#legendary circuits

[visualvocabulary33]

[proffbon]

HE DID THE 'SHUT UP' KISS ARE YOU FOR REAL

OUUUUUAAAAGGHHHHHHHHH

[nevert-the-guy]

Got reminded of this site existing, so I decided to update my old list from it. Y'know, instead of getting good sleep for going back to college.

[goldensunset]

did this npc just say n is in opelucid city..

[digipulse31]

Legendary laps :Daytona Circuit

get it now from here

Capture the exhilarating spirit of motorsport with our stunning artwork, "Speed and Glory: Daytona Circuit." This high-quality print brings the legendary Daytona Speedway to life, showcasing the thrill and adrenaline of high-speed racing.

Featuring dynamic angles and vivid colors, this piece immerses you in the heart of the action. Watch as race cars zoom past, with the iconic grandstands and checkered flags adding to the authentic racing atmosphere. Perfect for any motorsport enthusiast or racing fan, this artwork is a celebration of speed, skill, and the glory of competition.

Elevate your space with this vibrant and energetic print, ideal for home decor, offices, or any setting where you want to bring the excitement of the track. Printed on premium materials, "Speed and Glory: Daytona Circuit" ensures durability and a stunning visual impact.

Bring the roar of the engines and the thrill of the race into your life with this captivating piece of racing art.

Get it now from here

Get it now from here

[ripmyselfxd]

Monaco Magic | Max Verstappen

Summary - After winning the Monaco Grand Prix, Max Verstappen kisses you—his secret girlfriend—revealing your relationship to the world in a moment of love and triumph.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

You’re pressed against the rail, just beyond the paddock, heart pounding so loudly you swear it rivals the growl of the engines. The Monaco sun glints off the harbor, dazzling and hot, but you barely feel it. All your focus is on the screen in front of you—on the last few corners of the final lap.

Your fingers tremble slightly as Max rounds Rascasse. You know this circuit like the back of your hand by now—not from driving it, but from watching him pour his soul into it, year after year. This place is unforgiving. Legendary. A win here doesn’t just earn you points; it earns you legacy.

He’s in the lead. By seconds.

The tension coils tighter in your chest. You know him—how he drives when he smells victory, how he guards the lead like something sacred. And you know better than anyone just how badly he wants this one.

The final straight.

The checkered flag waves.

You don’t hear your own scream of joy—only the eruption of the Red Bull pit wall, the champagne being prepped behind you, the announcers losing their minds.

Max Verstappen has just won the Monaco Grand Prix.

And nobody knows you’re his girlfriend.

Well… not yet.

You stand frozen for a second, caught between the urge to rush to him and the invisible wall you’ve both carefully built for months. You two have guarded your relationship like it was part of the strategy. No Instagram tags. No media leaks. Just hidden smiles, private texts, hotel hallways at midnight. Monaco was supposed to be no different.

But something in your chest cracks when you see him climb out of the car.

He doesn’t even glance at the cameras or the broadcasters circling like vultures. He pulls off his helmet, shaking out his damp curls, and instantly—instinctively—his eyes search for you.

And he finds you.

The look in his eyes is everything. Relief. Pride. Love. There’s something fierce in it too—like he’s decided, right here, right now, that he’s done hiding. That this moment is too big, too real, to pretend anymore.

Your feet move before you realize it.

You duck under the barrier, ignoring the startled glances from team members and PR staff, heart hammering like a second engine in your chest. He walks straight toward you. No hesitation.

“Max,” you whisper, breathless, half in disbelief that you’re doing this.

He grins. ��Come here.”

And then he kisses you.

Not a fleeting peck. Not a quick, concealed moment behind a garage.

This is public. Passionate. Unapologetic.

His arms wrap around you like he’s afraid to let go, like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground. Your fingers twist into the back of his fire suit, still warm from the race. The taste of adrenaline and victory lingers between your lips.

Cameras flash like lightning. Somewhere, someone gasps. A journalist practically drops their mic.

But Max doesn’t care.

When he finally pulls away, he presses his forehead to yours, breathing fast, smiling so wide it makes your eyes sting with emotion.

“They know now,” you whisper with a nervous laugh, cheeks flushed.

“Good,” he says, voice low, firm. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t love you in front of the world.”

You blink up at him, stunned.

And then you smile.

He laces his fingers through yours and turns to face the chaos—paparazzi, reporters, fans leaning over balconies. Some are cheering. Some are filming. Some are just staring, trying to figure out who you are.

But Max holds your hand tighter.

He’s not letting go.

The podium ceremony is a blur after that. You watch him climb to the top step, champagne bottle in hand, national anthem blaring. He points to you once. Not to the crowd. Not to the camera.

To you.

You catch Christian Horner giving you a knowing look. Checo gives Max a smirk that says, finally. Even Helmut cracks something like a smile.

And when the press conferences begin and the questions inevitably come—“Who was that girl you kissed?” “Are you two dating?”—Max doesn’t deflect.

He just smiles that devilish grin and says, “Yeah. She’s been mine for a while.”

It’s terrifying, exhilarating, and oddly freeing all at once. The world knows now. There’s no going back.

But when Max finds you later that night—after the interviews and the celebrations, after the suit is off and the cameras are gone—and he pulls you onto the balcony of your hotel suite overlooking the glittering city, you realize you wouldn’t go back even if you could.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both look out at the shimmering lights on the water. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You lean into him. “I am now.”

And with his arms around you, Monaco glowing beneath you, and the weight of secrecy lifted off your shoulders, you feel it in your bones:

This isn’t just a race he won.

It’s a new beginning.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

[zixzs-ajk]

local boy develops crush on fellow friend and legendary hero Susie, brain short circuits (more at 11)

By the way! If you like these two (or just talk about Deltarune in general) I'd recommend checking out the official Ralsusie Discord! There's all sorts of cool folks, and I'm semi-active there myself too, posting WIPs and whatnot. Come in and say hi!

[absdollievu]

Ruin me gently

bully!abby x fem!reader

Warnings: slight nsfw towards the end, public-ish sex

You hated Abby Anderson before you even knew what the word “hate” really meant. It started in kindergarten — she knocked over your juice box and called you a crybaby when you dared to tell the teacher. Her laugh was loud and mean and got under your skin like splinters.

That was the first time you swore vengeance. The first of many.

Every year, like clockwork, Abby made it her goddamn mission to ruin you.

In middle school, she got a growth spurt. You didn’t. Suddenly, she was towering over everyone — all muscle and swagger. She shoved you into lockers just for fun. Flicked your ears in class. You’d be mid-sentence, and she’d interrupt with some loud, stupid joke that made the rest of the room laugh. But it was never funny to you. Not once.

And high school? High school was worse.

You remember the locker room incident with surgical precision — a trauma branded into your teenage brain. You came back from the shower, and your clothes were gone. Completely gone. All that was left were your underwear, dangling from Abby’s stupidly strong fingers as she paraded them around like some kind of trophy.

“Look at this!” she had laughed, loud enough to echo. “The legendary cherished chonies — guarded like the holy grail.”

You wanted to die. No — you wanted her to die. And if you’d been even a little taller, a little stronger, maybe you would’ve launched yourself at her right then and there. But she was always bigger. Always stronger.

So you waited. Bided your time. And whenever the universe handed you a sliver of opportunity — when she tripped, or slipped, or even just dropped her guard — you hit back. Once, you managed to deck her right in the jaw during sparring. Your knuckles throbbed for days, but the memory of her surprise? Worth it.

She laughed then, too — blood in her teeth.

“You’re so fucking feral,” she said, almost impressed.

God, you hated her.

You hated the way she called you “runt” with that smug grin. Hated the way her biceps flexed when she pulled herself up onto fences. Hated that you noticed.

And you especially hated that part of you was obsessed. Not in a like way — fuck no. It was in your bones, how badly you wanted to wipe that smirk off her face. How you dreamed of pinning her, embarrassing her the way she did to you.

But it was impossible.

She was nearly five times your size, and she knew it. Weaponized it.

⸻

You hated Abby Anderson like it was your religion.

And it wasn’t just the shoving or the stolen clothes. It was how she never let up — how even when you were minding your business, she’d just appear. Like a goddamn curse.

“Hey, shortstack,” she’d greet you with a smirk, nudging your shoulder with hers hard enough to knock you off balance. “Grow an inch yet?”

You’d roll your eyes, jaw clenched. “Die mad about it.”

That was the thing: you didn’t run. Not once. Even when she got in your face, even when she pinned you against lockers with that smug, infuriating smile — you never backed down.

You didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

But then something… shifted.

It started small. Instead of just shoving you, she’d lean in close — close enough that her breath ghosted your ear.

“New shampoo?” she’d ask, mock-sweet. “Smells like strawberries and desperation.”

You grit your teeth and shoved her back, but she didn’t push harder. She just laughed, low in her throat, and walked off like she hadn’t just short-circuited your whole nervous system.

Then came the nicknames. Not just “runt” or “loser,” but new ones. Weirder ones.

“Sweetheart.”

“Bite-size.”

“Princess.”

The worst part? She only used them when no one else was around. Like they were private. Like she was claiming something.

And you—God, you wanted to scream. You didn’t like it. You didn’t like the way your stomach twisted or how heat crept up your neck. You especially didn’t like the way her eyes lingered on your mouth when you talked, like she wasn’t even listening to the words — just waiting for an excuse to say something filthy.

She was toying with you. She had to be.

So you started fighting back — not just with fists or words, but with venom dipped in sugar. Quiet digs, whispered jabs that made her raise a brow.

“Wow,” you’d say, eyes flicking down her arms. “All that muscle and still couldn’t open a pickle jar yesterday. Impressive.”

And she’d grin. Not angry — not even annoyed. Just… entertained. Like you were her favorite little game.

Sometimes you’d find her staring at you across the yard, arms crossed, head tilted. Not menacing. Just watching. Assessing.

The next time she shoved you, she didn’t slam you into anything. She just pressed you up against the wall, one hand flat beside your head, eyes dark and unreadable.

“You’ve got a mouth on you lately,” she said, voice quiet.

You scowled. “Must’ve learned it from you.”

Her smile widened. “That right?”

You didn’t answer. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

But when she leaned in — too close, again — you didn’t move. Not an inch.

And that silence between you? That was new. Electric. Heavy with something unsaid.

Something shifting.

And you hated it.

You hated how it made your heart race. You hated how your body stopped recognizing the difference between rage and want.

But most of all?

You hated that you couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d do if you finally shoved her back.

And meant it.

⸻

The locker room’s quiet — steam clinging to the air, the harsh hum of overhead lights the only noise. You towel off your hair, muscles sore, mind already halfway out the door.

You hear the door creak open.

You don’t have to look. You know that sound. Heavy boots, confident stride.

Abby.

You roll your eyes and mutter under your breath, just loud enough for your own satisfaction, “Here comes fun sunshine.”

You think you got away with it — until her voice slices through the stillness, sharp and amused.

“What was that?”

Your hand pauses mid-dry. You don’t look up. Don’t give her the fucking satisfaction. Just keep rubbing the towel through your hair like she’s not there, like her presence doesn’t light every nerve in your body on fire.

Silence.

Then the scuff of her boots moving closer.

You see her shadow shift, her voice lower, soaked in challenge. “Say it again,” she says, tongue poking into the corner of her cheek, eyes locked on you like she’s already got you pinned. “I fucking dare you.”

You finally look up. Her arms are crossed, her body close — too close — heat radiating off her like a furnace. That smirk’s plastered on her face like it was born there.

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “Didn’t think you were hard of hearing.”

That’s all it takes.

She steps into your space, slow and deliberate, backing you up until your spine hits cold metal. Her hand slams against the locker next to your head — not touching you, but caging you in like prey, and making you flinch. Her body crowds yours, chest nearly brushing against your towel-wrapped skin.

You don’t breathe.

Her eyes search yours, flicking down to your mouth for just a second too long.

The smirk never leaves.

“You’ve got a lot of attitude for someone who shakes when I breathe on ‘em,” she murmurs, voice low and full of something that makes your skin prickle.

“I’m not scared of you,” your breath hitched

She leans in, lips inches from yours, the air charged and suffocating.

“No,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not. That’s what makes this fun.”

Your heart is a jackhammer. Your fists clenched so tight your nails dig into your palms. Every instinct screams to push her, hit her, kiss her — and fuck, it’s all blending together now, tangled beyond recognition.

Her hand slides just slightly down the locker, fingertips brushing your side, making your breath hitch.

And then—

The door slams open.

Laughter echoes down the row of lockers. Someone shouting a joke, oblivious. Casual. Normal.

Abby freezes. Her hand drops.

She steps back like nothing happened — like she wasn’t just about to ruin you against cold metal — and flashes you a look over her shoulder. Not regret. Not even apology.

Just that same smug glint.

Her voice is casual, cocky. “Later, sweetheart.”

And then she’s gone.

You’re left standing there, towel slipping a little lower, skin flushed, chest heaving, fists still clenched — pulse roaring like a war drum.

Fuck.

You hate her.

You hate her so fucking much.

⸻

It’s quiet.

The kind of quiet you like — not the silence of tension, but the calm hum of pages turning, low whispers, footsteps muffled by carpet. You’re curled into the corner of a table near the back of the library, thick book in hand, attention fixed. Peace. Finally.

Then the door opens.

And of course it’s her.

You don’t even need to look up. You can feel her — the shift in air pressure, the smug gravitational pull of her presence.

You don’t react. Don’t flinch. Maybe if you ignore her, she’ll go away.

Spoiler: she doesn’t.

Abby stalks straight past all the empty tables in the library and drops into the seat right across from you.

You lift your eyes just enough to glare at her over the rim of your book.

She’s slouched in the chair like she owns it — broad arms crossed, a slight tilt to her head like she’s bored. But her eyes? They’re locked on you, gleaming with trouble.

“Didn’t peg you for the reading type,” she murmurs.

You don’t bite. Just flip the page.

She grins wider. “What’s that about? Another teen fantasy about a sad boy with a tragic past?”

You sigh, slow and deep. “It’s about forensics.”

“Oh, sexy.” She says with her cocky tone that you absolutely fucking hated.

You finally lower the book. “Do you just wander around looking for people to annoy or is this a special service just for me?”

Her grin only deepens, dimples threatening to make her look charming — which is unfair, because nothing about her should be allowed to look soft.

“I only give this much attention to people I like.”

You scoff.

Then she’s up, and for a second, you think she’s leaving — until she rounds the table and drops into the seat next to you, thigh brushing yours.

Too close.

You shift, but there’s nowhere to go. Her heat is right there, all-consuming, and she leans in like she’s reading over your shoulder.

“What’s this part mean?” she asks, pointing at a diagram.

You stare at her. “You seriously care?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the p — and she grins again. “But you do. That’s interesting.”

You freeze.

That… wasn’t a dig. It wasn’t a joke.

You glance at her. She’s watching you — but not in that cocky, cruel way. She’s genuinely looking. Curious. Focused. And worse — close. Her breath brushes your cheek when she exhales.

“You’re smart,” she says quietly. “Kinda hot.”

You blink, pulse stuttering.

Then her hand is on your thigh, casual, like it’s always belonged there. Heavy and warm and intentional. You’re not even sure how it got there, or when you let her get this close.

“I could be nice to you, y’know,” she murmurs, lips dangerously close to your ear. “If you asked.”

You hate the shiver that runs down your spine.

“I’m not asking,” you whisper.

She hums low in her throat — a sound that vibrates through you. “No. You like it better when I take it.” You say with instant regret.

Her hand slides higher, slow, testing the waters. Her fingers graze bare skin above your knee, slipping under your shorts, just a tease. You suck in a breath and she smiles, lazy and full of hunger.

Your hand catches hers, stopping it. But you don’t pull away.

She leans in, voice like honey and heat. “What? Library’s too sacred for you?”

Her thigh presses against yours. Her lips ghost over the shell of your ear.

And fuck it — your restraint breaks.

You grab her shirt, drag her in, and your mouths collide in a kiss that’s messy and angry and needy. Her tongue slides against yours, claiming, demanding, and you meet her just as fiercely, biting her lip hard enough to draw a sound out of her throat that goes straight to your core.

Her hand’s between your thighs now, moving with confident precision, knuckles dragging along the seam of your shorts. You gasp into her mouth, and she swallows it like she’s starving. Starting the fast circles on your clothed cunt.

And then—

Footsteps.

Voices.

She pulls away instantly, lips red, pupils blown, hand retreating.

She exhales, glancing toward the aisle. Then back at you.

“Guess we’ll finish this somewhere else,” she murmurs.

And with one last smirk, she gets up and walks away.

You pause

What the fuck just happened

And most importantly

Why the fuck did you enjoy it.

⸻

a/n: OH MY GOD, kinda cringed halfway through this but I hope you guys enjoyed💕💕 part 2??

[cheriecelestial]

Thank you for the mini event!! Can I request a F1 Jason Todd x reader story?

Red Lights Pt.1

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ F1 driver!Jason Todd x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ angst. fluff. mild suggestive content. themes of mental health and depression. swearing. car accidents. injuries. mention of drug use. non-canon complacent. not proofread.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ I can't believe i got this request. Just the other day I was like I wanna write an F1 driver au for a character. Anon are you spying on me? Should I be concerned? Nonetheless this made me so so happy. Comment, Like and Reblog (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡ Comment to be added to taglist

Part 2

Jason Peter Todd was a man who, at the peak of his career, could effortlessly be regarded as the very embodiment of Formula 1 excellence. He was everything a driver dreamed of becoming—wealthy, young, impossibly gifted, and the adopted heir of none other than Bruce Wayne, the legendary “Dark Knight” of motorsport himself. A five-time world champion, Bruce in his prime had been a force of nature, drawing comparisons to icons like Ayrton Senna and Alain Prost. And Jason? He was every bit his father's successor—perhaps even destined to surpass him.

