his airplane seat, resting his head against the window and staring into the darkness of the night sky. The muffled roar of the engines and the dim cabin lighting gave everything an unreal feel, as if he were suspended in a limbo between two worlds.

He should be exhausted. He should be enjoying the moment. P2 at his home race, the crowd chanting his name, champagne spilling over the podium.

And yet, the only thing occupying his mind was the feeling of Lena’s embrace.

It was absurd.

He had raced past her so many times on track—always on the edge, always brushing against each other with surgical precision. Always breaking each other down, searching for every tiny advantage, pushing to the limit.

But he had never felt her like this.

Close. Present.

No helmet. No barriers.

A few minutes earlier, as he boarded the private jet with Lando, he had barely exchanged any words with him. He knew his teammate was probably waiting for him to comment on the race, the podium, something. But Oscar had said nothing.

And Lando, being Lando, wasn’t about to let it go.

"Alright, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to figure it out myself?"

Oscar blinked and turned his head, meeting his teammate’s curious expression. Lando was watching him from the seat next to him, one eyebrow raised.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, sure," Lando scoffed, crossing his arms. "I know you well enough to tell when something’s eating you up. You haven’t said a word in two hours, and you just finished on the podium at home."

Oscar sighed. Lando wasn’t going to drop it easily.

"I’m tired," he tried to dismiss.

Lando clicked his tongue, clearly not buying it.

"So it’s Lena."

Oscar felt a jolt of discomfort run down his spine.

"What?"

"Come on, mate." Lando turned fully in his seat, resting an arm on the backrest. "I saw it. We all saw it. Since when do you and Lena Bauer hug like you’re best friends?"

Oscar clenched his jaw.

"It was just… the moment. You know how she is."

Lando studied him, as if trying to unravel something beyond his words.

"Yeah, I do. But you didn’t react the way you usually do."

Oscar looked away, uneasy.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Lando smirked, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"Oh, I think you do."

Oscar didn’t respond. He just stared at his reflection in the window, barely visible against the darkness of the sky.

Lando was right. He knew.

But admitting it out loud was another thing entirely.

Because if he acknowledged what he felt—if he put it into words—then he would have to face it.

And Oscar wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

The problem with Lena Bauer was that she had always been there. Always by his side, always in his way. From karting to Formula 2, and now at the pinnacle of motorsport. Always ten millimeters from him.

Always too close.

And yet, never as much as now.

Oscar ran a hand over his face, exhaling in frustration.

"It’s nothing," he muttered at last, more to himself than to Lando.

His teammate didn’t even look up from his phone.

"Whatever you say."

The cabin fell into silence again. The hum of the engine, the flickering overhead lights, the gentle sway of the plane cutting through the night.

Oscar closed his eyes.

But in his mind, he didn’t see the race. Or the podium. Or the crowd chanting his name.

He only saw Lena.

Her smile.

The warmth of her embrace.

The sound of her laughter, echoing in his chest like an unfamiliar vibration.

The way she looked at him, seconds before letting go, that mischievous glint in her eyes—like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Like she knew what she was doing to him.

And maybe she did.

Maybe Lena Bauer had always known.

Oscar arrived at his Monaco apartment with the deep relief of someone who, after weeks of traveling, noise, and adrenaline, finally had a couple of days to himself.

He dropped his suitcase by the door, kicked off his shoes without much care, and exhaled slowly as he scanned the space. His apartment was exactly as he had left it—neat, quiet, welcoming.

Peace.

That was what he needed.

He had planned these days with precision: sleep in without worrying about schedules, cook something decent instead of relying on paddock catering or airport food, and maybe, if he felt like it, go for a walk along the harbor. But most of all, rest.

He collapsed onto the couch with a satisfied sigh, pulled out his phone, and started scrolling mindlessly. Messages from his team, social media notifications exploding with podium photos from Australia, a couple of texts from Lando sending him ridiculous memes. Nothing urgent.

He was about to put his phone down when a new notification popped up on the screen.

Lena Bauer.

He frowned.

It wasn’t like they never talked outside of race weekends—well, actually, they didn’t much—but if Lena was texting him directly, it had to be something important.

He swiped to open the message, and what he found made him blink a couple of times.

Lena: "pastri pls i need help, im movin and the fookin couch dosnt fit in the elevator. i swer i tried with max, charls, even russel but aparntly evryone decidid to disapear at the same time. so now im stuk and if i try to do this alone ill eithr break my spine or end up trapd under it n die. u dont want that on ur consiense do u?? pls be a decnt human bein n help me, ill buy u a bier or idk a whole pizza if thats wht it takes 😭🙏 also if u say no i will haunt u 4ever just so u kno."

He blinked again, trying to process the grammatical crime he had just read.

For a second, he considered ignoring it. After all, he had spent weeks traveling, racing, training. All he wanted was to sleep in his own bed, eat something decent, and not move a single muscle for the next forty-eight hours.

But then he pictured Lena, somehow attempting to haul a couch up the stairs, probably cursing in three different languages, and with a ninety percent chance of actually managing it out of sheer stubbornness.

He sighed.

Oscar: "Give me 15 minutes."

His phone vibrated almost instantly.

Lena: "thankiu ily"

Oscar let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. But as he put his shoes back on and grabbed his keys, he couldn’t ignore the strange warmth that settled in his chest at those three little letters.

No.

Lena Bauer definitely had no idea what she was doing to him.

Oscar arrived at Lena’s building with the address she had sent him in a message. He didn’t need to call her or let her know he was there; the commotion in the stairwell was already guiding him straight to his target.

There she was, locked in battle with a couch.

The piece of furniture was stuck on the first landing, wedged at an angle that defied all logic. Lena, sweating and with the sleeves of her T-shirt rolled up to her shoulders, was pushing with all her strength, muttering German curses under her breath. Every time she tried to turn it, the couch got even more stuck.

Oscar stood at the entrance, arms crossed, watching in silence for a few seconds.

"Are you winning?" he finally asked, the calm tone of someone arriving at a crime scene after the disaster had already happened.

Lena let out a frustrated huff and rested a hand on her hip, momentarily conceding defeat.

"Too late. It’s already knocked me out."

Oscar stepped closer, analyzing the situation with a critical eye. He crouched down, measuring the space, and within seconds, he was already formulating a plan to get the couch out without demolishing the building in the process.

"You tried lifting it sideways, didn’t you?"

"Of course I did," Lena shot back, rolling her eyes. "Do you think I’m an idiot?"

Oscar didn’t respond to that. In his mind, the scene spoke for itself.

"Alright," he said simply. "Then we’re doing this another way."

He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, getting ready for the task.

"What’s the plan, genius?" Lena asked, leaning against the railing with her arms crossed.

"First, we’re going to rotate it. But instead of pushing, we tilt it upward and slide it at an angle."

Lena eyed him skeptically.

"That sounds exactly like what I already tried."

"Yeah, but I’m not going to let the couch win."

Just before getting to work, Oscar couldn’t resist.

He pulled out his phone, and with the ease of someone who already knew exactly what they were going to do, opened the camera and pointed it at Lena.

She, standing there with her arms crossed, brows furrowed, and the couch hopelessly wedged in the stairs, looked like a live-action meme.

"What are you doing?" she asked, somewhere between suspicion and exasperation, hearing the shutter click.

"Documenting the moment," Oscar replied with a smirk, not even glancing up from his phone as he typed a caption.

Lena immediately straightened, trying to snatch the phone from him.

"Don’t you dare."

But it was already too late.

Oscar turned the screen toward her with a triumphant look before posting the photo to his Instagram story. In the image, she was in all her glory—sweat on her forehead, absolute frustration on her face, and the couch putting up a fight.

The caption read:

"The pole position never resists her, but feng shui is a different story."

Lena let out an outraged groan.

"Delete that. Right now."

"It already has likes."

"How long has it even been!?"

"Twenty seconds."

Lena shot him a deadly glare, but Oscar, unfazed, slid his phone back into his pocket, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Alright. Now, let’s deal with the couch."

Lena muttered something in German that probably wasn’t a compliment but gave in.

They worked together, though "worked together" was a generous way to put it. Oscar directed the operation with methodical patience, while Lena tried to brute-force her way through at every opportunity.

"Stop, stop, stop," Oscar said, halting when she attempted to push with her shoulder. "If you do that, you’ll just jam it even more."

"Or I’ll shove it through once and for all," Lena countered, trying again.

Oscar let out an exasperated sigh.

"Lena, please."

She huffed but eventually relented and followed his instructions. With a bit of coordination—and a lot of corrections from Oscar—they finally managed to get the couch past the first flight of stairs.

Once they set it down on the next landing, Lena collapsed onto one of the cushions with a dramatic sigh.

"I am never moving again," she declared, staring at the ceiling. "I’ll die in this apartment."

Oscar leaned against the wall, crossing his arms with a smirk.

"Could’ve been worse."

Lena turned her head to look at him in disbelief.

"Worse? How? With the couch tumbling down the stairs and taking someone out with it?"

"For example."

Lena let out a breathless laugh.

"Give me five minutes, and we’ll keep going."

Oscar nodded, though deep down, he knew this was going to take longer than expected.

When they finally managed to squeeze the sofa through the apartment door, Oscar collapsed onto it with a heavy sigh, feeling the exhaustion take over his arms.

“I thought lifting weights at the gym had prepared me for anything,” he muttered, massaging his forearm.

Lena, leaning against the wall as she tried to catch her breath, let out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah, well, two-meter sofas have their own agenda.”

For a few moments, only their labored breathing filled the space, along with the distant hum of the city drifting in through the open balcony. Now that the sofa was in place, the frantic energy of the moment faded, leaving behind something else entirely.

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, feeling his shirt sticking to his skin.

“You said there was beer.”

Lena raised an eyebrow.

“Are you implying I don’t keep my promises, Piastri?”

Pushing off the doorframe, she disappeared into the kitchen. Oscar took the opportunity to glance around the apartment. It was practically empty, save for a few stacked boxes in the corner and the sofa they had just hauled up by sheer force.

There were no paintings on the walls, no decorations—just the space in its purest form. He didn’t know why, but it suited Lena. Practical. Functional. Nothing that wasn’t strictly necessary.

She returned with two beers in hand, tossing one at him without warning. Oscar caught it on reflex, shooting her a pointed look, but she only smirked before dropping onto the sofa beside him.

“Don’t look at me like that. If you’d dropped it, that would’ve been on you.”

Oscar shook his head, but he couldn’t suppress a small smile.

Silence settled between them again as their bottles popped open. They drank in sync, both gazing out at the balcony, where Monaco’s lights shimmered against the night sky.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

It was that strange middle ground, where their usual dynamic wavered between familiarity and something Oscar hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“I didn’t think you’d move here,” he finally said, breaking the silence.

Lena turned the bottle in her hands.

“Neither did I, until I didn’t have much of a choice. Monaco is convenient. No taxes and all that.”

“Yeah, that’s why we all end up here.”

She shot him a lazy smile.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m still not sold on it. I prefer places with more soul.”

Oscar took another sip, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

“And where has more soul, in your opinion?”

Lena leaned her head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if the answer was written somewhere in the empty room.

“Berlin. Maybe London. Maybe somewhere where no one knows who I am, where I can disappear for a while.”

Oscar nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure he entirely understood. He had never felt the need to disappear.

“So why didn’t you go to one of those places?”

Lena turned to look at him, studying him for a moment before shrugging.

“I guess, in the end, I like having a little bit of chaos nearby.”

The way she said it, without thinking, made Oscar pause for a second longer than necessary.

Because she said it while looking at him.

He held her gaze for a beat longer, sensing something in her words that unsettled him, though he couldn’t quite place what it was.

Lena was the first to look away, refocusing on her bottle, drumming her fingers lightly against the glass.

“Anyway, thanks for the help.” Her tone was back to its usual lightness, as if the last few minutes of conversation hadn’t happened at all. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come. Probably left the sofa downstairs and used boxes as chairs.”

Oscar let out a quiet snort.

“That could’ve been a creative solution.”

“Nah. I want this place to at least somewhat resemble a home.”

He frowned slightly, something about the way she said “home” not quite sitting right with him. Like the word felt foreign to her.

“Isn’t it?”

Lena turned to him again, eyes sharp, as if seeing more than she let on. Then she smiled, but it was one of those smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Not yet.”

Silence returned between them, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Oscar took another sip of his beer, feeling the cool liquid slide down his throat as he tried not to overthink everything they had just said.

Outside, Monaco continued to glow like a movie set. Inside, Lena shifted on the couch, tucking one leg under the other as she turned toward him.

“By the way, how long are you staying before you have to travel again?”

Oscar blinked at the abrupt change of topic but decided to play along.

“A couple of days. Why?”

“Because now that you’ve helped me with the sofa, it’d be a waste not to take advantage of your handyman skills.”

Oscar eyed her suspiciously.

“Lena…”

She held up her hands in mock innocence.

“Nothing complicated. Just a few more things. A table. A couple of chairs. Maybe a bookshelf.”

“You want me to do your entire move?”

“No, I want you to help. Not the same thing.”

Oscar sighed, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from twitching slightly.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Lena tapped his arm with her bottle, as if sealing a deal.

“We’ll see.”

The following days tested Oscar’s patience.

What initially seemed like a simple favor—helping with a few pieces of furniture—quickly spiraled into something much more chaotic. Lena had absolutely nothing organized. Her boxes were stacked haphazardly in the living room, some half-open, others sealed with an absurd amount of tape.

“Why do you have so many boxes when you basically live in a paddock all year?” Oscar asked the day she dragged him back to her apartment under the pretense of “just helping me move one thing.”

“I don’t know, most of them are books.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

“You read?”

Lena shot him an offended look.

"Why do you say that like it’s some kind of miracle?"

"I don’t know. Do you see how you write in your phone? I just never pictured you sitting still long enough to read."

"I have my quiet moments, Piastri. Few, but they exist."

He wasn’t entirely convinced of that—until he saw the stacks of novels, biographies, and even a few technical essays in Lena’s moving boxes. It was a chaotic mix of genres, ranging from thrillers to books on applied F1 mechanics.

"You actually read all of this?" he asked, pulling out a book on aerodynamics with pages filled with handwritten notes in the margins.

"Most of them. Some were gifts I never got around to reading."

Oscar shook his head in disbelief before opening another box. That was how they spent the afternoon—drifting from one conversation to another, moving furniture back and forth, and pausing every now and then when Oscar, with infinite patience, had to explain the correct way to use a power screwdriver.

"Give me that. You’re making me nervous," he muttered at one point, taking the tool from her hands before she could drill straight through the table they were working on.

"You’re such a control freak," she shot back, crossing her arms.

"I’m efficient."

By the end of the day, Lena’s apartment was still far from organized, but at least she had a table, chairs, and a bookshelf that wouldn’t collapse at any second.

They both collapsed onto the couch with a tired sigh.

"Tell me that’s the last of it," Oscar mumbled, eyes closed.

Lena elbowed him.

"Almost."

He groaned.

"I knew you were lying to me."

"Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad. Besides, I gave you beer and free food—what more do you want?"

Oscar cracked one eye open, amused.

"A written contract guaranteeing you won’t drag me into this again."

Lena stuck out her tongue.

And for some reason, Oscar realized he wouldn’t mind coming back.

The next few days in Monaco passed far too quickly. Before he could even process it, he was back to his usual routine—simulator sessions, meetings with engineers, workouts, flights to the next circuit.

But something had changed.

It was subtle, like background noise he couldn’t quite tune out. A recurring thought creeping in at the most unexpected moments—while reviewing telemetry data, while pulling on his gloves before heading out on track, while trying to fall asleep in yet another uncomfortable hotel bed.

Lena.

Not because he was analyzing her as a rival. Not because he was trying to figure out how to beat her on track.

Just because she was there.

Because every time he scrolled through Instagram, he stumbled upon clips of their interview together, the comments flooded with people loving their dynamic. Because every time he opened WhatsApp, their chat was never too far down the list. Because every time someone mentioned her name in a conversation, he felt something close to… anticipation.

And now, when he arrived at the paddock, he found himself looking for her without even realizing it.

The next Grand Prix was a brutal reminder of why he couldn’t afford distractions.

From the first practice sessions, it was clear that the margins were razor-thin. Red Bull had the edge, sure, but McLaren and Ferrari were right behind, waiting for any opportunity. And amid all the tension, there was Lena—with that infuriatingly relaxed attitude that somehow managed to get under his skin.

"Ready to lose again, Piastri?" she teased with a smirk when they crossed paths near the hospitality area before qualifying.

"I’m not losing today," he shot back, folding his arms.

"We’ll see about that."

And they did.

Qualifying was chaos. Session after session, the times tightened until there was barely any room for error. In the final moments of Q3, Lena put in a blistering lap, claiming provisional pole. Oscar was still on his flyer, pushing the limits of the track with every turn.

When he crossed the line and saw his time flash on the board, adrenaline surged through him.

P1.

On race day, the tension on the grid was almost tangible.

Oscar was on pole, Lena right beside him in P2. From inside his cockpit, he could see her through the visor of her helmet—leaning slightly forward, hands resting on the wheel, fingers barely perceptibly tightening around the grips.

