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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

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Tesla's Dieselgate

Elon Musk lies a lot. He lies about being a “utopian socialist.” He lies about being a “free speech absolutist.” He lies about which companies he founded:

https://www.businessinsider.com/tesla-cofounder-martin-eberhard-interview-history-elon-musk-ev-market-2023-2 He lies about being the “chief engineer” of those companies:

https://www.quora.com/Was-Elon-Musk-the-actual-engineer-behind-SpaceX-and-Tesla

He lies about really stupid stuff, like claiming that comsats that share the same spectrum will deliver steady broadband speeds as they add more users who each get a narrower slice of that spectrum:

https://www.eff.org/wp/case-fiber-home-today-why-fiber-superior-medium-21st-century-broadband

The fundamental laws of physics don’t care about this bullshit, but people do. The comsat lie convinced a bunch of people that pulling fiber to all our homes is literally impossible — as though the electrical and phone lines that come to our homes now were installed by an ancient, lost civilization. Pulling new cabling isn’t a mysterious art, like embalming pharaohs. We do it all the time. One of the poorest places in America installed universal fiber with a mule named “Ole Bub”:

https://www.newyorker.com/tech/annals-of-technology/the-one-traffic-light-town-with-some-of-the-fastest-internet-in-the-us

Previous tech barons had “reality distortion fields,” but Musk just blithely contradicts himself and pretends he isn’t doing so, like a budget Steve Jobs. There’s an entire site devoted to cataloging Musk’s public lies:

https://elonmusk.today/

But while Musk lacks the charm of earlier Silicon Valley grifters, he’s much better than they ever were at running a long con. For years, he’s been promising “full self driving…next year.”

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/herbies-revenge/#100-billion-here-100-billion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money

He’s hasn’t delivered, but he keeps claiming he has, making Teslas some of the deadliest cars on the road:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2023/06/10/tesla-autopilot-crashes-elon-musk/

Tesla is a giant shell-game masquerading as a car company. The important thing about Tesla isn’t its cars, it’s Tesla’s business arrangement, the Tesla-Financial Complex:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/24/no-puedo-pagar-no-pagara/#Rat

Once you start unpacking Tesla’s balance sheets, you start to realize how much the company depends on government subsidies and tax-breaks, combined with selling carbon credits that make huge, planet-destroying SUVs possible, under the pretense that this is somehow good for the environment:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/14/for-sale-green-indulgences/#killer-analogy

But even with all those financial shenanigans, Tesla’s got an absurdly high valuation, soaring at times to 1600x its profitability:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/15/hoover-calling/#intangibles

That valuation represents a bet on Tesla’s ability to extract ever-higher rents from its customers. Take Tesla’s batteries: you pay for the battery when you buy your car, but you don’t own that battery. You have to rent the right to use its full capacity, with Tesla reserving the right to reduce how far you go on a charge based on your willingness to pay:

https://memex.craphound.com/2017/09/10/teslas-demon-haunted-cars-in-irmas-path-get-a-temporary-battery-life-boost/

That’s just one of the many rent-a-features that Tesla drivers have to shell out for. You don’t own your car at all: when you sell it as a used vehicle, Tesla strips out these features you paid for and makes the next driver pay again, reducing the value of your used car and transfering it to Tesla’s shareholders:

https://www.theverge.com/2020/2/6/21127243/tesla-model-s-autopilot-disabled-remotely-used-car-update

To maintain this rent-extraction racket, Tesla uses DRM that makes it a felony to alter your own car’s software without Tesla’s permission. This is the root of all autoenshittification:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

This is technofeudalism. Whereas capitalists seek profits (income from selling things), feudalists seek rents (income from owning the things other people use). If Telsa were a capitalist enterprise, then entrepreneurs could enter the market and sell mods that let you unlock the functionality in your own car:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/11/1-in-3/#boost-50

But because Tesla is a feudal enterprise, capitalists must first secure permission from the fief, Elon Musk, who decides which companies are allowed to compete with him, and how.

Once a company owns the right to decide which software you can run, there’s no limit to the ways it can extract rent from you. Blocking you from changing your device’s software lets a company run overt scams on you. For example, they can block you from getting your car independently repaired with third-party parts.

But they can also screw you in sneaky ways. Once a device has DRM on it, Section 1201 of the DMCA makes it a felony to bypass that DRM, even for legitimate purposes. That means that your DRM-locked device can spy on you, and because no one is allowed to explore how that surveillance works, the manufacturer can be incredibly sloppy with all the personal info they gather:

https://www.cnbc.com/2019/03/29/tesla-model-3-keeps-data-like-crash-videos-location-phone-contacts.html

All kinds of hidden anti-features can lurk in your DRM-locked car, protected from discovery, analysis and criticism by the illegality of bypassing the DRM. For example, Teslas have a hidden feature that lets them lock out their owners and summon a repo man to drive them away if you have a dispute about a late payment:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

DRM is a gun on the mantlepiece in Act I, and by Act III, it goes off, revealing some kind of ugly and often dangerous scam. Remember Dieselgate? Volkswagen created a line of demon-haunted cars: if they thought they were being scrutinized (by regulators measuring their emissions), they switched into a mode that traded performance for low emissions. But when they believed themselves to be unobserved, they reversed this, emitting deadly levels of NOX but delivering superior mileage.

The conversion of the VW diesel fleet into mobile gas-chambers wouldn’t have been possible without DRM. DRM adds a layer of serious criminal jeopardy to anyone attempting to reverse-engineer and study any device, from a phone to a car. DRM let Apple claim to be a champion of its users’ privacy even as it spied on them from asshole to appetite:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Now, Tesla is having its own Dieselgate scandal. A stunning investigation by Steve Stecklow and Norihiko Shirouzu for Reuters reveals how Tesla was able to create its own demon-haunted car, which systematically deceived drivers about its driving range, and the increasingly desperate measures the company turned to as customers discovered the ruse:

https://www.reuters.com/investigates/special-report/tesla-batteries-range/

The root of the deception is very simple: Tesla mis-sells its cars by falsely claiming ranges that those cars can’t attain. Every person who ever bought a Tesla was defrauded.

But this fraud would be easy to detect. If you bought a Tesla rated for 353 miles on a charge, but the dashboard range predictor told you that your fully charged car could only go 150 miles, you’d immediately figure something was up. So your Telsa tells another lie: the range predictor tells you that you can go 353 miles.

But again, if the car continued to tell you it has 203 miles of range when it was about to run out of charge, you’d figure something was up pretty quick — like, the first time your car ran out of battery while the dashboard cheerily informed you that you had 203 miles of range left.

So Teslas tell a third lie: when the battery charge reached about 50%, the fake range is replaced with the real one. That way, drivers aren’t getting mass-stranded by the roadside, and the scam can continue.

But there’s a new problem: drivers whose cars are rated for 353 miles but can’t go anything like that far on a full charge naturally assume that something is wrong with their cars, so they start calling Tesla service and asking to have the car checked over.

This creates a problem for Tesla: those service calls can cost the company $1,000, and of course, there’s nothing wrong with the car. It’s performing exactly as designed. So Tesla created its boldest fraud yet: a boiler-room full of anti-salespeople charged with convincing people that their cars weren’t broken.

This new unit — the “diversion team” — was headquartered in a Nevada satellite office, which was equipped with a metal xylophone that would be rung in triumph every time a Tesla owner was successfully conned into thinking that their car wasn’t defrauding them.

When a Tesla owner called this boiler room, the diverter would run remote diagnostics on their car, then pronounce it fine, and chide the driver for having energy-hungry driving habits (shades of Steve Jobs’s “You’re holding it wrong”):

https://www.wired.com/2010/06/iphone-4-holding-it-wrong/

The drivers who called the Diversion Team weren’t just lied to, they were also punished. The Tesla app was silently altered so that anyone who filed a complaint about their car’s range was no longer able to book a service appointment for any reason. If their car malfunctioned, they’d have to request a callback, which could take several days.

Meanwhile, the diverters on the diversion team were instructed not to inform drivers if the remote diagnostics they performed detected any other defects in the cars.

The diversion team had a 750 complaint/week quota: to juke this stat, diverters would close the case for any driver who failed to answer the phone when they were eventually called back. The center received 2,000+ calls every week. Diverters were ordered to keep calls to five minutes or less.

Eventually, diverters were ordered to cease performing any remote diagnostics on drivers’ cars: a source told Reuters that “Thousands of customers were told there is nothing wrong with their car” without any diagnostics being performed.

Predicting EV range is an inexact science as many factors can affect battery life, notably whether a journey is uphill or downhill. Every EV automaker has to come up with a figure that represents some kind of best guess under a mix of conditions. But while other manufacturers err on the side of caution, Tesla has the most inaccurate mileage estimates in the industry, double the industry average.

Other countries’ regulators have taken note. In Korea, Tesla was fined millions and Elon Musk was personally required to state that he had deceived Tesla buyers. The Korean regulator found that the true range of Teslas under normal winter conditions was less than half of the claimed range.

Now, many companies have been run by malignant narcissists who lied compulsively — think of Thomas Edison, archnemesis of Nikola Tesla himself. The difference here isn’t merely that Musk is a deeply unfit monster of a human being — but rather, that DRM allows him to defraud his customers behind a state-enforced opaque veil. The digital computers at the heart of a Tesla aren’t just demons haunting the car, changing its performance based on whether it believes it is being observed — they also allow Musk to invoke the power of the US government to felonize anyone who tries to peer into the black box where he commits his frauds.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

This Sunday (July 30) at 1530h, I’m appearing on a panel at Midsummer Scream in Long Beach, CA, to discuss the wonderful, award-winning “Ghost Post” Haunted Mansion project I worked on for Disney Imagineering.

Image ID [A scene out of an 11th century tome on demon-summoning called 'Compendium rarissimum totius Artis Magicae sistematisatae per celeberrimos Artis hujus Magistros. Anno 1057. Noli me tangere.' It depicts a demon tormenting two unlucky would-be demon-summoners who have dug up a grave in a graveyard. One summoner is held aloft by his hair, screaming; the other screams from inside the grave he is digging up. The scene has been altered to remove the demon's prominent, urinating penis, to add in a Tesla supercharger, and a red Tesla Model S nosing into the scene.]

Image: Steve Jurvetson (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Tesla_Model_S_Indoors.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

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dreamauri · 2 months ago

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♪ — 𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗠 lando norris x fem! gallery coordinator! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . Because men yearn too, and Lando is the biggest yearner of them all. He spends his time chasing you, waiting for the right moment, and his reckless charm pulls you in, making you crave him despite your initial resistance. Now, you’re the one chasing him, unable to resist the pull he’s had on you all along (3.7k words)

( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )

You had no time for problems. Your life was already a balancing act on a tightrope stretched too thin, weighed down by responsibilities, expectations, and the little inconveniences that piled up like clutter in the corners of your mind. Another problem wasn’t just unwelcome—it was unthinkable.

Especially problems that came from dating.

And Lando? Lando was a problem you couldn’t afford.

You met him months ago. At first, he was just another customer—harmless, fleeting, nothing worth remembering. Then he became a donor, his generosity slipping through the cracks of your carefully maintained distance. And then, somehow, he became something else. Something of a problem you didn’t mind having. Unfortunately.

“You should stop sending me flowers,” you told him, the phone wedged between your ear and shoulder as you carefully set down the last of four pots of deep orange roses he had delivered to your studio. Their petals were impossibly soft, almost weightless beneath your fingers, like the whisper of silk sheets in the morning. The color was rare, difficult to find. A mystery, like so many things about him.

“Should I?” Lando’s voice hummed through the speaker, his smirk practically audible.

He was probably in a paddock somewhere, another race weekend stealing him away to some distant city, but you never bothered to check where. He never made you feel like he was gone.

“You don’t seem to mind,” he added, and damn him, he wasn’t wrong.