Jason wasn't just successful; he was revolutionary. His meteoric rise shattered records with an almost casual ease. He wasn't just the youngest driver to ever compete in Formula 1—he was the youngest to win, and not just any race, but his very first. The accolades piled up faster than his rivals could keep track: most wins in a single season, most podium finishes, highest points tally ever recorded. The list seemed infinite, his potential boundless. The world adored him, idolizing him with near-religious fervor. Corporations fought tooth and nail for his endorsement, desperate to attach their brands to his golden image. Jason Todd—three-time world champion, impossibly handsome, and a marketing juggernaut—had single-handedly propelled Formula 1 into unprecedented popularity. Fans either wanted to stand beside him or become him.

There was no ceiling to what he could achieve. His future was a blinding horizon of endless possibility—until Bahrain.

The Sakhir Grand Prix unfolded under a scorching desert sun, the sky painted in hues of amber as dusk crept over the circuit. The air thrummed with the deafening roars of engines, the grandstands vibrating with the collective anticipation of thousands. The final laps loomed, tension thick enough to cut through. Jason Todd, the prodigy, the phenom, was locked in a relentless pursuit of history—his fourth Bahrain Grand Prix victory within grasp. His car screamed down the straights, tires dancing on the knife's edge of control. He was pushing beyond limits, chasing glory as always.

But as he himself had said once before “Speed is a relentless god. And sometimes, it demands sacrifice.”

Bahrain's Sakhir Circuit had always been a beast of a track—deceptive in its sweeping curves, punishing in its tire degradation, unforgiving to even the slightest misjudgment. Jason's tires were fading fast, the rubber screaming in protest with every high-speed corner. The team's warnings buzzed in his ear, urgent yet distant, drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Roy Harper, his closest friend and fiercest rival, loomed in his mirrors, a mere eight-tenths of a second behind—close enough to strike if Jason so much as blinked.

The radio crackled again, the voice of his engineer strained with concern: “Jason, watch the rear left—it's going off!”

But Jason Todd had never been one to yield. Not to his rivals. Not to the limits of physics. And certainly not to caution. He was five laps away from etching his name deeper into the history books, from claiming yet another record that would silence even his harshest critics. The thrill of the chase, the roar of the crowd, the intoxicating rush of speed—it all blurred into a singular, all-consuming obsession. He knew his car better than anyone alive. He had pushed it beyond its limits before and walked away victorious. Why would this time be any different?

At 200 miles per hour, the world narrowed to a tunnel of asphalt and adrenaline. The next turn approached—a brutal, high-speed corner that demanded precision. He braked hard, but the rear tires, worn to the cords, betrayed him. The car shuddered, the tail snapping out in a violent fishtail. For a heartbeat, his reflexes prevailed—his hands a blur as he wrestled the steering wheel, correcting the slide with the instincts of a champion.

And then—catastrophe.

A deafening bang ripped through the air as his left rear tire failed explosively. The car lurched sideways, spearing toward the barriers at a near-perpendicular angle. The carbon-fiber monocoque—a marvel of engineering designed to withstand brutal impacts—shattered like glass upon collision. The force of the crash sent debris flying in a lethal storm of shrapnel, scattering across the track in a grotesque spectacle. The wreckage rebounded violently, spinning back onto the racing line—just as Roy Harper's car, helpless to avoid the chaos, hurtled into the carnage.

A second impact. A sickening crunch of metal and carbon fiber.

Roy had no time to react. No time to swerve. His front wing speared through the mangled remains of Jason's cockpit like a blade. The halo device—the very piece of safety equipment designed to protect drivers from such horrors—held firm, but the sheer force of the collision tore the survival cell apart, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.

“Jason? Jason, can you hear me?”

The voice of Dick Grayson—Jason's brother, his race engineer and his unwavering support—crackled over the radio, raw with desperation. A silence followed, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant wail of sirens.

And then, as if the universe itself sought to twist the knife deeper, fuel from Roy's ruptured tank spilled onto the scorched asphalt. A single spark—a fleeting, inevitable spark—ignited the fumes.

The world erupted in flames.

Marshals in fireproof suits charged forward, their extinguishers spraying thick plumes of retardant, but the devastation was absolute. The grandstands fell eerily silent, thousands of spectators frozen in horror. Mechanics, engineers, and rival team members stood motionless, hands clasped in prayer or pressed over mouths in disbelief. Roy Harper, miraculously conscious but dazed, was dragged from his ruined car with relative ease—his injuries severe but survivable.

But Jason Todd?

The reigning world champion was still trapped inside the inferno.

The fireproof material of his race suit glowed beneath the flames, his silhouette barely visible through the thick, black smoke. Over the team radio, Dick Grayson's voice cracked with increasing desperation, begging for any sign of life. “Jason, talk to me. Please, just say something—anything!” Only static answered.

The medical car arrived within seconds, but the violence of the crash had left almost no room for hope. The extraction was a nightmare—jaws of life prying apart twisted metal, paramedics shouting over the roar of the flames. When they finally pulled him free, his body was limp, his helmet scorched, his suit seared in places. The world blurred into chaos after that—screaming sirens, frantic radio calls, the paddock holding its breath.

Then, whispers spread through the garage like wildfire.

The hospital's initial prognosis was grim: incompatible with life. The injuries were catastrophic—internal bleeding, multiple fractures, third-degree burns covering nearly 40% of his body. At one point, his heart stopped entirely, flatlining for over a minute as Bruce Wayne, the legendary Dark Knight of motorsport, stood helpless outside the ICU, restraining a sobbing Dick Grayson from pounding on the glass in sheer despair.

Time of death: 20:45 hours.

The words hung in the air like a death knell.

But then—

A single, weak beep.

The head surgeon blinked, certain he had imagined it. Then another. And another. Jason's heart, stubborn as the man himself, refused to surrender. The news rocketed through the paddock, a shockwave of disbelief and cautious relief: Jason Peter Todd was alive. Barely. Clinging to life by the thinnest of threads, but alive.

What followed was a waking nightmare.

Roy Harper, consumed by guilt, retired from Formula 1 immediately, unable to bear the weight of what had happened. Months later, he was found half-dead in a hotel room, an empty bottle of pills beside him—another casualty of that cursed day. The FIA scrambled to implement new safety regulations, mandating stronger cockpit protections and stricter tire wear monitoring. The team, once dominant, floundered without their star driver.

And Jason?

He slept.

For six agonizing months, he remained in a coma, his body healing at a glacial pace. When he finally woke, the details were kept fiercely private—no press releases, no interviews, just a single, guarded statement confirming his consciousness. But those who saw him in those early days knew: the Jason Todd who emerged from the darkness was not the same man who had entered it.

The fire had taken more than just flesh.

It had taken a legend.

“I want to race.”

The words hit Bruce Wayne like a physical blow.

For a man who had stood unshaken in the face of countless crises—both as a five-time world champion and as the iron-willed owner of Wayne Racing—the sheer weight of that simple declaration brought the world to a staggering halt. His son's voice was barely more than a whisper, raw and fractured, yet burning with a desperation that cut deeper than any scream could have.

It had been two months since Jason Todd had woken from the abyss of his coma. Two months of slow, agonizing progress—of bandages being peeled away, of casts removed, of wounds grudgingly closing. The hospital had kept the worst of the scarring hidden beneath layers of sterile gauze, not just for medical reasons, but out of fear for his fragile psyche. The first days after his awakening had been a storm of rage and denial—violent outbursts that left nurses scrambling for sedatives, his own body betraying him as orderlies pinned him down to keep him from tearing at IV lines and heart monitor leads.

The crash had taken more than flesh and bone. The doctors had warned Bruce in hushed tones: PTSD. Depression. Nightmares that never end. Jason's body, though stable, was a battleground. His mind? A warzone.

“I understand, Jay, but—”

“No, you don't!” Jason's voice shattered like glass against steel. “You don't get it! These four walls, these fucking machines and tubes—they're driving me insane. I don't belong here!”

And he was right.

Jason Todd had never been meant for cages. He was wildfire in human form—meant to blaze across the rain-slicked straights of Interlagos, to carve through the golden-hour shadows of COTA's esses, to exist where the air smelled of scorched rubber and high-octane fuel, not antiseptic and despair. The hospital was a prison, and every second spent trapped inside it was another piece of him dying.

Bruce exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor rather than meeting his son's fever-bright eyes. “Jason,” he said, forcing calm into his voice, “you need to heal.”

Jason's hands clenched into fists, the heart rate monitor spiking beside him. “I have healed enough!”

The words weren't just defiance—they were a plea, a demand, a last stand. Because Jason Todd had spent his entire life pushing past limits, and this? This was no different.

Except it was.

And the crushing weight of that truth hung between them, suffocating and unspoken. Bruce, the man who had faced down the most ruthless competitors on the track, who had rebuilt entire teams from ashes, found himself paralyzed by the one battle he couldn't strategize his way out of. How do you make a force of nature understand it's been fractured?

Bruce didn't—couldn't—answer. The silence that followed was deafening, thick with everything left unsaid. The heart monitor's steady beep mocked them, a cruel reminder of time moving forward even when Jason's world had screeched to a halt.

Then, like a blade slicing through the tension, Jason spoke again, his voice stripped of its earlier fire, replaced by something colder. “Who did the seat go to?”

It was a logical question. The season hadn't ended with his crash. The circus marched on, the cars kept racing, and the world didn't stop turning just because Jason Todd had been ripped out of his cockpit.

“Tim got the seat.”

Tim Drake. The reigning F2 champion. Bruce's godson. The kid with a mind sharper than a scalpel and reflexes that bordered on preternatural. After his parents' tragic death, Bruce had taken him in, just as he had with Jason. And Jason knew—hated that he knew—Tim was good. Scary good. But potential didn't change the brutal arithmetic of Formula 1: seats were finite. Tim's promotion meant Jason's throne had been filled before he'd even left the ICU.

Before the crash, Jason's teammate had been Cassandra Cain. A prodigy in her own right, the only woman on the grid outside of Themyscira Formula One team—Diana Prince's all-female team, founded to shatter the sport's glass ceiling. Cass had been more than a teammate; she'd become family. Diana herself had tried to poach her, offering a coveted seat in her revolutionary outfit. But Cass had chosen Wayne Racing, loyalty outweighing opportunity. And Jason would sooner set himself on fire again than take her place.

“He's half-baked at best,” Jason spat, the words dripping with acid. His fingers dug into the sheets, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. “I saw him at testing. He can't do shit.”

Tim Drake was brilliant. A prodigy by any measure, but raw talent wasn't enough in Formula 1 and brilliance didn't erase inexperience. Not when you were thrust into the spotlight mid-season, expected to fill the void left by a living legend. Not when every lap, every turn, every mistake was measured against the ghost of Jason Todd—the youngest champion, the record-breaker, the firebrand who had redefined what it meant to be fearless behind the wheel.

Tim wasn't just racing against the competition. He was racing against a memory. And right now, memory was winning.

Bruce exhaled, slow and measured. “But that doesn't change the fact that you're not ready yet.”

Jason's jaw clenched. “The season's coming to an end. I have plenty of time to train and get back in the game by the time next season rolls around.”

“Jason, but—”

“YOU DON'T GET TO TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME!”

The roar tore through the room, raw and unfiltered. In a flash of movement, Jason's hand shot out, snatching the call remote from the side of his bed. Before Bruce could react, it was hurled through the air with enough force to shatter the fragile illusion of control Jason had been clinging to.

Bruce sidestepped on instinct, the remote clattering against the wall behind him. But when his gaze snapped back to his son—really looked at him for the first time since entering the room—something in him faltered.

A flinch.

Subtle, involuntary, but there.

Jason saw it. Saw the way Bruce's eyes flickered, the way his breath hitched for the barest fraction of a second. Saw the look in his father's gaze—not just concern, not just frustration, but something far worse.

Revulsion.

Or at least, that's what it felt like.

The realization hit Jason like a lightning. His chest tightened, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it had surged, leaving behind something hollow and brittle.

Bruce Wayne—the man who had faced down the most dangerous corners in the world without blinking, who had stared death in the eye more times than he could count—flinched at the sight of his own son.

And in that moment, Jason understood.

This wasn't just about whether he was ready to race again.

This was about whether he'd ever be seen the same way again.

“Boy Wonder No More?”“Crash Down Bahrain Lane: What It Means for the Champion Team”“Robin Fails to Fly”

The headlines screamed at him from every newsstand, every digital feed, every godforsaken screen in the hospital waiting room. Bold, black letters against stark white backgrounds, each one a dagger twisting deeper into the wound. And beneath them—always beneath them—the same grotesque images: his car wrapped around the barriers, the inferno licking at the sky, the thick plume of smoke staining the Bahraini horizon like an omen.

They had reduced his entire legacy to a single, catastrophic moment.

Three-time world champion. Youngest race winner in history. The driver who had redefined dominance. None of it mattered now. The trophies gathering dust in Wayne Manor's halls, the records that still bore his name, the races where he'd crossed the line with his fist raised in triumph—all of it was trumped by one mistake. One lapse in judgment. One turn taken a fraction too late.

Jason Todd: No longer the Boy Wonder. Now, forevermore, The One Who Died.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He had died—if only for a minute. Flatlined on the table, his heart stubbornly restarting as if to spite the universe itself. But the world didn't care about comebacks. It cared about spectacle. And what was more spectacular than the fall of a golden child?

He was Lucifer, wasn't he? God's most favored son, the brightest of angels, cast down from heaven for the sin of pride. Wings broken, flames licking at his heels as he plummeted into the abyss. Maybe it had always been inevitable. Maybe this was his divine punishment—for daring to believe he was untouchable, for thinking the throne was his by right.

Fall from grace. Fall from his throne. Fall from his rightful spot.

So he trained.

Day and night, through the pain that lanced up his spine with every movement, through the phantom screams of tires that echoed in his dreams. He pushed his body to the brink, then past it, his muscles screaming in protest as he forced them to remember what they'd once been capable of. The rage inside him was a living thing, coiled tight around his ribs, whispering in his ear: Prove them wrong. Make them regret it.

There were days when the fury was all-consuming, a black tide that drowned out reason. Days when he'd catch his reflection—the scars, the hollows under his eyes, the gauntness of a face that had once been called ridiculously pretty—and something inside him would snap. Mirrors shattered under his fists. Posters torn from walls, trophies hurled across rooms, their polished surfaces dented against the hardwood. The boy who had been worshiped now couldn't stand the sight of himself.

Bruce tried. He really did. He threw money at the media, buying silence where he could, burying stories of Jason's outbursts beneath layers of PR spin and legal threats. Staff members who looked at Jason with pity in their eyes found themselves abruptly unemployed. But none of it changed the truth: Bruce Wayne, for all his resources, all his power, didn't know how to fix this.

How do you mend a shattered reputation? How do you rebuild a ghost?

The world had already written Jason Todd's epitaph. Now he had to claw his way out of the grave.

The new season began with a quiet humiliation—Tim Drake, the temporary heir to Jason's throne, was demoted back to F2 with barely a whisper of protest. If anything, the young driver seemed relieved to return to the junior category, away from the suffocating expectations of filling Jason Todd's fireproof shoes.

Jason reclaimed his seat, but not his crown.

The first race back was... acceptable. Mediocre by his old standards, but passable for a man who'd crawled back from death's doorstep. The commentators tiptoed around his performance—“He's shaking off rust,” they said. “The speed will come,” they assured. But Jason heard the unspoken truth beneath their carefully chosen words: the fire that had once made him untouchable had dimmed to embers.

Heavens know how he tried. But no amount of willpower could stop his breath from shortening at corners that reminded him of that turn in Bahrain. No mental gymnastics could prevent his palms from sweating through his gloves when the pack bunched too close. The doctors had a name for it: PTSD-induced panic attacks. Jason had another word for it: weakness.

And weakness had no place in Formula 1.

Race after race, he watched helplessly as rivals streamed past—drivers he'd once dominated now leaving him in their wake. The unthinkable happened in Jeddah: Jason Todd, the boy wonder who'd podiumed here in his rookie year, finished outside the points for the first time since his debut.

The garage wrapped him in cotton-wool encouragement. “You'll get there, J.” “Just need more seat time.” Each well-meaning word landed like a scalpel, peeling back layers of pride to reveal the rot beneath—their pity, their disappointment, their fading belief in the myth of Jason Todd.

He wanted to scream. To tear the fucking garage apart. To make them all see—really see—what this was doing to him. But he stayed silent, letting their hollow encouragement wash over him like acid rain.

The truth was simple: Jason Todd wasn't back. He was just... there. Haunting his own career. And the worst part? He wasn't sure which was more unbearable—the idea that this might be permanent, or the terrifying possibility that the old Jason, the real Jason, had died in that Bahrain crash after all.

Jason leaned heavily against the balcony railing, a cigarette dangling carelessly between his fingers. Below him, the team party roared on—champagne corks popping, laughter ringing through the Wayne Racing hospitality suite. Cass had podiumed at their home race in Gotham, keeping the team's legacy alive where he had failed. He was proud of her. She'd earned this. But pride couldn't fill the hollow space in his chest where ambition used to live.