He knew her too well. He could tell she was planning something.

He also knew she wouldn’t give him a single inch.

When the lights went out, the world shrank to the sound of his own heartbeat and the deafening roar of the engines.

His start was good. Hers was better.

They went wheel to wheel into the first corner, neither backing down, neither willing to be the first to yield.

The battle raged on for lap after lap. Every overtake was met with an immediate counterattack. Every attempt to pull away was thwarted by the other’s relentless defense.

And then—it happened.

It wasn’t a major mistake. It wasn’t a desperate move.

It was a matter of… ten millimeters.

Oscar tried to close the door in a high-speed corner, expecting Lena to back out. But Lena never backed out.

Their rear wheels touched.

And in the blink of an eye, both cars were out of control.

The world spun in a blur of radio static, gravel, and the sickening crunch of carbon fiber meeting the barriers.

The impact was brutal. Not in sheer force, but in the inevitability of it.

Their cars—now little more than shattered debris scattered across the runoff—were the culmination of something that had been brewing for years.

When Oscar tore off his steering wheel and sat up in his seat, the deafening roar of the crowd was muted by the blood pounding in his ears. His hands, still shaking with adrenaline, unfastened the harnesses with a sharp tug.

He jumped out of the car.

And there she was.

Lena had already climbed out of her Red Bull, brushing dust off her fireproof suit as if the crash hadn’t fazed her at all. But Oscar knew better. He saw the tension in her posture, the way her fingers curled into fists, the tight clench of her jaw as she swallowed down barely contained frustration.

They locked eyes in silence, their breathing still ragged, the echoes of the crash still hanging between them.

Around them, track marshals rushed in, ensuring they were both unharmed, stepping between them before either could do something they might regret.

There was no need for words.

What had just happened wasn’t a mistake.

It was the result of every on-track clash, every maneuver pushed to the limit, every time one had tried to prove they could beat the other.

It was the inevitable outcome of ten years of war.

When they were taken back to the paddock, the tension between them was so thick that even the FIA officials seemed to want to stay out of it. Their team principals were too busy analyzing replays of the crash, debating over the radio, searching for arguments to either defend or condemn what had happened.

So they were left in a room. Alone.

The silence was suffocating.

The only sound was their breathing—still ragged, still laced with fury.

Oscar ran his hands through his hair, exhaling sharply, trying to steady the storm of emotions tearing through him.

But when he looked up and saw her standing there, arms crossed, eyes burning, brows furrowed in pure defiance…

He knew.

This wasn’t about the race.

It had never been just about the track.

And then, the storm broke.

The door shut behind them with a sharp thud.

Silence.

Heavy, stifling, ready to shatter.

Lena ran a hand over her neck, clenching her jaw, her breath still unsteady. She didn’t know if it was from the crash, the anger, or the lethal combination of both.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, her voice rough.

Oscar, who had been standing with his hands on his hips, turned his head toward her like he’d been waiting for the first shot to be fired.

"What’s wrong with me?" He let out a dry, incredulous laugh—a sharp, cutting sound. "Are you fucking kidding me? You shoved me into the wall, Lena."

"Oh, fuck off. You left me with no space first."

"There was no more space to give you."

"There’s always space, Piastri, but of course, if you're the one who has to yield, suddenly it becomes fucking nonexistent."

Oscar took a step toward her.

"Oh, I’m sorry—should I applaud you? Should I fucking bow for your sacrifice? If you want to win, maybe try not launching yourself like a goddamn kamikaze."

"And maybe you should try driving like you don’t have a stick up your ass!"

The air crackled between them.

The crash, the scrape of tires, the sound of shattered carbon fiber—it didn’t matter.

What mattered was everything behind it.

Years and years of pushing each other to the edge. Of locking eyes and knowing neither of them would ever back down. Of a rivalry so deeply poisoned that they no longer knew whether they wanted to beat each other or destroy each other.

Oscar took another step.

Lena didn’t move an inch.

"You always do this," he muttered, voice lower now but no less intense.

"Do what?"

"Put me in this fucking situation."

Lena tilted her head, a razor-sharp smile curling her lips.

"Don’t play the victim. It’s not just me."

"Oh, no?"

"You know it’s not."

Oscar clenched his jaw. Lena saw the tic in his temple, the way his fists tightened and relaxed, like he was holding something back—something he had no fucking idea how to deal with.

"Admit it pisses you off," she murmured.

"What pisses me off?"

"That I have you so figured out I know what you're feeling before you do."

Oscar let out a tense, fractured laugh.

"You have no idea what I’m feeling."

Lena stepped closer.

A single damn millimeter.

"Of course I do."

A flicker in his jaw.

"No. You don’t."

"I know it’s not about the race."

Oscar swallowed.

"Shut up."

"I know it’s not about the fucking crash."

"Lena."

"I know you want to kiss me."

Oscar felt something drop in his stomach—an unfamiliar, furious vertigo.

"Shut up."

Lena laughed, but there was no amusement in it. Only a blade, only the undeniable certainty that she was right.

"Why? Because it pisses you off to hear it out loud?"

Oscar gritted his teeth.

"Because it’s bullshit."

"No, it’s not."

"Yes, it is."

"Oh, really? Then why—"

She leaned in just a fraction more, pushing him without even touching him.

"Why do you look at me like that every time we’re on track?"

"I don’t look at you in any way."

"Why do you pick fights over stupid shit, but never over what actually gets to you?"

"Because you’re unbearable."

Lena clicked her tongue.

"Liar."

Oscar felt something in his chest pull impossibly tight.

"Drop it."

But she didn’t.

"Why can't you stand it when others congratulate me? When someone else says I did well?"

Oscar didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because the answer was there, lodged in his throat, so obvious it almost made him sick.

Because the truth was spilling through the cracks of his denial, seeping into the fractures of his damned mind until everything fell into place.

It wasn’t competitiveness.

It wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t that she won.

It was that she was there, always, messing up his existence since they were kids.

It was that every time he saw her passing him, he felt something that made no sense.

It was that when she laughed, with that smile that was so unmistakably hers, his chest tightened.

It was that he had spent years convincing himself that all he wanted was to beat her, when what he really wanted was to touch her.

And she knew it.

Lena saw the shift in his face, in his dark, glinting eyes, in the way his breathing turned just a little deeper.

"See?" she whispered.

Oscar ran his tongue over his lips, his fists clenched, his pulse pounding at his temples.

"No," he said.

But it sounded like what it was—a lie.

Lena smiled, but it wasn’t mocking. It was something heavier, more dangerous. Something that sent Oscar’s pulse racing.

"Yes," she whispered. "You see it."

Oscar didn’t move, but he didn’t step back when she leaned in closer. Ten millimeters less.

"Shut up."

His voice came out rough, ragged, completely useless.

"Make me."

Oscar swallowed hard.

The air between them was thick, suffocating. No space. No escape.

They had spent years fighting. Years pushing each other to the limit. Years forcing themselves to believe that all they felt was anger, rivalry, fury.

But fury didn’t burn like this.

Fury didn’t make his hands tingle with the urge to grab her.

Fury didn’t leave him like this, with his jaw clenched and his thoughts in complete chaos because Lena was so close, because he could feel her breath, because he knew—he knew—this was inevitable.

"Say you don’t want this."

Lena’s voice was a challenge, a provocation that curled down his spine.

Oscar closed his eyes for a second.

If he said it, maybe they could pretend this never happened.

That none of this existed.

That they could keep waging their damn war on the track without the truth tearing them apart.

But when he opened his eyes, when he saw the way Lena was looking at him, something inside him just… gave in.

The last barrier shattered.

The final ten millimeters disappeared.

And Oscar kissed her.

The impact was brutal.

No hesitation, no second-guessing, no restraint. Just pure momentum, an inevitable collision that trapped them in a fierce, definitive moment.

Lena gasped against his mouth, startled but not resisting, because her fingers clenched in the fabric of his race suit, pulling him in, seeking more, seeking everything. Oscar didn’t think. He couldn’t. His body reacted before his mind could process it, before he could remember that just minutes ago, he had been shouting at her.

That they had been arguing, that they had been furious, that they had spent years hating each other.

But had they really?

His back hit the wall, and he barely had time to catch his breath before Lena kissed him again—deeper, hungrier, as if they had just crossed a line they would never be able to step back from.

"Son of a bitch…" she murmured against his lips, but she didn’t sound angry. She sounded defeated.

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold on to something, to any rational thought that could pull him out of this whirlwind.

But everything was Lena.

Her breath, her scent mixed with the adrenaline of the race, the feel of her hands gripping his neck.

He wanted her with an intensity that terrified him.

His entire world narrowed down to this moment, to this kiss, to the small, shaky exhales slipping from her mouth when he deepened it.

Lena laughed, barely a whisper against his skin.

"I knew I was right."

Oscar clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around her waist on instinct.

"Don’t ruin it," he growled.

But she did anyway.

"I always knew you’d break one day," she whispered, with a shameless confidence that should have infuriated him.

But there was no anger left in him.

Only this.

This vertigo, this need.

This something that had been pushing him for years—something that, now he understood, had never been hatred.

Lena pulled back just a fraction, her gaze locked on his. The last traces of defiance were still in her expression, but something else had seeped through the cracks.

"And now what, Piastri?" she asked, her voice lower than usual.

Oscar ran his tongue over his lips, still trapped in the spiral of what had just happened.

He looked into her eyes, at her swollen lips, at the shadow of a smile threatening to return.

And then he knew.

"I have no fucking idea."

Lena laughed, and Oscar kissed her again.

The door creaked open.

Oscar and Lena pulled apart at the last second, his pulse still hammering in his ears. Lena recovered faster—she lifted her chin, ran her fingers along the collar of her race suit, and slipped into her usual mask of arrogant indifference, as if they hadn’t just been pressed against the wall, devouring each other with the urgency of people who had waited too long.

The FIA steward entered, oblivious, an iPad in hand and the frown of someone who had spent too much time analyzing replays.

"Alright, both of you need to give your statements on the on-track incident. Bauer, you first. Piastri, wait here."

Lena cast a quick glance at Oscar before moving.

A fleeting look, barely a couple of seconds. But enough.

He held her gaze, trying to read what wasn’t being said.

No regret. No hesitation. Just something sharp, expectant.

When Lena turned and walked out of the room, her scent still lingered in the air.

Oscar ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly, as if that could restore control over something he had lost a long time ago.

Ten millimeters.

They had crossed them.

And there was no turning back.

Oscar was still pulling off his gloves when Andrea intercepted him in the hallway.

"Doctor. Now."

"I'm fine."

"Doctor. Now."

Stella’s look left no room for argument, so Oscar let out a frustrated sigh and nodded, peeling off the top half of his race suit as he followed.

But his mind wasn’t on the medical check-up.

She had slipped away.

Lena was already gone when he finished his statement, and no matter how much he searched for her among the crowd of mechanics, team principals, and paddock staff, she was nowhere to be found.

And the scene in that room—the heat of her breath, her lips mere millimeters from his, the echo of her voice tearing apart every excuse he had tried to hide behind—kept replaying in his head like a damn broken record.

"Piastri."

Oscar blinked, realizing he was already in the medical room. A doctor stood in front of him, pointing at the examination table.

"Sit down."

"Is Lena here?"

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"Bauer? No, she already came through. She’s fine."

Oscar pressed his tongue against his palate, frustrated.

Where the hell had she gone?

He climbed onto the table without complaint and let them check his blood pressure and reflexes, but he barely paid attention. His mind was still trapped in that room, in the way Lena had looked at him before walking out.

Because now he knew.

She had been right.

And that pissed him off. It pissed him off so much.

But what pissed him off the most was that, despite everything—he wanted to see her again.

The flight back to Monaco was a blur.

He didn’t remember packing, leaving the circuit, or walking through the airport with the team. His body moved on autopilot, repeating mechanical gestures, nodding at the right moments when someone spoke to him. But his mind was elsewhere.

The corner. The impact. The fire in his chest when he saw Lena’s helmet move inside the car, when he saw her climb out unscathed.

The room in the paddock.

Her sharp voice. The way she had stepped closer. The way she had disarmed him effortlessly, ripping a truth from him that even he hadn’t realized.

By the time he landed in Nice, his jaw was so tense it ached.

He got into the waiting car without bothering to say anything. The radio played in the background, a mix of music and news, but he didn’t listen. His own silence was louder.

He got out at his building and took the elevator up with the same inertia that had carried him through the last few hours. When the doors opened, he walked to his apartment, disabled the alarm, and stepped into the dimly lit space.

The room was silent except for the faint murmur of the sea in the distance.

Oscar dropped his suitcase by the door and stood still in the middle of the living room.

The weight of everything crashed into him all at once.

He exhaled, running a hand down his face.

He knew sleep would be impossible.

He didn’t even think. He just pulled out his phone, opened their chat, and sent his location.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

Seen.

Nothing else.

No message. No reaction.

Just the damn double blue check marks, glowing on the screen like a reminder of how much of an idiot he was.

Oscar clenched his jaw and tossed the phone onto the table. He sank onto the couch, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling.

It had been a bad idea.

No, it had been a fucking terrible idea.

What the hell was he thinking?

He shut his eyes. The crash. The fight. The kiss.

Everything they had held back for years had exploded in that room. But now, after the frenzy of the race, after the adrenaline and the rage, all that was left was the emptiness.

The hum in his chest wouldn’t quiet.

And then the doorbell ringed.

Oscar opened his eyes.

He froze.

Didn’t move at first, as if his brain needed a few extra seconds to process it.

Doorbell. Again.

This time, he got up. Walked to the door, feeling his own pulse in his fingertips.

He opened it.

Lena.

Standing in the doorway, that same unreadable glint in her eyes.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

She stepped inside, and he shut the door behind her.

And then, everything unraveled.

The moment the door clicked shut, the silence between them became unbearable.

Lena didn’t wait. Didn’t hesitate. She reached for him first, hands gripping the front of his shirt, dragging him down into a kiss that was anything but soft. It was raw, demanding—filled with every word they hadn’t said, every feeling they had swallowed for years. Oscar barely had time to react before instinct took over. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him, as if the space between them was something offensive, something that needed to be erased.

She tasted like adrenaline and defiance, like the echoes of their fight still lingered between their teeth. He could feel her pulse hammering against his fingertips, mirroring his own. Every inch of his body was wound tight, coiled with tension that had nothing to do with the race and everything to do with her.

Lena backed him into the living room, their steps clumsy, uncoordinated in a way that betrayed just how frayed their control was. They hit the edge of the couch, and Oscar barely managed to turn them, pressing her back against the armrest as his weight settled over her. She didn’t protest. If anything, she arched into him, fingers threading through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp.

A shiver ran down his spine at the sensation, sharp and electric. It made him want more.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his breathing ragged. Her lips were swollen, parted, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. There was something wild in her eyes, something reckless and unguarded, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Lena smirked, tilting her head just slightly. “Are you going to overthink this, Piastri?”

Oscar exhaled sharply, something close to a laugh escaping him. “Shut up.”

She did. But only because his mouth was on hers again, deeper this time, his hands roaming over the familiar lines of her body with a newfound urgency. The couch wasn’t enough. The room wasn’t enough. He needed more. Needed all of her.

Without breaking contact, he lifted her, ignoring the way she gasped in surprise before her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He carried her through the dimly lit apartment, only stopping when her back hit the bedroom door. The impact made it rattle, but neither of them cared.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard. “Tell me to stop.”

Lena’s fingers traced the edge of his jaw, her touch softer now, more deliberate. Her voice was quieter when she answered. “I won’t.”

That was all he needed.

The door gave way behind them, and they stumbled inside.

And then, everything really unraveled.

Clothes hit the floor in a messy, frantic rhythm. Hands moved with the kind of desperation that only years of restraint could create. Oscar traced the curve of her spine with his fingertips, committing every detail to memory. Lena’s breath hitched when his lips found the sensitive skin of her collarbone, her fingers tightening around his shoulders.

The night stretched on, filled with whispered names and stolen breaths. Every touch, every movement was a conversation in itself, a language they had long denied speaking. And when they finally collapsed together, bodies tangled in the sheets, neither of them spoke for a long time.

Because for once, there was nothing left to say.

The room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic sound of their breathing and the distant murmur of the sea drifting through the open window. A soft breeze ghosted over their damp skin, cooling the lingering heat between them.

Oscar lay on his side, his fingers tracing idle patterns along Lena’s bare waist. He watched as goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch, fascinated by the way her body reacted to him even now. She didn’t move, only observed him in silence, her dark eyes half-lidded, unreadable in the dim light.

He followed the curve of her ribs, the dip of her stomach, moving slowly, deliberately. There was something intoxicating about it—about this rare, quiet moment where neither of them had to fight or prove anything. Here, in the sanctuary of tangled sheets and shared breaths, they were just themselves.

Lena exhaled softly, shifting slightly under his touch. ““How long?” she finally asked, her voice quiet but firm.

Oscar knew exactly what she was asking. He exhaled slowly, his fingers stilling against her skin.

“Always.”

Lena’s lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Oscar turned on his side to face her fully, his eyes scanning hers for any sign of hesitation.