You liked the way he chased. How he lingered in the periphery like a shadow, always watching, always waiting. How he learned your coffee order without asking, walked you to your car without expectation, showed up at your events unannounced but never unwelcome. He played the part of something dangerous but never reckless, his obsession carefully measured, wrapped in velvet and tied with a bow.

You weren’t stupid.

Lando Norris would be a problem if you let him be.

So, you didn’t. Not entirely. But you never let him go either.

Not yet.

“—Hello.”

Lando’s voice cut through the conversation like the effortless glide of a brush on canvas, his presence slipping in behind you before you even had the chance to react. His arm curled around your waist, pulling you close with the kind of ease that suggested he belonged there. That he always had.

You looked up, startled. You hadn’t expected him to be here. Then again, Lando had a habit of showing up in places you didn’t expect him to be.

The gallery was dimly lit, warm and intimate, each painting strategically placed under soft golden light. But the atmosphere shifted the moment Lando appeared. You felt it in the way the man you had been speaking with suddenly stiffened, his polite smile faltering as his eyes flicked between you and the driver who was now entirely too close, entirely too relaxed.

Lando wasn’t invited tonight. You hadn’t extended an invitation, assuming he’d be flying back to England for post-race debriefs. Yet, here he was, standing beside you like he’d been meant to all along.

Not that he was unwelcome.

“Excuse us,” Lando said smoothly, his posh British accent adding a sharper edge to his words as he pulled you away without waiting for permission. He plucked the flute of champagne from your hand, bringing it to his lips in one effortless motion, downing the expensive bubbles in a single gulp. Then, without a second thought, he wiped his mouth against the sleeve of his suit, glancing around as if daring someone to stop him.

His eyes flicked back to you. “You were letting him touch you.”

You blinked, caught between amusement and exasperation. “He’s a curator,” you defended, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

Lando scoffed, scrunching his nose in visible disagreement. He turned toward the nearest painting, pretending to admire it—but you knew better. He wasn’t interested in the brushwork, the composition, or even the story behind it. His gaze lingered lower. He was looking at the price tag.

“He wants to fuck you,” Lando corrected bluntly, his voice low, even, certain.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you turned your attention to the painting instead of him. “So do you.”

“The difference is,” Lando started, squeezing your waist just enough to make you look back at him, “you let me.”

His confidence was unwavering, his gaze sharp as it locked onto yours.

You only smirked, meeting him with the same quiet arrogance.

Lando held your stare for a beat longer before turning back to the artwork. He gestured toward it with a tilt of his chin. “I want this one.”

You raised an eyebrow. He didn’t have the space for it in his apartment, and you both knew it. But the aesthetic matched, and the price was high—high enough that most buyers would hesitate. Not him.

Maybe he bought it to impress you. Maybe he did it just to keep you on your toes, knowing the most expensive pieces were the hardest to sell. Or maybe, just maybe, it was another unspoken way of marking his presence.

Because every time he showed up uninvited, he left with the most expensive painting in the room.

And every time, he won.

Lando is becoming a problem.

And he knows it.

It doesn’t stop him from showing up at your apartment, though—loose-limbed, lazy-eyed, a bag of takeout in one hand and a set of sketches in the other. Your sketches. The ones you’d left at his place after he’d dragged you back to his apartment following a night out clubbing.

You barely have the door open before he’s stepping inside, flashing you that smile. The one that always manages to worm its way past your defenses.

“Hi.” He greets you like he belongs here. Like he always has. “You forgot these.”

It’s an excuse. You both know it. The sketches weren’t important enough for him to make a trip across the city, but that’s never stopped him before. He likes having reasons to see you. He likes pushing the line of what’s invited and what’s not.

You sigh, shutting the door as you watch him toe off his shoes, making himself at home. He sets the takeout down on the counter before wandering into your kitchen, moving through the space with a familiarity that should annoy you. It doesn’t.

You still haven’t said a word by the time he reappears, two plates in hand, already dividing up the food he’s brought. He hands you a plate before sinking onto the couch beside you—so close there’s no space left between your bodies.

You glance at him, amused, but shake your head and start eating anyway. There’s no point in telling him off. He never listens.

Lando makes himself even more comfortable, grabbing the remote and flipping through Netflix like it’s his own account.

“You should teach me how to draw,” he says suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

You snort. “I should teach you manners.”

Without missing a beat, you reach forward, smudging a bit of dipping sauce onto the tip of his nose with your finger.

Lando blinks, unfazed. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he catches your wrist before you can pull away. His grip is gentle, but firm enough to keep you still. His ridiculous green eyes lock onto yours, holding your gaze steady as he leans in—

And licks the sauce off your fingertip.

The room shifts. Your breath catches.

The look he gives you is almost challenging, a silent dare lingering between you.

You don’t back down. Instead, you tilt your head, fingers curling under his jaw as you lean in, closing the distance between you with a kiss.

Lando hums in approval, smiling against your lips.

He might be a problem.

“I really ought to teach you some manners.” You scoff, swatting Lando’s bicep as he stood in front of you.

He only grinned wider, the picture of unbothered charm, holding a tray of coffee in one hand and a bouquet of orange roses in the other. Instead of answering, he lifted the flowers, hiding his face behind them in a poor attempt to suppress his laughter. His shoulders shook slightly, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as if that would stop the amusement from spilling over.

You rolled your eyes, swatting at his bicep again. Unfairly solid, as usual. He made no effort to dodge, letting you land the hit with that same insufferable smile. His stupid mullet, his stupid dimples—yes, he was attractive, but that wasn’t the point. He couldn’t just show up at your studio uninvited. What would your co-workers think? Worse, what if rumors started? People might assume you were the latest addition to the ever-growing list of paddock WAGs. You could not have that.

Lando was a problem.

And the worst part? He knew it.

When your little lecture finally came to an end, he peeked out from behind the roses, offering one of the coffee cups as a peace offering. You narrowed your eyes but took it anyway, muttering under your breath. He knew your order perfectly, down to the extra shot of espresso, the exact amount of sugar. How could you stay mad at him?

“Give me that.” You huffed, snatching the bouquet from his other hand and setting it on your desk.

You’d come to realize, over time, that orange roses weren’t just a nod to his team. They meant desire. Fascination. Enthusiasm.

Desire.

That asshole.

“You could always tell me to leave,” Lando mused, tilting his head, amusement twinkling in his ridiculous green eyes.

“Fuck off,” you muttered. Then, contradicting yourself entirely, you grabbed his bicep and dragged him toward the door. “You want lunch, right? Let’s go.”

Lando laughed but followed without resistance, letting you lead him outside.

Telling him to fuck off while pulling him along was irony at its finest.

Lando couldn’t keep himself off you for even a second.

If it wasn’t one hand on you, it was both. He was always there—holding your waist, resting a palm on the small of your back, wrapping an arm around you from behind. Like a tether, like gravity itself.

Lando had attachment issues.

They used to velcro him to his karting seat, and now he velcroed himself to you.

The event was private, exclusive, the kind of gala that required an invitation—one you actually had, unlike a certain Brit, who had a habit of showing up uninvited. But when Lando told you they’d be auctioning vintage art pieces, he knew your curiosity would win out. He knew you’d say yes.

Still, out of all the art in the room, the only masterpiece Lando was interested in was you. If his constant proximity wasn’t proof enough, the way he was looking at you certainly was—like he wanted to bite you, just for the sake of it.

Which, knowing him, wouldn’t be out of the question.

“This is so pretty,” you whispered, admiring a particular painting on display.

Lando hummed in agreement, though he wasn’t looking at the artwork. The only thing he deemed pretty in that moment was you—draped in the satin dress he’d bought specifically for tonight. Not that you didn’t have suitable dresses of your own. He just wanted to put you in papaya.

His hand slid along the inside of your thigh, fingers curling against your skin through the slit of your dress, giving a firm squeeze before pulling your chair closer to his own.

Attachment issues.

You ended up going home with the painting you’d been eyeing.

Shoes and heels were discarded on the floor as Lando lifted the frame from the wall beside the dinner table, making space for the new piece. He barely had time to step back and admire it before his hands were on you again, arms winding around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Then, just as he’d helped you into the dress earlier that evening—

He took his time taking you out of it.

You don’t understand Lando’s eyes.

They say a person’s eyes are a gateway to their soul, but Lando’s are something else entirely. Not hollow—no, there’s someone home—but dark. Watching you with something heavy, something obsessive, something that clings to his every thought like ivy wrapping around brick.

It isn’t romance. Not in the soft, poetic sense.

It’s devotion. The kind that erodes. The kind that will eat him alive one day.

He sits at the edge of your bed, hunched forward, those dark eyes fixed on you as you sit at your vanity. The P1 Singapore trophy rests in your hands, cold and gleaming under the soft light. You admire it, running your fingers along the engraved lettering, wearing nothing but a satin robe.

“Can I keep it?” The question slips out before you even register it.

“Whatever you want, it’s yours,” Lando answers without hesitation. He’s already moving, crossing the room in a few strides, crouching beside you. His lips find your neck in a soft kiss, breath warm against your skin. “Whatever it is in this world you want, it’s yours.”

You smile, biting your lip as you meet his gaze.

Those dark eyes.

“And if I tell you I want you to leave?” you ask, turning to face him fully.

Lando flinches. It’s small, but it’s there. A microsecond of vulnerability before he straightens, exhaling as he runs a hand through his curls.

“I’ll leave.” His voice is rougher now, giving in too easily as he gathers his clothes off the floor, his movements stiff.

“But I didn’t tell you to leave.” Your voice is softer this time. “I said if.”

He freezes mid-step, groaning as he tilts his head back in frustration.

“Stop toying with me, please,” he mutters, looking at you with a glare that doesn’t hold.

Because it fades the second he sees you again, admiring his trophy, your fingers tracing over the smooth metal with something soft in your expression.

Lando watches you.

And just like that, he’s ruined for you all over again.

You don’t remember inviting Lando.

When you decided to go out drinking and clubbing with your friends, you were pretty sure Lando Norris wasn’t part of the plan. And yet, here he is, holding you against his chest, arms wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

He must still have your location on Snapchat or whatever app he secretly stalks you on, because somehow, some way, he found you.

You don’t mind, though. Not when he’s this warm against your back, laughing softly in your ear. You’ve never heard this chuckle from him before—it must be a drunk Lanny thing, this odd, clingy affection. You’re not sure how much either of you had to drink, but the way he lifts your hand, pressing kiss after kiss to the back of it, makes you giggle.

You lean your head back on his shoulder, letting go of his hand, only for Lando to tighten his grip around you, lips trailing down your neck instead.

“Come home with me,” he shouts over the music, voice low and full of something unspoken. “I want to show you something.”

Not that he really gives you a choice.

You barely get a chance to respond before he’s pulling you along, weaving through the sweaty crowd with your wrist in his grasp. But whatever he planned to show you is long forgotten by the time you reach his apartment.

Because the laughs turn into kisses. The kisses turn into moans. And the moans turn into him fucking you against the wall.

Lando is an experience. A little bit of everything you crave, wrapped into one maddeningly intoxicating man—nicely built, painfully loyal, stupidly funny, unfairly good-looking, and completely, devastatingly obsessed with you.

And that look in his eyes? That dark, hungry look as he sheds his clothes and practically rips your dress down its zipper? That’s what ruins you.

He traps you against the wall, body pressed against yours, heat radiating off him in waves. Fabric tears as he forces it off your body, and then he’s lifting you up by your thighs, a smile curling at his lips as his nose brushes yours.

You smile back, cupping his face as you kiss him sweetly, a stark contrast to the way he’s about to ruin you.

Clumsily, he adjusts you above him, and you feel the stretch as he sinks into you—slow, torturous, unbearable.

A whimper slips from your lips as he presses harder against you, bracing you against the wall before he starts to move. Your arms slip from his neck to his back, nails digging in, marking him up like you own him.