The nicotine burned his lungs in a way that felt almost comforting. The old Jason—the real Jason—had treated his body like a temple. No alcohol, no junk food, certainly no cigarettes. Every calorie counted, every heartbeat optimized for performance. But that man had died in Bahrain. This new version of him? This one didn't give a damn.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the Gotham night. It was funny, in a twisted way. Every drag brought him back to that moment—the acrid smell of burning carbon fiber, the taste of gasoline and fear. In a world where nothing felt familiar anymore, only the memory of his destruction remained vivid.

“I thought F1 drivers weren't allowed to smoke.”

The voice startled him. He turned to see a young woman swaying slightly, her cocktail sloshing precariously in her hand. She couldn't have been more than mid to early twenties, her designer dress wrinkled from dancing, her makeup smudged at the edges. Some sponsor's daughter, probably. Or a journalist's plus-one.

“You shouldn't be here,” Jason said flatly. “The bar's over there.” He gestured vaguely toward the party without looking at her.

“Smoking is bad for you,” she persisted, ignoring his dismissal. “You're the best of the best. You're supposed to—”

“I'm roadkill, sweetheart.” The words came out harsher than he intended, edged with something bitter. “All charred meat and bones. Ain't nothing special anymore.” He waved the cigarette absently, sending a lazy spiral of smoke her way. “They don't get rid of me ‘cause I've got too much on them to lose.”

For a second, she just blinked at him. Then, with a suddenness that almost made him laugh, she snatched the cigarette from his fingers and flicked it over the railing.

“Hey—!”

“You listen up,” she slurred, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You are Jason fucking Todd. You are literally the coolest.” Her words were drunken, but her conviction was startling. She said it like it was scripture. Like she truly believed it from the bottom of her heart.

“That was before the—”

“NO!”

Her voice cut through the night, sharp and unyielding, all traces of drunken slurring stripped away by sheer frustration. She stepped closer, invading his space, her finger jabbing into his chest with enough force to make him stagger back half a step. The scent of vodka and citrus clung to her breath, but her gaze was startlingly clear—burning with an intensity that pinned him in place.

“Don't you dare give me that.”

Her words struck like a hammer to glass.

“You're still him. It doesn't matter how deep you bury yourself in hate and self-pity, you're still the Jason I know.” Her voice cracked, raw with something that sounded too much like betrayal. “And honestly? You're the best out there is— snap the fuck out of it. And also don’t you dare talk smack about my idol. Because I will fight you for it.”

Normally, Jason would’ve had security drag her away by now. Normally, he wouldn’t tolerate some drunk stranger laying into him like this. But there was nothing normal about tonight.

Because she wasn’t tiptoeing around him. Wasn’t feeding him hollow platitudes or empty encouragement. She was the first person in months who looked at him and didn’t see a cautionary tale—just a man too stubborn to climb out of the hole he dug himself.

And damn if that didn’t terrify him.

Her hands flew to his shoulders, shaking him with a desperation that bordered on violence. “Why do you do this to yourself?” Her voice broke, and suddenly, the anger bled into something else entirely. Tears spilled over, streaking her mascara in inky rivers down her cheeks. The dam broke—great, heaving sobs wracked her frame, her words dissolving into incoherent hiccups.

Jason stood frozen, arms stiff at his sides, utterly unprepared for the emotional hurricane in front of him. He glanced toward the party, grateful the crowd was still oblivious, but the reprieve was short-lived.

Footsteps pounded against the terrace tiles.

Danny, one of his oldest friends, a race mechanic who’d known him since their karting days—burst onto the balcony, breathless and wide-eyed.

The woman whirled, launching herself at Danny with a wail. “Dan-Dan, he—” She jabbed a finger wildly at Jason, her words devolving into unintelligible sniffles.

Danny caught her, steadying her swaying frame. “He what?”

“He’s being mean.”

Jason’s hands flew up in surrender. “I didn’t do anything to her!”

Danny’s gaze flicked between them, bewildered. “To whom?”

“To himself!” she wailed, fresh tears erupting. “Tell him to stop!”

Realization dawned on Danny’s face, followed swiftly by mortification. He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling through his nose like a man praying for patience.

“Toddster, I am so sorry for her behavior,” he muttered, already maneuvering her toward the door. “Please forgive her.”

Jason barely had time to process before Danny hauled her away, her protests fading into the din of the party.

The balcony was silent again.

Jason stared at the empty space where they’d stood.

What the hell just happened?

The next race weekend arrived with an unexpected turn—Jason clawed his way past the midfield, securing a respectable finish that, while nowhere near his former glory, at least silenced the whispers of his inevitable decline. The garage hummed with cautious optimism, the tension easing just enough for Dick to crack a joke, for the engineers to clap him on the back without that lingering hesitation. It was progress.

But Jason's mind wasn't on the race.

It was on her.

That drunken, furious woman who'd screamed at him like he was worth the effort. Her words had burrowed under his skin, festering like a splinter he couldn't dig out. “You're still the Jason I know.” The worst part? She'd said it like she meant it. Like she'd seen him—really seen him—through the wreckage of Bahrain and still believed in whatever of himself remained.

He'd resigned himself to never seeing her again.

Until the broadcast screens flashed her face.

There she was—no smudged mascara, no vodka-induced haze—standing trackside with a microphone in hand, interviewing the podium finishers with effortless charm. The realization hit him like a missed gear shift: she wasn't just some random party crasher. She was one of the presenters. And now that he really looked, he did recognize her. Not just from the balcony, but from the periphery of his world for months. Lingering near Danny in the garage, passing through the paddock with a press badge. He'd been too consumed by his own spiral to notice.

His curiosity flared.

He watched her wrap up the interview, then slip toward the back of the garage—a restricted area for presenters. Equipment rooms weren't on the media tour. Even if she was connected to Danny, she had no business there.

For the sake of the company, Jason told himself, and followed.

The equipment room was dim, cluttered with spare parts and toolkits. She was already inside, rummaging through a duffel bag that looked suspiciously personal.

“Looking for something, miss?”

She whirled, clutching the bag to her chest like a shield. “I-I wasn't snooping, I swear! I just came to get my bag—”

“Yes, of course,” Jason said, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. “And about that night on the terrace...”

Her face drained of color, lips parting slightly as if she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. “I'm so sorry, really,” she stammered, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “I understand if you want to press charges, but just know I—”

“Actually,” Jason interrupted, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it, “I wanted to thank you.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. “What.”

It wasn't a question—it was pure, unfiltered disbelief, the kind that left her rooted to the spot, staring at him like he'd just spoken in tongues.

Jason exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck in a rare show of vulnerability. The movement was almost self-conscious, as if he wasn't entirely sure how to navigate this moment either. “You were right,” he admitted, the words rough but sincere. “About... all of it.”

His gaze lifted to hers, bracing for the pity he'd grown so accustomed to seeing in people's eyes. But it wasn't there. Instead, he found something far more disarming—wary confusion, yes, but beneath it, a flicker of something that might've been hope. Or maybe just surprise that he hadn't thrown her out of the garage yet.

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged.

Then, as if her brain had finally caught up with the absurdity of the situation, she blurted: “So... you're not gonna press charges? Or slap me with a lawsuit that would probably cost more than everything I own and land me in jail?” The words tumbled out in a rush, her hands gesturing wildly. “Because, honestly, I've been mentally preparing for that exact scenario for the past week, and—”

Jason laughed.

Not the hollow, humorless sound he'd been making for the past year, but a real, genuine laugh—the kind that caught even him off guard. It rumbled deep in his chest, startlingly warm in the dim light of the equipment room.

“Not today, sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head. Then, with a smirk that was equal parts challenge and invitation: “But if you're feeling that guilty, you could make it up to me by keeping me company over dinner.”

The woman looked like she was about to faint.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You—what?”

Jason arched a brow. “You heard me.”

“You're asking me to dinner?”

“Unless you'd prefer the lawsuit?”

She stared at him, torn between disbelief and the dawning realization that he was, in fact, serious. And then—slowly, hesitantly—the corners of her lips curled upward. “You're insane.”

Jason grinned. “Yeah. Thought you knew that already. So what's the verdict?”

She exhaled, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe her own answer. “...Fine. Better than a ruined career I suppose.”

“That's the spirit,” Jason said, pushing off the doorframe. “Now, you gonna tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you ‘the drunk girl who yelled at me’ in my head?”

“Oh my god,” She groaned, covering her face with her hands. 

The moment Jason’s manager contacted her after their encounter in the equipment room, reality hit like a sudden downpour at a race—unexpected and impossible to ignore. A sleek car would arrive at her doorstep at 7 PM sharp, the message stated, its tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, caught between exhilaration and sheer terror.

What if this was all an elaborate trap?

The thought circled her mind like a vulture. Maybe Jason Todd had taken offense to her drunken tirade, and this dinner was simply a prelude to legal annihilation—a chance to personally serve her with a lawsuit that would bankrupt her and tarnish her fledgling career before it even took off. The possibilities were endless, and none of them comforting.

But beneath the anxiety, a traitorous spark of anticipation flickered.

Because it was Jason Todd.

Three-time world champion. The man whose posters had adorned her walls as a teenager. The driver whose career she’d followed with near-religious devotion long before she ever stepped foot in the paddock as a presenter. And now? Now she was supposed to sit across from him at a dinner table without combusting from sheer nerves.

Outfit crisis imminent.

As a presenter, her wardrobe was extensive—filled with sleek blazers, tailored dresses, and enough heels to make a fashion blogger weep. But suddenly, nothing felt sufficient. Too formal? Too casual? Too try-hard? She stood frozen in front of her closet, hands buried in her hair, as the existential dread mounted.

“Steph. Help.”

The phone call to Stephanie Brown—her closest friend and a rising star in the motorsports styling world—was nothing short of a distress signal.

“I have a very, very, very important dinner today, and I have nothing to wear. What do I do? Should I just die? God, I can’t do this. I—”

“Woah, woah, easy, girl,” Steph interrupted, her voice a calming anchor amidst the storm. “I caught ‘dinner,’ ‘important,’ and ‘nothing to wear’—that correct?” A muffled sound followed, then Steph’s sharp, “Tim, stop that—”

“Uh-huh,” she confirmed, nodding vigorously out of habit despite Steph’s inability to see her. “Also, tell Tim congratulations for his podium. I was going to catch up with you guys, but you’d already flown out.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Steph sighed. “Tim just couldn’t wait to get some ‘me time’ at home.” The unspoken eye roll was almost audible.

“That’s okay. It’s understandable.”

“See? Y/N gets it!” Tim’s voice chirped in the background, smug.

“Shut up, Timothy,” Steph snapped. “Ain’t nobody asked yo ass.” What followed was a familiar symphony of bickering— a dynamic so ingrained it nearly made her smile despite her panic.

“Steph! Dinner!” she interjected before the couple could fully derail.

“Oh, right.” Steph’s tone shifted back to business. “Let’s see—is this like a professional ‘don’t fuck with me’ dinner? Or a ‘I lowkey wanna bang you’ dinner? Or a ‘this could’ve been an email’ dinner?”

The blunt categorization forced a laugh out of her, but the truth was far more complicated. “It’s a ‘please don’t kill me and my career’ dinner,” she confessed, voice small.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Y/N,” Steph said slowly, “What did you do?”

“Fucked up big time.” The admission came out in a rush, followed by Tim’s audible “Ooh,” in the background.

“Shut up, Tim!” Both girls barked in unison, effectively silencing the young driver.

Steph’s sigh was long-suffering. “Alright. First, breathe. Second, we’re fixing this. But you owe me the full story later.”

Y/N had stood in the presence of racing legends before - interviewed world champions with champagne still dripping from their hair, exchanged banter with team principals who controlled billion-dollar empires, even moderated press conferences where the tension between rival drivers could have powered the entire paddock. Yet none of those experiences could compare to the visceral, gut-churning nerves currently twisting her stomach into knots as the luxury car glided toward the restaurant.

It was ironic really. She'd interacted with Jason Todd quite a few times in professional settings - the obligatory media day interviews, the post-race scrums where she'd lobbed softball questions about tire strategy and a couple more here and there. Those encounters should have made this easier. Familiarity should have bred comfort.

But this wasn't a media event with carefully scripted questions and PR handlers monitoring every word. This was dinner. Intimate. Unfiltered. Just two people and whatever uncomfortable truths might surface between the appetizer and dessert.

Before that disastrous night on the terrace, she would have sold her soul for this opportunity - a private audience with the man whose racing prowess had inspired her career path. Now? Now she fantasized about the floor opening up beneath her. The cruel twist of fate wasn't just that Jason Todd finally knew she existed - it was that he knew her as the drunken harpy who'd screamed at him like some deranged fangirl.

Her fingers plucked nervously at the burgundy tulle of her dress, the delicate fabric whispering with every fidget. Stephanie had insisted this was the perfect choice - “It says ‘I’m too sexy to kill, so please don't ruin my career’,” she'd declared while wrestling Y/N into the designer garment through the phone. The color was no accident either: Jason's signature shade, the one that adorned his helmet and racing suit. A subtle homage or a desperate plea for mercy? She wasn't sure anymore.

The car slowed as they approached their destination - one of those impossibly exclusive restaurants where the maître d' could spot an impostor from fifty paces. The kind of establishment where reservations required connections more than money, though God knew there'd be plenty of both behind these doors. Y/N had walked past places like this her whole life, never imagining she'd actually enter one - certainly not under these circumstances.

Through the tinted windows, the restaurant's facade glowed like some temple of the elite, its polished brass and artfully distressed oak radiating quiet money and old-world power. The sort of place where Bruce Wayne might hold court in a private dining room while discussing billion-dollar deals between courses.

Her throat went dry. Against the combined might of Wayne Enterprises and Jason Todd's racing fortune, she was utterly insignificant. A single ill-advised outburst could vaporize not just her career, but Danny's position at the team too. The weight of that realization settled over her like a lead apron as the car door opened, releasing her into the lion's den.

The maître d' didn't even check the reservation list. One glance at her and he was nodding deferentially. “Mr. Todd's guest. Right this way.”

Her heels clicked against the marble floor like a countdown to judgment. Somewhere in this temple of haute cuisine, Jason Todd waited and Y/N wasn't sure whether to beg for forgiveness or prepare for war. The ambient chatter of the elite patrons seemed to fade into a distant hum as her eyes scanned the dimly lit dining room, searching for the one face that had haunted her thoughts since that disastrous balcony confrontation.

And then she saw him.

Jason Todd sat bathed in the warm glow of an artfully placed spotlight, looking every bit the racing royalty he was. The crisp lines of his tailored shirt—a deep burgundy that matched her dress with embarrassing precision—stretched across his broad shoulders, the top button undone just enough to reveal the faintest glimpse of the scars that marred his collarbone and running up his neck. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run his fingers through it one too many times in frustration and the ghost of a smirk played at the corner of his lips as he watched her approach.

“Wasn't aware there was a dress code,” he remarked dryly, his voice laced with amusement as his gaze flickered pointedly between her dress and his own shirt.

Y/N felt the heat rise to her cheeks, turning her face the same shade as the offending fabric. Goddammit, Stephanie.

“It's a coincidence,” she muttered, sliding into the plush chair opposite him with all the grace of a startled deer. Her eyes darted anywhere but at him—studying the intricate pattern of the tablecloth, the way the candlelight reflected off the polished silverware, the distant exit sign she was sorely tempted to bolt toward.

Jason chuckled lowly, the sound sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. “I know I ain’t much to look at, but you don’t need to make it so obvious,” he teased, accepting the leather-bound menu from the waiter with a nod of thanks.

Her head snapped up at that, indignation momentarily overriding her embarrassment. “What? No! You're gorgeous—”

The words tumbled out unchecked, her filter obliterated by sheer panic.

Jason froze, the menu hovering mid-air as his eyebrows shot up in surprise. A slow, dangerously smug grin spread across his face. “I see,” he drawled, the teasing lilt in his voice making her want to vault over the table and strangle him—or maybe herself.

Mortified, Y/N yanked the menu up like a shield, pressing the cool leather against her burning face. You're so done, Y/N, her inner voice screamed at her, equal parts horrified and exasperated.

From behind her makeshift barricade, she heard Jason let out a huff that oddly sounded like a  laugh—the kind that vibrated through his chest and made her traitorous stomach flip. “You planning to order from behind there or should I just guess what you want?”

She groaned, the sound muffled by the menu. It trembled slightly in Y/N's grip as she fought to regain control of her traitorous tongue. The embossed letters blurred before her eyes— foie gras, truffle-infused something, caviar that probably cost more than her monthly rent. None of it registered.

The candle between them cast flickering shadows across the sharp planes of his face, highlighting the faint scar that bisected his left eyebrow— a souvenir from his early racing days that no media outlet had ever gotten the full story on.

“It's a bold strategy,” Jason mused, leaning back in his chair with the effortless grace of someone completely at home in this world of white tablecloths and thousand-dollar bottles of wine. “First you scream at me drunk, now you're trying to suffocate yourself with the menu. I'm starting to think you've got a death wish, doll.”

Y/N finally dropped the menu with a defeated thud. “I was hoping for spontaneous combustion actually,” she admitted, reaching for her water glass with only the slightest tremor in her fingers. “Seems more dignified than whatever this is.”

Jason's laughter rang out, unfiltered and unguarded. It transformed his face completely - the harsh lines of trauma and exhaustion momentarily smoothed away, revealing the more of the boyish charmer who'd taken the racing world by storm years ago, almost making Y/N's heart stagger.