“Since the first race. Since before I even knew what this was,” he admitted, voice rough. “I thought it was competition. I thought it was rivalry. I told myself that wanting to beat you was all there was. But it was more than that. It was always more.”

She held his gaze, unreadable for a moment, then let out a quiet breath. “I hated you for so long,” she murmured. “Or at least, I wanted to.”

His lips twitched slightly, but there was no humor in it. “You think I don’t know that?”

She huffed a short laugh, shaking her head. “I told myself it was just about winning. About proving I was better. But then, when you weren’t there, when you moved up first, it felt… wrong. Like something was missing.”

Oscar’s fingers curled around her wrist, thumb brushing against her pulse. “I felt it too.”

Lena swallowed, then shifted closer, their foreheads nearly touching. “I don’t know what to do with this,” she admitted. “I’ve spent so long pushing it down, convincing myself it didn’t matter.”

Oscar’s grip tightened slightly. “Then don’t push it down anymore.”

A beat of silence.

“And if it ruins everything?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar inhaled sharply, then pressed his forehead to hers. “Then at least it was real.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if letting the words settle. When she opened them again, something in her expression had shifted. Resolved. Certain.

“No more running,” she said.

His fingers tangled with hers beneath the sheets. “No more running.”

And this time, when she kissed him, it was slow. Certain. Like something inevitable finally falling into place.

A few moments passed before Lena broke the silence again, a smirk playing at her lips. “I have to say, for all that tension, you weren’t half bad.”

Oscar scoffed, his fingers tightening slightly on her waist. “Not half bad? That’s all I get?”

She let out a soft laugh, tilting her head. “I don’t know… I might need another round of evidence before I make my final judgment.”

Oscar groaned, burying his face in her neck, his laugh muffled against her skin. “You’re impossible.”

“You like that about me,” she teased.

He lifted his head, meeting her gaze with something softer now, amusement and something deeper mixing together. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”

She sighed, stretching out beneath him. “God, I can’t believe it took us this long.”

Oscar leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to her shoulder. “Guess we were too busy trying to destroy each other.”

“Healthy,” she deadpanned.

He chuckled. “Extremely.”

Another pause, comfortable now, before Lena turned her head to look at him again. “So… what now?”

Oscar traced a lazy circle on her hip. “I guess we figure it out.”

She snorted. “That sounds dangerously close to a plan.”

“I can be responsible sometimes.”

Lena raised an eyebrow. “You literally just sent me your location instead of saying actual words.”

Oscar sighed dramatically. “Fine. Not my best moment.”

She grinned. “But it worked.”

He smirked. “Yeah. It did.”

And as the night stretched on, tangled together in the quiet of the room, the weight of ten years finally felt lighter.

@smoooothoperator @freyathehuntress @gold66loveblog

[imagine-it-was-us]

where we land || Lando Norris

Inspiration: Ed Sheeran where we land

Author's note: These are getting out of hand. Started as the creative outlet and ended as sleepless nights where you can't go to bed until you let our mind bleed out on the keyboard. Ed Sheeran and his music will always have a special place in my heart. And this particular song makes me miss the relationship I never had. So enjoy, I am really proud of this one. Hopefully you will find it bearable.

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Warnings: none, just angst.

Summary: do I love you? do I hate you? || I can't make up my mind || so let's free fall (and part ways for the year I guess??) and see where we land.

Word count: 6.8k+

“Lando, this isn’t working”, she sighed. It was obvious that this short sentence took every last bit of energy she had. After this, there was nothing left – no emotions, no desire to fight, just nothing. A blank expression followed.

He looked up from his computer, unphased. 

“What’s not working?” 

“Us.” 

The mood slightly shifted, yet nothing too shocking. It felt like this conversation was overdone way too many times. They have been here before. That's why he didn’t even take a second to think about what sparked this conversation. It felt like it was a casual chat between an old married couple. 

“Yeah,” Lando muttered, exhaling sharply. “Let’s take a break. We’ll make up anyway.”

That was it. No argument, no hesitation. Like it was routine. Like she had just told him she was stepping out for a moment, and he expected her to come back.

When you think about it, it was devastating. The level of indifference was what hurt the most.

They had known each other their whole lives – friends by proximity before choice. Their families lived in the same neighborhood, close enough that their bond felt inevitable. Even as kids, they were opposites. He was the reckless daredevil, climbing trees and riding his bike at full speed down the steepest roads, while she was the quiet dreamer, lying on the grass for hours, lost in her thoughts. But somehow, they worked. They always had.

As they grew up, their lives took different directions, but they never drifted too far. When Lando got into karting, and later, into the high-stakes world of racing, she wasn’t his biggest supporter in the traditional sense. She didn’t attend every event or cheer the loudest. But she cared. She always asked how he was feeling, if he was okay. She avoided getting too involved, not because she didn’t believe in him or was not interested, but because she couldn’t shake the fear of what could happen. The crashes, the risks, the reality of what came with high-speed racing. Maybe that fear had even shaped her, pushed her toward a career where she could save the ones who weren’t as lucky. And yet, no matter how different their paths became, they had always made time for each other.

Then came that one Christmas. The night everything changed. He was on the brink of signing with McLaren, and she had just over a year of school left, set on studying medicine, becoming a paramedic. They spent the whole evening talking – about dreams, about the future, about everything. And the one constant in all their scenarios? Each other. They didn’t officially get together until months later, when the butterflies finally settled in. What started as something gentle and fragile grew into something more. Something that should have been unbreakable.

But it wasn’t.

Between her relentless studying and his deep dive into the world of Formula 1, the distance between them grew. The small sacrifices they used to make for each other became harder. At first, they convinced themselves it was just a rough patch. They had fallen in love as teenagers, blindly, without knowing what love truly required. Clashes were inevitable, but they always told themselves it was just temporary. That love would always outweigh the tension.

Until it didn’t.

The fights became more than just stress-fueled bickering. Trust started to crack. The rumors, the online hate she received for simply existing in his world, the missed races, the missed plans, the days of unanswered calls. The moments of doubt that neither of them wanted to admit were growing stronger.

They had tried. God, they had tried.

The guilt would always swing between them like a pendulum – one of them messing up, the other one forgiving too easily, hoping that this time would be different. And when it wasn’t, they’d take a step back, hoping the distance would fix what being together couldn’t. Then, like clockwork, one of them would cave. One apology, one touch, one whispered „I miss you“ would pull them back in.

The boat had been rocking for years. But at least before, there had still been waves. Now, sitting in their Monaco home, she wasn’t sure if they had finally reached the calm, or if they had simply drifted so far apart that the water didn’t even touch them anymore.

And that was worse than all the fights combined.

“That’s it?”

He lifted a shoulder in an infuriating half-shrug. “What do you want me to say? We take a break, we come back. It’s what we do.”

“That’s exactly the problem, Lando. I don’t want to pause on this empty shell we still call the relationship. I just don’t think I can.” 

Deep down, words coming out of her hurt her. Yet she was just so tired of this game, then at the end there was no happy ending.

Lando exhaled, closing his laptop and putting it away, jaw clenched. Maybe he thought she was being dramatic. Maybe he was just waiting for the inevitable moment when she’d take it back.

But she wouldn’t, not this time. She just stood up from her end of the couch and exhaled. 

“It will take me a couple of days to gather everything I own from this apartment. I will do it once you leave for Las Vegas, so I won’t disturb your calm before the GP. I will just grab my essentials for now,” she said like she was reciting a groceries list. 

Lando didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, eyes fixed on the coffee table like it held all the answers he couldn’t find in her face. Maybe he was searching for something to say – some magic combination of words that would break the cycle, that would make this easier. But there was nothing left to say.

Finally, he nodded. “Okay.”

She felt her stomach twist. Part of her had wanted him to fight – really fight – for this, for them. But wasn’t that the whole point? They were tired. Exhausted. Running on empty, pretending they had more to give when they didn’t.

She swallowed, shifting on her feet. “I think we should do it properly this time.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, guarded. “What do you mean?”

“No breaks. No texts, no calls, no checking in. Not even a happy birthday or Merry Christmas.” The words came out steady, even though her heart was hammering against her ribs. “We give it at least a year. If we’re happier – truly happier – then we’ll know. We’ll let it go for good.”

Lando stood up, facing her. “And if we’re not?”

She exhaled, forcing a small, tired smile. “Then we’ll see where we land.”

He let out a breath, running a hand down his face. For a moment, he just studied her, like he was trying to commit every detail to memory. Like maybe, deep down, some part of him was realizing that this was the last time he’d get to see her like this. Here. His.

Finally, he gave a slow nod. “Alright,” he murmured. “One year.”

One year to figure out if this was really love, or just a bad habit neither of them knew how to break. One year to see if they could be whole without each other. Or if, after everything, they still made sense together.

She was about to turn toward the bedroom, ready to start packing, but he moved first. His arms wound around her, and she didn’t hesitate before wrapping hers around him just as tightly.

And that was what made it hurt the most. Because after six years give or take, after all the fights and make-ups and everything in between, this was still the safest place each of them had ever known. His heartbeat against her ear. Her scent wrapping around him like home. The way neither of them wanted to be the first to let go.

But they had to. So, after one long, lingering moment, she forced herself to step back.

Lando’s arms fell away slowly, reluctantly, like he was holding onto the very last seconds of whatever this was.

And just like that, they let go. Not with a bang, not with a fight. Just a quiet understanding that, for the first time in years, it was time to stop holding on.

______

Remember the “No Merry Christmas” part? Well, that was their first slip up. 

At first, no one questioned it. 

When they said their goodbyes, when she packed up the last of her things, when they let go without a fight – no one questioned it. Not their friends. Not their families. Not the people who had known them as a unit for years.

Because this was just how they were. Messy. Cyclical. A little dramatic but never final. Everyone assumed that, in a few weeks, they’d find their way back – like they always did.

Yet red flags were being waved when she showed up on your parents doorstep and asked them to let you crash at theirs for the time being. 

And when the world around you was lighting up, getting ready for the most wonderful time of the year, she was really feeling dead inside. That was when the questions started.

As she had to find a new job outside Monaco, she landed in the local hospital, in her parents' area. Her new coworkers, who knew her family, would try the small talk, asking how he was doing as the season went to the end. Sometimes even her patients would recognize her and ask her about F1 and her used-to-be boyfriend. A friend, who you haven’t talked to for weeks, would bring an article and ask for you to comment on it. It was even from her own aunt – the one she only ever saw at Christmas– who asked, completely oblivious, “What size are Lando’s feet again? I want to knit him those socks I promised last year.”

And just like that, he was everywhere. Like an echo of a life she wasn’t living anymore. Like a mistake she wasn’t sure she had actually made.

Because wasn’t that what everyone kept implying? That they had been stupid for doing this? That this break – this “proper” break, this one-year promise – was just a long, drawn-out way of making them both miserable?

And if so—was Lando feeling it, too?

Was he being ambushed with casual mentions of her in conversations that had nothing to do with her? Did he hear her name in places he wasn’t expecting it? Did it catch him off guard, did it sting, did it make him wonder if they had just ruined something they were always meant to fix?

She stopped herself from wondering. After all, she could dwell in these thoughts forever and never move forward. She knew she had to. This break was not only about figuring them out. It was also about figuring who you are outside the relationship you grew up in. 

So for now, she did the thing she knew the best – threw herself into work. That’s why when Christmas Eve rolled around, she had her life line to escape hushed voices and petty looks, asking about her life. Also, Norris' family would always eventually roll around for a quick cup of tea – it was a tradition started by their parents even before the both of them were around so she for sure believed that them being on break would not stop their parents from interacting. Never did on any other break. 

She did what she always did when the walls started closing in. She grabbed her coat, threw a scarf over her scrubs, and braced herself for the short, freezing walk to her car. A twelve-hour shift awaited her, filled with last-minute holiday accidents and bad luck, and she was oddly grateful for it. A perfect excuse to be anywhere but here.

She said her goodbyes, wished everyone a Merry Christmas, and stepped outside.

And nearly crashed straight into Adam Norris. Her hand shot out to steady herself, boots skidding slightly against the icy porch. “Oh – I’m so sorry,” she blurted, barely catching her breath before –

Her stomach dropped.

Because it wasn’t just Adam. It was all of them.

His entire family stood there, wrapped in warm coats and holiday cheer. And Lando – of course, Lando – was in the middle of it all, hands stuffed into his pockets, gaze locked onto her like he hadn’t been expecting this either.

She barely let her eyes flick to his before looking away, heart hammering.

“You’re always in such a rush, aren’t you?” Cisca asked, her voice as warm as ever.

“Yes, I’m working tonight, unfortunately,” she added, making them hear what she wanted rather than expressing her feelings. 

“Oh, your mother told me about the shifts you’re taking and they still make you work during the day like this? That’s so sad,” she said, empathetically. His mother was always the angel and they had a great connection before this break. 

She gave a light shrug, desperate to keep the conversation surface-level. “What can I say? Gotta work if I ever want to give my parents a break.”

It was the lie she’d been telling everyone. That she was saving for a down payment. That the extra shifts were a means to an end. A practical excuse for why she spent more time at the hospital than at home, drowning herself in work instead of drowning in the what-ifs of a relationship that no longer existed.

But it didn’t matter. Not when she could feel Lando’s eyes on her. Not when it took every ounce of strength to keep her own from slipping back to his.

“Well,” Cisca sighed, stepping aside to give her space to pass. “Stay safe, darling.”

She hesitated. A half-second, barely noticeable. And then, before she could stop herself, the words slipped out.

“Merry Christmas, fam.”

The moment she said it, she regretted it. The slip. The weakness. The betrayal of her own rules.

And then there was Lando.

For the first time since she stepped outside, she met his gaze. A brief, fleeting glance. A quiet acknowledgment of everything that still lingered between them.

She barely made a sound when she whispered, “Merry Christmas, Lando.”

Then, before she could give herself time to second-guess it, she turned on her heel and walked away, pulling her coat tighter around herself.

She didn’t wait for an answer. She couldn’t. Because she knew if she did – if she heard his voice, his words – her carefully built defenses would crumble.

But as she made it to her car, something soft, something broken, floated through the cold December air.

“Merry Christmas, love.”

And somehow this moment stung Lando more than anything else ever had.

______

Spring was warming up the air, shaking winter from the trees and stretching daylight just a little longer each evening. She had always hated this time of year – hated the way it pressed against her chest, thick with stress and expectations. First, it was the exams, the all-nighters, the anxious flipping of textbooks. Then, later, it became Lando’s schedule. The season kicking off, his world spinning faster while she tried to hold onto the edges.

This year, though, spring was something different. Unusually dull. Unnaturally calm. But it was for her to figure out if it was the kind of calm that comes before or after the storm.

By all accounts, she was doing well. She was thriving at work, getting used to the rhythm of long shifts and fast decisions. She had found herself a new apartment – small, but cozy, a space that was hers and hers alone. She even picked up jogging and pilates, things she used to roll her eyes at but now clung to as some kind of personal victory.

Some days were perfect. She would wake up, stretch in the morning light, sip her coffee in silence, and almost – almost – forget why her life looked the way it did now.

Emphasis on ‘almost.’

Because when you spend six years wrapped around someone else’s life, untangling yourself doesn’t happen overnight. Their friend groups overlapped too much, their histories bled into too many places, and avoiding him completely was impossible.

They had been careful, though. Calculated. She planned around GP weekends, making sure to show up to gatherings when he was halfway across the world, and skipping the ones when she knew he’d be visiting the home town. It worked. Until, inevitably, it didn’t.

That night, she hadn’t planned to see him. It was supposed to be a quiet evening. Just a handful of friends, drinks, some music humming in the background. Nothing major. Nothing painful. But then, sometime between her second glass of wine and the last lazy notes of an old song drifting through the air, she felt it.

That awareness. The way her skin prickled before she even turned her head. He was there.

Just across the room, laughing at something, his head thrown back, the sound of it familiar enough to sink straight into her bones. He looked... good. Relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen in a long time. And for a second she let herself wonder if she looked that way too. If he saw her and thought, ‘She’s okay. She’s moved on. She doesn’t miss me the way I miss her’.

It was unbearable. The way it made her stomach twist, the way it pulled something raw inside of her. It wasn’t just the sight of him, it wasn't just the proof that he still existed outside of her world – it was the realization that she still felt it. That she still felt everything.

So she left. Quietly. Without goodbyes. Without looking back.

By the time she got home, she was already peeling off her jacket, kicking off her shoes, slipping beneath the covers in the dark. Sleep would fix it. Sleep would dull the sharp edges, smooth over the crack in her chest.

Morning light bled through the thin curtains, painting soft streaks across the room. She stretched, rubbing at her puffy eyes, the lingering ache of last night still pressing heavy against her ribs.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he got to be fine. That he got to laugh and exist so easily in a world without her while she sat here, caught in the ghost of something that refused to fade.

Yet there was a surprise waiting for her when she picked up the phone.

A missed call at 3:48 am. And a voice note from him on her Instagram DMs followed.

Then, for just a second, something fluttered in her chest. A spark of something she didn’t want to name. Because maybe he had seen her last night. Maybe he had felt it too.

But reality was quick to sink its claws in, dragging her back down. No. This wasn’t that. This was probably drunk Lando. This was ‘bad decisions wrapped in nostalgia and gin’ Lando.