You don’t see his face when you lean your head onto his shoulder, watching where your bodies join, but if you did—you’d see that dark, crazed look in his eyes. The kind that swallows him whole as he nibbles and sucks on your skin like a man starved.

Like he’s never wanted anything more in his life.

Because he doesn’t want you anywhere else. Not against the wall. Not out there with your friends. Just here. In his arms. Moaning his name like it’s the only word you know.

And it takes a few rounds—because Lando is nothing if not thorough—before you remember the reason you came to his apartment in the first place.

You lay naked on the couch, catching your breath, staring at a painting on his wall. You recognize it. One from your gallery.

Before you can ask, Lando reappears, setting a white box in front of you.

You lift a brow. He just gestures for you to open it.

So you do.

And you scream.

Lando flinches, but his grin only widens as you pull out the dress, hugging it to your chest like it’s a lifeline.

You’re up in an instant, jumping up and down, running back and forth, nearly tripping over yourself in excitement. Lando just watches, lounging back on the couch, cheek propped up on his fist, drinking in your every move.

“Are you going to keep screaming, or are you going to put it on?” he teases.

You squeal again, fumbling to pull it on.

It’s a wedding dress.

Not just any wedding dress—the last one your favorite designer ever made before they passed, intricately sewn with pearls and jewels, a masterpiece in fabric form. You weren’t planning to get married anytime soon, but the dress was too beautiful not to admire. You’d sketched it, opened it on your phone more times than you could count—Lando must’ve noticed.

His eyes soften as he helps you into it, watching as you jump in place, giggling.

“Well?” He makes a motion with his finger. “Give me a spin.”

You do.

And he sighs, shaking his head like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Without thinking, you launch yourself into his arms.

Lando doesn’t catch you. Not fully.

He stumbles back, landing flat on the carpet with you on top of him.

You don’t care. You pepper his face with kisses, grinning wildly, dress fanning around you like a dream.

Forgetting, for just a moment, that you aren’t even dating him.

Lando sat in the McLaren unit, chewing on his lunch with little appetite. It was the season finale in Abu Dhabi, and his thoughts were more occupied by you than the race ahead. His fingers hovered over his phone, but there was nothing but silence on your end. No responses. No acknowledgment of the flowers he’d sent, no replies to his texts. His mind ran wild, wondering if you’d received them or—worse—if you were upset with him. How was he supposed to know?

His gaze flicked back to the screen, but the numbers and stats blurred as his mind returned to you. The silence was unbearable.

That’s when the movement caught his eye. He glanced up, instinctively furrowing his brows at the sight of his trainer’s mischievous smile. Something was off, but before he could ask, a pair of hands were suddenly covering his eyes from behind.

He recognized those giggles immediately—soft, melodic, like a song only he knew. A grin tugged at his lips as he pulled the hands away, not caring for the surprise but savoring the moment. And there you were, standing in front of him, eyes sparkling with amusement as you giggled down at him.

Lando’s mouth went slack. His heart hammered. It was like a dream—or maybe he was dreaming. No, this was real. You were here.

He jumped to his feet so quickly that his chair screeched across the floor. The words to speak vanished in his throat, his brain struggling to process your sudden appearance. His mouth worked silently, like he didn’t quite believe it himself.

“I was gonna ask you to guess who, but I guess you knew,” you teased, stepping into his chest with a mischievous grin. You kissed his cheek softly, and his pulse quickened.

Lando blinked, still in disbelief. Usually, it was him chasing you around, showing up uninvited to see you. But now, here you were—chasing him. It was doing something to his heart, something he couldn’t put into words.

Before he could stop himself, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, holding you tight as if he was afraid you might disappear the moment he let go. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky, his voice coming out almost a whisper, “What are you doing here?”

You leaned back slightly, eyes twinkling as you looked up at him. "I’ve come to watch you win," you said, your voice a soft promise, your smile radiant and warm.

Lando’s smile softened, his chest swelling with pride as he pressed a sweet kiss to your lips. But before he could say anything else, you pulled back, your words dancing against his lips like a melody.

“My boyfriend’s going to win this race," you said proudly, "and we’re going to go home with a trophy.”

At that, Lando’s heart skipped a beat. A proud, excited “fuck yes” slipped from his lips as he squeezed you tighter in his arms, kissing your temple like it was the only place he wanted to be. The weight of your words—the truth of them—settled deep inside him.

What’s one more problem anyway?

Lando was your problem now.

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jmliebert · 4 months ago

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♡ Nanami in bed ♡

a little extension of what I wrote earlier. read it first, then come back here and… enjoy

Nanami is an exquisite balance of giving and taking. he’s deeply attentive, always making sure you’re satisfied first, but when he takes, he takes (!) with an intensity that leaves you shattered (in the most delicious way)

has a provider’s mindset, and obviously that extends into the bedroom. there’s a certain dominance in the way he touches you, a silent claim in every kiss, every deep thrust. possessive and protective

easily aroused, just you being yourself is enough to make him want you bad. a glance, a soft sigh, the way you stretch after waking up—it all fuels his need, and he needs you endlessly

when it comes to foreplay, oh..he takes his time, making you all nice and ready for him with touching diligence. he’ll lift you effortlessly just to kiss you deeper, hold you close like you’re something precious and it makes you feel fragile in the best way possible

loves giving head, not just as foreplay but as a way to see you unravel beneath him. watching your face hungrily from between your thighs, enjoying the way you shudder under his tongue, supersensitive after orgasm (and he still doesn’t stop, making you scream almost)

loves rough sex—deep, demanding kisses, spanking, biting—but never crosses the line. his sharp eyes are always on you, reading every expression, knowing exactly when to push and when to pull back. you trust him completely because no matter how intense it gets, there’s always a deep undercurrent of care and love

his voice is deep and smooth, laced with filth and appreciation. he’ll whisper how wet you are, how good you feel, how he could fuck you all night. he makes you feel both desired and worshiped in the same breath, and he adores how reactive you all to his little dirty talks

hard, possessive strokes paired with gentle caresses. one hand spanking you, the other cradling your face. he loves positions that let him watch you—pressed against the wall, bent over the mattress, or straddling him while he guides you with firm hands on your hips

confidence in bed, he doesn’t need to prove anything—he just knows what he’s doing. he’s not into extreme kinks or excessive toys, but he’ll have you in every possible position, in every possible place. the bed, the couch, the floor, even the kitchen counter—if he wants you, he’ll have you

also a car sex enthusiast, loves the thrill of it. his hand starts on your knee, then moves up your thigh, teasing you until one of you snaps. either you end up going down on him, or he finds a secluded spot where he can take you properly. he likes having you ride him in the driver’s seat, his mouth on your nipples, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you with a mix of control and need

can be messy in the moment, but clean afterward. he doesn’t mind the mess during sex—sweat, fluids, whatever—but afterward, he’s meticulous. he’ll clean you up himself, maybe even carry you to the shower, washing your body with slow, unhurried care. and yes, he will change the sheets before bed

plus, you’ll never be left cold, hungry, or uncomfortable when Nanami is around. he’ll drape you in his T-shirt, bring you water, make sure you’re completely taken care of. he’ll massage any sore spots, trace over any love bites, and hold you even closer that night (especially if the sex was really rough)

clingy in his own way, won’t let you sleep without touching you. the moment you settle in, he’s pulling you close, inhaling your scent, running his fingers through your hair. he murmurs something soft against your ear—maybe a compliment, maybe something teasing—but the warmth in his voice makes you melt

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

hi, you can find more of my works about nanami ♡here♡

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madaqueue · 4 months ago

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CRAWLING BACK TO YOU

playlists | 'do i wanna know' x hozier

pairing: satoru gojo x gn!reader

themes/content: angst. alcohol consumption, a not-great breakup, sometimes you don't have to say 'i love you' to know it. 18+ MDNI (wk: 1.5k)

a/n: maybe putting this man in a situation will get me out of my writer's block

“Hi, baby,” Satoru’s slurred voice crackles through the speaker, cold metal held to your ear.

At least through the shitty phone you refuse to upgrade, he can’t hear your sigh from the other end. “Where are you?”

“I’m not telling,” he sing-songs, ending with a hiccup he can’t quite stifle.

Not that his answer really matters, only half playing through the otherwise-silent bedroom. You’re already up, groggily pulling on sweatpants and palming for the shape of your keys, lit by the tiny screen blinking his name.

“Well, don’t go too far. I’m on my way.” You hang up before he can complain (not that he would - if you had stayed on the call for a second longer, you would have heard the contented sigh slipping from his lips, a quiet ‘thank you’ that his microphone might have missed).

The bar is sticky and hot, uncomfortable at any time, but especially at 1:30 a.m. when you should be at home under soft sheets and moonlight. Shedding your coat does little to fix the air clinging to your skin like a vice as your eyes scan past neon lights, parsing through the blaring music for something familiar. A flash of white across the room, and your steps fall in a straight line.

When you place your hand between his shoulder blades (gently, of course - you know he startles easily), he manages to pull his head from the haven of his elbows, a temporary shelter along the wooden countertop.

“You came.” His grin is wild and unruly, only half there, but his eyes pierce through you all the same. You’ve always felt too bare under them; you tug your jacket on.

“Let’s go, Satoru.”

He doesn’t protest as you loop one arm around his torso, and lets you pull him to his feet. It’s always a bit of a balancing act to get him through the door, his lanky limbs colliding with yours, his shoes heavier than the rest of his body. Drunken giggles tumble into your ear from where his head rests atop yours, watching you kick his ankles away to keep him upright.

“Were you born with two left feet or something?” you grumble to yourself, muffled by the screeching chatter encasing you.

“Don’t think so,” he says earnestly. With a slow glance downward, he hums. “Nope. Right and left.”

You scoff to hide the giggle that threatens to escape. You wish he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t charm you and force a smile, wouldn’t make you ache with forgiveness.

The night air is cold and welcome, finally letting your lungs expand fully for the first time in what feels like days, in spite of Satoru’s crushing weight on your shoulders. Opening his door first, he falls into the seat, enveloped by the familiar cloth, and you fasten his seatbelt before stepping into the driver’s side. In the confined space of the car, the smell of alcohol lingers on his breath, slowly making its way towards you, and you sniffle. The engine hums as you drive, roads and turns you know better than the veins coursing below your skin, ones that tingle under a watchful gaze.

With a quick glance, you find Satoru’s eyes lazily fixed on your own.

“You’ve got a staring problem,” you state.

“Just admiring the view.”

The thrum of your pulse picks up. You resent it.

“I still love you, y’know.”

The leather covering of the steering wheel creaks below your tightening grip. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” If you didn’t know him so well, you’d think he was teasing, playing coy, pushing your buttons until he finds the one that makes you force him out along the highway. Unfortunately, you know it’s genuine.

“Because.” You exhale. “Because you broke up with me.”

A groan is muffled beneath his palm, rubbing into his skin as if he could wipe the words away. It was mutual, you told your friends, who took it well, your parents, who didn’t, as you tried to hide the familiar stinging in your eyes, as though you hadn’t just emerged from the bathroom where the water ran cold from scrubbing salt stains off your cheeks.

“It doesn’t make it any less true.” When he’s forced to hear the click of the turn signal too many times against the silence, he continues. “And I didn’t wanna break up with you.”

Ah, his favorite excuse. It makes you grimace at the bitter taste rising in the back of your throat. ‘I don’t want this either,’ he said as you screamed and cried in his arms, as he held you until the worst of the shaking was over. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

“Whatever,” you acquiesce (he’ll never shut up if you don’t give him something to cling to).

(He only feels sane when he hears your voice. The silence aches for it; it tears at him from the inside out. If his agony could sound like you, he’d suffer like this forever.)

Before he can beg for more, his door opens. You reach across his waist to undo the seatbelt and toss his arm over your shoulders again.

In his hazy mind, he wonders how many times you’ve done this - he never really remembers this part, so it makes it hard to count. But there’s a fluidity as you shuffle towards the garage, punching in a code he never dared to change, as you wait the three seconds for it to rise just above his head and maneuver him inside.