“But you know,” He said swirling the liquid in his glass with deliberate nonchalance, “most people who think I'm going to ruin their careers don't compliment me quite so... enthusiastically.”

The ice cubes clinked mockingly as he took a sip.

“I was being polite,” Y/N lied through clenched teeth, surrendering her menu shield to the hovering waiter.

“Polite would've been ‘you clean up nice.’ But ‘Gorgeous’?” He leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching the gold flecks in his otherwise stormy eyes. “That's the kind of word that makes a man think dangerous thoughts.”

The waiter chose that moment to reappear with their first course - some delicate arrangement of edible flowers and microgreens that looked more like a museum installation than food. Y/N seized the distraction like a lifeline, stabbing at her plate with slightly more force than necessary.

“Careful,” Jason murmured, watching her assault on the defenseless appetizer. “That fork's not one of my sponsors.” Y/N shrugged and muttered something unintelligble before continuning with the same.

“Christ, you’re something else,” he said, shaking his head as he signaled the sommelier. When he turned back, his expression had shifted into something more contemplative. “Look, let's get one thing straight - you're not here because I'm planning to sue you into oblivion.”

The waiter arrived with the wine list before she could respond. Jason barely glanced at it. “The '89 Margaux,” he said automatically, then paused. “Unless you'd prefer something else?”

Y/N blinked. That particular Bordeaux cost more than what she made in a month. “The... the Margaux is perfect,” she managed, watching as Jason nodded dismissal to the waiter.

When they were alone again, he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. The movement caused his shirt to pull tight across his shoulders, and Y/N suddenly found the stem of her water glass fascinating.

“I asked you here,” Jason continued, voice dropping into a more serious register, “because you were the first person in a year who didn't treat me like either a ticking time bomb or a broken trophy.” His fingers traced the rim of his glass absentmindedly.

The raw honesty in his words stole Y/N's breath. This wasn't the carefully curated media persona or the angry driver she'd confronted on the balcony. This was Jason Todd stripped bare— vulnerable in a way she'd never imagined seeing.

Her professional instincts warred with something far more personal. “I saw someone who needed to get his head out of his ass,” she said before she could stop herself, then immediately winced. “Sorry, that was-”

“No,” Jason interrupted, that ghost of a smile returning. “That's exactly it. It was... refreshing. Let's just say it helped me think differently.” His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the tablecloth. “And I'd like to thank you for that.”

Y/N nodded slowly, taking a deliberate sip of her wine to buy time. The rich, oaky flavor bloomed across her tongue. “You're welcome, I suppose,” she murmured, the rim of the glass muffling her words slightly.

An awkward silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant clink of silverware and the muted conversations of other diners. Jason's gaze drifted to the window where Gotham's skyline glittered against the night sky, his expression unreadable.

“You know,” he said suddenly, turning back to her with renewed focus, “you're free to make conversation with me. It's more entertaining than most people I talk to.”

The challenge in his tone sparked something in Y/N. She tilted her head, considering him for a long moment before asking, “So what do you do when you're not racing?”

It was a genuine question - one she'd always wondered about. In every interview she'd ever watched or conducted with Jason Todd, the conversation inevitably circled back to racing strategies, training regimens, or future competitions. His social media showed nothing but carefully curated content - podium finishes, sponsor events, the occasional vacation photo that still somehow related to racing. There was never any glimpse of who Jason Todd might be when he stepped away from the track.

Jason opened his mouth automatically. “Um, I usually train or go over my past races, analyze data, study tracks—”

“No,” Y/N interrupted gently but firmly. “I mean outside of racing. You've pretty much dedicated all of you to racing, but who is Jason Todd outside of that?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. His fingers stilled against the tablecloth, and for the first time that evening, the ever-present confidence in his posture faltered slightly. The silence stretched between them, growing heavier with each passing second.

Jason's brow furrowed as he stared into his wine glass, as if the answer might be hidden in its depths. When he finally looked up, there was something unsettlingly vulnerable in his expression.

He paused, then continued with a soft huff of self-deprecating laughter, “I mean I used to read.” The admission came slowly, dragged up from some long-buried place in his memory. “Before races. History, mostly.” A faint, nostalgic smile touched his lips. “There was... there was something about empires rising and falling that put the whole 'will I qualify P1 or P2' thing in perspective.”

Y/N found herself leaning forward without realizing it. This was new territory - an actual glimpse behind the carefully constructed media persona. The Jason Todd of press conferences and interviews was all sharp edges and racing statistics, a human embodiment of competitive drive. This Jason? This one had layers.

“And now?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, afraid to break the fragile moment.

Jason's thumb traced slow circles around the base of his glass, his gaze distant. “Now I...” The sentence trailed off into silence, his brow furrowing deeper. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a rougher edge, the words tinged with something like self-reproach. “Christ, you're right. There isn't a Jason Todd outside of racing. Hasn't been for a long time.”

Y/N could see the moment of realization hitting him, could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he confronted this truth about himself. The way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the slight narrowing of his eyes - she recognized the signs of someone spiraling inward with uncomfortable self-examination.

Seeking to lighten the mood before it turned too heavy, she quipped, “For someone who just admitted he has no life outside racing, you're doing a terrible job of convincing me to take this dinner seriously as a networking opportunity.”

The tension shattered as Jason barked out a surprised laugh that made the waiters look curiously. “Fuck you,” he shot back, but there was no real venom in it - just a warmth that softened the edges of his usual sharp demeanor. He speared a bite of his appetizer with more force than necessary, the action betraying his lingering discomfort with the direction of their conversation. “Fine. Next time I'll lie. Tell you I breed rare orchids or some shit.”

“Next time?” Y/N raised an eyebrow, her own fork hovering mid-air as she caught the implication.

Jason froze for a fraction of a second, then recovered with a shrug that was far too studied to be casual. “Figure of speech.” But the way his eyes darted briefly away, the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, told a different story entirely.

Y/N deadpanned, “You just admitted your entire identity is wrapped up in going fast in circles. That means we've got our work cut out for us.”

“'We'?” Jason latched onto the word with surprising quickness, his tone dripping with exaggerated sarcasm though something in his eyes betrayed genuine curiosity. “As in you want to accompany me in this grand journey of self-discovery?” The question was framed as rhetorical, but there was an undercurrent of something more - a quiet hope that surprised even him.

Y/N smiled at his characteristic sarcastic flair, recognizing the defense mechanism for what it was. “That depends on you, Mr. Todd,” she replied, matching his tone but letting her amusement show through.

Jason regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I suppose it does,” he finally conceded, the words neither a confirmation nor denial, but something intriguingly in between.

The sleek black town car had glided through the city's rain-slicked streets in near silence, the hum of the engine the only sound as Jason’s chauffeur navigated the late-night traffic. Y/N had sat stiffly in the plush leather seat, fingers twisting in her lap, replaying every moment of the evening in her head. Jason had been... different than she expected. Not the brooding, closed-off champion the media painted him as, but someone sharper, wittier—someone who had actually laughed at her jokes.

When the car finally pulled up to her apartment building, she had thanked the driver with a polite smile, maintaining her composure right up until the moment her front door clicked shut behind her.

Then her knees gave out.

She slid down the length of the door until she hit the floor, back pressed against the wood, heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. A giddy, disbelieving laugh bubbled up, followed immediately by a wave of sheer panic.

She needed to talk to someone. Now.

Stephanie picked up the video call on the second ring, her face already alight with curiosity. “Okay, so how did it go?”

Y/N opened her mouth—and promptly burst into tears. Stephanie’s eyes widened as Y/N devolved into a babbling, incoherent mess, words tumbling out between hiccuping sobs.

“I can’t understand shit,” Stephanie said, leaning closer to the screen. “Are these happy tears or sad?”

“Seems happy to me,” Tim chimed in from somewhere off-camera. “Happy?” Stephanie repeated, narrowing her eyes. “What the hell happened? You’re acting like Jason Todd took you on a date or something.”

Y/N froze.

Then, slowly, she looked up at Stephanie through her lashes, her lips quirking into a sheepish smile. “I mean—” A giggle escaped, high-pitched and entirely involuntary.

Stephanie’s expression morphed into pure shock. “Hol’up, bitch. What do you mean by ‘I mean’? Whatchu teehee’ing for?” she shrieked, loud enough that Y/N had to pull the phone away from her ear.

“Y/N went on a date with who now?” Tim’s voice floated into frame as he leaned over Stephanie’s shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“That’s why I just asked her, dipshit,” Stephanie snapped, shoving him away.

“It wasn’t a date,” Y/N insisted, though the way she twirled a strand of hair around her finger betrayed her. “I mean, it was one in my head, but that doesn’t matter.”

Stephanie’s jaw dropped. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

Y/N snapped out of her daze, straightening up as the full weight of the evening came crashing back. Words poured out of her in a frantic, breathless rush—Jason’s unexpected dinner invitation, the way he’d actually listened to her, the way his smirk had softened into something dangerously close to genuine amusement.

Stephanie’s reaction was instantaneous. “Jason FUCKING Todd? As in three-time world champion Jason Todd? The guy who hasn’t been seen in public outside of races for like a year? The same Jason Todd whose poster you had above your bed and wrote like a thousand fanfictions about in high school and college? The one who’s—”

“Steph! That was years ago!” Y/N’s face burned so hot she was surprised her phone didn’t melt.

From the background, Tim’s voice piped up again, smug. “Wait, Y/N had a crush on Ja—”

“TIMOTHY DRAKE, IF YOU DON’T SHUT YOUR MOUTH RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD—”

A scuffle ensued, followed by a yelp and the sound of something—or someone—being forcibly silenced.

Y/N buried her face in her hands, groaning.

Then her phone chimed.

A text.

From an unknown number.

Her stomach dropped. With trembling fingers, she opened the message.

Unknown: So when do we start?

Y/N let out a strangled scream and threw her phone across the room like it had burned her.

“Y/N? HELLO? WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?” Stephanie’s voice screeched from the discarded device. Y/N scrambled to retrieve it, her voice pitching into hysterics. “H-he just texted me. What do I do? What do I DO?”

She collapsed back onto the floor, biting her fist to muffle another scream.

Y/N's phone continued to blare Stephanie's increasingly frantic voice from where it had landed face-up on the rug. She stared at it like it might explode, her entire body frozen in panic.

Jason Todd had her number.

Jason Todd had texted her.

Jason Todd was somehow already ruining her ability to function like a normal human being.

Stephanie's pixelated face twisted in exasperation on the screen. “Y/N, I swear to god if you don't pick up this phone right now—”

With trembling fingers, Y/N grabbed the device, her wide-eyed reflection staring back at her in the front camera. “Steph,” she whispered hoarsely. “What do I say?”

Stephanie opened her mouth—probably to deliver one of her famously unhinged pep talks—when Tim suddenly shouldered his way back into frame, his grin downright diabolical.

“Say yes, obviously.”

“TIM—”

“No, listen,” he barreled on, ignoring Stephanie's death grip on his arm. “Jason doesn't text people. Like, ever. Dick had to bribe him just to answer group chats. If he's reaching out first? That's basically a declaration of—”

Stephanie clamped a hand over his mouth. “What my handsome yet unburdened by intelligence boyfriend is trying to say is,” she said through gritted teeth, “that you should reply before you psych yourself out of it. Also, tim don't spout bull, she's plenty delulu as it is.”

Y/N's thumb hovered over the screen. The cursor blinked mockingly in the text box.

Unknown: So when do we start?

She swallowed hard.

This was Jason Todd. The same Jason Todd who had once flipped off an entire grandstand after a controversial penalty. The same Jason Todd whose post-race interviews were legendary for their sarcasm and barely-contained rage. The same Jason Todd who had just admitted he had no identity outside of racing—and was now asking her to help him find one.

Her fingers moved before she could overthink it.

Y/N: Depends. Are we starting with book recommendations or full-blown personality reconstruction with something more hands-on? 

The reply came almost instantly.

Jason: Never been the one to back out from a challenge. So what's it gonna be doll?

Y/N's breath hitched. She could practically hear his voice in her head, that low, teasing drawl that had made her stomach flip more than once during dinner.

“Steph,” she blurted out, turning back to her still-active video call where Stephanie and Tim were watching this unfold with rapt attention. “Suggestions. Fast. Something I can take Jason to.”

Stephanie's grin was instantaneous. “Oh, I know you're not about to drag Jason Todd into one of your hyperfixation hobbies.”

“Good idea and that I absolutely will.”

Stephanie snorted. “Well, you could take him to that artisan ceramics workshop with the old Italian nonnas you're obsessed with. Or that dance class you signed up for in Barcelona last year.”

One thing about Y/N: she happened to be on the ADHD spectrum and every Grand Prix weekend in a new country had become an opportunity to dive headfirst into a new hobby. From pottery in Italy to flamenco dancing in Spain, her restless mind latching onto anything that could provide that sweet, sweet dopamine hit. It made her the perfect person to help Jason Todd find something—anything—that wasn't racing. Collecting herself, Y/N typed back with renewed determination:

Y/N: Give me a country, and I'll tell you what we're doing.

Jason: Race in Imola in two days.

Y/N: So Italy it is.

Excitement buzzed under Y/N's skin. Imola. The Emilia Romagna Grand Prix. And now, the backdrop for whatever this was becoming.

Across the world, in a private jet en route to Italy, Jason found himself staring at his phone with an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. For the first time in years, he was looking forward to something that wasn't a race.

Their messages continued late into the night—Y/N enthusiastically listing every obscure Italian hobby she'd tried, Jason responding with dry humor that slowly melted into genuine interest. He didn't even realize when the tension in his shoulders began to ease, when the ever-present anger that had fueled him since his return started to fade, replaced by something lighter. Something like anticipation.

In just a span of two days, his phone was filled with ridiculous stickers, mostly consisting of a concerning number of cat memes and a plan for their first “non-racing activity.” His phone buzzed again—another meme from Y/N, this time a photoshopped image of Bruce Wayne with cat ears next to an actual grumpy Persian. Jason snorted, thumb hovering over the keyboard to reply, when a quiet voice interrupted.

“Jason, can we talk?”

Cass's voice cut through the controlled chaos of the garage, where mechanics buzzed around the car like worker bees. Jason slipped his phone into his pocket, though not before Cass caught a glimpse of his screen— the ridiculous meme Y/N had sent him.

“Sure, Cass. What's up?” he said, turning to face her.

Cass studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes perceptive as ever. “You've been... different.”

Jason stiffened. Different. Did that mean distracted? Unfocused? Cass was one of the few people who had never treated him like glass after the accident, never looked at him with pity. If she said he'd changed—

But then Cass's lips quirked. “You smile more.”

Jason blinked.

“And you keep checking your phone,” she added, nodding to his pocket, where another notification had just buzzed. “Whoever they are... I like them.”

Jason opened his mouth—to protest, to deflect—but found he didn't want to. Instead, a slow, unguarded smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,”

he admitted, pulling out his phone to see Y/N's latest message.

Y/N: Pack something you don't mind getting messy. We're starting with ceramics tomorrow.

“Me too.”

Jason stood frozen outside the unassuming ceramics studio, his boots scuffing against the worn cobblestones as he double-checked the address. The building looked like something out of a postcard—sun-bleached terracotta walls draped in lush ivy, the faint scent of lemon trees mingling with the earthy aroma of clay from the open windows. A hand-painted wooden sign swung gently in the breeze, its blue door chipped with age.

He glanced at his watch—10:02 AM. He was late.

Not that it mattered, he told himself. This wasn’t a race briefing or a sponsor meeting. Just... an odd detour into unfamiliar territory.

The street was blessedly empty, tucked away in the city’s historic district where tourists rarely wandered. Jason exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension coiled there. These days, being recognized outside the paddock meant one of two things—either starstruck fans shoving phones in his face, or pitying glances from those who remembered the crash. He hated both reactions equally.

His outfit felt foreign against his skin—a lightweight linen shirt layered over his usual thin turtleneck, loose trousers instead of fireproof racing gear, boots that had never touched a garage floor. The fabric moved differently, unrestrictive in ways his racing suits never were.

Jason raised his fist and knocked twice on the weathered blue door.

The door flew open before his knuckles could make contact a third time.

“Ah! Finalmente!”

A tiny, silver-haired woman—Nonna Gianna, he presumed—grabbed his wrist with surprising strength and yanked him inside before he could protest. The studio was cooler than the sunlit street, the air thick with the mineral scent of wet clay and something herbal—maybe thyme or rosemary from the small kitchen in the back.

“You are il ragazzo who knows nothing, sì?” Gianna declared, her dark eyes scanning him with the same intensity engineers used when inspecting a damaged chassis.

Jason opened his mouth to argue—he’d mastered the most complex racing circuits in the world, surely he could handle some clay—but she was already dragging him past shelves of glazed pottery, their surfaces catching the morning light filtering through the windows.

The back room was bathed in golden sunlight from the open roof and thin shades, the hum of a spinning pottery wheel filling the air. And there—

Y/N sat at the wheel, her hands buried in a mound of wet clay that spun hypnotically under her fingers. She’d traded her usual paddock attire for a linen shirt that matched his own—though hers was already streaked with earthy smudges—her hair tied back with a vibrant scarf. And a smudge of clay decorated her cheek.

“Wasn’t aware there was a dress code,” she quipped without looking up, her voice laced with amusement.

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown by the quip and the sight of her—so at ease here, so different from the polished presenter or the drunk socialite he saw earlier. But before he could respond, Gianna shoved him toward the empty wheel beside Y/N’s.