She should ignore it. But her thumb was already moving before her brain could stop her.

Click. Play.

“Heeeeeeeyyyy pretty girl.”

She sucked in a sharp breath.

He was drunk. The kind of drunk where words ran together, loose and careless.

“I’m so sorry for the call, I realized that you are probably working or worse – asleep – and just canceled it. Like I know that you would stab anyone who would dare to wake you up if it’s not important, and since I guess I no longer am, I—”

A hiccup. A pause.

Her stomach twisted. She should stop listening. But she didn’t.

“I just don’t know… Whenever I see you, you seem so fine, so moved on… And then there’s me, stuck between fake and being down. And you know what I do when I feel down? I go to the bar, the club. You name it. I scan a crowd looking for you. I never find you, because duh, why should I? You only went to these places for me.”

Her chest tightened. She had hated clubs with all her heart. The noise, the people, the way she never really fit into that world. She only went because he loved it. Because Lando loved the music, the energy, the thrill of it. And yet… after all this time, he was still looking for her in places she never truly belonged.

“So, I get the random girl and imagine it is you. I imagine you still care, laugh at my pick-up lines, take me home with you. I even moaned your name one time and the lady was pissed off, I got smacked, lol. Could you imagine…”

A sharp exhale left her lips.

God, he was an idiot. Saying things he had no business saying. Telling her things she shouldn’t know. She wanted to be mad. To roll her eyes, to call him out for being reckless, for dragging her back into the mess they were supposed to be untangling.

But she wasn’t mad. She was something else entirely. Because there, tangled between the words and the drunken confessions, was something she wasn’t ready to face. Regret. And worse – feelings that she thought was lost during all this. The kind that made the edges of her world blur for a moment, tilting just enough to make her wonder…

What if?

And then – 

“I should have fought for you, you know? When you asked for this break. I was an idiot for letting you walk out the door so easily. Screw the ‘let’s see where we land’ thing. I already know where I’m landing. Now the ball is in your corner or whatever. So yeah, good chat. See you around.”

Silence.

Her heart was pounding.

She stared at the screen, her mind racing.

This wasn’t just some drunk butt dial. This wasn’t some half-hearted message he would brush off in the morning.

This was a line drawn in the sand. This was him saying, ‘I know what I want. Do you?’

She swallowed, her hands shaking as she locked her phone and pressed it to her chest.

She needed to breathe. She needed to think.

But later that day, when she opened the chat to replay the message and dissect every word it was gone.

Not even a trace of it ever existing.

And just like that, she was left with nothing but the weight of what could have been.

__________

She didn’t want to be here.

That much had been clear from the second she stepped onto Silverstone’s pavement, a familiar hum in the air, the smell of petrol and rubber hitting her in a way that made her stomach twist.

It wasn’t just the track – it was everything it represented. The years spent here, the routines, the nerves. The way she used to pace behind the pit wall, hands shoved into the pockets of a McLaren hoodie that wasn’t even hers, chewing on her bottom lip as she watched Lando push the car to its limits.

It was muscle memory to be here, and yet, it had never felt more foreign.

She had almost backed out, too, with the kind of last-minute excuse that wouldn’t fool her mother but might have been enough to let her go on with her weekend and avoid the inevitable. But the tickets had been a Christmas gift – from the Norris family, as per usual – and her parents had been so excited.

“It’s been too long since we all did something like this together. You used to go with him all the time while we were watching from the sidelines. Now we can switch places, you will be fine” her dad had said. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Fun. Right.

So she had caved. And when it was time to leave for Sunday GP, she still wanted to blend in the crowd. She knew there would be plenty of McLaren fans, so if you can’t beat them – join them. She took out a random t-shirt that was probably used way too many times. It was only after pulling it over her head that she realized which one it was.

His.

One he had left in her drawer ages ago, one she had slept in more nights than she could count.

It smelled like fabric softener instead of him now. That should have been a relief. It wasn’t. For a split second, she had almost taken it off. Almost buried it back in the drawer like it was some kind of cursed relic. But then she exhaled. It’s just a shirt. No one will even notice.

And at first she was perfectly flying over the radar. Her parents visited the paddock, while she stayed behind, blending in the crowds. She had perfected the art of blending in – cheering when appropriate, clapping at the right moments, never once letting her gaze wander too long in the direction of the papaya garage. And it was working wonders. 

But then she ran into Emma. The fellow paramedic, who she had known both from the medical, and sports field, as she was a couple years older and worked with Papaya for a few years. One second, she was keeping her head down, avoiding anything orange, and the next, she was being pulled into McLaren hospitality because “It’s dead quiet before the race, and you have a paddock pass, so why not?”

She should have said no. Instead, she sat with Emma, catching up over bad coffee, pretending she wasn’t hyperaware of exactly where she was. Yet every time footsteps neared, her body tensed, anticipation coiling in her stomach like a reflex she hadn’t quite unlearned. It wasn’t that she couldn’t see him – it had happened before, and they had managed to be civil, distant in a way that felt almost rehearsed. But being here, surrounded by everything that made Lando Lando, made her feel too exposed.

Don’t get it wrong – she would always be a fan. Even if life took them further apart, even if one day they became nothing more than a distant memory, she would still admire him. The raw talent, the skill, the way he could take a car and make it his – that would never change. 

But it had been eight months, and for the first time, she was starting to find a rhythm outside of them. A clarity she hadn’t thought possible. And yet. Eight months, and still, his drunken voice note rattled in her head like an echo trapped between her ribs. Eight months, and the thought of seeing him in his element – seeing him – made her stomach twist in ways she couldn’t quite decipher. Would it set her back? Or would it confirm that she was finally past it?

Five minutes into chatting, laughing like she wasn’t standing in the center of everything she had left behind, Oscar Piastri appeared, cradling his arm like it was more of an annoyance than an injury. It was impossible for her not to know or like Oscar – they would always lightly catch up and laugh whenever she visited a paddock. And she sure as hell knew that he was aware what was the reason behind her being absent recently. 

“Hey, do me a favor,” he said, surprised to see her in the paddock, but not making a big deal out of it. “Tell me I’m being dramatic.”

She raised a brow. “You’re being dramatic.”

Oscar grinned. “That’s what I needed.”

They fell into easy conversation – nothing deep, just lighthearted jabs about how McLaren clearly needed her back on call, and how she had ditched them for something far less entertaining.

And then, as she was mid-sentence, Oscar’s eyes flicked to her shirt.

Her stomach dropped. She glanced down, realizing how obvious it was now, when she dropped her jacket off. The faded Lando Norris on the back. The small details only a real fan – or someone owning a similar t-shirt – would notice, proved this shirt wasn’t just merch, but his.

“That is not just any McLaren shirt.”

Her face went hot. “Oscar –”

“You’re both so full of shit,” he cut in, laughing.

Before she could protest, before she could even think, he was pulling out his phone.

“Oscar,” she warned.

“Relax,” he said, snapping the picture. “I’ll make it tasteful.”

So when later that day, after the GP was done and gone, her phone buzzed, she wasn’t surprised to see that Oscar had tagged her in a story, meant for a close friend's circle. At least he had decency not to post it publicly, sparing her from the speculation of people online.

A casual shot – Oscar grinning, arm still wrapped in tape, her beside him, mid-laugh. The caption?

“I’m here catching up with a friend, being all nice and all, and she’s still in his corner.”

She rolled her eyes and locked her phone, pretending she saw nothing. Lando rarely if ever checked other driver’s stories, so she thought that maybe she was safe. 

What she didn’t know, that Lando was also tagged in it. 

It was late by the time the high of his first home win finally started to wear off. It should have lasted longer. It should have been everything. And for a while, it was. The roar of the British crowd, the Union Jack wrapped around his shoulders, the feeling of standing on the top step at Silverstone – his Silverstone. It was a dream he’d had since he was a kid, a moment that was meant to feel like an ending and a beginning all at once.

But the thing about dreams is that you never picture them alone. And she wasn’t there. Not where she should have been, anyway.

He’d looked for her. Not consciously, not obviously, but when he turned toward the grandstands where his family sat – where she used to sit – his eyes found nothing but an empty space. And it was stupid to expect anything different. They weren’t that anymore. They weren’t anything, really.

But for the first time since she walked out, he let himself admit it. It still felt wrong doing this without her.

Later, exhausted but unwilling to sleep, he opened his phone, torn between drowning in nostalgia or holding onto the adrenaline of the win. He chose the latter. Scrolled through the tags, looking for a story to share. When he saw the notification from Oscar, he barely thought twice. Probably some congratulatory post, maybe something teasing him for taking so long to win here.

But when he clicked it, the world narrowed to a pinpoint.

Because there she was.

Not in the stands. Not in his family's section. But she had been there. And she was wearing his shirt. An old one, something he barely even remembered giving her, but she still had it. Still wore it.

His stomach tightened. She hadn’t wanted to see him. Hadn’t let him see her. But maybe he wasn’t the only one still looking for pieces of the past.

And maybe she wasn’t quite ready to let them go either.

______

There were still three days left until their one-year mark. Not that she was counting. 

362 days had passed. 362 days of learning how to be her own person again. And, honestly? She wasn’t half bad at it. 

She had figured out how to be alone without feeling lonely. She’d chased things she never made time for before, threw herself into work, into new routines, into a version of herself that wasn’t just an extension of him. And she liked who she was becoming – someone stronger, more driven, more sure of herself.

But did she still feel a pit in her stomach every time she thought about the fact that he wasn’t there to see it? Absolutely.

And maybe that was why she had convinced herself she just had to make it to a year. A clean number. One final milestone to tell her that they had really done it – walked away, stayed away and allowed them both to breath.

But then came the invitation. Max, persistently begging her to come. It’s his birthday, he’d want you there. And also, it was hard to lie to herself that three days would make her change her mind. 

Before she knew it, she was standing in the middle of the chaos, clutching a drink she didn’t want, in a room that felt too damn small. The music was loud, the air thick with laughter and voices overlapping in that familiar, comfortable way. She had spent years in rooms like this, at parties just like this, orbiting the same people, the same circles. But tonight, she felt like a stranger.

And then she saw him. Across the room, back turned, laughing at something Max had said. Easy. Effortless. Like nothing had changed.

The last time she saw him, Lando was leaving Silverstone with his name echoing through the crowd. A winner. A hero. And she had watched from the screen of her phone, watching him have everything he ever wanted. 

That realization made her stop in her tracks.

Because here he was, months later, standing in the center of a world that kept spinning without her. With only three GPs left, he was still a contender for the whole damn championship. He had managed to dodge all major drama, kept his head down, thrived. And now, surrounded by friends, by people who cared for him, cherished him, celebrated him – he looked free.

Happy.

And just like that, the thought hit her like a punch to the ribs. Maybe this should be it. Maybe this night should be her closure. Because if this past year had proven anything, it was that he didn’t need her. And as much as it twisted something deep inside her, maybe she was okay with that.

Maybe she could give up the what if in exchange for the freedom she had convinced herself he deserved. Even if her heart didn’t waver. Even if she was still his in ways she wished she wasn’t.

She turned on her heel, ready to leave this place. She knew that he was aware that she was here. So the checkmark ticked for their friends – she was here, she had cheered for him. Now it was time to leave all this behind them. Just as she was about to put the empty glass on the table by the door, she heard a familiar voice:

“Leaving so soon?”

His voice cut through the noise like a blade. She could barely hear it, but somehow, it still sent a shiver down her spine.

She didn’t turn back, not right away. She let out a breath, eyes shutting for half a second, before finally facing him.

“I was just –” She cleared her throat, finding it suddenly dry. “I was just stepping out.”

Something flickered in his eyes. He didn’t call her bullshit. Didn’t need to. Instead, he simply gestured toward the door.

“Me too.”

As they stepped outside, the air outside was crisp, a quiet relief from the overwhelming heat of the party. She crossed her arms over her chest, less for warmth, more for something to do. Lando stuffed his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he exhaled, long and slow.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

And then–

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

She let out something between a laugh and a scoff. “I wasn’t going to.”

His lips twitched. “Max?”

“Max.”

Silence again. But this one wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t unfamiliar. It was them. The kind of quiet that only came after knowing someone for years. The kind that held more weight than words.

Lando rocked back on his heels. “You didn’t have to come.”

She let out a breath, steadying herself. “I know.”

“Then why did you?”

She shifted on her feet, gaze flickering toward the door, toward the party she could easily slip back into. Away from this. But she didn’t move.

Instead, she sighed, voice softer now. “Because it’s your birthday.”

Lando exhaled through his nose, looking away for a moment. “I thought maybe you were done.”

“I thought so too,” she admitted. “I was trying to be.”

His gaze snapped back to her, something sharp behind his eyes. “Trying?”

Her stomach twisted. This was exactly what she had been afraid of – this conversation, the one she wasn’t sure she was ready to have. The one where she had to admit that all the time, all the space, all the growing hadn’t undone a damn thing.

“I didn’t want us to slip back,” she confessed. “Back into something that wasn’t healthy. Back into us, but wrong.”

Lando nodded, slow. “And do you think we would?”

She looked at him. At the way he was standing now, steadier, stronger, more him. At the way his face, older in ways that had nothing to do with time, still softened at the sight of her. At the way she still felt it. That pull. That certainty.

She swallowed hard. “No.”

He stepped forward. Not much. Just enough. And this time, he was the one to break the silence.

“You know what I realized?” His voice was quiet, careful. “That I could have the best day of my life, and it still wouldn’t be quite right.”

She stiffened.

“Because it’s not about someone seeing it,” he continued. “It’s about someone being there. It’s about looking over and knowing –” he broke off, shaking his head, then tried again. “I didn’t need you to see me win at Silverstone. Hell I didn't need you to witness any of this. I just –” his voice dropped even lower – “needed you. And then I saw you in that damn picture with my t-shirt on. It took everything in me not to drive to Bristol, looking for you.”

Her throat tightened. “Lando.”

“I know we did the right thing,” he said, brushing it off. “I know we needed time. I know we needed to fix things.” A pause. Then he looked dead into her eyes. “But tell me. Right now. That if we part ways now that you will be the happiest version of yourself.”

Now, she was standing in front of the person who had been both her greatest love and her hardest lesson. Now, she was staring at him, the weight of their history pressing in from all sides, and she still couldn’t imagine a life where she didn’t look for him in every crowd. Now, she was tired of pretending.

“I don’t regret what we did,” she whispered. Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t pull back. “I think we needed it,” she admitted. “I think we needed the space. The time. I think we needed to figure out who we were without each other.”

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue. “And I did. I figured it out.”

Lando didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. “And?”

She hesitated, because saying it out loud made it real. Made it true. But after all the turmoil she owed him that much.

“I had good days,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Really good days. Days where I laughed so hard my ribs ached. Where I felt strong. Where I was proud of who I was becoming.”

Lando’s jaw tensed. She inhaled sharply. 

“And then there were the other days. The ones where something amazingly good or amazingly bad happened, something I wanted to share, but I’d reach for my phone and realize – ” Her voice cracked. “Realize you weren’t there.”

Lando shut his eyes for a second, like he needed a moment to steady himself. “Yeah.”

Her chest tightened. “And you?”

His lips parted, but for the first time all night, words didn’t come so easily. So he exhaled, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and met her gaze with the kind of raw honesty that left no room for doubt.

“I had the best day of my life, and it still felt wrong because you weren’t there to see it.”

She blinked, chest tightening, but he wasn’t done.

“I had the worst day of my life too. And every instinct told me to go to you. And I couldn’t.”

Her throat burned.

“I used to think what we had was everything,” he murmured. “And then we broke apart, and I thought – maybe I was wrong. Maybe we were just young and caught up in something that was never meant to last.”

She held her breath.

“But then I lived without you. I learned how to be on my own. I grew. And I still came to the same conclusion.”

His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he was holding himself back.

“You are the only thing in my life that I’ve ever been sure of.”

Tears burned at the back of her eyes, but she forced a watery laugh. “That’s funny,” she whispered. “Because I was just about to say the same thing.”

Lando’s shoulders fell, something breaking apart and putting itself back together all at once. And then he stepped forward. And so did she.

And when he kissed her, it wasn’t about picking up where they left off.

It was about choosing each other again. And they landed exactly where they needed to.

[tuffdwightwest]

Doey x Player

First of all I don't really ship any of the x Poppy Angels ships. Cause frankly I'm asexual and I find I can't personally seperate myself enough from the player character yet. I wanted to make this cause I was seeing a lot of frankly cruel call out posts.

This is not pedophilia. Or disgusting.

The idea that Doey and the other toys don't age is a headcanon. To assume your headcanon is correct and then demonize others. Is put simply wrong. This isn't FNAF they aren't children souls. Their organs are literally taken out and placed into another body. The whole point is that they are 'living' toys.

You are fine to have that headcanon though. But you should not use it to attack others.

For Doey specifically I see people call out his mental breakdown at the end of the game. As evidence that he's 'still a child'. This however is not evidence. It is a mental breakdown from someone who has something almost similar to DID(obviously a more sci-fi version but the closest irl thing I can compare it too). In his breakdown he wasn't even making any sense. Repeating lines we've heard him say over the years. Crying out that he wants to go home.