And of course he doesn’t have to guide you towards the bedroom (he has to call it that now, ‘the’ bedroom; he thinks you got upset with him for calling it ‘our’ bedroom once, but that’s foggy, too).

With a huff you toss him onto the bed, every muscle uncoordinated, too out of it to scramble for the shreds of his dignity. Instead, he watches silently as you untie his shoes, unlatch his belt, unbutton his shirt. Even in just his boxers he doesn’t feel bare, not under your eyes, ones too gentle to cut.

“There’s water on the bedside table, and I put some crackers there, too. Please eat them.”

“M’sorry.”

“What?” You try to ignore the way your throat burns, the way your legs can’t move.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe.”

“Satoru, what-”

“That’s why.” When he finally removes the arm that had been shielding his face, those bright blue eyes are dull, clouded with tears. “That’s why I - hic - fucked it up. I wasn’t strong enough to protect you. I love you so much and I wasn’t strong enough.” I couldn’t risk anything happening to you, I was too dangerous, I would have gotten you hurt. I should have protected you, he wants to say, but the words get stuck in the thickness at the back of his tongue.

Some part of you, a part you tried to crush and kill and bury, claws its way out. You sit at the edge of the bed and rub his arm.

“It’s okay. I loved you, too.”

Loved. What a wretched thing past tense is. He wants to scream.

“No!” he cries, the sound weak and cracked. “I can’t…I can’t do anything but this, but love you. You’re the only one. And I ruined it.”

He makes no move towards you, curling into himself instead, sucking everything in until you’re captured by it, too. Your hands cradle his face, and let the tears spill over your fingers.

“I’m sorry I called you.”

The sobs have started to quiet, his breathing becoming less labored. He’s shaking less, now, with your skin on his.

“It’s okay.”

Your fingertips travel along his jaw, and you try to ignore how beautiful he looks with tears catching under the moonlight, how the comforter is stained darker beneath his cheeks. You try to ignore the way this hurts worse than any wound could, that you would have rather be killed for loving him than suffer through losing him. You try to ignore the way your heartbeat slows with your skin on his.

Through parted lips, his sleep-laden sighs fall steadier. His forehead is warm beneath your lips.

His protection is a funny thing, you’ve grown to realize. Maybe it’s his upbringing, or his job or his role or something else that has infiltrated and woven its way into his mind, but he seems to get it all twisted up, entangled in the ropes of it. How funny, to protect someone by alienating them; how funny, to make them watch as you destroy yourself.

But you don’t mind. Not really, not when you get to brush damp strands of hair from his neck, when you get to pull the blankets up to his shoulders and watch the soft sheets tickle his skin.

You don’t mind that you’ll always have a space in your heart with his absence carved out of it, that you’ll always leave your keys on the bedside table, that you’ll always come back, even if you’re crawling, your hands and knees will carry you to him. You have to protect him too, after all.

Softly, you whisper, “I’ll always answer your calls.”

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sophsbookstore · 4 months ago

Text

A Splash of Sunshine

Carlos Sainz x wife!reader ｡･:*˚:✧｡

Masterlist can be found in navigation!

Word count: 1,100

It was one of those sunny, early afternoons when everything felt perfect. The kind of day where the air is warm, but there’s a gentle breeze that makes you feel comfortable, even when you’re running around with two kids in tow. Carlos was excited, you could tell by the sparkle in his eyes. The excitement wasn’t just about picking out baby furniture—it was about getting everything just right for the new arrival.

“Are we ready?” Carlos asked, giving you a grin as you buckled Carmen into her car seat, while Santiago climbed into the back of the car, his little sneakers kicking the seat with enthusiasm.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied, patting your pregnant belly. “The nursery needs a lot of work. I just hope the kids don’t get too... distracted.”

Carlos laughed, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Distracted? I think they’re going to be a big help, trust me.” He turned to Santiago in the back seat. “Right, buddy? You’re going to help us paint, right?”

Santiago, already wearing a superhero-themed apron, nodded proudly. “I’ll paint! I’m super good at it!” He waved his little hands around like he was already holding a paintbrush.

You chuckled. “Just remember, we’re painting the walls, not the floor, okay?”

Carmen, who was only two, let out a babble from the back, her big eyes bright as she clutched onto a stuffed bear. You knew she had no idea what was happening, but she could feel the excitement in the air.

After a short drive, the family arrived at the store. The children were practically bouncing with energy as you all entered. Santiago was already sprinting toward the aisle with cribs, his face lit up with curiosity.

“Dad! This one! It’s so big! The baby can sleep in this!” Santiago pointed to a crib that seemed to take up most of the aisle, much too large for any newborn.

Carlos knelt down beside him. “That one’s a little too big, buddy,” he said with a smile. “We need a crib that’s just the right size for the baby. Let’s keep looking.”

Meanwhile, Carmen toddled around in her own little world, running her hands over the soft fabric of baby blankets, occasionally stopping to give them a squeeze. “Soft!” she giggled.

You and Carlos exchanged amused looks, knowing full well that this was going to be an adventure in itself.

As you went through the store, Santiago insisted on picking out a set of bed sheets for the baby, proudly holding them up like a trophy. “Look, mama! The baby can sleep on this!” he said, presenting a set with cute little animals on it.

“That’s perfect, Santiago,” you said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Great choice.”

The shopping trip was full of little moments like this, where your kids showed off their excitement and their enthusiasm for the baby. By the time you had everything you needed—crib, dresser, changing table, some soft, pastel blankets, and cute little baby clothes—you were ready to head home and get to work setting up the nursery.

Back at home, the real fun began.

Carlos set up the crib in the corner of the room while you, carefully balancing your growing belly, looked over paint samples. After some indecision, you both decided on a soft, light yellow that would brighten the room.

Santiago was eager to help. He grabbed a small paintbrush and started "painting" the walls, splattering a few strokes onto the paper you had laid down on the floor. “Look, mama! I’m doing it!” he shouted with pride, his face completely covered in yellow paint. You laughed.

“That’s... one way to do it, buddy,” you said, gently taking the brush from his hand. “Let’s try to keep the paint on the walls, okay?”

Carmen, curious as ever, decided to get involved too. She waddled over to the paint bucket, dipped her fingers in, and then started creating colorful handprints on the floor. Her giggles filled the room as she patted the wall and then looked at her hand, completely amused. “Paint!” she giggled, showing you her little rainbow-colored hands.

Carlos, who had just finished assembling the crib, turned around and saw the chaos unfolding. His mouth dropped open in surprise, but he couldn't help but laugh. “I think we might need to paint the floor, too!”

“Maybe we’ll just keep those handprints as a memory of today,” you said, smirking.

After a few more moments of paint-induced chaos, you managed to corral the kids and get everyone back on task. While Carlos set up the changing table and dresser, you supervised as Santiago helped you roll the paint over the walls, and Carmen... well, she had a blast running around the room, occasionally stopping to admire the new furniture.

By the time evening came, the room was starting to take shape. The crib was in place, the walls were a cheerful shade of yellow, and there was a brand-new sense of warmth in the room that made you smile.

Santiago, who had been bouncing from one task to the next all afternoon, stood proudly in the middle of the room. “Look, mama! It’s perfect! The baby will love it!”

You walked over and crouched down to his level, pulling him into a big hug. “It’s perfect because you helped, Santiago. You and your sister helped make this room so special.”

Carmen toddled over, holding up a little toy bear she had found, offering it to you with a bright smile. “Baby bear!” she said, clearly proud of her contribution.

Carlos wrapped his arm around you from behind, his eyes filled with love and gratitude. “We couldn’t have done it without them,” he whispered, his voice full of affection.

You leaned back into his embrace, looking around the room that was now ready to welcome the new baby. “This is a memory I’ll never forget,” you said softly, your heart full.

“Yeah,” Carlos murmured, kissing the top of your head. “It’s a perfect start to our new chapter.”

As the day ended and the kids were tucked into bed, you and Carlos took a moment to sit together in the nursery, the soft glow of the nightlight casting a warm, comforting light around the room.

“We’re ready,” you whispered to Carlos, resting your hand on your belly. “Whenever the baby is ready, we’ll be ready.”

Carlos nodded, his eyes full of emotion. “We’ve got this. Together, we’ve got this.”

And as you sat there, surrounded by the love and chaos of your little family, you knew that everything was exactly how it was supposed to be.

#carlos sainz x female reader #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz one shot #carlos sainz imagine #dad!Carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz #carlos sainz fanfic #Carlos Sainz x wife!reader #carlos sainz x y/n #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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elleaitch22 · 8 days ago

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Terms of Endearment

Chapter 6: Peace, Interrupted

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: Busy week this week, so I hope I'll be able to post chapter 7 by Wednesday! I hope you love it!! xx Elle

Warnings: Emotional abuse recovery and homophobia

Word Count: 3.4k

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi blinked slowly, as sunlight began to peek through the curtains of her new bedroom. For a moment, she just lay there, listening to the quiet. No sirens, no shouting, no heels clicking outside her window. It was different. Peaceful.

Chicago was a city that never slept, but on the 59th floor of the Aurelia, Azzi finally could.

This was the first weekend she had been able to go to sleep before 3 a.m. since moving to Chicago. Now that she was free of Maison Noire, she would not be going back, ever. She had no more late-night shifts or weird customers, all because of Paige.

She nuzzled further into the soft, silky sheets and inhaled deeply. The lavender scented detergent lingered in the air, soothing Azzi’s nerves. She was rested now. She could think about Paige and all these handouts with a fully present mind.

A condo. A driver. Money. Too much money.

On one hand, Azzi wanted to say that it was a more acceptable form of what Grant was doing to her. But Jana’s comment from yesterday popped back into her head.

They said I’m family now.

And Paige? Paige clearly took care of her family.

Azzi decided she should wait it out.

People always show you who they are if you give them enough time.

She rolled out of bed, padding barefoot across the wooden floor to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, twisted the front of her hair into a bun, and slipped into some leggings and an oversized t-shirt from her dad. She sighed as she pulled on a pair of fuzzy socks – Azzi hated cold floors.

She sat at the table, cataloging what the apartment had and listed what she still needed. She was still doing an inventory of the refrigerator’s contents when she heard a knock on her front door.

Unlike yesterday, Azzi was fully awake – awake enough to panic. Had Grant found her?

Breathe, Azzi. No one knows you live here, except for safe people.

Peeking in the peephole, she saw Ice outside balancing a tray of coffee on top of a stack of books.

She flung the door open. “Let me take some of that for you!” She exclaimed.

Ice handed off the tray and followed her into the living room.

“No shoes inside,” Azzi added.

Ice kicked her Crocs off by the door with a playful smirk, before continuing into the apartment with a slight grimace. “I’m so happy Paige sent me,” she started, “This place is making me depressed.”

Azzi ducked her head and blushed. “Excuse me,” putting a hand to her chest dramatically. “Somebody decided to move me out of my old palace and move me into this dump with no notice!”

The women giggled, “Seriously though, I’m excited to help you make this space come to life! First things first, what kind of vibes are you wanting?”

“Oh,” she paused to think. Azzi was already indecisive, but her previous relationship did not help with that. “Um, maybe just a calm vibe?” She said, unsure.

“Well, there are many different ways we could style calm. We could do forest calm with lots of greens and browns. We could do beachy calm with blues and taupes. Or we could do a darker calm, grays, blacks, and whites. Which would you pre–”

Before Ice could finish her statement, Azzi’s front door opened. “What’s up girly pops!” KK strolled into the kitchen happily. She plopped onto the couch. “Am I late?”

“Who even invited you, Kamorea?” Ice rolled her eyes.

“Girl boo!” She turned to Azzi. “Paige said y’all were gonna meet up today, and I felt let out. I’m here to help!” She beamed.