“Bello ma stupido,” the old woman muttered, patting his bicep approvingly before grabbing his hands to inspect them. “Strong hands,” she announced, turning them palm-up like a fortune teller. “Good for clay.” Her smile was slightly unnerving—the kind usually reserved for fresh meat in a lion’s den.

Jason, who had faced down the most intimidating team principals and aggressive reporters without flinching, felt an odd prickle of nerves under her scrutiny. “I’ll... try my best?”

Gianna snorted and slapped a wet lump of clay onto his wheel with a decisive thwap. “Non provare. Do it.”

For the next two hours, Jason Todd—three-time world champion, master of precision—was thoroughly humbled by a lump of wet earth.

His first attempt collapsed inward like a deflating balloon. His second wobbled violently before spiraling off-center. His third attempt earned him a sharp rap on the knuckles with Gianna’s wooden spoon when he gripped the clay too tightly.

“Troppa forza!” she scolded. “Clay is not enemy! You fight it, it fights back.”

Y/N muffled a laugh into her shoulder, her own wheel producing something suspiciously vase-shaped. “She’s right, you know,” she said, pushing back a stray strand from her forehead with her wrist. “It’s about listening, not controlling.”

Jason glared at his latest failed attempt, the clay stubbornly refusing to obey him the way his car always did. “I’m used to things responding immediately when I tell them what to do.”

Y/N’s grin was downright wicked. “Welcome to the real world, hotshot.”

He flicked a bit of clay at her. She gasped in mock outrage and retaliated by smearing a streak across his cheek, her fingers lingering just a second too long. Gianna threw her hands up and muttered something in rapid Italian before stomping off.

By the session’s end, his shirt was thoroughly ruined, patience exhausted and—against all odds—he’d somehow produced something vaguely cup-shaped.

“Non male,” Gianna conceded, examining his lopsided creation with a critical eye. “For first try.” She turned to Y/N and said something that made the younger woman nearly drop her perfectly formed vase.

Jason wiped his clay-caked hands on a towel. “What’d she say?”

Y/N refused to meet his eyes. “Nothing important.”

The warm afternoon sunlight streamed through the studio’s windows as Gianna’s cackling faded into the distance, leaving Jason and Y/N alone at their worktable. Jason found his gaze tracing the details of Y/N’s profile—the way her nose scrunched in concentration when examining their pottery, the smudge of clay drying along her collarbone that she’d missed when cleaning up. He noticed how her shoulders curved slightly forward when focused, the golden chain around her neck catching the light with each movement. A glimpse of ink at the base of her neck peeked through her hair—some tattoo he couldn’t quite make out, its meaning hidden just like so much about her still remained unknown to him.

It struck him then how rarely he noticed these small things about people. In the paddock, he saw drivers as competitors, engineers as problem-solvers, journalists as obstacles to navigate. But Y/N—he was seeing her in fragments, piece by unexpected piece, and each discovery left him strangely curious for more.

As Y/N carefully carried their creations to the kiln, Jason wiped his clay-streaked hands on a towel. The studio’s elderly owner reappeared at his side, moving with surprising stealth for someone who’d just been cackling moments before.

“Tu e Y/N,” Gianna began, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Da quanto tempo vi frequentate?”

Jason blinked. “Pardon? Uh, signora um... non parlo italiano.”

Gianna’s wrinkled face scrunched in concentration as she searched for the right English words, then gave up with an exasperated wave of her hands. Instead, she brought her pinched fingers together in the universal sign for kissing.

Jason’s eyes widened comically. “No, no, me and Y/N—not like that,” he protested, waving his hands in denial.

“Non?” Gianna looked genuinely surprised. “Ma l’ultima volta che l’ho vista eri nello sfondo del suo telefono.”

Jason stared blankly, the rapid Italian washing over him without comprehension. Before he could respond, Y/N returned, immediately picking up on the tension.

“Hey, you okay?” she asked, tilting her head at Jason’s bewildered expression.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it,” Jason muttered, suddenly finding the clay remnants on the table fascinating.

Gianna said something rapid-fire to Y/N, who laughed and shook her head before turning back to Jason. “She said we can fix ourselves a meal in her kitchen if we want while the pots bake. What do you say?”

Jason automatically shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I have to strictly watch what I eat.”

Y/N groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. “Jay, look. It’s two weeks before the next race. One sandwich won’t destroy you.” She clasped her hands together in mock pleading. “And Gianna makes her own cheese! With goat milk from her nephew’s farm. Pretty please?”

The way she said it—the exaggerated pout, the way her eyes sparkled with challenge, the way she said his name—stirred something in Jason. He’d spent years following nutrition plans to the gram, never deviating, never indulging. But standing there, with clay under his nails and Y/N looking at him like that, the strict rules he’d lived by suddenly felt less important.

“Fine,” he conceded, holding up a warning finger. “One sandwich.”

Y/N’s triumphant grin was worth whatever lecture his nutritionist would give him later. As Gianna led them toward the small kitchen in the back, chattering away in Italian, Jason realized with startling clarity that for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about macros or race weight.

He was simply... enjoying himself.

The small kitchen was warm and fragrant, filled with the earthy scent of baking bread and the sharp tang of fresh herbs. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across the worn wooden counter where Y/N stood, her hands deftly slicing into a crusty loaf of sourdough. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board filled the comfortable silence between them.

Jason leaned against the counter nearby, watching as she worked. There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved—practical yet graceful, her fingers sure and steady as she portioned the bread. The quiet domesticity of the moment felt foreign to him, like stepping into a scene from a life he’d never allowed himself to imagine.

Then Y/N glanced up, her eyes flickering briefly to the high collar of his turtleneck before meeting his gaze.

“I respect people’s fashion choices and all,” she began, her tone light but curious, “but if you don’t mind me asking... why the turtleneck?”

The question shouldn’t have caught him off guard. He’d been asked it before—by reporters, by fans, even by well-meaning acquaintances who didn’t know how to tiptoe around the subject of his scars. But coming from Y/N, it felt different. There was no pity in her voice, no morbid fascination. Just simple, straightforward curiosity.

Jason hesitated, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his sleeve. He could deflect, could make a joke and steer the conversation elsewhere. But something about the quiet intimacy of the kitchen, the way Y/N waited without pressing, made the truth feel less like a burden and more like just another part of himself.

“After the crash,” he started, his voice quieter than he intended, “people tend to... stare.” He shrugged, as if that explained it all. And in a way, it did. The scars were a map of his worst moment, etched permanently into his skin. A reminder he carried everywhere, whether he wanted to or not.

He realized how somber his words sounded and quickly tried to lighten the mood. “And even then, I wouldn’t wanna scare you with ‘em. It’s ugly stuff.”

Y/N didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she turned back to the bread, her knife moving steadily. But just as Jason thought she’d let the subject drop, she murmured, so softly he almost missed it:

“Not to me, it’s not.”

The words hung in the air between them, delicate as the dust motes floating in the sunlight. Jason wasn’t sure if he’d heard her correctly—if he’d imagined the quiet sincerity in her voice. But before he could question it, Y/N looked up again, her expression shifting seamlessly back to casual ease.

“Hey, can you wash the cherry tomatoes, please?”

Jason nodded, pushing away from the counter to comply. As he turned on the faucet and let the cool water run over the vibrant red tomatoes, he became acutely aware of the quiet sounds filling the kitchen—the splash of water, the rustle of Y/N gathering herbs, and beneath it all, the soft, absentminded hum escaping her lips.

The melody was unfamiliar, but the way she let it drift in and out of her thoughts, barely aware she was doing it, struck something deep in his chest. It reminded him of his mother—how she would hum old lullabies while cooking, the sound wrapping around him like a comfort as he sat on the countertop, swinging his legs and waiting for dinner. It reminded him, too, of Alfred—the Wayne family’s butler—patiently teaching him how to prep vegetables, his dry wit hiding a warmth Jason had taken for granted in his youth.

He hadn’t thought about those moments in years. Hadn’t let himself.

The water ran over his fingers, the tomatoes glistening like little gems in his palms. For the first time in longer than he could remember, the simmering anger that had fueled him since the crash—the bitterness, the relentless drive to prove he was still the same, still unbeatable—felt distant. Fading, like an old wound finally beginning to heal.

And standing there, in a kitchen with the scent of fresh bread in the air and Y/N’s quiet humming weaving through the space between them, Jason realized something with startling clarity:

He was happy.

Not the fleeting rush of a podium finish, not the hollow satisfaction of proving his critics wrong. Just... happy.

Y/N perched on the edge of the worn wooden counter, her legs swinging idly as she took another enthusiastic bite of her sandwich. Crumbs tumbled onto the plate below, but she paid them no mind, too absorbed in savoring the flavors—the rich creaminess of Gianna’s homemade goat cheese, the sweetness of sun-ripened tomatoes, the crunch of freshly baked sourdough.

Across from her, Jason sat frozen, his own sandwich hovering halfway to his lips. His expression was distant, conflicted, as if caught in some internal debate. The voices of his past—his coaches, his nutritionists, even his own relentless drive—whispered warnings in his mind. This isn’t part of the plan. This isn’t what champions do.

Across from her, Jason sat frozen, his own sandwich hovering inches from his mouth. His fingers gripped the bread just a fraction too tightly, his knuckles pale with tension. The voices in his head were louder than the cheerful clatter of the kitchen—his old trainer’s stern warnings about maintaining race weight, the nutritionist’s rigid meal plans, the unspoken expectations of a champion who couldn’t afford to slip, not even for a moment.

Was this weakness? The thought slithered through his mind. Was he throwing away years of discipline, all the sacrifices he’d made—the early mornings, the grueling workouts, the endless self-denial—for something as trivial as a sandwich?

“Is there something wrong?”

Y/N’s voice cut through his spiral, her brow furrowing as she studied him. The concern in her eyes was genuine, untainted by the judgment he’d come to expect from the racing world.

Jason shook his head, more to clear his thoughts than to answer her. Then, before he could overthink it further, he took a bite.

The flavors exploded across his tongue—sharp, tangy cheese mellowed by the sweetness of sun-ripened tomatoes, all anchored by the nutty depth of freshly baked bread. It was simple. It was perfect. And for the first time in years, Jason actually tasted his food.

His so-called “cheat meals” had always been at Michelin-starred restaurants—obligatory team dinners or sponsor events where the food was secondary to the politics. He’d long since trained himself to ignore the delicate dishes placed before him. The flavors had become irrelevant, just another sacrifice in the pursuit of perfection.

But here, in this tiny kitchen with its chipped tiles and sun-faded curtains, with Y/N swinging her feet like a child and Gianna humming off-key in the corner, the weight of expectation lifted. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Jason was present—truly present—in a moment that had nothing to do with racing.

“Want one more?” Y/N asked, already reaching for the bread.

Jason didn’t hesitate. “Actually, yes I do.”

The words felt like a revelation.

Between races, in stolen days across different time zones, he found himself dragged into what Y/N affectionately called their “hobby hunts”— whirlwind excursions into the mundane wonders of each Grand Prix host country. In Italy, he’d learned the meditative art of pasta-making from a Nonna who smacked him whenever he kneaded the dough too aggressively. He’d reluctantly tried watercolor painting, only to discover an unexpected satisfaction in the way colors bled across the paper.

And now, in Venice after the triple header, Y/N was determined to subject him to what he firmly believed was the most ridiculous “hobby” yet.

“Mask-making is not a real hobby,” Jason declared, arms crossed as they stood outside a tiny workshop in Dorsoduro, its windows filled with elaborate papier-mâché creations. Y/N’s expression shifted instantly—her usual playful smirk dissolving into something far more serious. When she spoke, her voice carried a weight that gave Jason pause.

“Tell that to Guillermo,” she said quietly, “who spent thirty years perfecting this ‘hobby’ of his. After he lost his job and his son stopped speaking to him, it was the masks that kept a roof over his and his wife’s heads.”

The raw sincerity in her words hit Jason like a missed braking point. He stiffened, suddenly aware of the careless privilege in his dismissal.

“I—” He swallowed, uncharacteristically lost for words. “That was insensitive of me. I’m sorry.”

Y/N studied him for a long moment before her face lit up with sudden mischief. “So that means you’ll give it a go?” The whiplash-inducing shift in tone left Jason blinking. “...What?”

“You promised,” she singsonged, bouncing on her heels with renewed energy. Realization dawned slowly, then all at once. Jason’s jaw dropped. “You made that up?”

“Every word,” Y/N confirmed cheerfully. “And no takesies-backsies. You already agreed.”

Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re an evil little thing, you know that?”

“But you love it,” she teased, already pushing open the workshop door.

The protest died on Jason’s lips. Because as much as he hated to admit it, she wasn’t wrong.

The crisp Canadian air carried a bite that was absent in the Mediterranean warmth they’d left behind. The empty rink stretched before them, its surface gleaming under the soft glow of evening lights, freshly smoothed by the zamboni. Jason exhaled, watching his breath curl into the cold air as he stepped onto the ice, the blades of his skates cutting effortlessly into the pristine surface.

He hadn’t expected this. When Y/N had mentioned renting out an entire rink as a thank-you for flying her to Montreal in his private jet, he’d assumed she was joking. But here they were, the only two people in the arena, the silence broken only by the distant hum of refrigeration systems and the occasional scrape of steel against ice.

It was… thoughtful. Unnervingly so. Y/N had a way of anticipating what he wanted before he even voiced it—like she understood that, despite his love for the roars of the grandstands on track, he craved these quiet moments away from prying eyes and cameras.

As a high-performance athlete, Jason found his balance almost immediately. The muscle memory from years of rigorous training translated seamlessly to the ice, and within minutes, he was gliding across the rink with the same natural ease he carried on the racetrack.

Y/N, however, was another story entirely.

She clung to the boards like her life depended on it, her usual confidence replaced by wide-eyed terror as her skates betrayed her at every turn. Jason watched, amused, as she attempted to push off—only to immediately pitch forward with a yelp, arms flailing wildly before she somehow managed to right herself.

“Show-off,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at him as he executed a lazy backward crossover right in front of her.

Jason smirked. “You’re the one who picked this hobby, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t realize you’d turn out to be some figure-skating prodigy,” she shot back in an attempt to gain back some of her dignity, gingerly releasing the railing—and immediately regretting it as her feet slid out from under her.

Jason darted forward, catching her by the waist before she could faceplant onto the ice. “You’re hopeless, I swear,” he laughed, steadying her as she wobbled like a newborn fawn.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, though whether from embarrassment or the cold, he couldn’t tell. “I’m great at plenty of other things!” she grumbled, attempting to shake him off.

“Oh, I believe you,” Jason said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “But skating isn’t one of them.”

As she wobbled dangerously again, his arm shot out to steady her. “Careful, doll. Can’t have you messing up that pretty face.”

She muttered something decidedly unflattering under her breath, but the effect was ruined by the way her lips twitched, fighting a smile.

Jason held out his hand. “Alright, baby steps. Take my hand.”

Y/N hesitated, staring at his outstretched palm like it was a trap. On one side: this was Jason Todd, the man whose posters had adorned her teenage walls, whose career she’d followed with near-religious devotion— offering to teach her something for once. It should’ve been a dream come true. But letting him witness her utter lack of coordination was humiliating enough and accepting his help felt like surrendering the little dignity she had left. Especially considering how insufferably smug he looked seeing her struggle.

For a brief, stubborn moment, she considered refusing. But the ice was unforgiving, her pride bruised but definitely not worth a broken tailbone and his hand looked awfully steady. With a sigh, she placed her hand in his. Perhaps this was karma from the pottery class.

“Don’t you dare let go,” she warned.

Jason’s grin was all teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it doll.”

The scrape of blades against ice filled the quiet rink as Jason guided Y/N in slow, careful circles. Her fingers trembled slightly in his grip - whether from the cold or the unfamiliar intimacy, he couldn’t tell.

“Stop looking at your feet,” Jason chided gently. “Look at me instead. It helps with balance.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked up, meeting his with a mixture of irritation and reluctant trust. The moment their gazes locked, her posture straightened almost imperceptibly.

“See? You’re getting it,” he murmured, unable to resist a small, genuine smile.

“I’m literally just standing here while you do all the work,” Y/N grumbled.

Jason chuckled, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before slowly releasing it. “Alright, try on your own. Just remember - knees bent, weight forward.”

For a glorious three seconds, Y/N glided unaided, her face lighting up with triumph. Then physics intervened. Her arms became frantic windmills, her balance abandoning her in an instant. Jason saw the exact moment panic flooded her wide eyes—the dilation of pupils, the part of lips ready to yelp—before his body moved on instinct honed from years of split-second reactions.

One strong arm banded around her waist, hauling her flush against his chest with enough force to knock the breath from them both. His other hand slapped against the boards to arrest their momentum, the impact vibrating up his arm. But all Jason registered was the feel of Y/N pressed along his entire side—the warmth of her even through layers of clothing, the way her racing heartbeat thudded against his ribs in perfect sync with his own runaway pulse.

Jason had always known Y/N was attractive. Objectively. The way one might note a well-composed photograph or an elegant car design. As a presenter, she fit the expected mold of paddock beauty—polished, camera-ready, the kind of woman sponsors loved to position near their drivers for photo ops.

But this... this was different.