These are all normal things that can happen in a mental breakdown. Actually learn about trauma triggers and read stuff about it. Doey regressing and just letting Kevin's anger take over is pretty normal for someone who just went through as much trauma as he did.

Besides this point though people say he talks like a child. And I really want to understand where. Throughout the story he seems very rational and reasonable. Even the brief moments that Kevin and what I assume Jack takes over.

Even Doey's last tape before the end of the game. He's scared there but seems like someone just trying to figure out what to do. Nothing about it made me think he's a child.

All this aside, I want to use this just for people to realize. The "they don't age" is a headcanon. They need to eat, sleep, etc. So why do you believe they don't age? This doubling down on this headcanon especially using his breakdown as evidence just seems ableist. Cause I've seen other people not even myself try to explain to others that using that evidence point is ableist.

I doubt this would change those in that echo Chambers mind. But for others that just never really thought about it. I hope this just makes you realize. Yeah either version is just a headcanon. And neither is Canon at the moment. What we do know for sure is that at least 10 years has passed since the hour of Joy. And Doey was made before that. Long enough to witness the guards making toys fight, to be through plenty of interviews, etc.

So by evidence of just time itself. He'd be like at the least 18-25(with the assumption Jack was 8 when he fell into the dough). And this is actually a low estimate cause it assumes that the hour of joy happens soon after he is created.

Stop calling people pedophiles over a headcanon and frankly pretty tame ship. Like ya'll scream about this one then turn around and praise the doctor one. When Doctor is clearly a sadistic childkilling monster. But you give that one a pass. Yet get upset at people when they want to date like the one person in the game that was genuinely kind and a protector.

Stop attacking other people over headcanons. You can debate them but pedophile should not be flung around at all.

Thank you for listening to my rant.

[mediocre-shark-tales]

The Worst Weekend Ever

Doohan Sister Reader F1 Driver Reader Cadillac Formula 1 Reader

Trigger Warning - Death + Grief + Panic Attack

I sat motionless in my room, staring blankly at the screen in front of me.

P18.

The number felt like a punch to the gut every time I looked at it. I blinked hard, but it didn’t change. No last-minute miracle, no sudden jump up the order. Just me, stuck in a position I had no business being in.

This was shaping up to be one of my worst weekends. A sprint weekend, which meant I had only one practice session—one chance to figure out how the car handled on this track. And I had blown it.

I should have done better.

I needed to do better.

I had spent the entire offseason working harder than I ever had before, refining my skills, studying every weakness in my driving. I wasn’t supposed to be fighting just to stay out of last place.

A tightness grew in my chest, heavier than the bruises and cracked ribs from last weekend's crash. I swallowed hard, but the feeling didn’t go away. I could hear the voices creeping in, whispering doubts that I had spent years learning to drown out.

Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are.Maybe they were right—maybe you never should have been here in the first place.

I shook my head, trying to push them down, but it was like trying to fight a riptide.

I exhaled sharply, my hands clenched into fists against my legs. I needed to focus on what I could control. I needed to do something. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was suffocating in my own helplessness.

What if this was it? What if I had hit my limit?

No. I couldn’t think like that. I couldn’t afford to think like that.

I forced myself to stand, ignoring the way my body screamed in protest. It didn’t matter how much I hurt. It didn’t matter how much my mind was turning against me.

I had to fix this. Somehow.

Sprint Qualifying was next. This was where I turned things around.

I would push myself and the car to the absolute limit. That was how I fixed this. That was the only way I could fix this.

The countdown to the session ticked away on the garage screen. Ten minutes. My hands tightened into fists as I rolled my shoulders, wincing at the dull ache still lingering in my ribs. I didn’t have time to dwell on pain, frustration, or doubt. My job was simple—get in the car and drive.

As I suited up, my mind drifted to my uncle. He was coming tomorrow to watch qualifying for the Grand Prix. He had always been one of my biggest supporters, never questioning whether I belonged here. He believed in me even on the days when I struggled to believe in myself.

I wanted to make him proud. I wanted to dedicate a good finish to him.

But for that to happen, I needed to get my head straight.

This weekend wasn’t going as planned, but I had to be smart about it. If I wasn’t fighting for points in the sprint, then I needed to use it for something else. If I could pinpoint exactly where I was losing time—where my weaknesses were—then I could make sure tomorrow’s real qualifying session would be different.

This was a long game. I wasn’t out of it yet.

The sun hung low over the circuit as I strapped into the car, my visor reflecting the floodlights beginning to glow around the track. The team went through final checks, and then I was given the all-clear to leave the garage.

The moment I rolled onto the track, everything else faded. The noise, the tension, even the pressure clawing at the edges of my mind—it all disappeared. All that mattered was the car beneath me and the road ahead.

I took my warm-up lap steady, weaving slightly to get heat into the tires before opening it up. My first push lap wasn’t aggressive—I needed clean data, a starting point to build from.

The car felt better than it had this morning, but it still wasn’t perfect. The front end wasn’t biting into the corners the way I wanted, and I felt like I was scrubbing off too much speed mid-corner.

I noted it. Adjusted. Went again.

By the time the final runs of SQ1 began, I was sitting right on the edge of safety. I needed to improve. I could improve.

I took a deep breath and started my final lap.

The first sector was smooth—I hit every apex and carried more speed into Turn 4 than I had all session. The middle sector was where I needed to be precise, and I adjusted my braking points just enough to feel the difference. The car wanted to fight me, but I forced it to stay clean, to stay fast.

As I crossed the line, my engineer’s voice crackled over the radio.

"That’s enough, you’re through. Good work."

I exhaled. One step forward.

SQ2 was a different beast. The track was ramping up, getting faster with every lap. I pushed, but so did everyone else.

My first run placed me 14th. The car still wasn’t responding the way I wanted, but I was finding ways to work with it rather than against it. I adjusted again for my second attempt, braking just a fraction later into Turn 1, trusting the grip to hold through the high-speed corners.

It worked—13th place flashed on my dashboard as I crossed the line.

That was it.

Not spectacular. Not terrible. But workable.

I unbuckled and climbed out of the car, pulling my gloves off as I walked back toward the garage.

The result didn’t spark any overwhelming emotions—it was just another piece of the puzzle.

Tomorrow, when my uncle arrives, I will be ready.

Tomorrow, I will be better.

The sun was high in the sky as I walked through the paddock the next morning, the air a little warmer than yesterday. The weight on my shoulders had lightened slightly overnight, my mood lifted by the thought that today I had a real chance to improve. Yesterday had been a challenge, but it was behind me now. Today, I had the opportunity to prove myself all over again.

As I made my way toward the garage, I couldn't help but feel a spark of hope. My uncle would be here soon, and I wanted to show him that all of his years of support hadn’t been in vain. I would show him that I belonged here—no more doubts, no more holding back.

But just as I reached the entrance of the garage, I was stopped by the familiar sight of a few camera flashes and the hum of reporters waiting for their moment. The media team had warned me there would be interviews, but I wasn’t expecting the barrage I faced as I stepped out of the car and into the paddock.

I steeled myself. Time to put on the mask of my persona.

The first reporter approached, microphone in hand. His expression was professional, but his question, sharp and pointed.

"Ghost, you’ve had a tough weekend so far. You’re not inside the points like you usually are. What do you think went wrong?"

I exhaled slowly, the words coming from him more of a jab than a question. It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked this, and I doubted it would be the last.

I forced an optimistic vocal tone, trying to keep my composure. "It’s a long season, and not every race is going to go exactly as planned. We’re working hard to find what we need to improve on. Every lap is a learning experience, and we’ll take that into account for tomorrow’s race."

The reporter raised an eyebrow. "But you’re usually so consistent, always inside the top 10. You’ve been a regular contender for the points since the start of the season. Do you think this is a sign that your team, or perhaps your driving, isn’t as strong as it was at the beginning?"

His words were veiled, but the insinuation was clear. I could feel my jaw tightening, but I maintained my calm. I had to.

"Every team has their ups and downs," I said, keeping my tone level. "We’re always pushing to improve, and sometimes it takes a few races to find the right balance. As for my driving—I’m always looking for ways to do better. That’s the nature of the sport."

I stepped away quickly, the smile fading as the next reporter moved in, the tension in the air thickening with every question.

This time, the reporter was from one of the major networks. She wasted no time, cutting straight to the heart of the issue.

"Ghost, after your results so far, do you think your seat is in jeopardy? There’s been a lot of talk about new, younger drivers getting their chance inside the teams. Can you still hold your own in this competitive field?"

I could feel the fire burning in my chest, but I swallowed it back.

“My focus is on the race. That’s all that matters to me. I’m not concerned about speculation or rumors. We’re here to race, and I’m doing everything I can to contribute to the team’s success. As for the competition, it’s fierce, and that’s exactly what makes this sport exciting. It pushes all of us to be better."

The reporter pressed on, clearly not satisfied with the answer. "But with your performance dipping, could that affect your standing in the team? If you aren’t consistently bringing in results, could a change be coming sooner than expected?"

I wasn’t sure if it was the question itself or the underlying insinuation, but I could feel the walls in my mind start to close in. The words hit harder than they should have, and I found myself mentally retreating just a little.

“I’m focusing on getting through the weekend and learning from each session. Nothing more, nothing less,” I replied curtly, forcing my body language to stay professional.

She nodded, but her tone wasn’t finished. "So, it’s just about surviving the season now, then?" she asked, almost tauntingly.

I could feel the heat of frustration rising, the edge in her voice grating against the calm I’d worked so hard to maintain. But I kept it together, offering one final tight nod before I turned away.

A few minutes passed, and I found myself standing in front of another reporter. This time, it was someone I knew better, someone who often asked tough questions, but without the hidden agenda. Still, even his words had a certain sharpness to them today.

"Ghost, given the struggles you’ve faced this weekend, and the pressure that comes with not being in the points, do you feel like you’re underperforming? Do you have anything else to prove?"

I took a deep breath, my patience fraying but still intact.

"Look," I said, leaning forward just slightly. "There’s always something to prove in this sport. But I know my worth, and I know what I’m capable of. We’ve all been in moments of doubt. What matters is how you handle it when everything feels like it’s slipping through your fingers. This season is long, and I’m not giving up. We have one goal: to keep improving, one race at a time."

The reporter nodded, sensing the shift in my tone, and finally let me go.

I walked away from the media area, my thoughts spinning. I had done my best to keep it together, to shield myself from the prying eyes and the harsh questions. But as I left the paddock and made my way to the garage, the weight of it all began to settle in. These questions, these insinuations—they weren’t just about the race anymore. They were about something deeper. They were about me.

The doubt that had been planted by those questions was harder to shake than I would’ve liked. But I wasn’t going to let it break me. Not yet.

I couldn’t afford to let it.

Tomorrow was another day, and I still had everything to fight for.

—

The sprint race was over. P13. Right where I started the race.

It felt like a punch to the gut. I had fought for every inch of the track, every position, every opportunity to gain just one more place, but it hadn’t been enough. I was stagnant. Stuck. I kept telling myself that qualifying would be better. Tomorrow, I will be better in the real race.

I sat in my driver’s room, still in my fireproofs, my arms resting on my knees as I stared at the floor, trying to calm my mind. I wasn’t happy, but I was trying—trying—to hold onto the sliver of hope that qualifying would give me another chance.

Then my phone rang.

I glanced at the screen, my stomach twisting when I saw my mother’s name. She never called. Ever.

I hesitated before answering. “Hello?”

She didn’t waste time on pleasantries. Didn’t even give me a moment to brace myself. Her voice was cold, detached, yet somehow heavier than I’d ever heard it.

"Your uncle was in an accident on the way to the Grand Prix. He passed away a few minutes ago."

The words hit me like a sledgehammer.

My breath caught in my throat. My chest tightened, my heart stopped, my whole world tilted—no, no, no.

I gripped the phone tighter, knuckles going white. "What?" My voice cracked. My brain refused to process the words.

"It was sudden," she continued, as if that made it any easier. "He was on his way to watch Jack race. The doctors said there was nothing they could do."

I couldn’t breathe. Jack. She thinks he was going to see Jack.

Because she didn’t know. She didn’t know the truth.

She didn’t know that I was the one he was coming to watch. That I was the reason he had been on that road. That I was the reason—

I pressed a hand to my chest, struggling to suck in air.

"You needed to be told. Your father and I expect you to be home for the funeral. Don’t make this difficult."

And then the line went dead.

I didn’t move. I didn’t blink.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just empty silence ringing in my ears, an eerie void swallowing me whole. Then, all at once, it hit me.

A choked breath. A sharp inhale. Then the first sob tore through my throat.

I dropped my phone, barely hearing it clatter to the floor as I hunched forward, my hands pressing into my face as the floodgates burst.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be here. He was supposed to see me race. He was supposed to see me prove that all of his belief in me wasn’t misplaced.

I gasped for air, but it came in shuddering, broken pieces, as if my lungs had forgotten how to function. My hands trembled violently as I clawed at my chest, as if I could physically rip out the pain sitting there, crushing me from the inside.

He was gone. Just like that.

The only person who had always believed in me. The only one in my family who had ever truly supported me. Who had told me I could do this. Who had fought for me when no one else would.

Gone.

I pressed my forehead against my knees, curling in on myself, as if I could somehow disappear into the darkness that was swallowing me whole.

I was utterly, devastatingly alone.

Nico burst into the room, breathless, his usual calm demeanor shattered by the sound of my broken sobs. His eyes scanned the room in a split second, landing on me curled up on the couch, shaking violently. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t press for answers. He just moved.

He crouched in front of me, his hands hovering slightly, unsure of where or if he should touch me. “Hey, hey—breathe. Just breathe, y/n. Look at me.” His voice was softer than I’d ever heard it, a sharp contrast to my ragged, gasping breaths.

But I couldn’t breathe. My chest was too tight, my lungs refusing to expand properly. Every inhale felt like knives scraping against my ribs, and my head spun so violently I thought I might pass out.

Nico sat beside me, his movements careful, calculated. “Okay. Okay. In for four, hold for four, out for four,” he instructed, demonstrating the rhythm himself. “C’mon, just follow me.”

I tried. I really did. But all I could do was choke on another sob, my vision blurry, my body trembling so hard my fingers tingled from the lack of oxygen.

His hand finally landed on my shoulder, firm and grounding. “I’ve got you, alright? You’re safe. Whatever it is, you’re not alone. Just try—try to slow down.”

A sharp vibration rattled against the coffee table, cutting through the room like a blade. My phone.

Nico glanced at it before his jaw tightened. Jack Doohan.

The name on the screen nearly sent me spiraling all over again.

He knows. He was just told.

I sucked in a sharp, uneven breath as the call went to voicemail.

Two seconds later, it rang again.

Nico’s expression darkened as he grabbed the phone and flipped it over, silencing it. “Not now,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

But he wasn’t the one being suffocated by the weight of that name.

It rang again.

Each time, it was like another twist of the knife in my chest, another reminder of the cruel reality I had just been thrown into.

Nico ignored it again. And again.

The fourth time, it finally stopped.

Silence filled the room again, save for my shaky breaths and Nico’s quiet murmurs as he kept coaching me through it, kept anchoring me down when everything inside me was spiraling.

Minutes passed, but it felt like hours before the storm inside me dulled to a distant roar instead of an all-consuming void. My breaths were still shaky, my body still weak, but at least I wasn’t choking on air anymore.

Only then did Nico speak, his voice gentle but unwavering. “Y/n, what happened?”

I couldn’t answer.

I just stared at the wall, hollow, empty, my entire existence shattered into a million pieces at my feet.

I swallowed thickly, my throat raw, my body still trembling from the aftershocks of my breakdown. The weight of Nico’s question pressed down on me like a boulder, and for a long moment, I couldn’t force the words out.

But he just waited. Patient. Steady. Not pushing, not demanding—just there.

Finally, with a shuddering inhale, I forced the truth past my lips.

“My uncle…” My voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “He was coming here… but there was an accident.”

Nico’s brows furrowed, the warmth in his eyes flickering with something heavier.

I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms. “He—he didn’t make it.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Nico’s face fell, and for a moment, I saw him crack—just a little. Just enough to tell me that this hit him too.

Because he knew.

He knew my uncle wasn’t just some distant relative. He was the person who had believed in me from the very start. The one who had vouched for me when everyone said I was too young, too reckless, too out of place in IndyCar. The one who had been standing right there when Nico first approached me, offering to help shape my career.

He knew.

And now, my biggest supporter is gone.

Nico exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face before shifting closer, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “I’m so damn sorry, y/n.”

I nodded stiffly, not trusting myself to speak.

He hesitated, like he wanted to say more, but instead, he just rested a hand on my shoulder, grounding me. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Just breathe, alright?”

I tried. God, I tried.

But the emptiness inside me was too vast, too suffocating.

Neither of us noticed the figure lingering just outside the doorway, as they were gone before we even had a chance to notice. Nor did we hear the quick footsteps leaving the hallway. 

—

The fireproof balaclava felt suffocating as I pulled it over my head, the fabric clinging to my skin as if it knew—as if it knew—that I was barely holding myself together beneath it. The helmet followed, locking me back into the Ghost persona. A shield. A mask. A way to separate myself from the weight pressing down on my chest like a lead weight.