Azzi loved the happy and lighthearted energy KK brought everywhere she went. She understood why everyone liked her so much. “Thanks for coming, KK. Do you guys want some breakfast? I was going to make an omelet before Ice came over.”

Both women put their order in with Azzi, Ice moving to the dining room to make a few sample boards for Azzi to choose from, while KK followed Azzi into the kitchen.

The next thirty minutes were filled with rapid fire questions.

Why do you work with children? Do they annoy you? What do you do when you’re mad? Do you ever lose your temper? What made you want to teach anyway? What’s your favorite food? Are you allergic to anything? Did you know Soleil is allergic to gluten too? Twins! How do you feel about the arrangement and everything? Is there anything we can do to make this easier for you? Do you know how hard it is to get into our family? You know you can always ask us for help? Am I your favorite so far? Do you have social media? Can you send me your handles? Oh, you don’t have my number, here. The most important question, what are all your favorites? Food, color, season, vacation, place, restaurant, movie, show, artist, song, book, smell, holiday.

Azzi had felt like she’d undergone an interrogation, not as aggressive as it could have been, but KK was obviously fishing for information.

She didn’t mind though. Initially, she felt almost guilty, laughing and joking with her new friends. Grant never allowed her to have girl time. During the first thirty minutes of Ice and KK’s visit, Azzi looked towards the front door every two or three minutes. She was tense, bracing herself for the angry tirade Grant would go on when he got home.

Over time, Azzi’s shoulders involuntarily loosened. Her laugh came easier. And her jokes and sarcasm flowed naturally. She could breathe deeply because she had friends. For the first time in a long time, Azzi had girlfriends again. The thought made her heart stutter in her chest.

“Shut up, KK.” Ice groaned, “Azzi, come pick a sample board before Paige murders me for wasting time.”

Ice had composed seven different options for Azzi to choose from. Which was lovely, except for the fact that Azzi hated making decisions like this. She would rather someone else chose so she didn’t have to sit there stuck on the same question for five hours. She was grateful that she was cooking, so she had something else to occupy her mind.

Azzi knew she didn’t like the ones that were mostly monochromatic, which eliminated three of the seven options. She wasn’t really a fan of the palette with only different shades of brown.

She served the ladies their omelets while she looked closer had the different sample boards. She narrowed it down to three options. Baby pinks, dark teals, and golds. Pinks, oranges, and yellows. And blues and greens.

Without vegetables to cut and omelets to make, Azzi had no more distractions.

Her hands wringed together anxiously. She didn’t want to make the wrong choice.

You can’t even pick which colors you want in your house? You’re a worthless fucking idiot.

“I kinda of like the one with the orange.” Ice said when she saw how flustered Azzi was getting. “Besides, it’s no big deal. If you don’t like it, we can always change it later.”

“Yeah, girly pop! For once, Ice is right! If you do the orange, you can do more happy colors. Like you can have those yellow pillows, and orange and pick rug, and a pink couch! You can have fun in here, and if you decide you don’t like it, fuck it!” KK’s logic made perfect sense to Azzi in that moment.

She swallowed thickly, head jerking in a nod. “S-sorry, sometimes it’s hard for me to make decisions.”

Both women looked at her, sadness in their eyes. “It’s not that bad. My ex, Grant, used to make all the decisions. He was a little controlling, and it’s just a little hard to remember he’s not in charge anymore.” Azzi finished, looking down as the empty plate.

Before either woman could answer, Azzi phone rang loudly. For a second, she was a statue. Fuck, had he found her already?

“Are you gonna get that?” Ice questioned lowly.

Jogging to her room to get the device, her brow furrowed. What the hell is her school doing calling her on a Sunday.

She waited to pick up, “Sorry guys, it’s my boss. Are you cool with waiting for a second?”

Ice nodded, gathering her things quickly. “Yeah, that’s fine. I need to get these plans to Paige so they can be finished sooner.”

KK still had half her omelet, so she stayed – and ended up hearing everything.

“Good morning, Mr. Smith. I hope you’re having a good Sunday.” Azzi’s voice was filled with false cheer. She was still salty over the meeting with Paige and Soleil.

“My day would be a lot better if one of my teachers wasn’t photographed being a harlot!” The principal sneered.

Azzi reeled back, like she’d been slapped. “Excuse me?”

You’re just a slut, Azzi. Not worth anything but your mouth and your cunt.

“I’ve had seventeen parents find me during the service to say their children don’t deserve to be corrupted by someone like you. You’re fired effect–”

Azzi’s eyes bug out of her head. “Fired?” She screeches.

“This can’t be surprising to you, Ms. Fudd. After I just talked to you about your behavior, you start dating your student’s parent!” Mr. Smith fusses.

“That’s not fair!” Azzi exclaims. “Mrs. Baker used–!”

Mr. Smith cut her off. “Well, Mrs. Baker isn’t a lesbian. That goes against our code of conduct. Please be here at 6 tomorrow morning to clean out your belongings.”

Click.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to hit something.

Everything Grant had said to her came rushing back in.

You’ll open your legs for anyone who gives you a little attention. You’re a fucking whore. You think that guy’s gonna want you when he sees how used up you are? I’m so happy I don’t have kids because I could never leave them with you. You’re too fucking stupid to know how to teach them anything. The only thing you’re good at is sucking dick and laying on your back. You’re fucking pathetic. Worthless. Useless. You should be grateful I love you so much because no one else would put up with this shit.

Azzi was spiraling.

KK winced at the guttural sobs coming from Azzi’s room. She felt white hot rage at the things she overheard. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to fix it.

So she waited.

She washed the cutting boards and pans Azzi used to make breakfast. She wiped down the sink and countertops. She made sure everything was put away.

But Azzi didn’t come out. KK still heard sniffling coming from the bedroom, and she sighed. She was about to sit on the couch and wait a little longer before a thought popped in her mind. She knew exactly who could fix this.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Paige smiled softly, looking at the options Azzi selected for her space. This was probably one of the best ideas she had. She got to dump out piles of money for the brunette, she was able to make sure she had a friend here, and, if KK had done what she was supposed to do, she would know a little more about Azzi Fudd.

Ice was getting to office furnishings when KK burst in.

“Azzi just got fired!”

The chatter between the two women stilled, heads snapping up. “KK what are you talking about?” Ice questioned.

“I heard it. Her principal called. He just fired her for dating Paige. Pictures were going around and parents were complaining.” Her voice was firm, face blank. KK was serious.

The best friends looked at Paige warily. “You didn’t think about that?” Ice questioned sharply.

For once, Paige stuttered. “I-I thought I covered everything.” Rubbing her temples, leg bouncing. “I told Q to bury the story. I paid her ten thousand dollars to make everything go away. She brought me the card with all the pictures on it.”

She was pissed. Obviously at the school, but also with herself. Paige Bueckers was always supposed to be ten steps ahead of everyone else. It was why she assigned Morgan to Azzi, why she moved her into her building. She went on this whole tirade about the media getting information about her, she didn’t even think about the repercussions it would have on her. A queer Black woman working at a Christian school.

Paige didn’t know how she looked at Azzi until she looked at the photos Q had dropped off. Anyone with eyes and a brain could see the hungry gaze Paige gave her. They could see the want as she looked at Azzi painting with Soleil. The heat in her blue eyes was evident during their dance. Of course the school would think they were together.

“FUCK!”

“Mommy, that’s a bad wowd.” Soleil looked up from her LEGO tower, hand extended. “You owe me ten dollaws.”

Paige sighed, forcing herself to calm down. “I’m sorry honey.” She fished a bill out from her wallet, “I was doing so well too.”

“It’s okay! Now I can get some ice cweam!” She smiled brightly.

“I’ll take her! Fire and Ice adventure time.” Ice beamed. Soleil squealed with excitement.

All the control Paige normally had was gone. For years, she’d controlled every narrative about herself. But she lost control last night – she let everyone see how much she wanted Azzi. And she got hurt because of it. She embarrassed her. Cost her everything.

Anyone could see how much Azzi loved her job. It was in the smile she wore when she saw her students. It was in the way her classroom was decorated. It was in the way she talked to children as equals, not second class citizens.

She loved that job. She needed that job. And Paige had gone and fucked it all up.

She’s going to leave. She’s going to leave Soleil.

Paige shook her head. No. Fuck no. She wouldn’t let her mistake screw with Soleil too.

She was going to fix this. She had to fix this. She would have Allie draft a lawsuit. She would buy the school if she needed. She would take all that money for the library and move Lei to a different school. A better school.

Nothing can undo what you did. Paige deflated, lifting her head from her hands.

“She really liked her job.” KK muttered, face serious. “She wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“I know,” Blue eyes traced the designs on the rug.

“Do you want me to get Nika?” Paige nodded sharply.

Nika would know what to do. It was half her job – being the COO and CMO of Kairos Equity meant that she would know how to handle scandals and negotiations. She would tell Paige what to do.

Paige pulled out her phone to text Allie, her lawyer, when Nika’s heels clacked across the polished floors.

“KK told me what happened. What are you thinking?” She cut straight to the point.

Paige ran her hands down her pale face. “Fuck, this is all my fault.” How the fuck was she supposed to prove that she would be good enough for Azzi if she couldn’t even think enough to know that she’d get fired if their “relationship” was publicized? “Nik. I need you to help me fix this. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me if she can’t keep her job.”

Nika placed a warm hand on Paige’s shoulder. “Nothing like that’s gonna happen. I’ll fix it. Everyone knows you can’t fire someone for their sexuality; there are federal laws to support her. I’ll call Allie and have her look into it. You just need to relax.”

Paige heard the things Nika was saying, but she didn’t quite believe her. Azzi was a good teacher, and Paige’s ignorance costed her a job she was very good at.

“Have you talked to her yet?” Nika asked lowly.

The blonde shood her head, “I was planning on it. Was gonna start with talking about the shit with Ice, then try to get to know her.” She muttered.

“Oh,” Nika breathed. “That’s why you care so much.”

Paige’s head shot up, “What are you talking about.”

“You like her.” She smirked. “You’re trying to woo her, and you think she’s going to be so upset that she doesn’t give you a chance.” The stupid little smirk had turned into a full-blown grin.

“Shut up.” Through clenched teeth. “You really think she’s gonna want to talk to me today? Much less share a meal with me? She should hate me.”

“Suck it up, buttercup!” Nika says, rising from the couch. “Just ask her. She’s nice, so it’s not like she’ll say no. Use your charm and you’ll be fine. Just get her to dinner and talk to her.”

Paige pouted for a little while before doing what her big sister told her to do.

First, she texted Ice and asked her to come back after ice cream so they could finish ordering things for Azzi’s apartment.

Dinner tonight? I’ll be down to get you at 7. Wear whatever makes you comfortable.

Simple. Paige launched her phone to the sofa on the opposite side of the living room. Elbows on knees, she waited for the ding of a text message.

Ding

Azzi Fudd: How fancy is this place?

Paige sighed, she should’ve known Nika was right.

It can be casual or fancy. We’re in a private room. Wear anything but sweats.

The next ding came at the same time of the elevator.

Azzi Fudd: See you at 7

Paige only had a few seconds to wipe the smile off her face before Ice walked in.

Tonight was going to be perfect. It had to be.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi was confused.

From what she remembered, they had to do one outing a week. They had just spent the entire night at a gala. Cameras followed their every move, surely that had to be enough, right?

Maybe it’s a date? She wouldn’t mind getting to know Paige better. She was pretty, intelligent, and she had the perfect daughter. She was protective enough to make Azzi feel safe, and that is probably why she was dangerous. Grant made her feel safe too, it didn’t last long, but he did.

She knew the signs to look for now. How to differentiate between being controlling and being assertive. She wouldn’t let herself be with someone life Grant again.

Besides, Azzi knew the Paige was out of her league. She’s one of the richest women in the United States. She had seen countless articles about her being the most wanted bachelorette. She’d had girls thirsting over her since she was in high school. She could have anyone she ever wanted, and she didn’t want Azzi. No. She just pitied and appreciated her enough to adopt her into her makeshift family.