In his years as a champion, Jason had been paraded before countless models and starlets, had endured awkward PR “dates” arranged by the team, had smiled for cameras with women whose names he barely remembered. None of them had ever made him notice how the arena lights caught gold flecks in their eyes. None had hands that fit so perfectly in his, as if engineered by some higher power just for this moment. No one’s cheeks had ever flushed such an enticing pink from cold and exertion, nor had their lips—currently parted in surprise and glistening with whatever gloss she’d applied that morning—ever seemed so impossibly, distractingly soft.

And the scent of her—citrus and something sweet beneath the cold air—wrapped around him more completely than any embrace.

“Maybe... maybe we should call it a night,” Y/N whispered, her breath puffing warm against his neck.

The words were a surrender, but her body told a different story—the way she hadn’t pulled away, how her fingers had fisted in the front of his jacket as if to anchor herself.

Jason blinked, suddenly aware he’d been cataloging her features with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He cleared his throat, carefully putting space between them while keeping a steadying hand at her elbow. The air from the refridgeration systems rushed in to fill the void she left, chilling him instantly.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed, voice rougher than intended. He busied himself with adjusting his gloves, avoiding her gaze. “We can, uh... try again another time.”

The words tasted like a lie. Because what Jason really wanted was to pull her close again, to see if her hair really was as soft as it looked, to discover if her lips tasted as sweet as that damned gloss promised. But that way lay madness—or at the very least, a complication neither of them needed.

In the weeks that followed, something undeniable shifted in Jason Todd’s racing—a transformation that didn’t go unnoticed by the sharp analysts and devoted fans who tracked his every lap. The reckless, almost desperate aggression that had once defined his driving—the “madman” style commentators loved to dramatize—had mellowed into something far more dangerous.

His moves were calculated now, his overtakes executed with surgical patience rather than brute force. Where he once would have forced a risky gap, he now waited, biding his time until the perfect moment presented itself. The result? A steady climb up the championship order that left his rivals scrambling to adjust their strategies.

“What the hell’s gotten into Todd?” became the paddock’s favorite question.

Only Jason knew the answer.

In the quiet hours between races, when the roar of engines faded to memory and the paddock emptied of its usual chaos, Jason found himself reaching for the books Y/N had slipped into his life like secret treasures. Each volume carried her fingerprints—literally, in the smudges on the pages where she’d gripped them too tightly during thrilling passages, and metaphorically, in the notes she’d scribbled in the margins with her characteristic wit and insight.

“While finding new hobbies, it’s important not to lose the old ones,” she’d told him with that knowing smile of hers, pressing another book into his hands after their delightful attempt at Venetian mask-making.

He’d taken her words to heart in a way that surprised even himself. The books became his companions on long flights between races, their pages a refuge when the weight of expectation grew too heavy. He raced through them not just for the stories they held, but for the promise of her next recommendation—the quiet thrill of her commentary when he texted her his thoughts at 2 AM after finishing one. 

What he didn’t tell her—what he couldn’t bring himself to admit—was that he’d commissioned a custom sandalwood bookshelf for his bedroom, its rich grain polished to a warm glow. It stood as a shrine to something that was uniquely theirs’s: the slightly lopsided cup that he made at Nonna Gianna’s, a beer mug from their trappist brewing adventure in Belgium, the framed photo of them covered in cheese curds in Austria, the pressed wildflowers from their trek across the Scottish highlands after his P1 finish in Silverstone. The one that brought him back in contention for the World Championship. It felt like he was building something more than just a collection.

It felt like proof.

Proof that there was a Jason Todd beyond the racetrack. Proof that he could be more than the sum of his scars and his victories.

And it was all because of her.

His phone was a dangerous thing these days.

The gallery, once filled with nothing but race data and engineering schematics, now held a growing album of stolen moments—candid shots of Y/N laughing at a joke he hadn’t meant to be funny, her nose scrunched in that way he’d come to adore. Screenshots of her social media posts and presenter segments saved before he could talk himself out of it. 

It was pathetic, really.

World champion. Three-time title holder. And yet here he was, lurking on her Instagram like some lovestruck fan, his stomach twisting every time she posted something new.

Most of her older posts were about him—race photos, blurry grandstand shots, captions filled with exclamation points and heart emojis. The realization should have been flattering. Instead, it left him unsettled.

Did she still see him that way? As some untouchable idol, a fantasy to be admired from afar?

Or could she want the man behind the helmet—the one who woke up sweating from nightmares, who still caught himself holding his breath when tire smoke curled too thick on race day?

Then there was Danny.

A single photo, buried deep in her feed like a landmine. Y/N pressing a kiss to some grinning bastard’s cheek, her caption cheerful and simple: Happy birthday, loser.

Jason knew Danny. Knew him in the way you only know someone who’s shared both your childhood dreams and their dissolution. They’d started karting together, two scrappy kids with more talent than sense, pushing each other until their tires wore bald and their wrists ached from steering. Danny had been one of the few who could match him turn for turn, whose laughter rang just as loud when they tumbled into the grass after some reckless, glorious overtake.

Jason had assumed they’d climb the ranks together, side by side. But life had other plans—Danny’s family couldn’t sustain the financial hemorrhage of competitive karting and pragmatism won out over passion. While Jason raced forward, Danny stepped back, trading the driver’s seat for textbooks, determined to stay close to the sport in whatever way he could. He still remembered the hollow look in his friend’s eyes the day he packed up his helmet— “Engineering school,”  he’d muttered, “like the old man wants.”  Jason had fought to keep him close, badgering Bruce until Wayne Racing took Danny on as a junior mechanic. They weren’t the brothers-in-arms they’d once been, but the bond remained, worn comfortable with time.

But his closeness to Y/N bothered him. Jason stared until the pixels blurred. He could ask her. Three words —“Who is Danny?” —and he’d have his answer. Who was he to her? A friend? An ex? Worse—a current? 

But the thought of hearing the answer—of watching her face shift in that way when someone mentions a name that matters—left him cold.

Better not to know. Better to—

His phone buzzed, Y/N’s name flashing across the screen like she’d somehow sensed his spiral.

Y/N: It’s a shame the race in Zandvoort is so late. You should see the tulips they have in April.

Jason exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing as he typed back without thinking.

Jason: Yeah well. Next year I’ll take you.

The reply came instantly.

Y/N: Bet. Though the beach there is pretty cool too. The water’s cold this time of year but still warmer than your ice tubs :P And then there are the museums too—a history buff like you would appreciate them.

Jason smiled despite himself, imagining her rolling her eyes as she typed.

Jason: I’ll go wherever the lady takes me.

The words hung in the air between them, heavier than he’d intended. For a long moment, the typing bubbles appeared and disappeared, until finally—

Y/N: Careful, Todd. That almost sounded like a promise. 

“Jason, what do you think?” Bruce’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation in the boardroom. He was seated at the far end of the long, polished table, flanked by executives in tailored suits and their managers poised with styluses over tablets.

Jason blinked, startled. His head snapped up from the phone in his lap, only to find nearly a dozen eyes trained on him. He straightened in his seat, his screen going dark as he shoved the device into his blazer pocket. Of course, he had zoned out—texting during a sponsor meeting was probably frowned upon, but truthfully, Jason didn’t give a damn.

The Wayne Formula One team hardly needed financial backing. Bruce’s wealth alone could fund a fleet of cars and pit crews for the next decade. But apparently, having glossy logos of luxury brands and legacy sponsors plastered across the chassis was “strategic”—whatever that meant. Optics over necessity. It was all part of the game.

“Uh, yeah. It’s… cool, I guess,” Jason mumbled, shrugging one shoulder with disinterest.

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose in silent frustration. But without missing a beat, he turned back to the others and carried on with the presentation.

As the meeting ended and people began shuffling out with polite handshakes and promises to circle back via email, Dick approached him with a concerned look, pulling him gently aside into a quieter corner of the lounge just outside the boardroom.

“Jason, I think you should see this.”

╰┈➤ Masterlist

╰┈➤ Event masterlist Tags: @joekitsu @sophiethewitch1 @hana-no-seiiki @thisisafish123 @ceramic-raven @millyhelp @blamedbisexual @trunkswithlonghair-blog @jasontoddthings @deans-spinster-witch @12134z03 @johnnysilverhandeeznuts @yasmin-oviedo @rosecentury @pierayanna @jinviktor @crybaby-21 @solarrexplosion @sahana28banana @ari-sama21 @princessbl0ss0m @fictionalwhor3 @leeleecats @lalalozer @shkosm @swamiiyasssss @lilyalone @cxcilla @one-pea-in-a-pod-blog @cooki3dough @misaki-kira8 @br0ke-b1tch @cherriespopsicle @lilithskywalker @multifandom-simp @hayleym1234 @sukaretto-n @idontwantthis22 @sarveshishwarishsuta @eclipse-msoul @aaaashiiii

A/n: Ughhhhhh this is what I get for trying to cram what should be a multi-chapter fic into a single one-shot. Tumblr said "bitch i think the fuck not" and slapped a only-1000-blocks-allowed-per-post on my dreams 😭😭😭Anon I'm so sorry it took me so long😔😔 (Tumblr, I beg you—just let me post my novel-length emotional support in peace.) Feel free to send more requests for the event.

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2025

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 008 (II). the disquiet.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 1.2k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: um... surprise anaxa pov? mini update once again bc i couldnt help myself. hes a loser and i have no self control i fear... welcome home professor and fuck you very much for ruining my LIFE. i hope you guys like it! <3 next update NOT coming soon bc its going to need a LOT OF RESEARCH !! but it will come, hehe. -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Anaxagoras sits unnaturally still, save for the occasional, minute twitch of his finger against the trackpad. The inbox is open again—has been, for the last thirty-seven minutes. He’s refreshed it thirteen times. Fourteen. He does not look at the time.

The email remains unread.

No reply.

Of course not.

He closes the tab. Opens another. Reopens the inbox. As if that would change the outcome.

He leans back, then forward, spine stiff and aching with tension he refuses to acknowledge. His other hand flexes once against the armrest, fingers curling in tight, rhythmic spasms. He imagines, absurdly, that he can will the message into existence by the precise calibration of his breathing: inhale, two beats, exhale, one. Inhale. Exhale.

Footsteps behind him. Soft. Familiar. The cadence of someone who does not knock.

“I thought you only hovered when you were revising a grant proposal,” says a voice, dry as old paper.

Cerces.

Anaxagoras doesn’t turn. “You’re early.”

She shrugs. He hears it in her voice. “You’re transparent.”

He ignores that. She crosses the office anyway, folds herself into the spare chair without invitation, like she’s amused by how much it bothers him.

“You know,” she says, glancing toward the screen, “for someone who claims to detest inefficiency, you’re wasting an awful lot of neural bandwidth watching that inbox not blink.”

He keeps his tone level. “I’m waiting for a reply.”

“Oh, I gathered.” Her smile is all teeth. “From the little prodigy, yes?”

“Pathetic,” she says lightly. “You’ve hit refresh so many times, the poor thing’s going to short-circuit.”

“I’m expecting–”

Cerces glides in, unimpressed. “You’re brooding. Badly. Honestly, it’s unbecoming. You usually pace.”

Cerces taps her nail idly against the edge of the desk. “Sent them my paper on subjective structure, did you?” She lifts a brow. “Bold.”

“It was relevant.”

“To their project, or to you?” she asks, with mock-innocence. “Can’t tell anymore. You sent out less reading than usual this term. Except to them.”

Anaxagoras does not dignify that with a response.

Cerces hums, leaning back in the chair like a cat preparing to nap on his thesis notes. “No wonder you’ve been unbearable all day,” she muses. He closes the inbox.

Cerces, satisfied, stands. “Just admit it’s getting to you.”

“It isn’t.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely getting to you.” She adjusts her coat. “You know what I think? I think you’ve finally found a student who doesn’t need your approval to be brilliant, and it’s making you—” she lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely at his expression—“like this.”

She’s halfway to the door when she adds, lightly: “It’d be romantic, if it weren’t so predictable.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

Anaxagoras stares at the inbox again.

Then he clicks refresh.

Just once more.

Anaxagoras locked the door behind him with a muted click, the old brass deadbolt sliding home with a satisfying weight. He stood there for a moment, coat still draped over one arm, his keys resting loosely in his hand.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft, residual glow filtering in from the streetlights outside. Dromas stirred from her place on the windowsill, her feline silhouette stretching languidly, but didn’t bother to cross the room to greet him. She knew his rhythms too well to expect anything different tonight.

He exhaled, low and measured, setting his folio and coat onto the small entry table. His movements were deliberate—almost mechanical. He loosened his cuffs, folded them back neatly, crossed the room to the kitchen only to stop halfway there, hands half-lifted in the faint, aborted gesture of making tea he didn’t really want.

Instead, he turned, leaning back against the counter’s edge, arms crossing over his chest as he stared into the middle distance.

It should have been a straightforward afternoon.

He had predicted the conversation. He had anticipated the questions—sharp, incisive, urgent in a way most students couldn’t muster even on their best days. He had even foreseen the almost inevitable moment when he would have to reveal that he had submitted the symposium application on your behalf weeks ago.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the look you gave him.

Not gratitude—that would have been easier to dismiss. Gratitude was impersonal, clean, academic. He could have tucked it neatly away with every other minor debt and favor exchanged in the endless currency of university life.

No—what unsettled him was that you had looked at him as if you understood. The warmth of it, the raw, unguarded recognition—it lodged under his ribs like a splinter.

Anaxagoras dragged a hand through his hair, the gesture more frustrated than he would have allowed anyone to see.

It wasn’t improper.

It wasn’t wrong.

You were brilliant—deserving. Your mind had already begun to unfurl in ways that few others' ever could. It would have been criminal not to give you the chance to sit in that room with Cerces and the others, to sharpen yourself against the brightest, most dangerous minds the field had ever produced.

And yet—

He pushed off the counter sharply, crossing the room to the bookshelf by the window. His fingers skimmed across the worn spines without truly reading any of the titles.

And yet there was an edge to it he could not name—a precarious, almost gravitational pull that had nothing to do with academics.

He had always prided himself on his ability to compartmentalize. To categorize attachments neatly away from the crisp structures of logic and methodology he demanded of his work.

But when you had stood across from him this afternoon, tablet still glowing faintly in your hands, passion and ambition thrumming just beneath the surface of your carefully controlled demeanor—

He had wanted.

Not just to teach.

Not just to challenge.

He wanted to see what would happen if you didn’t hold back. If you let that mind—the one so few even recognized as extraordinary—unfurl without apology or restraint.

To watch you unmask the depths of yourself, raw and unfiltered, free from the weight of expectation. He longed to see you, not as the student you so often hid behind, but as the person you were when you let go of the barriers you had so carefully constructed. He wasn’t just waiting to be impressed—he wanted to be seen by you, to be part of that unfolding, as if by witnessing it, he could catch a glimpse of something he had only dared to touch in the quiet spaces of his own soul.

He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tightening.

Cowardice isn’t always irrational.

Cerces' words. He understood them now, in a way he hadn’t when she first said them years ago, with that half-smile and a glint in her eye that hinted at the ruins she was quietly accepting.

If he was careful, this would pass. The symposium would come and go. You would find larger horizons to chase. That was the plan. That was the only rational outcome.

Dromas jumped down from the sill, padding over to rub herself against his leg. He bent down, absently running a hand along her back. She purred once, low and approving.

"You," he said softly, as if the cat could understand the accusation laced into the word, "have far fewer complications."

-> next.

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(send an ask or comment to be added!)

[amirasainz]

So after the whole Brazil GP weekend, I have to say that the drivers were so funny to watch during the whole "will there be a qualifying or not".

What about driver!reader that does something crazy during the whole thing. And afterwards she is sleeping by the tyres, because it's the warmest place to be.

Thank you <3333333

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

- xoxo babygirl 💙

Umbrella

It was Saturday afternoon at the Interlagos circuit, and the rain was relentless. The paddock was a mess of puddles, drenched engineers, and soaked fans who clung to their umbrellas, hoping for qualifying to start. The drivers waited in their motorhomes or huddled up in the pit garage, bantering, snacking, and desperately trying to stay warm. Every few minutes, the announcement would come over the speakers, postponing the start of qualifying yet again due to the downpour.

Max stretched his legs, leaning against the wall in the Red Bull garage. "You know, maybe they should let us race with jet skis at this point," he muttered, making a few of the mechanics chuckle.

Across the pit lane, Charles threw his head back with a laugh. "I’d like to see you try, Max!"

Just then, a slow, familiar beat started to play over the speakers. Boom, boom, ka… boom, boom, ka.

The drivers paused, exchanging confused glances as the unmistakable opening notes of Rihanna’s Umbrella played over the loudspeakers. But what really caught their attention was a ripple of excitement that surged through the crowd in the grandstands. The fans had all started pointing at something—someone—approaching from the back of the pit lane.

George squinted, “Is that…?”

Walking down the pit lane in a Red Bull jacket, drenched but looking determined, was Y/N, Red Bull’s first female racer, only 18 years old but with a spark and style that had everyone buzzing this season. She strutted through the puddles, the rain bouncing off her cap, her Red Bull mechanics flanking her like a squad, all clearly in on whatever she was planning.

The beat dropped, and as Rihanna’s voice filled the air, Y/N tossed her jacket off dramatically. With a grin, she and her mechanics began to move in sync to the music, just like Tom Holland’s legendary performance on Lip Sync Battle.

Carlos’ jaw dropped. “Are they—? No way!”

“Yep,” said Lando, unable to contain his laughter. “They’re doing the performance. Full send!”