I could not afford to think about my uncle. I could not afford to let the grief consume me.

I had a job to do.

Just make it through qualifying.

I sucked in a sharp breath, forcing my mind to quiet as I ventured out of my driver's room. My gloved fingers flexed at my sides as I glanced up, my gaze instinctively sweeping across the garage.

And then I froze.

Franco was watching me.

He was still gearing up, pulling his balaclava over his head, but his eyes—those damn eyes—never left me. There was no usual smug amusement, no relaxed indifference.

Just worry.

A deep, unwavering concern that made something tighten painfully in my chest.

This wasn’t like him, he was never obvious with his feelings towards me unless it was unbridled hatred or frustration.

No.

This felt… different.

I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering beneath my skin.

But before I could do anything—before I could try to gauge what had made him look at me ike this—I heard my name being called over the radio.

"Ghost, let’s get you in the car."

I blinked hard, yanking my gaze away.

Right. I didn’t have time for this.

I moved quickly, stepping toward my car as the mechanics guided me into the cockpit, the familiar routine of being strapped in grounding me for a brief moment. The belts tightened, the halo locked into place. The world outside my visor blurred, reduced to nothing but focus points.

Just make it through qualifying.

I exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel.

And don’t drown before the checkered flag.

The engine roared to life beneath me, vibrations rattling through my body as I rolled out of the garage and onto the pit lane. The world beyond my visor was a blur of color and motion, but inside the car, inside Ghost, everything narrowed to a singular focus.

I had to do well today.

I needed to do well today.

The out-lap was automatic, muscle memory guiding me through the motions as I weaved to get heat into the tires. My grip on the wheel was tight, but not out of fear—not yet. It was controlled. It was a necessity. It was the only thing keeping my mind from spiraling back to him, to the phone call, to the way my chest felt like it had been hollowed out and left to collapse in on itself.

The radio crackled in my ear. "All right, Ghost, let’s push. Track is yours."

I swallowed hard and dropped the hammer.

The car jolted as I slammed on the throttle, the engine screaming as I surged forward. The first flying lap was clean, precise—but not perfect.

Too careful on turn three. Overcompensated in the final sector.

I gritted my teeth, barely listening to the times coming through the radio. P8 at the moment, but there were still faster cars out there. Faster laps to come. I had more to give.

Another push lap.

Another shot at control.

I forced myself to feel the car. To let the machine be an extension of myself, something I could command instead of something I was simply inside of. Each movement was deliberate, every fraction of a second shaved off adding to the fire simmering beneath my skin. I needed this. I needed to prove—

To who?

I clenched my jaw.

To myself. To him.

The second lap was better. Cleaner. More aggressive. I took the corners like I was carving my way through battle, attacking the apexes with precision. It wasn’t just about surviving this session anymore. It wasn’t just about making it to the next round.

This was about honoring him.

If he couldn’t be here to see me race, then I would make damn sure he was watching from wherever he was.

"P6, Ghost. Good lap."

A flicker of something warm lit in my chest, but I buried it deep. No time for relief. No time for hope.

Q2 came next.

The pressure mounted with each passing second, the fight for position growing more brutal. I could feel the others pushing harder, shaving off thousandths of a second, squeezing every ounce of performance from their machines. I pushed right back, wringing everything from the car, throwing myself into each lap like it was the last thing I’d ever do.

"You're on the line, Ghost. Need a good final push."

I inhaled sharply.

One last chance.

The tires were hot, the car alive beneath me. My hands were steady as I attacked the lap, finding time in the places I’d hesitated before. The final sector approached, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

"Come on, come on…"

The car crossed the line.

"P9, you're through to Q3."

I exhaled, the weight on my chest lifting just enough for me to breathe.

One more round to go.

Q3 was always a warzone. This was where the fastest, the best, fought for their spots at the top of the grid. I wasn’t here just to participate—I was here to claim my place.

I rolled onto the track for my first attempt, the nerves returning for just a second before I crushed them beneath the sheer force of need.

The car danced on the edge of control, skimming past track limits but never crossing them. I pushed deeper, braked later, and fought harder.

The lap was good. Not pole-worthy, but good.

"P7 for now, Ghost. One more run."

One more chance.

One more lap to cement my place.

I clenched my jaw and launched out of the pits for my final attempt. My heart pounded, my vision tunneling as I attacked each sector with everything I had left.

Turn one. Perfect.

Turn three. A slight oversteer correction, but still fast.

Sector two. Holding strong.

The final corners came, and I could almost feel him there.

Watching. Supporting.

I crossed the line.

"P6. That’s it. That’s all we’ve got."

The radio went quiet.

I exhaled, my chest tightening with a mix of emotions I wasn’t ready to face.

It wasn’t pole. It wasn’t a podium start.

But it was a damn good result.

And this one was for him.

The walk to the media pen felt longer than usual, each step weighed down by exhaustion that wasn’t just physical. The adrenaline from qualifying was fading, and in its place was a cold emptiness that gnawed at the edges of my mind. My body moved on autopilot, my helmet still on, my breaths slow and deliberate.

I barely registered the journalists waiting for us, their cameras trained on me like vultures circling their next meal.

"Ghost, was P6 a fluke after such a disastrous weekend?"

"Is this a sign of inconsistency? You went from struggling to even break into the points yesterday to suddenly starting in the top six. What changed?"

"Was it just luck today?"

"Some people think this proves you’re not as strong as the other top drivers—what do you say to that?"

The words hit like dull blows, one after the other, relentless. I could hear them, process them, but they barely registered beyond a distant buzz in my skull. My hands clenched into fists at my sides.

I wasn’t sure if it was the grief pressing down on my chest, or the exhaustion from the emotional storm I’d barely made it through, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer.

The world blurred around me.

I stared past the reporters, my mind slipping, detaching from the moment as my breathing became shallow inside the helmet. I knew I should say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

Then, something warm pressed against the center of my back—light, grounding.

I blinked hard. The fog thinned just enough for me to realize what had happened. Franco had stepped closer, his hand barely touching me through my suit, but the presence of it—solid, reassuring—was enough to pull me back.

He was still mid-interview, but his voice had changed, sharper than before.

"You know, it’s funny how quick people are to doubt a driver," Franco said, loud enough that I knew he was speaking for my sake as much as for the cameras. His tone was calm, but there was an edge to it, something firm and unyielding. "A lot of you were asking where his pace was earlier, and now that he’s found it, you’re questioning if he deserves it? You can’t have it both ways."

A few reporters shifted awkwardly. I heard my name again, but Franco wasn’t done.

"Ghost has proven time and time again that he belongs on the track. One bad day doesn’t erase talent. And if you think today’s performance was luck, then you haven’t been paying attention."

Silence followed, just for a second.

I let out a slow breath.

The warmth of Franco’s hand vanished as he pulled back, but the effect lingered. My grip on reality felt a little steadier now, my heartbeat not as erratic.

I turned my head slightly toward him, still saying nothing, but he didn’t need words to understand. He just gave me a small nod before turning back to his own interview.

And for the first time in hours, I didn’t feel completely alone.

The hotel room was dark, the only light coming from the dim glow of the city outside the window. I lay sprawled across the bed, still in my base layers, my limbs heavy and unmoving. The adrenaline from the day had fully drained, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion and a mind that refused to be quiet.

I stared at the ceiling, thoughts swirling too fast to catch hold of. My uncle was gone. I wasn’t supposed to find out this way. I wasn’t supposed to feel this alone.

The shrill ring of my phone cut through the silence. I flinched before turning my head to see the name flashing on the screen.

Jack.

My stomach twisted. He had stopped calling earlier, but now he was trying again. And I knew if I ignored him, he would just keep trying.

With a deep breath, I forced my voice into something steady before answering.

"Hey."

"Finally," he sighed, the relief obvious in his tone. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Busy," I replied instantly, the lie automatic. "Work’s been crazy. You know how it is."

"Right," Jack said, but there was something in his voice—something suspicious. "And what exactly does your super-secret job even have you doing this late at night?"

"You wouldn’t understand," I muttered, rolling onto my side, staring at the wall.

Jack let out a small huff. "Try me."

I hesitated. I could make up something boring, something that would keep him from digging deeper. But I was so tired. So tired of pretending.

"I’m just… trying to keep everything running smoothly." It wasn’t a lie. Not really.

Jack was silent for a moment, then his tone softened. "You sound like shit."

I swallowed hard.

"Yeah, well," I forced out, "it’s been a long day."

Jack was quiet again, but this time, it wasn’t hesitation. It was understanding.

"You found out, huh?" he asked gently.

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Yeah."

Jack let out a slow breath. "I was gonna call you sooner, but I figured Mom got to you first."

"She did."

"I still can’t believe it." His voice cracked just slightly, but he covered it up quickly. "It doesn’t feel real. One second, he was on his way to watch the race, and the next…" He trailed off.

I bit down on my lip hard. He thought our uncle had been coming to see him. That was the lie our mother had told. And I couldn’t correct him.

"I know," I whispered.

Jack exhaled sharply, shaking off the grief just enough to switch gears. "Listen, I know we haven’t seen each other in forever, but the funeral’s in a month. I know everything’s a mess right now, but at least… we’ll see each other. It’s been way too long."

Three years. That was how long it had been since we had last been in the same place at the same time. Three years since I left, since I let everyone believe I had moved away for some prestigious academic opportunity when in reality, I had chased my real dream—with my uncle by my side.

And now he was gone.

"Yeah," I murmured. "It has been."

Jack let out a small chuckle, the kind that barely masked the sadness underneath. "I’m actually kinda excited. Even with… everything."

I squeezed my eyes shut, guilt pressing down like a weight on my chest. He had no idea. No idea that I had been right there at the same racetrack as him. No idea that I wasn’t some office worker drowning in spreadsheets, but the very driver he had tangled with on track before.

"Me too," I lied.

Jack sighed. "Look, just… take care of yourself, okay? I know you like to act like you’ve got everything under control, but I can hear it in your voice. Don’t shut down. Don’t let this wreck you."

Too late.

"I’ll be fine, Jack," I said, forcing a bit of strength into my tone. "You don’t have to worry about me."

"You’re my little sister. Of course I do."

I nearly flinched at the word—sister. He said it so easily, so casually, completely unaware of how much weight it carried.

"I’ll see you soon, okay?" he added.

"Yeah. See you soon."

Jack hesitated like he wanted to say more. But then, he just sighed. "Night, kid."

The line went dead.

I dropped the phone onto the bed beside me, staring blankly at the ceiling.

My uncle was gone.

My brother was expecting to see me.

And I was drowning.

Taglist: @widow-cevans @honethatty12 @wierdflowerpower @imlonelydontsendhelp

[singingrottenbones]

season 3 spoilers

The way that Will's wife encouraged him to go after the killer is insane because like. No normal spouse says that. It makes me wonder if he was actually happy there. He was so quick to go to Hannibal. I wonder if she just..reminded him of how he was treated before Hannibal.

Hi friend! Thank you for the ask :)

I just read through the script to brush up on my memory of that episode, and I think part of the issue already lies in the fact that we do not know anything about Molly. We do not know how they met. We do not know how Will was doing when they met. We do not know how much she knows about Will's and Hannibal's relationship.

So part of her encouragement might just be that she didn't know any better, or that she knew enough to see that Will would go with or without her permission (because let's face it - when Hannibal calls, Will is always going to answer).

On top of that, part of the blame also lies in the writing of season 3. It's basically two seasons smushed into one (hence the abrupt 3 year break after 3x07), and in order to fit all the plot that was left into the remaining 6 episodes, certain plot lines had to be rushed because there was no time to properly develop them.

I think that it definitely would have made Molly's and Will's actions more believable if we'd had one episode of pondering.

Now onto your question of if Will was actually happy there... Yes and no.

Yes, as in: his life was stable. He was loved, he had a family and dogs, he no longer had to deal with murderers. It was picturesque, it was simple, it was easy. And therein lies the problem.

Because Hannibal had already irrevocably changed him. I'm sure that Will thought that he never wanted to see Hannibal again (or that's what he told himself), but you cannot leave a relationship like that behind. Hannibal became part of Will's essence, he took root inside of him, and as much as he tried to fight it, it was always going to end this way: Will and Hannibal, together.

I'd like to hear what you meant by "I wonder if she just..reminded him of how he was treated before Hannibal." Because I do not blame Molly at all for any of what happened. She seems like a truly sweet person who fell in love with a man whose heart already belonged to someone else.

[chirpsythismorning]

Mentally I’m here

A sword for Mike

Like others have pointed out, the Castle Byers in this flashback is the one we see in the UD (no microscope when Joyce and Jon look for Will) So, if the UD is really made of different memories, then the Castle Byers with the sword is the one where Will is attacked.

But there's something weird going on there. 1) I don't see any sword when El finds Castle Byers, but inside, it is the Castle Byers with the microscope, so the one with the sword (more about this in a second)

2) The creature is not alone. It's too far from Castle Byers to destroy it, and Will sees a shadow. We still don't know what really happened there!

I also noticed something in S3 that could be connected to that specific moment.

I don't think Max's line "Mike will come crawling back to you in no time, begging for forgiveness" is just there to show that Mike actually looks for Will. I think the "crawling back" is connected to going back in time (maybe through memories?) Steve "crawling backwards", Max and El being brought back, El being dragged on the floor in the Rainbow Room, before she sees the past. And when Mike "comes crawling back to Will, begging for forgiveness", he finds him at Castle Byers.

In S3 Max and El are called "a different species" by the boys because, they say, they act on emotions -> Max mentions Mike crawling back in no time -> because "time is funny and emotions can speed it up or slow it down. We're all time travelers..."

Mike's photo in the shot when El mentions emotions and time travel

So, I think the line about him crawling back, finding Will at Castle Byers, and the sword, mean that Mike will save Will

This could be another clue: when El finds Will, before Castle Byers is destroyed, we see everyone's reaction but Mike's. Interesting choice, since he spends the whole season trying to prove that Will is alive.

No reaction, no sword (because he "has it", or, he will have it? He will be there, in the UD. Well, I don't know if he'll really use it, but I think the sword represents Mike)

El gives him his watch, and behind her the words Home and Time

The title of the first episode of S5 is The Crawl, and the first scene is Will singing (imo) in the UD

But Mike must hurry, because in the S3 campaign, which is paralleled to the one in S1 (The vanishing of Will Byers, The case of the missing lifeguard) there's a trap, a distraction, an ending that is not good, not the real ending ("No, let's finish for real"): dying and then living on as heroes in someone's memories. Mike is even mocking Will here, the only time it happens. And we see Will angry for the first time.

And what does he do? He yells: "FORGET IT, Mike!"

Then he goes to Castle Byers and destroys his memories. Castle Byers is destroyed, like it was destroyed in the UD (Mike was too late)

Another parallel between the campaigns: Mike doesn't understand Will in S3 (before Will destroys his memories and senses that the Shadow is back) and he doesn't understand what he's saying about the roll (before Will vanishes)

They need to communicate, let their emotions guide them, through time and space, and they will find each other. Getting to Mike is the key, and he can't be late anymore, or we don't know what happens if Will doesn't remember anything. If there's nothing left and Joyce's boy is gone

[deltarogers]

FEELINGS

PAIRING: Steve Rogers x Best Friend!Reader

SUMMARY: You’ve always thought of him as an older brother, but something changed…you’re not sure when.

WARNING: Vulgar language, man receiving head, female receiving head, mutual pining, just overall filth, MDNI, 18+, NOT PROOFREAD YET!!

A/N: I’m back from my hiatus! I’m writing for Marvel, so if you guys have any requests, message me or send them to my requests box!

You’re not exactly sure how this happened. The feelings.

That’s what you tell yourself, at least. You damn well know how this happened.

Steve Rogers had been there for you since you’d become an Avenger. He was always someone you looked up to, and someone you went to for advice. Not to mention, he’d taught you everything you know about fighting.

You two were as thick as thieves, much like Clint and Natasha. You were best friends, he was like the older brother you never had, only physically being a few years older than you.

Until two nights ago…

Stark was throwing a celebration party for the Avengers, inviting a lot of a-list celebrities and high end individuals, thus the nice occasion.

Steve knew you didn’t like parties. So, he opted to stay with you most of the night, making you giggle, while regulating how much you drank. He didn’t want you to be hungover the next morning.

All would have gone smoothly if you hadn’t noticed the same woman trying to talk to Steve over and over again, only to get shooed away by him.

“Steve, go talk to her, she seems interested” You spoke and he raised a brow “You need to put yourself out there, Natasha and I have been trying to find someone for you, and this woman is begging for your attention.” You urged and he sighed.

“Alright, but no more drinks, and go find Peter, I’m sure he could use a friend” He suggested and you rolled your eyes, going off to find the younger boy, who should be in bed; not at this party.

After talking to Peter for what felt like hours, he finally had to go home. Thank god. He was sweet, but all he ever did was talk.

You’d most definitely disobeyed Steve, having a few more drinks. You weren’t drunk, but you were tipsy, and you had to use the bathroom, so you went searching.

Walking through Tony’s house wasn’t hard, but finding the bathroom in your semi-drunk state was proving to be a challenge.