Azzi figured she should take advantage of her situation and get as much free stuff as she should. She’d be able to heal her heart later, but pretty blondes who are willing to spoil you don’t come around often.

She was grateful for the distraction the dinner would provide.

She padded to the kitchen, digging for a spoon and some ice cream, before plopping down on the couch. She set an alarm for 5:00 so she’d have enough time to get ready, opting to watch Grey’s Anatomy in the meantime.

The show still played in the background while Azzi was getting ready. She browsed her closet and landed on a burnt orange mini dress. The lightweight fabric flowed while still showing her figure. She paired it with strappy, brown sandals and a light jacket. She pulled her hair up into a tasteful puff, and after adding a light layer of makeup, she felt ready.

Paige knocked on the door promptly at 6:30. She wore an all cream Honor the Gift outfit, a pair of Nike dunk lows, and a nice Dior bracelet. Her hair was left down and in gentle waves. She looked effortlessly beautiful, and Azzi felt a little better about letting the pretty woman ruin her life.

“Hey. I should’ve asked this earlier, but are you allergic to anything?” Paige asked as they walked to the elevator.

“Just gluten, like Soleil. I miss eating things that brought me joy.” She joked.

“Perfect, the restaurant I chose has a great gluten free menu.”

Azzi let Paige lead her, waiting to see how this night would turn out.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi #pazzi fics #uconn wbb #dallas wings #wnba

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theemporium · 7 months ago

Text

[5.6k] an attack in the winter break leaves max reeling as he tries to cope with a new and furrier version of himself. the world seems to think mad max is returning to them but your presence says otherwise.

[find other fright night specials here]

It had been a completely normal day when Max Verstappen had his whole life changed.

Or as normal as it could be on a cold, wet January day in England during the winter break.

The run up to the season had been weighing down on everyone’s shoulders, last minute tweaks and changes and updates being made in hopes of making a car that will continue to dominate the grid. The factory has been busy, day in and day out. With less than a month until the car launch, it felt like everyone was working themselves to the bone to get the car ready.

Max was no different. Though, it was less about data sheets and car parts for him, and more about practising on the sim until he was beating the previous laps he set. He liked having feedback to give to the team, he liked feeling like he was contributing to the early mornings and late nights. He liked feeling useful to the team.

He ignored most of GP’s warnings about running himself down on the late nights, waving the older man off with a smile and a promise he wouldn’t stay much later. And it was partially true, he didn’t stay too late.

No later than you did.

Because if there was someone equally as determined and dead-set on giving this car everything they had like he was, it was you.

It had become a routine between the two of you on those late nights where you were the only ones left in the factory. Max would finish up at the sim, make his way towards your office on the other side of the factory where he would walk you to your car, chatting your ear off about anything other than engineering and cars and data to help get your mind off work. Even if it was for a few short minutes.

There were some days where the two of you would sit in one of your cars for a bit, to just talk. Other days, one of you was too tired to drag the night out further. It varied but it all fit the norm.

Just like that day.

The flickering street lights accompanied you both as you made your way towards the car park, with Max nodding and laughing along to some story you had been telling him about one of the other engineers. At first, he thought he had imagined the growl—one of those instances that could be brushed off with wind and bushes and the darkness around them that made everything look a bit scarier.

But then he heard it again. And he saw a flash in his peripheral vision. And next thing he knew, a large beast appeared out of thin air and was heading straight towards you and Max’s body reacted with pure instinct and quick reflexes to shove you out of the way before the beast tackled him to the floor.

It was a blur after that.

Hot, searing pain exploding through his body. Blood roaring in his ears. His heart pounding so fast in his chest. The white dots blurring his vision as he tried to turn his head away from the beast. The glimpses of fear and horror on your face before his vision had gone black.

The biggest concern at that moment was whether or not Max would be okay. If he would be able to compete at the start of the season. If he would be able to continue at all. If the public would somehow find out and expose the story before Red Bull could even prepare a statement.

The beast was the last thing on either one of your mind’s that night.

But when Max woke up the next morning, completely unscathed with only his bloody, ripped clothes as a reminder of the previous night. The two of you knew there was more to that beast than a normal animal attack, that you were dealing with something beyond your imagination.

Max Verstappen didn’t expect to go into the next season worrying how in loving fuck he was going to balance being a Formula One driver and being a werewolf.

Despite what critics and idiots behind a phone screen like to think, Formula One was a very physically taxing sport. Max had spent the better part of his whole life giving his body to training and endurance so he could compete at the level he does. Most athletes are more in tune to their bodies and their wants and needs than the average person, and Max was one of them. He knew his body. He knew his limits. He knew strengths. He knew his weaknesses.

That knowledge was completely useless when he became a werewolf.

One attempt at a workout and a dented metal bar later told Max that this whole werewolf thing came with a lot more setbacks than he realised. He understood pretty quickly that this wasn’t something he wanted to get out to the general public. He didn’t know how it would be perceived—hell, he wasn’t even sure how he perceived it.

But someone had to know. He couldn’t hide it for the rest of the season.

In the end, a few select people in his team knew about his lycanthropy and they worked together to keep it hidden from everyone else.

It was a mindfuck working with Rupert to sort out a whole new workout plan, to evaluate his newfound strength and other abilities, to learn his body all over again at the age of twenty-seven. It was weird having to explain to GP, a man who he considered his brother, that he was no longer the man he was before the winter break—that he was hardly a man at all, anymore. It was fucking weird having to look you in the eye and see the conflict of emotions on your face whenever you saw him, whenever you replayed the way he saved you from the same beast that created him.

It was fucking weird.

But he could learn. Resilience and perseverance were two traits Max learnt at a very young age. He didn’t give his whole life to this sport just to throw it away because of his newfound—and unwanted—lifestyle. He refused to let it ruin more than it had. He was a werewolf but that didn’t mean he was going to give everything else up. He would deal with his lycanthropy like he did with other problems in his life—privately and out of the spotlight.

He just failed to realise that something could risk that privacy.

And he failed to realise it would be his own short temper that could possibly expose him.

…

Preseason testing taught the team a lot about the car.

Yet, all Max was learning was that the car was shit, the media were nosy and his patience was nonexistent with every human interaction he had outside of the team garage. He could feel his skin prickle whenever a camera was pointed at him or a microphone was shoved in front of him or his name was called out.

He thought the glare on his face would be enough to keep people away but it was wishful thinking. He was the reigning world champion and he was driving, what was seeming to be, a hopeless car. It was a journalist’s wet dream.

“Your eyes.”

Max clenched his jaw, ripping the balaclava over his head. “I’m not glaring.”

“Not that,” GP hissed, trying to pull Max to the side, away from the cameras peering into the garage. “Your eyes.”

Max huffed. “Stop talking in fucking riddles, mate.”

“They are yellow,” GP whispered frantically. “Like your—“

“Fuck,” Max groaned, snapping his eyes shut as he let out a deep breath. “Fuck, what? Why? It’s not a full moon. It shouldn’t—”

“There’s a lot that shouldn’t happen with you that does,” GP pointed out, feeling the glare from Max behind his closed eyelids. “We need to get you out of here.”

“They will see,” Max replied.

“Put your helmet on.”

“Yeah,” Max snorted. “Because that won’t be fucking obvious.”

GP sighed. “Well—”

“What’s happening?”

Despite not being able to see you, Max still turned his head towards you, almost instinctively. He could feel your hand on his arm, warm and comforting and—

“His eyes look like glow sticks,” GP muttered.

“So he says,” Max bit back, because he was annoyed and pissed off and GP was the easiest target.

“He’s trying to help,” you scolded lightly, your thumb swiping back and forth, almost passively like you didn’t realise what you were doing. “Let me see.”

GP straightened. “That’s risky—”

“Let me see.”

Max let out a shaky breath, slowly blinking his eyes open until you came into focus.

“Blue,” you said with a soft, reassuring smile. “They are blue now.”

Max’s shoulders dropped with relief.

“Get him back to his driver’s room before it happens again,” GP murmured.

Max bristled, a looming realisation that he was essentially being grounded by his race engineer making his skin feel prickly. But he couldn’t disagree, it was already a close call with his eyes flashing in the garage. He didn’t need the cameras catching it either.

“If anyone asks, we will say Helmut lost his mind and made you wear contacts whilst you drive,” you teased, keeping your hand on his arm as you waited for him to grab his things.

Max huffed out a laugh. “I’m sure he will like that.”

“You’ll protect me,” you grinned back at him.

And yeah, Max would.

…

The next close call happened after the season had started.

The car had been improved since the shit show that was the preseason testing weekend, but it wasn’t all that great either. Max knew it was a process, knew the team were reaching the point of getting the car to a truly competitive and dominant state. It just took time and he just needed to be patient.

But patience wasn’t something Max had a lot of these days.

All in all, a podium wasn’t bad with the state of the car currently. However, Max knew that the media would be ready to push back, to insist the reigning world champion should be on the top step and not the third, that he should have all the answers to his own failures.

He could feel it.

He could feel the shift in his gums as his canines pushed through, pushed against the confinement of his helmet. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He could hear the crowd booing over the blood roaring in his ears. He felt like the whole world had been dialled up to a hundred the second he stepped out the car after pulling up behind the number three sign.

He could feel it.

He could feel the way his team reached out for him. He could feel their hands patting his back like it didn’t make his whole body tense. He could feel their hands patting his helmet like it didn’t make his head feel like it was spinning. He could feel their hands reaching to hold his neck, to bring him closer, to suffocate him more.

He could feel it. He could feel it. He could—-

“Another trophy to add to the shelf?”

Max’s head snapped around to see you on the other side of the barrier, headset still around your neck and a smile on your face that made the third place feel a little less pathetic.

“Probably hidden in the back,” Max managed to mutter out, somewhat muffled by his helmet and the chaos around you both.

“Surprised you have enough space,” you joked, teasing and lighthearted and so distracting that Max almost didn’t feel the way your hand covered his gloved hands, the way your thumb swiped over the tips of his fingers.

He hadn’t even noticed his claws retracting, hadn’t even noticed them ripping through the material of the gloves in the first place.

“Oh,” was all he could say.

“I’ll take care of it,” you assured him, not risking any more with so many people and cameras and microphones. “Go enjoy the podium.”

“You’re gonna stay here?” Max asked, something in his chest twisting at the idea you would have to run off back to the garage, to the screens and data sheets and computers and away from him.

“I always do.”

…

It took a few months into the season before a race weekend aligned with a full moon.

Truthfully, it hadn’t even been a risk that Max considered which, in hindsight, was probably pretty stupid. It should have been one of the first things on his mind the second he realised what he was. It should have been a top priority after his first full moon, somewhere in late January—a night full of pain and discomfort, an experience Max didn’t want to repeat but knew he would have to.

Ignorance was bliss and all that jazz.

Yet, it was the Canadian Grand Prix where Max found himself battling more than just the championship that weekend.

He was lucky enough that it wasn’t a night race but that didn’t change the fact he was snappy all weekend, more so than usual. He was irritant and annoyed and perpetually fighting the growing pain through the weekend as it got closer to the full moon on Sunday night.

GP asked if it was safe for him to even race in this state.

Max, honest to god, snapped his teeth at the older man in response.

It was tense and suffocating in the Red Bull garage.

No one seemed to question Max’s awful mood any more than it was expected. A few people poked and prodded but the gritted, sharpy responses they received in response was enough to make most people back off. It was being played off as jet lag, a bad quali session and a grid penalty that didn’t feel all that deserved.

Max was adamant he could race and deal with the full moon. He wasn’t going to let it ruin his career, the sport that he loved and adored and had given his life to. He wasn’t going to let it get the better of him, even if that meant just being snappier than usual to the media.

And despite GP and Rupert’s concerns, Max was coping well.

Until lap 57 happened.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH HIM?!”