As the first verse kicked in, Y/N spun, stepping through puddles with dramatic flourishes, her mechanics adding spins and claps that matched her every move. Fans cheered from the grandstands, chanting her name and holding up phones to capture every second.

Pierre and Esteban, usually rivals on and off the track, were both doubled over with laughter, cheering her on. “This is the best thing that’s happened all weekend,” Esteban said, wiping away a tear.

Max crossed his arms, nodding approvingly, “Respect. That’s commitment right there.”

Meanwhile, the Ferrari team leaned over the pit wall, watching in awe as Y/N absolutely nailed every move, the raindrops flying around her as if the storm itself was in on the performance. When she did the famous spin-and-drop move that Tom Holland had made famous, the entire pit lane erupted in applause and whistles.

“Look at her go!” Lewis called from Mercedes’ side, genuinely entertained. “She’s got the whole crowd captivated!”

Charles shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. “Forget racing, maybe she should go into show business.”

Y/N laughed, locking eyes with the crowd as she sang along to the chorus: “Under my umbrella, ella, ella…” The fans joined in, their voices echoing around the pit lane. Her mechanics, committed to the bit, twirled their umbrellas above her as if choreographed for the rain.

After the song finished, Y/N and her mechanics took an exaggerated bow, soaking wet but absolutely buzzing with energy and laughter. She waved at the crowd, blowing kisses, as her team threw their arms around her, cheering and laughing.

When Y/N returned to the Red Bull garage, dripping wet and grinning ear-to-ear, Max extended a hug. “That was epic, Y/N. Never thought I’d see someone pull that off here.”

“Thanks, Max,” she said, hugging him tightly back. “Thought I’d keep everyone entertained since, well, looks like we’re stuck here.”

Lando wandered over from McLaren, still laughing. “You know, if F1 ever falls through for you, there’s a career in musical theatre waiting.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Y/N said, laughing. “I’ll just have to be a part-time singer and full-time driver.”

The rain continued to pour down, and with no sign of qualifying starting soon, the energy in the paddock started to wind down. After the performance, most of the drivers and team members settled back, some checking the radar, others chatting and relaxing.

About an hour later, Carlos spotted something odd. “Uh…guys?”

Everyone turned to see Y/N curled up beside a stack of tires in the Red Bull garage, fast asleep. She had her arms wrapped around one of the tires, using it as a pillow, completely oblivious to the rain and noise around her.

Charles chuckled, shaking his head. “She’s hugging the tires. Guess they’re warmer than the rain.”

Max grinned, whispering, “She really is something, huh?”

Y/N’s mechanic, Luke, covered her with a spare Red Bull jacket, careful not to wake her. “Let her rest. She earned it after that show.”

Back in the grandstands, fans were still buzzing, sharing clips and photos of Y/N’s impromptu performance all over social media. The whole weekend might have been wet and chaotic, but for one afternoon, everyone—drivers, fans, and teams alike—had found a moment of pure, unexpected joy in the storm.

[visualvocabulary33]

[yeonniesblog]

Oikawa Tooru felt a bit dizzy behind his eyes. Maybe the gymnasium lights were too bright.

Or maybe it was her—standing there, just here for your brother Yahaba’s match—lingering by the bleachers after the game, fingers curled around his water bottle like you had every right to be there [you did], and no right to make his pulse stutter [you absolutely did].

Oikawa noticed the exact moment you walked in. Of course he did; he had a sixth sense for these things—he could read the shift in air pressure before a serve, the angle of Iwaizumi’s exasperated scowls, and especially, the gaze of a pretty spectator watching him with quiet intensity that made his skin prickle.

And now, despite his legendary focus, his brain short-circuited like bad Wi-Fi.

Badum.

His heartbeat was obnoxiously loud, the kind of dramatic thud that belonged in a shoujo manga, not in his stupid chest. He tightened his grip on the volleyball, knuckles whitening.

Focus. Serve. Ace. Repeat.

But then—then—you looked up. And smiled. At him? No. No, definitely at Iwaizumi, who was stretching behind him like some muscle-bound shoujo rival. Not that Oikawa noticed. Or cared. Obviously.

“Oikawa!” Coach barked. “You’re up.”

Right. Serve. He could do this. He’d done it a thousand times.

He tossed the ball, leapt—

—and his knee almost buckled when your voice cut clean through his focus.

“Nice form, Oikawa.”

The ball sailed straight into the net. thwap.

Silence.

“Wow,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. “That was embarrassing even for you.”

Oikawa’s cheeks burned. “A fluke!” he declared, flipping his hair. “The air was... wrong. And my shoelaces were—”

“You’re staring at [Name] again,” Hanamaki stage whispered.

“I’m not—!” But his traitorous pulse was already sprinting ahead without him. And it only took one sentence from you to prove him wrong.

“Oikawa.” Your voice, closer now. Too close. He turned—and there you were, tilting your head, a little frown on your face that flipped his stomach inside out.

He couldn’t say when you started affecting him. You were just supposed to help him with notes, as class president, catching him up after missed lectures. So why did your voice shake him more than a punch from Iwaizumi?

maybe it was because he was a keen observer..? He noticed how your pen would hover over the edge of his messy notes, then burst into doodles—bunnies in jerseys, a stick-figure Yahaba mid-sneeze—but you’d freeze when given a blank page.

How you empathized with everyone—the teacher, rivals, even the cranky lunch lady—but turned into a flustered mess when he thanked you. Left ink-smudges on your cheek he ached to wipe away.

And the way you bit your lip trying not to laugh at his dumb jokes, turning your lower lip a soft, tempting pink.

Oikawa Tooru knew exactly why he liked you. He was doomed.

“Are you okay? You look tiptop—just like you do on TV.”

The gym air turned to concrete in his lungs. His brain screeched to a halt like a buffering video.

TV.

TV.

TV.

“…TV?” he croaked, voice cracking like an old vinyl record.

You spun Yahaba’s water bottle cap between your fingers. “Yeah, I caught your match while flipping channels.” A pause. “Right when you said that thing about—”

Oikawa’s entire life flashed before his eyes.

Please no.

“‘If you’re gonna hit it,’” you quoted, eyes crinkling, “‘hit it until it breaks.’”

Nuclear silence. Iwaizumi looked like he scored ten points for the team “She knows your catchphrase,” he grinned.

“IT’S NOT A—” Oikawa clutched his hair, executing The Exact Flip mid-panic. “I WAS FIFTEEN! IT WAS METAPHORICAL!”

“Sounded pretty literal before the Shiratorizawa match,” Matsukawa said casually.

“With tears in your eyes,” Hanamaki added.

You blinked. “Wait, really?”

“NO!” Oikawa shrieked, voice hitting frequencies only dogs could hear. “THEY’RE LYING—YOU GUYS I SWEAR TO—”

Through the chaos, you smiled. Soft. Infuriating. “I thought it was cute. Kinda cool, too.”

Oikawa’s brain blue-screened.

Because that was the worst part. You liked it. You remembered him. And now his heart was pounding loud enough to echo across the entire prefecture. He likes you. Oikawa tooru likes you.

“Aw,” Hanamaki cooed. “Captain’s blushing.”

“I’M NOT—!”

“Wait, wait,” Matsukawa cut in, eyes gleaming.

“[Name], you do know our captain has this weird habit of staring at the bleachers during timeouts, right?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

"Like he's looking for someone" Hanamaki singsonged.

Oikawa made a sound like a deflating balloon. “You all just lost your bestfriend priveledges.”

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi said solemnly, “just admit you like that she watched—”

“NO!” Oikawa lunged, spectacularly missing as Iwaizumi dodged.

“HE DOES THAT,” Hanamaki told you brightly, “when he’s—”

Oikawa’s shoe connected with his shin.

LOSER MEN ON TOP UGHHHHH.

[shiyorin]

Author's note: Come from my private au, has so many settings I am never said before but I think it is funny, must post.

Tumblr formatting sucks so I had to change it like this.

EXPOSED: 133 SPICY SECRETS THE IMPERIUM DOESN’T WANT YOU TO KNOW — WHAT THE PRIMARCHS REALLY DO AFTER DARK!

From kink collections to bedroom blunders - the juiciest, weirdest, and most heretical habits of the Emperor’s golden boys. You won’t believe #26… and #90? Absolutely illegal in 7 systems!

The Lion maintains absolute discipline even during climax, barely changes expression.

Has a secret passionate side that only emerges with you.

Silent hunter in the streets, vocal beast in the sheets.

Despite his serious demeanor, he makes cat noises when he comes. Not sexy growls, literal "meow" sounds.

Has never discussed his intimate life with anyone, total compartmentalization.

Possesses surprisingly detailed knowledge of ancient Terran tantric practices.

Watch you like prey before making a move, intense predatory stare.

Has a ritual of knightly "service" that leaves you breathless.

Fulgrim has tried literally every sexual practice in Imperial records.

Can delay his climax indefinitely through perfect muscular control.

His perfectionism extends to sexual performance, practices techniques alone.

Has a mirror positioned above his bed, claiming it's "for technique refinement."

Keeps a detailed journal rating every sexual encounter on multiple criteria.

Always smells like different exotic perfumes depending on his mood.

Perturabo pproaches pleasure like an engineering problem to be solved with precision.

Records biometric data during encounters to analyze optimal techniques.

His jealousy issues manifest as possessiveness in relationship.

He has body image issues despite being built like a Greek god. When you started calling his stretch marks "triumph lines" and his response was to short-circuit emotionally.

Surprisingly responsive to praise during intimate moments.

Despite his gruff exterior, he cries during his refractory period. Every time.

Has trust issues that translate to control dynamics in bed.

Jaghatai's speed isn't just for the battlefield, it can vibrate certain body parts.

Never stays in one position for long, constant motion and rhythm.

Has a thing for outdoor sex.

Braids his hair specially for intimate occasions, pulls it out after.

Makes a distinctive sound during climax that's become legendary.

Knows pleasure techniques from dozens of different cultures.

Sometimes recites war poems during particularly intense moments.

Leman's heightened sense of smell means he can detect arousal from across a room.

Growls during climax, not metaphorically, actually growls.

Has fucked in every environment imaginable, including in blizzards.

Gets rough during full moons without even realizing it.

His beard provides unexpected sensations that drive you wild.

His dirty talk is surprisingly poetic, often in ancient Fenrisian dialects.

Has a thing for biting, leaves marks that last for weeks.

Dorn approaches sex with the same directness as everything else, tells you exactly what he wants.

Has incredible endurance, can maintain the same position for hours without tiring.

He speaks exclusively in literal terms during sex. "I am now going to insert my penis into your vagina" is his idea of dirty talk. When you asked him to talk dirty, he told you about soil composition and drainage issues. Somehow, still hot.

He has never once lied, which made "how was it for you?" a terrifying question until you learned to be more specific.

Never exaggerates or falsifies his reactions, 100% authentic responses.

Has an unexpected thing for bondage, loves testing the strength of different restraints.

Always keeps his word on promised pleasures, reliability is his hallmark.

If you want to peg him, he will provide a detailed structural analysis of your technique, complete with suggestions for improved angle of entry.

Konrad can see your deepest desires through his precognitive abilities.

Only has sex in complete darkness, says the shadows "speak to him" then.

Has a thing for fear, gets aroused when you are slightly afraid.

Never makes a sound during sex, total silence except for breathing.

Sometimes whispers your future to you during climax, usually disturbing stuff.

He's a little spoon who needs to be the big spoon until he falls asleep, then immediately reverts to little.

He keeps a "justice journal" where he ranks everyone's crimes and appropriate punishments. Apparently, your crime is "excessive smugness" and your punishment is "thorough pleasure correction."

Sanguinius's wings are erogenous zones, extremely sensitive to touch.

His beauty isn't just physical, emits a pheromone that intensifies attraction.

Blood rushes to his wings during arousal, making them flush visibly.

His enhanced hearing means he can detect the slightest changes in heartbeat and breathing.

You can feel a euphoric blood rush in his presence, possibly psychic.

Has a tragic fear of hurting you, requires absolute trust.

He looks like an angel but fucks like a demon. The dichotomy is disorienting.

He apologizes after dirty talk. "You're a filthy cockslut-I'm sorry, that was disrespectful.”

Despite Ferrus's gruff exterior, whispers surprisingly tender things during intimate moments.

Temperature of his hands can be adjusted for different sensations.

Always checks in verbally throughout, consent is non-negotiable.

Can go for multiple rounds with zero recovery time.

Has a thing for hands, loves both giving and receiving hand pleasure.

Contrary to expectations, Angron is extremely controlled in bed, afraid of hurting you.

His rage translates to intense passion when properly channeled.

The Butcher's Nails make his pleasure/pain responses unpredictable.

Requires specialized reinforced beds, has broken dozens.

Gets emotional after particularly intense sessions, sometimes even cries.

Prefers if you aren’t intimidated by his size or reputation.

His heart rate during sex would kill a normal human.

Guilliman approaches sex with tactical precision, maps erogenous zones like campaign targets.

Keeps a detailed spreadsheet analyzing performance and your satisfaction.

Actually wrote a private codex on sexual techniques, 500 pages, fully illustrated.

Always showers immediately before and after.

Has a thing for authority figure, ironic given his own position.

Surprisingly imaginative once he trusts you enough to relax.

Asks for performance reviews afterward, genuinely wants to improve.

Despite his appearance, Mortarion is unexpectedly gentle and attentive.

Has a breathing kink, loves controlled breath play.

His body temperature runs cold, creating interesting sensations for you.

Surprisingly flexible.

Has never been naked in front of anyone, always keeps something on.

His scarred skin is extremely sensitive, especially along his back.

Silent during sex except for carefully controlled breathing.

Prefers total darkness, claims it "equalizes the experience."

Magnus can psychically enhance your pleasure, making you feel everything he feels.

His eye glows brighter during arousal.

Can maintain an erection for days through psychic control.

Know exactly what you want before you do, mind reading has its benefits.

Has invented several positions that would be physically impossible without telekinesis.

Sometimes accidentally projects his orgasms psychically, causing everyone nearby to feel it.

His extensive library includes the galaxy's largest collection of erotic literature.

Has had sex while simultaneously reading a book.

Horus has a thing for power dynamics, he loves when you challenge his authority before ultimately submitting to him.

His stamina is legendary, often going for hours without breaks.

Gets incredibly turned on when called "Warmaster" in bed.

Has a secret collection of handcuffs from every world he's conquered.

That scar on his body? Extremely sensitive to touch, instant arousal trigger.

Secretly recorded himself with you, keeps the videos in a hidden vault.

Has a thing for doing it in war rooms, especially on strategic tables.

Lorgar treats sex like a religious experience, complete with rituals and chanting.

Has written erotic poetry that would make experienced courtesans blush.

Takes his time, foreplay can last hours as he "worships" every inch.

His voice alone can bring you to the edge, has studied sonic stimulation.

Maintains eye contact throughout, intensely spiritual connection.

Has a thing for confession scenarios, wants to hear your darkest desires.

Always burns special incense that heightens sensitivity.

Has sacred words tattooed in places only you discover.

Vulkan's body temperature runs extremely hot, like making love to a furnace.

Gives the best post-sex cuddles in the Imperium, like being wrapped in a warm blanket.

Has a surprising affinity for sensual massage, can work out knots you didn't know you had.

Laughs during sex, finds joy in physical connection.

Always focuses on your pleasure before his own.

His heartbeat is audible and hypnotic during intimate moments.

Corax can literally turn into shadows during particularly intense moments.

Has a thing for heights, loves balconies, rooftops, and flying vehicles.

So quiet during sex you sometimes forget he's there until he touches you.

Can see perfectly in darkness, knows exactly where to touch.

Sometimes sprouts shadow-wings during climax, startling the unprepared.

His voice drops to hypnotic registers during dirty talk.

Enjoys watching from the shadows before joining in.

You're never sure which twin you're actually with, sometimes they switch mid-session.

Can perfectly mimic the sexual techniques of anyone they've observed.

Keep a network of informants reporting on the sexual preferences of your.

Have developed secret pleasure points unknown to standard anatomy.

Sometimes speak in unison during threesomes, eerily synchronized.

Have been known to disguise themselves as servants to spy on people's sexual habits.

One likes to be on top, one likes to be on bottom, but they never specify which is which.

The Emperor's psychic presence intensifies pleasure to godlike levels.

Can appear differently to different, manifests as your ideal lover.

Time seems to stretch in his presence, moments of pleasure can feel like eternities.

His golden aura becomes blinding during moments of passion.

The Primarchs' various quirks are genetic echoes of the Emperor's own preferences, each inherited different aspects.

*******

You stared at the crumpled list in your hands, blinking rapidly as you processed what you were reading. The paper had been slipped under your door sometime during the night, the handwriting alternating between several different styles as if multiple people had contributed to it.

"What the fuck," you whispered, scanning the detailed, disturbingly detailed, descriptions of the Primarchs' supposed sexual habits.

This had to be retaliation for your artwork. Ever since you'd been caught sketching that sexual piece featuring Horus and Sanguinius in a rather compromising position, things had escalated into a bizarre war of increasingly sexual content between you and the Emperor's sons.

Your data-slate pinged with an incoming message. Seventeen new commission requests from seventeen different encrypted sources, all requesting artwork based on items from the list. Each offering payment that would make an Imperial Governor blush.

"Oh, it's fucking on," You cracking your knuckles as you reached for your stylus.

********

The first anatomical "reference session" was scheduled for that afternoon. Magnus had requested a private meeting in the Librarium after hours, claiming he needed to discuss "important tactical matters" with the remembrance.