That’s when you heard it.

The sound of…moaning? Who on earth was having sex at a Stark party?

Okay, that’s not a surprise. But the voice you heard crying out sounded familiar.

It was coming two doors down from where you were standing, and you wanted to investigate. You were nosey, and drunk. You admit it, you were drunk.

Upon reaching the door the sounds were coming from, you realized it was cracked open, a little too much. And so, you peeked.

What you saw nearly sent you into shock.

There Steve was, leaned back on the bed as the woman from earlier sucked him off. His head was thrown back, so he couldn’t see you, and neither could the woman, since she was faced away from you.

That’s when Steve looked up, and his eyes immediately caught yours.

Oh fuck, you thought to yourself, and you wanted to move, but you couldn’t, you were mesmerized by him.

“Oh fuck!” Steve groaned out, as if he could hear your thoughts.

His hand had that woman’s hair bunched in it, as he helped her suck him off. And his eyes stayed locked onto yours, a smirk pulling at his lips.

What. The. Fuck.

You almost couldn’t believe that this was real. He was just, looking at you, while he was getting head.

You regretted peeking, especially since he came, thrusting up into her mouth as his eyes burned into your soul.

That’s when you came to your senses and pulled your head away, rushing down the hall and towards the front door, searching for your keys frantically.

Thor noticed and gently grabbed your arm. “Y/n…I don’t think you need to be driving home like this” He said “Are you alright?” He added.

“I’m alright, I promise…would you mind driving me?” You asked, and he nodded his head. You grabbed all of your things and turned as you walked out, spotting Steve one last time before the door blocked your line of sight.

And now, two days later, you were pacing in your office, having told Natasha what occurred. You couldn’t hold it in any longer, especially when she asked you why you’d been avoiding Cap.

“I don’t know what to do, Nat!” You nearly cried “I’ve always seen him as family, but now…I don’t know”

Natasha sighed and shook her head “I would just- act like you don’t remember” She said “For now, until I can figure something out” She added and sighed.

“You can’t ignore him, he’s been worried” She mentioned “It’s only been two days, you can say that you drank too much and you were feeling terrible” She said. “It’s not a good lie, but coming from you…he’ll believe it”

And so, that’s what you did. You lied to him the next time you saw him.

“Hey Cap” You said as you made your way into the kitchen to get coffee.

“I’ve felt like shit the past two days” You said “I had way too much to drink, Thor had to drive me home I was so drunk” You joked and he looked to you, his brows furrowing in worry.

“You should have listened to me, sweetheart” He said and patted your head. “How’s your memory?” He asked. Why would he ask- oh. Oh.

“I can barely remember anything…I just remember talking to Peter and then being at home” You lied straight through your teeth.

With the way he was looking at you, you swore he knew you weren’t being truthful.

“I’m just glad you’re okay…I thought you were upset with me” He said and laughed a tad.

“I could never be mad at you, Steve” You said with a sweet smile.

Steve isn’t exactly sure how this happened. The feelings.

At least, that’s what he told himself. He knew damn well how this happened.

And it wasn’t two nights ago.

He’d developed feelings for you prior to that. You were always so supportive of him, you stayed by his side, not to mention that pretty face of yours.

So, when you told him to go off with that woman at the party, he took that as his sign that you didn’t feel the same way about him.

He went off with her, allowing her to flirt, pretending that it was you. That’s the only reason she ended up sucking him off, because he was pretending she was you.

Steve was more than surprised to find you watching them, but he didn’t mind. This was perfect.

He honestly wouldn’t have cum if he wasn’t looking directly at your face.

He nearly scrambled after you when you left. He didn’t want you to go, but you’d left with Thor by the time he came back.

And now here he was, in the office. He knew why you were avoiding him. He just hoped he hadn’t scared you, or came off as weird.

When you told him it was because you had felt sick, he partially believed it. He could sense the tension though.

Just two days after you’d told him you were fine, he couldn’t take it anymore. He needed you. He hated how distant you seemed now.

“Y/n. My office” He said sternly one morning, noticing how everyone became dead silent at the prospect of him angry.

You looked the most shocked, tensing up before nodding and following him to his office.

“What did I do, Captain?” You asked meekly and Steve huffed.

“What has been up with you lately?” He asked once the door to his office shut behind you. “And don’t tell me you don’t know” He said, stepping closer.

“I- fuck…Steve, don’t make me do this” You plead with him and he quirked a brow.

“Jesus fine, I have…feelings for you, Steve” You finally admitted. You’d been harboring that for longer than you thought. “I tried to push them away, and then at the party…when you…” You trailed off and huffed.

“I feel the same way…I just wasn’t sure if you did so that’s why I went off with that woman and-“ Steve rambled and you cut him off by pulling him by his collar towards you, pressing your lips to his in a searing kiss.

Steve let out a guttural groan at the feeling of your lips on his. He moved his lips against yours, pressing you up against the nearest wall.

When you pulled back for air, your eyes met his and he nearly melted. “My girl” He muttered and you were pretty sure your knees gave out, but Steve had one arm wrapped around your waist, preventing you from quite literally sinking into the floor.

Steve trailed kisses from your jawline and down to your neck, leaving a few marks as he went along, much to your dismay.

“Steve, please…” You muttered and he hummed against your skin, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“I think my girl deserves a reward” He muttered “As an apology for me forcing her, what do you think?” He asked and you nodded your head profusely.

“Alright…I won’t make you wait” He said and helped you out of your pants and panties, kneeling down in front of you while you were still pressed to the wall.

“Hold on” He said and moved you, your legs now being over his shoulders. He held you up while also pressing you against the wall in a sitting position.

He didn’t warn you, he just dove in, his tongue swirling around your folds, finding your clit almost immediately.

“F-Fuck! Steve, oh my god!” You cried out immediately as he began to suck and lick at your clit. He had no mercy, devouring you like you were his last meal.

He was moaning himself, gaining some sort of pleasure from the sounds of yours.

It didn’t take you long to get close, gently tugging at his his long hair. “Steve, I’m close…” You warned, but he only sped up, which made you throw your head back, crying out his name as you finally came.

Your hips shook against his face, your legs too, as he lapped up your juices and rode you through your high.

Steve finally placed you down, only having to catch you. Your legs were way too numb after that to be standing properly.

“Shit, what are we going to tell the others?”

TO BE CONTINUED…?

A/n: I have ideas for a Part 2 if you guys are interested!!

[whysoblue2]

Honestly, I'm just excited to see the Kallamar and Shamura co-dependant toxic sibling relationship they've got going on, I gotta know just how nasty it got at its different stages and how it likely ended up affecting how they raised their other siblings. I love platonic toxic stuff like this, I would ponder if it could count as Shamura being a bit yandere at some point during it but idk if you're comfortable with that sort of comparison and I don't know much about their relationship besides what you have told. I need the DETAILS, the DRAMA

OOOH yeah, their relationship is juicy and hella toxic in my HC. I'm not going to lie, it's bad, but I wouldn't go so far as being yandere. Travis is 100% yandere. Let's see if I can explain. Long post on my silly headcanon ahead! You have been warned!

Young Shamura god of war, ruthless and merciless. An extremist that has the mission to reshape the Pantheon as they see in their vision, over the blood and bones of other gods. This lil squidling god still didn't unlock the power of his crown and that's perfect because, to Shamura, that is a white canvas, something they can shape the way they want, also the lil shit can heal? A big plus! So they bring said lil shit on the battlefield and train him the way they think is right, following their doctrines and ofc it's really bad. I mean Young Shamura displayed the same empathy of a floor tile, only Kall's influence changed that as I mentioned in a previous post I think. Imagine the Trade meme with Shamura: I receive: The ability to love and care You receive: Trauma and life-long fear But as the squid grows up they realise he does have a personality, he is not a blank slate and he wants to do his own thing, he loves art, music, dancing, and all those meaningless things that won't matter in a war. Also, he wants to go and slay gods (and slay in general💅🏻) his own way! AND THAT'S BAD! Because after so many years fighting together, Kallamar is not just a brother-in-arms but the only family they have! The realisation struck: he was their beloved little brother! Shock ensues. But Shamura doesn't know how to deal with it outside tactics, strategies and warfare so to protect his little brother, they treat him like a war asset with everything that it entails. (I let your imagination run wild here.) Things will happen that will finally make Kall snap and unlock the power of the blue crown, turning him from health to pestilence. From there things will go smoother. Shamura will accept that he has his own personality/cult/followers, but that doesn't mean they like it. They most definitely won't like it when Kall starts dating disciples and mortals. Good luck with that one, Shamura, it's gonna be fun! Of course, this is in the span of centuries while the god slaying and war rages on, not exactly the easiest of times. How will that affect the way they raise the siblings?

As Narinder enters the game, Shamura will find the cat easier to deal with and they focus on raising him, trying not to repeat the same mistakes they made with Kallamar. When Narinder joined, Kallamar would always follow them in their training, terrified that Shamura would use the same extreme methods on the kitten. He is pleasantly surprised to see that while being hard on the kid, they are not nasty and they show care! Yay! (in the meanwhile, it will dawn on him - not true ofc - that he doesn't matter to Shamura anymore and that Narinder has replaced him. The fact he had to endure the bad Shamura for so long and when finally they were good Shamura, they didn't give a damn about him anymore hurts a lot.) Then Kall is responsible for raising both Heket and Leshy singlehandedly. Shamura had very little part in training Heket (she arrived as the war was ending) and none at all in Leshy (who had never seen war at all in his life), so the joys of being a big brother/dad are all on him. But that meant he would do everything possible to not be like Shamura! He could do better, right? Wrong! The backlash of this is that he is way too soft and understanding, to the extent that the young ones don't take him seriously at all, so they grow up basically bullying the shit out of him.

I CANNOT GIVE YOU MORE DETAILS! Cause I'm gonna write them in the fic 😈 Drama&Angst guaranteed. I hope that's a good enough answer!💙 Thank you!

[thedemon-mirajane]

replying over here because my answer became long.

And I'm a very big fan of course! We do have a mirajane introject fictive also from being too much of a fan. Although we have not been posting/rbing much about fairytail lately...

I do agree that changing herself to be kinder is a conscious choice!! what i mean to say is how if you look into how mirajane is introduced in the story and how she acted especially before lisanna came back, she's always the person to greet the members whenever they got back in the guild. This is to the point where even in a gravely serious situation (like that time they were talking about the dark guild at the start of the oracion seis arc where makarov enters the guild and mentioned that they'll fight one of the guild in the baram alliance and mirajane soured the serious atmosphere by welcoming makarov back, cue anime fall), she still don't allow herself to miss out on greeting whoever gets back home.

This is her mimicking exactly what she thinks kindness is. Which is to her is Lisanna. Lisanna who was known to greet everyone back (especially natsu) when they return home (in the guild) (this is a big thing that lisanna is remembered by by the way). The Lisanna who has never had a hard time socializing with the other members of the guild because she accepts and talks to everyone and loves animals and people alike! She connects people.

The line of where this was a choice to change for mirajane starts and ends with "choosing to be kind" it just so happens that her ideal for what kindness is is Lisanna. If you add how much she treasures (and thinks about) who Lisanna was and could have been to the guild and to the world, she subconsciously started doing and thinking like how she thinks Lisanna does; and that in itself is a form of introjection in DID/OSDD.

Making screenshot parallels between mirajane and lisanna could have made my point across better i just don't have the time, i apologize. I may come back to this post someday to retrieve them who knows

That's why I think even after lisanna came back to them, mirajane didn't go back to how she was. Because this vision of lisanna that she manifested in herself was already part of her (what with two years of being her, of course).

So, it really fits also that the majority of her magic was sealed along with the traumatic experience of losing her. That psychological shock, her blaming herself for what happened, and her probably thinking that it should have been her whom has not done any kindness to anyone was the one who died that day, not the kindest person she knows... Both by choice and that shock, I believe, she sealed off the parts of her that she no longer wants to see; the identity that was helpful to no one that day as far as she was concerned. Restating what she and elfman always say unverbatim during the phantom arc, she'll only do what she can do for now (which i think before canon is modeling and working for the guild after losing the big part of her magic because what else can she do for everyone in that state aside from greeting them with a smile?).

And the magic follows along the identity she wanted to seal because her past self was all about those powers, was she not? Being good at what she does was her pride and identity (s class and a rival to erza at a young age) so it makes sense that those abilities will be subconsciously buried along too

And then reliving that pain in the phantom arc (she definitely sat with the feelings of uselessness that she experienced after that arc) and finally looking that trauma in the face by the time the strongest in fairy tail arc rolls by. Only after reexperiencing what happened was she actually able to accept them, to be forced to reawaken that rage and power, and then to be able to finally forgive herself enough that she was able to control that large power that she subconsciously sealed.

And once again, choose kindness.

To honor lisanna's memory and for reaccepting a part of her that she didn't think she'll see again.

Wouldn't it be fucked up if I had a form of magic that made me a monster, that ostracised me and my siblings in village after village, if my siblings learnt similar magic to make us closer, to ease the guilt of making us outcasts, if we finally found a place that accepted us, that saw me not just as an equal but someone to look up to, admired and respected? Wouldn't it be fucked up, after all that, to lose my sister, without even a body to bury, to seal off my magic and change my personality overnight, to move away from the person I was that made my brother attempt the dangerous magic that lead to our sister's death?

Wouldn't it be fucked up if you tried to kill my brother in front of me and I broke my self-imposed limit to unleash a magic power so overwhelmingly powerful that even at your strongest you genuinely feared for your life, if the only thing that stopped me from crushing your skull beneath my fist was my own kindness?

[nameishname]

man the thing that always gets me the most about transformers is when they know each other by name. Like,, sure it hurts when they do because they knew each other pre war. But really when it's like,,, knowing someone by name because you've fought each other so many times in so many battles all during the same unending war that you know this person. Like, sometimes it's even more than just knowing their name sometimes you know this person. The characters that have playful relationships with each other that met for the first time on the battlefield. That are actively trying to kill each other, but will be sad about it and miss them when the other is gone. The ones that bond in unlikely situations just to go back to fighting as soon as the dust settles. Sometimes it's even at a time where the war has lost its point or contradicts what they were even fighting for in the first place. Where they're literally doomed to fight into extinction or.. stop. But they don't stop. Like, idk... The autobots and decepticons pretty much always end up fighting for an amount of time so large it's literally inconceivable. And at the end there's often so few of them left, and they mostly all know each other intimately and by name and like,,,

Idk this is really rambly and I'm having a bit of trouble articulating but sometimes I really stop and think about how many of them know each other specifically through fighting and it gets to me a little bit

[quicksilversnails]

Yessss yes yes! That footstep thing has legit been haunting me for months because it’s such an obvious yet understated detail? You hear those regular footsteps throughout the entire game and it’s never commented on by anybody, because why would they be? It's so easy to just gloss over, especially in the demo and base release. But then in P&tD they change completely, and it's this huge source of tension leading into the full LQ reveal!

And, like, it’s not a retcon or an oversight or a holdover from the demo or anything, because the footstep sound returns to normal when you return to your body! They specifically chose to add regular footsteps at the end of the route after you switch bodies again!! And it’s so odd because it really doesn’t make sense for your footsteps to sound like that, even if you were a “normal-sized guy”. It was fine in the demos where the player could assume that you were wearing shoes, but you can see your feet in Wraith and Drowned Grey, and there are no shoes! Bird feet don't sound like that!!

Compared to the thumping footsteps of P&tD, the regular steps just feel artificial...

And that’s part of what makes me agree that it’s related to the Narrator: the greasy film that describes your reality. He’s already shown to be capable of altering your sense of sound: like when He summons the blade from upstairs in ch1. You hear the sound of the blade clattering on the floor before you see it, and even before the Narrator begins describing it!

There are also other cases where the Narrator's described reality doesn't match the Princess' percieved reality. If you let the Princess lock you in the basement in Chapter 1, the Narrator describes her escaping the cabin and running into the night (with the sound effects to match), but in the next chapter, Witch tells you that she clawed and bashed but couldn't escape. Since the Princess can't ever escape without you in other routes, it's most likely that the Witch was telling the truth here, which then implies that what you hear (and what the Narrator is encouraging you to think) doesn't always represent what's "really" happening.

And your footsteps wouldn't be the only part of you that he omits from your perspective. There's the previously mentioned "world trailing behind you", and your deceptively large size, but the one that stands out most to me is your wings. In P&tD they’re huge and practically cover your face, but they’re never shown from your perspective, even in action shots where you’d think they’d be more prominent. They’re also never described by the Narrator (or the voices, or even the Princess weirdly). Your body is constantly being damaged and described throughout the game, but not once does He comment on any injuries to your wings. It’s a conspicuous omission.

What's interesting is that the few times your wings are mentioned is in relation to your divinity. When breaking the construct, your wings are described as "spanning a cosmic plane" and are "bound in agonizing tension to a finite plane". In the fight leading to Your New World, you use your many wings to bind her arms, showing your total embrace of godhood. The feathered texture of the Long Quiet itself could be interpreted as wings. More generally, wings and flight are symbols associated with freedom, something you lack within the construct, and can regain as you break free of it.