“Max, stay calm.”

“I’M FUCKING LAPPING HIM! IS HE FUCKING STUPID?”

“Max,” GP tried again but his voice was a muffled buzzing in his ears, hardly coherent over the anger and adrenaline and rage rushing through him. His body was acting on muscle memory alone as his car dragged on, as it crawled into the pits before he rushed back out.

He refused to listen to GP telling him to retire the car.

He refused to let that fucker in the Alpine think he could fuck his race and get away with it.

He refused—

“He’s growling,” GP hissed, hand covering the microphone and his voice dropping as he leaned over to where you sat on the pit wall beside him. His lips barely moved, not with the way the cameras were laser-focused on him and his reaction to Max disobeying the orders that were broadcasted to everyone watching.

“Fuck,” you muttered, pulling your headset off and reaching for his. “Hand it over.”

GP frowned. “I don’t think this is going to work—”

“Trust me,” you insisted.

Conflicting emotions swirled in his eyes before he ripped his headset off, muttering something under his breath before he handed it to you.

“—FUCKING DICKHEAD JUST—”

“Max?”

There were a few moments of silence and, for a brief moment, you wondered if the connection had cut. You wondered if he had somehow disconnected the radio from his side, you almost turned to ask GP if it was possible to do before you heard his heavy breathing.

“I know you’re upset,” you continued, taking the chance and hoping he was listening. “It was a bad move. But you’re a good driver, a great one even. You can save this race. I know you can. Focus on the racing, not the rest.”

Your words were careful and precise, painfully aware that the radio messages were probably being broadcasted. You knew whatever you said would be picked apart by the media and public, dissected under a microscope. But despite your caution, your only focus was making sure Max was okay.

“Breathe and win,” you said, your eyes watching the racing feed on the screen in front of you. “I know you can.”

It was completely silent beyond the sounds of the car until—

“I can. I will.”

You bit back your smile. “Good. I want to see you on the top step, Verstappen.”

He did, in fact, go on to win the race. The celebration with the team was postponed as he spent the night in aggravating, uncomfortable pain—alone, suffering, excruciating. He refused to let any of you stay with him, to see him in that state, just like he did every full moon since the attack.

But he still won and that was something nobody could take away from him.

...

Despite his success in Canada, it was clear the outbursts and frequent accidental exposures of his wolf were becoming a problem.

It was something he needed to get better at controlling if he wanted to continue the way he was, if he wanted to keep his lycanthropy away from the greedy hands of the journalists. This was his life now, it was something he had to accept and learn and grow with.

It was just a little hard to do when he didn’t know how.

“This is stupid.”

Rupert sighed, ignoring the glare Max was currently staring into the side of his head as he continued to hook the heart monitor onto him. “It is no different to when we do this for your training.”

“Except this time you are purposefully pissing me off instead of torturing me,” Max bit back.

“We want to help,” GP corrected, leaning against the wall opposite of him. “You need to learn how to control the wolf side of you.”

Max scoffed. “Maybe people should stop being stupid then.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” GP snorted before getting a nod of confirmation from Rupert that they were ready to go. “Okay. We are going to start easy, alright?”

Max nodded.

GP glanced down at the laptop in front of Rupert that had Max’s current heart rate showing before looking back at the driver. “Following the incident with Pierre Gasly in the Canadian Grand Prix, do you think you should be more careful when lapping cars?”

Max let out a noise of disagreement. “What the fuck? Why should I be careful? It’s not my fault he is slow!”

“I’m sure the PR team will love that response,” GP deadpanned, watching as Max’s heart rate started to speed up. “The stewards deemed it a racing incident.”

“And the stewards are fucking stupid,” Max snapped back. “I was lapping him. I had priority. Everyone knows that. It’s their job to know that too.”

The heart rate continued to increase and GP could have sworn he saw a flash of yellow in Max’s eyes.

“Max, control it,” Rupert reminded him.

“I’m trying,” he gritted out.

“They are going to keep poking, Max,” GP continued. “They did it before and they will do it again. They will push and push and push until they get the reaction they want, the one that fits their agenda.”

Max growled in response.

“I know you’ve seen it already,” GP said, listening to the beeps of the heart monitor get faster and faster. “Mad Max is back. He is unpredictable. Unhinged. That’s the story they want and that’s the one you are giving them.”

Max’s breaths were getting heavier. “They don’t know—”

“Exactly, they don’t know,” GP pointed out. “And we don’t want them to know so you have to learn how to control it before you wolf out on them. Before you let them win.”

His eyes were bright and glowing and yellow, a flash of sharp teeth under his curling lip as he growled and snarled and—

“I’m here! I’m here! Sorry, I’m late, I was getting coffee. Did we start yet?”

It was like a flip had switched.

GP and Rupert watched the scene in front of them like it happened in slow motion. The way Max seemed to perk up at the sound of your voice. The way the glowing eyes and sharp teeth seemed to slowly morph back to the Max they knew. The way the rage and anger and frustration was nowhere to be seen by the time you walked into the room, a tray of coffee and a bag of pastries in each hand.

You stood there, watching the three of them stare at you with mixed expressions. “What? What did I miss?”

“Interesting,” GP commented. “Very, very interesting.”

…

“You like her.”

Max let out a string of curse words, almost knocking the mugs of hot water over before he put the kettle down and turned to face his race engineer with wide eyes. Heightened senses aside, he didn’t hear GP sneaking into the kitchen. Or even realise he had been watching Max mutter away to himself for the last five minutes.

“Fucking hell, mate,” Max grumbled, placing a hand on his chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“And don’t change the topic,” GP retorted with a knowing look. “You like her, don’t you?”

Max hated the way he could feel the tips of his ears start to burn. “Like who?”

GP raised his brows in response.

Max deflated, his shoulders dropping. “Look, I know what you’re going to say—”

“I think she’s good for you,” GP interrupted.

Max blinked. “Okay, maybe I didn’t know what you were going to say.”

“She’s your anchor,” GP noted, his lips twitching upwards. “I had my suspicions but today confirmed it.”

“Anchor?” Max repeated with a frown. “Mate, is that not a news thing? She’s an engineer—”

“No, I—” GP let out a deep sigh, muttering something under his breath. “God give me strength. I mean that she helps ground you, helps you differentiate Human Max and Wolf Max.”

“Oh,” was all Max managed to mutter out.

“She’s good for you,” GP repeated with a soft smile. “And she understands you. Maybe if you tell her, we can work something out and—”

“No.”

He frowned. “No?”

“No,” Max repeated, blunt as ever. “I’m not telling her anything and neither will you.”

GP’s frown deepened. “Max—”

“No, you don’t get it. She…” The boy trailed off, swallowing harshly as he tried to voice his thoughts. “You didn’t see what happened that night.”

“Max—”

“I saved her,” Max stated. “I saved her and she’s only here because she probably feels guilty. I…I don’t want to tell her and make her feel like she has to feel the same because I almost died or something.”

“You liked her before,” GP pointed out. “Is it so hard to believe that maybe she felt the same? That she cared about you way before you jumped in front of a werewolf for her?”

Max clenched his jaw. “Drop it. I’m not telling her and neither are you.”

GP sighed but he knew it was pointless to fight the stubborn boy over it.

“And she doesn’t find out about this anchor nonsense,” Max added, turning around and busying himself with the mugs on the counter. “We’ll find another way.”

…

GP’s words about you being his anchor rung on a loop inside his head as the next race weekend approached.

The Spanish Grand Prix was always quite a hectic one on the schedule. The fans were wild and passionate. There was usually more of a buzz around the world championship by this point, an insight into a real fight after nine races. And it brought back good memories, wanted memories of his first ever race win.

It was a reminder why he was here, why he kept coming back every weekend. He wanted to race and he wanted to win and he wanted to be successful. He wasn’t going to let the lycanthropy stop him.

And even if he would never admit it, GP was right.

You were his anchor, you calmed the angry, rapid wolf inside him. It was like everything he felt around you when he was human was amplified. He felt seen, accepted. You took him for how he was, not how you wanted or expected him to be.

You saw Max—not the racing driver or the face of F1’s current dominance.

You just saw him.

It was hard to feel anything but relaxed and calm around you, to know that his words weren’t going to be overanalysed or thrown back in his face.

“You ready for this race?”

Max gripped his helmet a little tighter, fighting the urge to lean back against your touch as he felt your palm between his shoulder blades. He turned to look at you, smiling a little at the clear concern on your face. Like you were prepared to find a way to postpone the whole race if he said no.

“The car’s been good all weekend,” Max replied, biting back his laugh when you rolled your eyes.

“I wasn’t talking about the car,” you grumbled, scoffing. “Obviously the car is good. I was working on it.”

He beamed. “I’m good. Promise.”

“You gonna win?”

“For you? Always.”

Max took deep satisfaction in the way your heart skipped a beat at his words.

“I’ll be happy whatever you end up,” you told him earnestly, your hand squeezing his shoulder and he had the oddest urge to keep your hand there, to place his own over yours.

Max swallowed harshly. “But you deserve a podium so that’s what I’m gonna get you.”

You laughed, the sound easing something in his chest. “You’re cute when you’re cocky.”

He barely got a chance to process your response as you headed towards the pitwall, prepared for the race ahead and leaving the boy glued to his spot, blushing like mad.

For what it’s worth, he did win the race.

…

Things were going smoothly until the British Grand Prix.

Max had been able to keep the wolf inside him subdued and relaxed through the first two races of the triple header. He was racing well, he was being polite to the media, he was acting like the Max before the accident.

And despite his history and previous experiences at Silverstone and the ever loyal British fans, he didn’t think things would be all that different this year. He would maybe get booed, maybe have a few more probing questions. But nothing more than that.

Nothing quite like this.

It was Friday when it happened.

Max thought the worst of the weekend—media day—had been put behind him. He was ready to get back in the car, he was ready to make the triple header a three-for-three and win Silverstone. He was ready for a somewhat normal race weekend, one where the focus would be on the five Brits on the grid rather than him (especially with it being Ollie’s rookie season).

Sometimes, he forgot just how passionate fans could be. He forgot just how insane they could be too.

The whole thing felt like it happened in slow motion.

He was a few steps behind you and GP and Rupert, taking a moment to sign merch and take pictures with fans who had been waiting for hours. He assumed the group of you had made your way into the paddock, already heading towards the Red Bull motorhome.

He hadn’t expected for the hair on the back of his neck to stand up, to feel his whole body react before his brain had. His head whipped around at the exact moment he saw the crazed fan reaching towards you. His body was moving as he watched the scene unfold, as they reached for the collar of your shirt and pulled, as their lips moved to mutter something about Red Bull and whatever nonsense they thought justified their attack.

And before anyone could even react, Max was already shoving himself between you and the fan and ripping their hand away from you. He could feel his heart pounding, his body shaking, the telltale pain in his gums of his canines begging to push through. He could feel himself lose control as the anger and fear of seeing you hurt took over him.

“Back. The. Fuck. Off.”

The fan’s eyes widened, something quite like surprise and terror written across their face as they staggered back. Max had half the mind to wonder if his eyes were glowing yellow, if his face was starting to transform, if the crazed fan was starting to see the monster Max truly was.

“Max.”

An honest to god growl escaped his lips until he felt warm hands wrapping around his biceps, until he felt someone pulling his body away from the fan and away from the crowd.

“We need to get him out of here.”

It felt like he had blacked out. One moment he was staring at the crazy fan, contemplating letting his wolf take over, to give into the anger and rage coursing through him. And the next he was in his driver room, his name being called on repeat and warm hands cupping his face as he slowly blinked back into reality.

“There he is,” you smiled, your voice a soft whisper as you kneeled in front of him.

“I–” Max started but he couldn’t get his words out. He couldn’t say what he wanted to say, not with his heart still pounding, not with the wolf inside him howling and whining and begging to check that you weren’t hurt.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” you repeated like you could see inside his head, like you could hear the panic in his wolf’s howl. “Max, look at me. I promise I’m okay. You stopped anything from happening.”