When you arrived, you found the crimson Primarch sitting rigidly at a massive wooden table, surrounded by ancient tomes and scrolls that definitely weren't tactical in nature.

"I received your list," you said without preamble, dropping the crumpled paper onto the table between them.

"What list?" Magnus asked, his single eye widening with what appeared to be genuine confusion.

"The 133 sexual facts about you and your brothers," you clarified, watching his face carefully. "Rather detailed information about your... preferences."

Magnus's crimson skin darkened further as he snatched up the paper and scanned it rapidly. "This is...I didn't-" he sputtered, then paused, his eye narrowing. "Number Eighty-eight is accurate, though."

"Which one was-" you started to ask before catching yourself. "Not the point. Did you and your brothers create this as some kind of joke? Retaliation for my artwork?"

"I assure you, I had nothing to do with this," Magnus said, still reading the list with increasing distress. "Though I suspect Fulgrim or perhaps the twins..." His voice trailed off as he reached the section about himself. "That's... uncomfortably specific."

"So these are accurate?" you couldn't help asking, professional curiosity getting the better of you.

"I neither confirm nor deny," Magnus replied automatically, though his continued deepening complexion suggested otherwise.

"Right," you nodded, retrieving the list and tucking it away. "Well, regardless of its origin, I've received seventeen commission requests based on it. Including yours about psychic pleasure enhancement."

Magnus choked on nothing. "I didn't-"

"The request came from 'definitely_not_magnus@librarium.imp,'" you interrupted dryly. "Very subtle."

"That could be anyone," Magnus protested weakly.

"It was written in Prosperine hieroglyphics," you countered. "With annotations in a language that doesn't technically exist yet."

Magnus slumped in defeat. "Fine. I may have sent a... hypothetical inquiry."

"About whether I could accurately depict psychic pleasure transference in artistic form," you completed. "For which you'd need to demonstrate the technique. For accuracy."

"Precisely," Magnus nodded, scholarly demeanor returning. "It's a complex psychic phenomenon that requires direct observation to properly capture."

"Uh-huh," you said skeptically. "And this has nothing to do with item ninety-one on the list about you accidentally broadcasting your orgasms psychically?"

Magnus's eye darted away. "A preposterous exaggeration."

"So that didn't happen during the Ullanor campaign? Because I heard an entire regiment of Imperial Army suddenly collapsed in ecstasy during your private meditation time."

"A coincidence," Magnus insisted. "Mass hysteria."

"Right," you grinned. "So about this commission..."

********

The next morning found you in the training cages, ostensibly observing combat techniques for "assassinorum purposes" but actually gathering reference material for the flood of commissions that had arrived overnight.

Jaghatai and Leman were sparring, stripped to the waist, their compression leggings leaving little to the imagination as they grappled and threw each other around the cage. A small crowd had gathered to watch the Primarchs train, but you had managed to secure a front-row position with your sketchbook.

"Enjoying the view?" Torgaddon asked, sliding up beside you.

"Research," you replied without looking up from your rapid sketching. "Anatomical references for commission work."

"Uh-huh," Torgaddon nodded skeptically. "And the fact that you're focusing on their glutes and crotches is purely professional."

"The gluteal muscles are key to understanding proper movement dynamics," you explained with mock seriousness. "Also, item twenty-three indicates Jaghatai 'never stays in one position for long, constant motion and rhythm.' I need to capture that accurately."

"You actually believe that list?" Torgaddon asked incredulously.

"I'm verifying it empirically," you corrected. "Scientific method and all that."

Just then, Jaghatai executed a particularly impressive takedown that left Leman pinned beneath him, both Primarchs breathing heavily and glistening with sweat. They held the position a beat too long, eyes darting to where you sat sketching, before Leman growled something and they separated.

"They're showing off for you," Torgaddon observed.

"Of course they are," you agreed, adding detailing to your sketch. "And I'm getting excellent reference material because of it. Win-win."

"This is going to end badly," Torgaddon predicted.

"This is going to end profitably," you corrected. "I've made more money in the past week than in my last three assassination missions combined."

"Speaking of which," Torgaddon lowered your voice, "there's a rumor that the Emperor himself has commissioned you for something."

Your stylus paused momentarily. "Where did you hear that?"

"So it's true!" Torgaddon’s eyes widened.

"Neither confirm nor deny," you muttered, returning to your sketching. "Client confidentiality."

"By the Throne," Torgaddon breathed. "What did he ask for?"

"If, and I stress if, such a commission existed," you said carefully, "it would be for a classical portrait. Nothing more."

"Classical as in...?"

"Classical as in Ancient Terran style. Renaissance era."

"Nude?" Torgaddon pressed.

"Artistically draped," you corrected primly.

"The Emperor wants you to draw him like one of your Terran girls," Torgaddon marveled. "The actual Emperor of Mankind."

"This conversation isn't happening," you insisted, focusing intently on your sketching as Ferrus Manus entered the training cage, also stripped to the waist, his metal arms gleaming under the lights.

"Your pupils just dilated," Torgaddon noted.

"Lighting change," you dismissed, though your increased sketching speed suggested otherwise.

"Right," Torgaddon drawled. "Well, while you're conducting your 'research,' you might want to know that father is looking for you. Something about providing 'detailed references' for his triple-self commission."

"Already scheduled," you replied without looking up. "After the war council. He's bringing reference materials."

"What kind of reference materials could father possibly-" Torgaddon started to ask, then shook his head. "Actually, don't tell me. I don't want to know."

"Wise decision," you agreed, flipping to a new page as Ferrus began demonstrating a series of strikes that showcased his impressive torso musculature. "Very wise indeed."

********

The Emperor's private gallery was unlike anything you had ever seen, a vast chamber filled with artwork spanning human history, from primitive cave paintings to hololithic masterpieces that seemed to shift and move as you walked past them.

And here you were, presenting your completed commission to the Master of Mankind himself.

"The brushwork is exquisite," the Emperor commented, examining the large canvas you had delivered. "You've captured the classical style perfectly."

"Thank you," you replied, trying to maintain your professional demeanor despite standing before the most powerful being in the galaxy, discussing what was essentially an erotic portrait.

"The musculature is anatomically precise," he continued, "yet idealized in the classical tradition. Your understanding of chiaroscuro is impressive."

"I studied the ancient masters extensively," you explained, which was true, you'd spent three days in the Imperial archives researching Renaissance techniques for this commission.

"And the draped fabric creates just the right balance between revelation and mystery," the Emperor noted, his golden eyes studying the painting with the intensity of a sun. "Excellent work."

The painting depicted the Emperor in a classical pose reminiscent of ancient Terran deity portrayals, strategically draped fabric preserving modesty while suggesting the perfection beneath. It was tasteful yet undeniably sensual, exactly what he had requested.

"I'm pleased it meets your expectations," you said, feeling oddly nervous despite your training.

"More than meets them," the Emperor assured you. "I shall add it to my private collection immediately." He gestured to a section of the gallery that appeared to be accessible only through a psychically locked doorway. "Your compensation has been transferred to your accounts, with a substantial bonus."

"You're too generous," you began, but the Emperor raised a hand.

"I reward excellence appropriately," he stated simply. "And I understand you've been providing similar services to my sons."

You froze, unsure how to respond. "I-"

"No need for concern," the Emperor assured you, his perfect lips curving into a slight smile. "Creative expression takes many forms. And frankly, they've been more focused on their duties since your commissions began. Less... tension among them."

"I'm... glad to hear that," you managed, processing the fact that the Emperor of Mankind was essentially approving your pornographic side business.

"I would, however, suggest discretion regarding the list that has been circulating," the Emperor added, his golden eyes twinkling with amusement. "Some of those items hit rather close to home."

"You've seen the list?" you blurted before you could stop yourself.

"I see everything eventually," the Emperor replied enigmatically. "Though I suspect Malcador had a hand in its creation. He always did have a peculiar sense of humor."

Before you could process this revelation, the Emperor gestured toward the exit. "I look forward to seeing your future work, Remembrance. Perhaps we might discuss another commission at a later date."

Taking the dismissal for what it was, you bowed slightly and turned to leave. As you reached the doorway, the Emperor's voice stopped you.

"Oh, also? Item One-hundred-and-thirty-two is entirely accurate."

Your mind raced to recall the item in question, something about his golden aura becoming blinding during passion. By the time you turned back to respond, the Emperor had vanished, leaving you alone in the gallery with the distinct impression you'd just been teased by the Master of Mankind himself.

"What even is my life right now?" You muttered, making your way back to your quarters where seventeen more commissions awaited your attention.

[gasgasdaily]

Ferrari's special works for the Group B classification, the 288 GTO.

During the 80s Ferrari was experimenting with stuffing turbocharged technology that was from their race cars onto their street cars which resulted with the 208 Turbo which spawned from the Ferrari 308 itself albeit with a downsized V8 from a 2.9L NA to a 2L turbocharged V8. However, due to the limited knowledge of turbochargers still, Ferrari fumbled with the 208 Turbo that it came without an intercooler which severely restricted power output thus even with the turbo, the 2L V8 only made approx 215hp which was woefully painful in a Ferrari.

Regardless, Ferrari wanted to go racing and with the Group B ruling being passed down in 1982, Ferrari thought their time to shine was coming. They instantly prepped a few Ferrari 308 GTS into a rally spec setup and being that the 308 GTS was already made, it didn't need any special homologation units at all but just filing for homologation and change parts onto the car.

The car did well at several stages but by the end of 1982, the very same year it competed in the WRC, Ferrari knew that their car wasn't as competitive as they thought and quickly redesigned another machine for full homologation and to stay competitive in Group B and that became the 288 GTO.

To be quick in production, Ferrari took the basis of the 308 chassis, sculped it from there, modified body parts to be sleeker and lighter and also swapping a new engine into it with the 2.9L Twin-turbo F114B V8. In its homologated street form, the car made 400hp which, for a road car, was immense power during that time period. However, the car's entire concept wasn't done till 1984 but in 1983, a whole shocking event in rallying occured and changed the fate of the 288 GTO.

During the 1983 WRC season, Audi and Lancia was locking horns and the fight for the World Drivers and Constructors fight was hot. On one hand, you have Audi with their skwanky new Audi Quattro with their AWD system and on the other you have Lancia with their 037 in RWD form which was the racing homologation of the Monte Carlo. The fight did eventually gave Lancia the Constructors but the Audi had proven to be quicker everywhere on loose surface and can be competent on tarmac courses also thus by the end of 1983, everyone was scrambling to build turbocharged machines and most importantly, AWD as the writing was on the wall that even Lancia had switched to that formula by 1984. However, Ferrari had somehow not gotten the memo plus with the tight financial situation that Ferrari was in at that time, they couldn't scrap the project to build a new AWD machine thus they switched target and built the 288 GTO for another class of Group B racing which was circuit GT racing rather than rallying.

Yet again, fate threw the whole project into the can. In 1986, two tragic races occured with one in Portugal involving a Ford RS200 and another in San Remo involving a Lancia Delta S4 killed the whole Group B outright. Suddenly, Ferrari found nowhere to race the car with but with customers already placing orders down, they had no choice but to churn the car out and it became a masterpiece.

The whole car weighed just 1,150kg which was very light, even lighter than the 308 it was based on by at least 400kg and it was also the first Ferrari to be made out of carbon fiber and fibreglass materials for its road car. With the twin-turbo V8, it propelled the light car to a 0-60mph in just 5sec which was real impressive at that time and with a top speed of 190mph/306kmh, it was also the fastest street-legal machine in the world at that time.

Car would be overshadowed by the F40 that would come later on but still, it was a very impressive special vehicle that subconciously helped Ferrari test stuff also for the legendary F40 to come.

[devdozes]

I have a request(idea?) Phainon x Reader but the reader is just silly and 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂(maybe as a joke but who knows?), like the first time they met Flame Reaver the reader just goes "yo thats kinda hot" and Phainon is just like "😭?"

whoever did this request, i love you so much this is my FAVOURTIE fic I wrote so far because reader is literally me I wud say that to flame reaver too 😋

It was supposed to be a dramatic, high-stakes moment.

The air was thick with the scent of burning embers, the battlefield illuminated by the eerie glow of searing energy. A gust of wind howled through the desolate ruins, carrying the weight of the impending clash. Across the way, standing amidst the carnage, was him.

Flame Reaver. The fearsome, nameless swordmaster who moved with the precision of a specter and the intensity of an inferno. His dark armor shimmered under the glow of molten embers, his sword radiating raw, untamed power. A figure out of legend, spoken of only in hushed tones.

The perfect embodiment of destruction itself.

And the first thing you said when you laid eyes on him was:

"Damn, that's kinda hot..Smash."

Phainon, who had been prepared for quite literally any response except that, visibly short-circuited. His cerulean eyes widened in absolute, brain-melting disbelief as he slowly turned his head toward you. "...What."

Flame Reaver, the harbinger of ruin, the swordmaster shrouded in mystery, also hesitated. The ominous glow of his sword flickered for a brief moment as if it too was trying to process what just happened. You swore you saw him twitch slightly, and for a moment, the air of utter menace around him wavered.

"I beg your pardon?" Flame Reaver’s voice was low and edged with lethal sharpness, yet undeniably confused.

You shrugged, completely unfazed by the legendary warrior who had singlehandedly leveled entire strongholds. "I mean, look at you. Mysterious, masked, insane—what's not to love? I’m just saying, if you weren’t trying to kill us, I’d be down bad." who says you aren't downbad rn

A suffocating silence settled over the battlefield. Somewhere in the distance, a crumbling structure finally gave up on life and collapsed.

Phainon looked like he wanted to crawl into the ground and join Cyrene in the afterlife.

"Are you serious right now?" he half-sputtered, gesturing vaguely toward the absolutely terrifying figure in front of you both. "That’s a whole Flame Reaver! Legendary assassin! Merciless executioner! Walking disaster! That’s your takeaway?"

"Listen, Phai," you said, patting his arm, "I respect skill and aesthetic when I see it. And he’s got both. So, I'd hit it."

Flame Reaver stood there, sword still poised, yet somehow looking like he regretted showing up today. This was not how these encounters usually went. He was used to fear, to anger, to desperate last stands—but this?

"Enough of this nonsense." His voice regained its sharpness, though there was an undeniable tension to it now. Was he actually flustered? "You stand in my way, and I will cut you down."

"See?" You turned to Phainon, who was now rubbing his temples like he had an existential headache. "Smooth threat delivery. Dramatic. Slightly poetic. Ten out of ten execution. Theatrical but not over-the-top."

"This is not the time to be fangirling—"

Before Phainon could finish, Flame Reaver finally lunged. Instinct took over as both you and Phainon moved in tandem, blocking the attack and forcing him back. The battlefield ignited with sparks and shifting flames, the true fight finally beginning.

But even as you fought, even as you dodged and struck with precision, you could feel it—the slight hesitation in Flame Reaver’s movements, the split-second pauses in his attacks. He was distracted.

The battle should have been fierce, relentless, a display of sheer power and mastery over combat.

Instead, it was whatever the hell this was.

Flame Reaver’s sword came down in a deadly arc, slicing through the air with blistering heat. You barely dodged in time, pivoting out of the way with a playful grin. “Damn, that was smooth,” you mused, spinning your own weapon in your hands. “You move with such deadly grace. It’s honestly kinda hot.”

Phainon let out an actual, audible strangled noise. “Can you NOT flirt while we’re fighting for our lives!?”

Flame Reaver hesitated for a fraction of a second. It was slight, nearly imperceptible, but it was there. And you saw it. The ghost of uncertainty, the pause in his fluidity—like his brain just momentarily bluescreened at your words.

You gasped dramatically, eyes widening. “Wait… did that actually get to you?” You dodged another strike, but your grin widened. “Oh my Titans, you’re flustered.”

Flame Reaver scoffed, though his movements were a tad stiffer now, his sword grip a little tighter. “You speak nonsense.”

“Oh, do I?” You parried his next attack, stepping in closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. “You fight like a man with conviction. Strong, precise, unyielding. And yet…” You leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something softer. “I can see it in the way you hesitate. I bet under all that mystery, you’ve got a soft side.”

The air shifted. There was a crackle in the tension between you, a static charge. Flame Reaver’s mask concealed most of his expression, flickered with something unreadable.

Phainon, watching this entire exchange with increasing horror, threw up his hands. “I hate this. I hate everything about this.”

Flame Reaver finally seemed to snap out of it, his grip tightening on his blade as he exhaled sharply. “You test my patience.”

“And yet,” you cooed, dodging his next attack effortlessly, “you still haven’t landed a hit on me. Could it be… distraction?”

Phainon groaned loudly. “I swear to Titans, if you make this weird, I’m walking into the Black Tide myself.”

You smirked, eyes flicking toward Flame Reaver. “I think I’m growing on him.”

“I will end you.”

“Oh? Is that a promise, big guy?”

Flame Reaver’s entire body visibly tensed. For the first time in what was probably his entire existence, he seemed at a loss for words. Phainon actually had to grab you by the collar and yank you back before things escalated further.

“This is an actual battlefield,” Phainon hissed, shaking you slightly. “Not a date!”

You pouted but relented, twirling your weapon in your hands before getting back into stance. “Fine, fine. But if we win, I’m totally asking him for his teleslate number.”

Phainon visibly cringed. “I need therapy.”

Flame Reaver, who had yet to fully recover from the absolute nonsense you were spouting, finally let out a long breath before raising his sword again. “Enough talk.” Yet Flame Reaver was maybe considering the offer.