The connective thread between all of these hidden attributes (your footsteps, large size, and wings) is they all make you seem more monstrous or godlike, less "normal", less like a person. And I'd argue it's very important to the Narrator's plan (at least before the end of everything) that you see yourself as a person. You're not just here to save the world, but to save its people. He needs you to care for these people, to WANT to save them, and it's much easier to accomplish this if you see yourself as being one of them. The Narrator wants to frame his story so that you'll "do what needs to be done", so of course He'd omit details that don't fit His narrative. Suddenly having those details revealed through the Princess' eyes would definitely be damaging from His pov.

And because you don't really know what you are either, all you have to go off of is what you can infer from your senses and the Narrator's descriptions. You assume that you're a person, or at least person-adjacent, because what reason do you have to think anything else? And so having your perception of yourself suddenly change in P&tD would be shocking!

The one detail that makes me doubt that this is the Narrator's direct influence though is how you hear the typical footstep sound and see the typical visuals in the final cabin, even after the Narrator is obliterated.

This makes me think that it's probably something more indirectly tied to the Narrator. It could be that your body was shaped to perceive itself in this way by the man before the Narrator. Maybe the construct itself is designed to make you see the world this way. After all, it's only when the construct is unravelled, when the Long Quiet reveals itself that you can see yourself for what you really are.

I don't have a definite answer but it's really really fascinating to think about. Thanks for making this post and giving me an excuse to ramble :D

something that i find very interesting is that, while playing as the long quiet, your footsteps are light. you sound as though you are a normal-sized person wearing regular tennis shoes or something. yes, we can see how his hands look, and we get a decent look at him in the mirror, but for all we know, he could just be. a normal-sized guy who has some weird features. even when compared to the smaller princesses (like the base princesses, the damsel, the witch, etc.) as you walk alongside them, you look to be only slightly taller than them. you are, from your perspective, a normal-sized guy.

this is up until the princess and the dragon. you finally get a really good look at how the character you play as looks. he's big. he practically fills the room with the bulk of his body, numerous wings wrapped around his face and body and stretched out behind him, and tail feathers (are they really feathers?) splayed out behind him -- in the long quiet's own words, "the world trailing behind it". his hands look like a corvid's feet, yes, but his feet notably don't. they look like dragon feet. he hunkers down to fit in the cabin, bending at the knee and slouching so that his head doesn't brush against the ceiling.

(i am well-aware that i might be embellishing things here but. well. this is one of my favorite chapters so i'm gonna go ham in my descriptions)

according to the gentle princess, you're "scary" and "hard to look at". according to the harsh princess, you "look the way you always do". additionally, the gentle princess comments on the fact that you always stomp around, which upon hearing it from your own body, is definitely indicative of your large size. this is the long quiet's default appearance.

and i have to wonder. can the narrator affect how you perceive yourself?

i'm still unsure of the mirror bit, if it's intentional misdirection or if he really, truly does not see the mirror, but i lean very heavily towards the latter.

i do believe though that he would think that it would be damaging for you to know what you truly look like, and we see that in the long quiet's alarm at seeing how he actually looks, yes, but we don't get to see any repercussions from that because it's the final chapter. memory either returns or you're able to look at yourself in the mirror anyway, so it's not look seeing how you look was shown to be particularly damaging to the narrator's plans. especially since the long quiet ultimately just kind of shrugs it off and everything goes back to normal once you're back in your body. the perception of a body that properly fits in the cabin and walks with light steps is back.

honestly though, it's more likely that he just doesn't think that how you look is very important. it doesn't help you when it comes to his plans, so he just doesn't mention it. not to completely contradict my previous theory -- i'm just spitballing here. it's not as though the narrator is truly malicious towards you from the start, after all.

i do stand by my guess that he can affect your perception of yourself, bc why does everything go back to normal regarding your perception of yourself after what you've seen of yourself? you would think that having a true understanding of yourself from her eyes would affect how you would perceive your body, but well. idk. that confuses me

[weirfq1]

with all these gaston crackships/rarepairs that are coming out lately it would be so fucking funny if he had a flig with all the main characters (ambar, nina, simon... hell luna too if you want) and they all know it except matteo

[lunarruled]

That little ray of sunshine in this dark world, finding out that Rosita was a mechanic as well, gave Kyleigh a much needed boost of confidence. Yeah she could pretend all she wanted that she was fearless and nothing got to her, but damn sometimes it really did. When it was right after she had lost that first group she was with the half lycan thought she was never going to trust anyone again, never going to find humans that were worth fighting alongside. And she had carried that with her when coming into this camp. But a few hours spent planning this escape with Rosita and the others had started to change all that. Maybe the four of them could really pull this off and get the hell back to their loved ones. Even if they did have to go to another state as her friend had just suggested. She wasn't sure how well all of them would do out there, but anything was worth a shot at this point.

Thankful that for once Warren didn't give her a fight, or as he probably thought of it as just expressing his opinion on the matter, Kyleigh was more than ready to move ahead with this plan. Dumb guard or not she was happy that Rosita had come up with a good excuse for her to be near the truck. Given that Irina still looked way too terrified about this whole thing it was great for her to just stay hidden. And Kyleigh? Well she was a master of distraction if she did say so herself. It was how she hustled for money when she was on the road and how she had gotten herself out of more than a few sticky situations in the past.

"Don't worry about that, I know exactly what to do." She promised, a sly smile flashing across her face. It might have been a typical 'female' thing, but hey it worked and it wasn't like she had the time to pull out some James Bond type shit.

----------------------------------------------------------------

As soon as the four of them split up, Kyleigh told Warren to go get what he wanted to take with him and make it quick. She did the same, just grabbing her bag that was always ready and casually 'borrowing' a tube of lipstick from one of the other women in her tent. Why the hell she still had that Kyleigh had no idea, but it was going to come in handy in a few minutes. Thank god she was not good at putting it on, allowing it to smear just a bit over her lips to give the illusion that she and Warren had been kissing. Of course that thought gave her the urge to throw up but now was not the time to be dramatic, that would happen in a few short minutes.

The second he saw her Kyleigh knew that Warren understood her odd lipstick look, nodding to her as she motioned for him to follow her. A gunshot went off followed by a scream, pulling the few others that were around towards the front of the camp. Shit! She hoped that wasn't Rosita getting caught or something far worse. Grabbing Warren's hand she quickly dragged him further away towards the back gate, sighing with relief when they found that no one was guarding it.

"Should only take a second." She whispered to him as she fished inside her pocket for her favorite bobby pin. It had been sharpened down on one end to be the perfect tool for picking locks, just like the one on the gate. As she promised a few seconds later the thick box clicked open, Kyleigh keeping it in her hand so that she could place back on as soon as she and Warren were out of the gate. This way it would look as if they had never been there at all, Kyleigh dragging her foot over the soft imprints they left behind.

"Go! When you hear me scream, head for the truck. I'll be right behind you!"

Waiting until they had circled back around the camp to the front and the truck was visible, Kyleigh nodded for Warren to get ready. Now it was her turn to let out a piercing scream, causing that poor guard to turn in her direction.

"Help, quick! Please, I need help!"

As soon as he started over towards her she motioned for Warren to get to the truck, hoping that Rosita and Irina were already in there. That would mean three of them down and only her left. She met the guard by the gate she was at, a frantic look on her face as she kept glancing behind her.

"My boyfriend! He's out there! We went for a walk and on the way back we got trapped. I swear he was right behind me! Those things might have gotten him! Please, he's all I have left!"

She all but screamed at the guy, forcing tears to come to her eyes. Dude was either really stupid or just felt bad for her because he climbed over the fence without hesitation.

"Go on, get back in and get checked. I'll be right back." He ordered her before taking off in the direction she had pointed.

"Dumbass. Should have never left your post."

Once his back was turned Kyleigh took off the few yards towards the front gate, the others dealing with the chaos that was going on behind the truck. Their backs were to her, giving her the chance to hop up in the truck and find a good hiding spot all the way in the back. Waiting a few moments to settle in she let out a specific clicking sound, the one that if everything had worked with the others, would quickly be returned and would let her know that now all they had to do was wait until they were out on the road to plan their next move.

As Kyleigh mentioned being a mechanic, Rosita smiled, albeit it was a bit of a wry smile given the situation they were in. She was used to being the only female mechanic among a bunch of men. She had always been a tomboyish type of girl, but regardless, she appreciated having another woman around of the same occupation. "I would say I still am", Rosita remarked. No need to say she had been a mechanic, as it implied things were over. The world beyond those walls was beyond horrible, but there was no way things had spread that far.

Was there...?

"It gets too easy losing hope when everything out there looks the way it does.. But we'll find a safe place. Somewhere else, maybe out of state if it comes to that," Rosita assured. Irina gave an affirming nod and Warren's expression remained difficult to read - disagreeing, maybe, but he remained silent.

Another smile graced Rosita's features as Kyleigh mentioned the guard. That woman really was confident. She wondered where all of that came from. Who did she think she was to be able to distract guards that easily?

"You can tell it's mere fiction because it involves me hooking up with someone, but the excuse is smart," Warren replied, speaking Rosita's mind. Acting like two people hooking up was smart, it was a good reason to sneak around, finding some place in the camp where you could be with your partner without being interrupted.

Rosita nodded at the plan.  "Sounds good. And I'll just say I need to check on a vehicle in case a guard asks us. As for Irina - she's helping out." She is, that's true - Rosita thinks, just not with fixing a vehicle but with escaping this mess of a camp.

"Alright," Rosita said, "we'll go now, Warren you keep an eye on your watch so it doesn't take you longer than twenty minutes for you to get there." As for her and Irina none of them had a watch but Rosita had an excellent sense of time.

"Just one more thing," Rosita spoke up, "We don't know how well secured the area around the truck is. Either way, there will be at least one guard keeping an eye on the area. He is not the brightest but even if it's just him, we have the problem that it's four of us trying to get inside the truck. It's not exactly subtle. I guess being part of the military, I could always tell the guard that I need to check the truck. So I have a valid excuse for being near it, and I can open it for everyone to get in. But as for you three - you need to remain hidden. Maybe one of us can cause a distraction so all of us have a shot of sneaking inside. If there are patrols, we need to think of something really good though."

If Kyleigh wants to be the one to cause a distraction? It'll be her job. Otherwise, it would be on Warren or her.

It was the only way in case they could not get into the truck otherwise. Four people escaping by trying to climb over the fence? That was near impossible. The supply truck was their only shot, and they had to find a way. Especially since the guard on duty today was the worst one.

Rosita swallowed, a feeling of uneasiness forming in her abdomen. If this shit went south, if they get caught-

No. No time to waste a single second wondering of what if's. Better make sure it went right than worrying. Worrying never helped.

--

Should have been twenty minutes, Rosita thinks. Maybe a bit more. She hoped no one had been waiting on her. In situations like that people got anxious over a delay of a mere minute.

As Irina and Rosita arrived at the meeting point, she could see the truck from a short distance, a sturdy, grey model with supply runners unloading the back of it. Damn it, Rosita thought as she realized they have not brought back much at all given the size of this camp. They were already short on rations to the point where there was no breakfast on most days and lunch and dinner were too small portions for most adults.

Maybe it was a good thing they were leaving.

No civilians around here. Just the clumsy guard and four supply runners unloading stuff. If Rosita got seen around here, she would have to claim something might be wrong with the truck or she would be sent away. Although she wonders whether Irina, Warren and Kyleigh will be allowed around if they get seen too. They would have to think of a good excuse in any case.

Her worries were interrupted by the loud sound of a shot. The supply runner's body quickly dropped to the ground as the bullet penetrated his skull. A clean shot delivered by the guard the moment he registered the new bite wound that the man had brought back to the camp. The other three were forced to stay in line as he examined their bodies. A woman screaming that it was just a scratch from one of them, insisting it was not sufficient enough to turn into one of those things. A moment after, she joined her partner, her body falling to the ground as the guard took her life. The other two were quick to leave the scene, glancing backward at the dead bodies of their colleagues as they went back to the main area of the camp.

For as inattentive as that guard could get, he certainly did follow his orders.

Now they just had to sneak inside and hide inside the truck the whole night before the next supply runners came to leave early in the morning.

Someone had to distract him, though. As close as he was to the truck, four people getting inside was just a bit much.

It was Kyleigh's turn to do something. Hopefully she wasn't as overconfident as she seemed to be.

[dadbots]

August… time to get spooky.

[nagareboshiko]

It had started to drizzle, so faintly that even if her hand was extended before him, she could barely feel the droplets settling on her bare skin.

It was raining the day Childe had also passed under that tree, his bood mixing the water washing away the crimson on the groun around him.

Why was Ajax making that face now? The way he repeated the word 'friend' seemed to bleed out itself from his lips. Was she truly hoping too much to stay friend with him? She must have crossed a boundary. Things must have truly changed for him, for the worst perhaps, and she had to be ready for his decision no matter of what path he'd build for himself. In truth, she knew that whatever happened, she was content enough to have met Ajax even if so briefly in this new path of life. It wasn't time that made an encounter meaningful in one's journey, but the memories that stardust would keep carrying along with her memories.

The paper bag he was holding crashed on the ground by his side, her heart falling with it, and a few items spilled on the pavement.

He only had to take a couple of steps forward to just past through her, and she found herself frozen on the spot once again, unable to do or say anything. He didn't leave this time though, it wasn't his back the last thing she saw but the blurry colour of his top as her feet were barely touching the ground in what she realised to be an embrace he had never dared to give her before today.

The scent of pine engulfed her senses, a breeze of seasalt so new, and yet so nostalgic were brought along too by this closeness.

He was warm, so warm and... Homely.

"What...?" Her voice was barely audible, her hands still awkwardly hanging by her sides, as if she moved in any way that spell would just break and she would wake up from this odd fever dream.

There was a different intonation to the way he spoke, a depth in the way he addressed to her with that simple word she had hard too many times and rolled her eyes at so long ago.

Celestia falling into ruins, the Abyss dying with it as everything burnt around her, everyone she knew fading with the end of that world. It was then she truly understood the desperation Aether had felt.

Her body was shaking, even when her hands raised and she moved back enough to see his face. Her fingers were still trembling even when they reached for his face, as if she had to make sure that he was indeed real, as if she had to hold it to re learn his features all over again.

There was an ocean in his eyes, waves she could hear crashing so violently against her heart, calling to her, daring her to swim and fight that storm she had never been afraid of. The one she fell in love with in a previous life.

She barely realised that her cheeks were already wet, not by the drizzle that had now become thicker, but by tears that had found their way down her skin. Even if blurry behind those tears, she could trace every freckle dusting his skin with her eyes closed. It wasn't a dream right? Or some kind of strong illusion she had put under? She was holding his face, she could feel his warmth, lull herself in his scent.

All questions, all fears, all pain was just taken away by him, she'd always been just a ship drowning in his winter sea.

"Took you long enough." He kept his promise to her. He did come back to her in the end. She wanted to say so much more, but a sob shook her chest and she found herself unable to convey anything else but broken mumbles as she never let go of his face.

He was home, her Ajax was back home.

Oh archons. Where to start? Since the day he'd regained his memories- about a week ago at this point- it'd been like wearing someone else's skin. Walking two paths simultaneously. A ghost possessing another ghost.

He remembers Snezhnaya, the harbingers, the Tsarista, his family... His family were dead. Tuecer, Tonya, Batya, Muma. They died the day Celestia collapsed into the Abyss. That was a grief no one should have to witness. And unfortunately (depending on how you looked at it) the memories were the only thing he regained. No delusion. No foul legacy. He was just human.

Though that wasn't entirely true, perhaps it was the stress of the situation, but despite only being 22 he had a line of grey hair sprout from the top of his ginger mop. For some reason in his past life he hadn't cared much for it, but the mixture of this Ajax and the old one was a little weary of its existence.

Seeing her again froze him on the spot. It'd only been a few weeks yet also It'd been centuries. It certainly felt like It'd been centuries at least. He wanted to wait, to fully become the man she used to know before reaching out to her again. He felt that's what she deserved at least. After everything he put her through. Dying like that... But his traveller always had a way of forging her own path he supposed. What a sight for sore eyes. She hadn't changed, as beautiful as the starlight she was made from. Well, maybe her hair was a little longer.

He didn't move when she approached, drinking her in, knowing now she was in front of him again there was no way he could let her go, or that he'd ever leave her again. Ever.

Ajax- Childe let her speak. The new-world-him giddy over the crush he had that he couldnt temper down and the old-world-him falling in love with her cadence all over again.

His heart beat in his chest, the merger of his two consciousness still out of rhythm and stopping him from answering her question. Was he okay? He could only laugh internally, of course he was. He was always okay.

"Friends?" He echoed, heart broken for both his streamlines of consciousnesses but hey at least she wanted to stay in his life after everything, his tone of voice reflecting that heartache.

Without further thought, Ajax dropped the groceries he was holding, closing the space between them and ignoring her outstretched hand to wrap his arms around her, embracing her with all the strength he had in him, inhaling her scent, absorbing her warmth through their layers of autumn clothes. With his voice etched with grief, sorrow, regret, joy and love he held her close and softly spoke with his old usual joking tone, "Why would I ever want to stay friends with you, Girly?"