He tried to take a deep breath but it was staggered and wheezy.

“I’m okay,” you continued to repeat, dropping one hand from his face to take his hand in yours and intertwine your fingers together.

Max’s eyes flashed yellow once more before he clenched them shut, urging himself to calm down, to relax, to control his wolf again. And after weeks of being on top of his lycanthropy, it felt a bit pathetic that he sat there for god-knows how long, not trusting himself to lift his head and look at you until he felt human again.

“M’sorry,” he managed to rasp out.

“Don’t apologise,” you murmured, quick to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Please never apologise for being you.”

Max let out a bitter laugh. “That wasn’t me—”

“Max,” you started but he shook his head.

“Did anyone see?”

You took a few moments before responding. “No. Other than the fan but I don’t think they really knew what was happening. I don’t think any of the camera angles caught it either but GP is making sure the media team are ahead of that.”

“Good,” he managed to mutter, swallowing harshly. “We don’t need anyone else seeing what a monster I am.”

“Max,” and the way you said his name sounded absolutely broken. “You’re not a monster.”

His lips twitched upwards, almost self-deprecatingly. “You don’t have to lie—”

“I’m not lying,” you said, a little more insistent this time as you lifted his head up to meet your gaze. “You’re not a monster, Max.”

His chest tightened. “You’re just saying that because I saved you.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I’m saying that because it’s what I truly believe. You are the furthest thing from a monster I have ever met.”

Max could feel his voice waver as he spoke. “Not anymore. What I am now is—”

“Beautiful,” you whispered, smiling softly as your thumb swiped over the apple of his cheek. “Just as you’ve always been. Just as I’ve always thought you were.”

Max couldn’t quite find the words to respond.

“You saved me. And despite having every right to blame me for what you are now, what you’re having to suffer through every full moon, you don’t,” you continued. “Where most people would give up, you fought back. You took your life back. You’ve made it work, Max. Do you realise how fucking brilliant you are? You had to learn your whole body again and you’re still winning races like nothing changed.”

Max let out a shaky breath. “I’d do it again.”

“What?”

“Even knowing what happened, knowing what was going to happen to me,” Max spoke, keeping his eyes on you, keeping his ears focused on your heartbeat. “I would push you out the way. I would jump in front of that wolf all over again.”

Max wasn’t sure how you would respond but he hadn’t expected you to grab his face in your hands and kiss him. The tight feeling in his chest melted away the second he felt your lips on his, the second he was able to get his hands on you and pull you closer. He would’ve been embarrassed at the pleased rumble in his chest if it weren’t for the fact he was too happy to care.

“I’ll make you see how beautiful that ‘monster’ in you really is,” you whispered against his lips, your nose lightly nudging against his. “No matter how long it takes.”

Max was sure that he still had a long way to go and a lot more to learn before he could ever say he felt fully normal again. But the idea of facing the road ahead with you by his side felt easier than tackling it alone.

He may still be Mad Max to everyone else but he was just Max to you.

And if he was being honest, the opinion of his anchor was the only one he really cared about.

#cece's halloween fright nights #max verstappen #formula one #f1 #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen fic #max verstappen one shot #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one x y/n #formula one fic #formula one one shot #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 fic #f1 one shot

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especially-obsessed · 6 months ago

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#icanteven

pt. 1

#icanteven - The Neighbourhood

"I can't even, I can't even believe what you did to me You can't even, you can't even say I'm overreacting I can't even, can't even hear your side Shame on me, you fooled me twice"

Summary: series; Sam cheats on you.

Pairing: Sam Winchester x reader, Dean Winchester x reader

Warnings: descriptions of depression, guilt, anger, infidelity, fluff

Word count: 1.1k

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

The Night

The morgue. Your favorite place! Not. Dean had convinced you to go to the morgue with him (after hours) because of a hunch he had. Something wasn’t sitting right about the bodies that had turned up. Sam stayed back at the motel to do some research. And you thought nothing of it.

Dean pulled into the motel parking lot, rambling on about some Led Zepplin album you asked about. The Impala came to a halt at the curb, right outside your bedrooms. The weight of the days work suddenly wore down on your body, and you could physically feel your shoulders slouch. And then you heard it. The long and low bellow, deep from the pit of your stomach. You looked over at Dean, food in hand, and burst into laughter.

“Did that sound really just come from your stomach?” Dean joked, opening the driver side door. You balanced the food in one hand and you used the other to open your door. Dean walked around his car and held open the car door for you.

“I don’t wanna talk about it. I just want to eat real food,” you said, handing the drink carrier off to Dean.

“Yeah, who orders health food from a place like that?” Dean said, genuine disgust painted on his face. “Imagine the chemicals they put on that stuff!”

“Like the saturated fats in the rest of their food is so much better,” you countered. Dean was ready for a full argument about this, even though you agreed with him. Before he could get any more worked up, you turned to him. “You eating with us?” you asked him, waiting outside of your motel door. You were eager to see Sam, even though you’d only been gone for three hours. Dean nodded and waited for you to open your door. You quickly fumbled with your key, clutching the bags of food tightly. You couldn’t bear another car ride with Dean after a food mishap.

The lock on your door beeped, and you pushed open the motel room door. Instantly, you noticed something was off. Sam was in bed. He wasn’t clothed, and you could clearly see where the thin motel sheet met his hip bone.

And he wasn’t alone.

You could see blonde hair sprawled out on the pillows. The outline of her feet entangled with Sam’s outlined by the sheets. Sam was hovering over her body, his toned biceps on either side of her head. He slowly knelt down, bringing his face to hers. They were completely ignorant of the company they now had. They were still going…

Everything around you faded.

Except for them.

You stood in the doorway, shell-shocked. Stuck in place. The soles of your shoes super glued to the floor. Dean pulled you from the doorway, pulling your line of vision away from the bed you had just slept in last night. He quickly opened the door to his room next to yours and let you in. He closed it gently behind him as he left again. But you were unaware of what was happening. You drifted into the room, letting your feet carry you aimlessly. You ended up at the edge of one of the beds in the room. You couldn’t feel anything anymore. A shadow of who you were moments ago. You felt numb. There was commotion next door. Someone was shouting. Someone else responded. The door slammed, and then the lock clicked and Dean walked back through the door, your duffle bag in hand. You couldn’t even lift your head to look at him, staring blankly at the pale-colored wall in front of you.

“You’re gonna stay the night in here with me sweetheart. We’ll deal with this in the morning,” he spoke softly. You were completely still, tears threatening to fall from your eyes. Your chest barely moved as you breathed shallow breaths.

Dean was angry, but knew now wasn’t the time to show it. His chest ached with the pain he knew you were feeling. He gently guided you up and to the head of the bed. He knelt and helped you take your boots off, then your socks. He gently pushed on your shoulder, helping you lay back. You rolled away from him, not wanting to see his face. His pity. He pulled the bed covers to your shoulders, and rubbed your back softly, before settling in for the night himself.

You could hear Sam talking through the paper-thin walls, worry seeping out of every word. You could tell by his rushed tone. He was talking to whoever she was. And you didn’t even want to know. All you wanted to do was leave. You couldn’t face Dean in the morning, feeling his pitying glance every time you made a move. And you couldn’t face Sam. He would just make the situation worse.

Soon the voices faded and you were left alone with your thoughts. Warm tears trickled over the bridge of your nose and down the side of your cheek.

You needed to get out. You needed to leave.

Hours later, once you heard Dean’s heavy breaths from the bed next to yours, you knew it was time. You sat up slowly, glancing over to make sure that he was asleep. He was belly down, head tilted to the side with one arm resting under his pillow. Surely, he had a pistol of some sort tucked under his head, hand on the trigger. Any sudden sounds triggering his fight or flight reflections, and he would have that gun pulled on you.

You swung your feet over the edge of the bed and placed them on the carpeted floor. As quietly as possible, you put on your socks and your boots, feeling like you were banging on pots and pans with every lace you looped. It took only a few seconds for you to compose yourself and grab your duffle bag. Your heart ached. This didn’t feel right. Not like this. But you needed to be as far away from the Winchesters as possible.

You quickly scribbled Dean a note on the stained notepad and placed it carefully on the table by the window. You slipped out the door without a word or so much as a glance back at the motel.

And you disappeared into the night.

Series Masterlist

A/N: <3

Likes, reblogs, and follows are never expected but greatly appreciated! These let me know I should keep on doing what I’m doing! (:

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cup1drul3z · 1 day ago

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★ — Keep Me Close

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ : ᴛᴜᴇꜱᴅᴀʏ

ᴘᴏᴘꜱᴛᴀʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ʙᴏᴅʏɢᴜᴀʀᴅ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | 6.6ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Age gap, Angst, Masturbation, Car crash mentioned, Drinking, drugs, mental health problems, depression, suicide mentioned

A/N : new chapter woohoo

SUMMARY : After a haunting nightmare of your car crash, you wake to another demanding day—only to be blindsided by a surprise gala appearance. As pressure builds, old trauma, physical pain, and industry expectations collide. You’re forced into a dress that shows the scar you try so hard to hide, and though you’re unraveling, Sevika stays steady—your quiet shield, your silent storm. When the night spirals into danger on the red carpet, she steps in, all muscle and instinct. Back home, things grow quieter... and heavier. She’s just down the hall, and somehow that’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

Everything was quiet at first.

Too quiet.

Then—sound returned all at once. Screeching metal. The pop of something exploding. The sharp hiss of leaking fuel and the distant whoosh of fire catching.

You came to with your world upside down.

Literally.

Your seatbelt dug into your shoulder, holding you suspended in the wrecked shell of the SUV, your hair hanging toward the cracked windshield smeared with blood. Your ears rang like you were underwater. The air was thick with smoke—burnt rubber, gasoline, something acrid that stung your lungs with every shallow breath.

You blinked, once—twice—and then the pain hit.

Your nose was gushing blood, the thick metallic taste already in your throat. Your face throbbed with every heartbeat. Broken? Probably. But it was nothing compared to what you felt next.

Your right leg.

Or… didn’t feel.

You looked down and nearly blacked out again.

The bone had punched clean through your thigh, white and jagged against your shredded leggings. It glistened with blood, the skin around it raw and torn. You couldn’t feel anything below it. Couldn’t move your foot. Could barely breathe.

You tried to scream, but your throat caught on the smoke.

Then you looked left.

The driver—Sara. Your driver for nearly two years. Sweet, sarcastic, a mother of three.

She was gone.

A piece of twisted metal had punched through the windshield and into her skull, pinning her to the seat. Her eyes were still open, blank and wide, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth.

You froze. The horror of it crept up your spine like cold fingers.

Then you screamed.

“Help!” you choked out, raw and panicked. “Somebody— I—I can’t—HELP!”

The flames caught outside, licking across the front of the car. The heat rose fast.

You thrashed once in the seatbelt, body screaming in agony as something in your side gave a sickening crunch.

Still, you screamed louder.

Because no one was coming.

And in that moment—upside down, bleeding, broken—you thought maybe this was it.

Maybe the world was going to end with you burning alive. Alone. Staring into the empty eyes of someone who never even had the chance to say goodbye.

Tuesday Morning

You woke up gasping.

Sheets tangled around your legs, sweat dampening the back of your tank top, breath coming in short, uneven pulls like you'd just run ten miles through fire.

The room was still dim—early morning light just beginning to spill through the tall windows of your bedroom, casting everything in a pale blue hush. You stared at the ceiling for a moment, heart thudding against your ribs, the phantom scent of gasoline still lingering in your nose like it never fully left.

Your hand flew to your face. No blood. No broken nose. Just the dream again.

You swallowed hard and pushed yourself up, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through your ankle first, then deeper—your thigh. The old wound. The one the doctors said you were “lucky” to survive. Lucky.

You stood slowly, legs trembling beneath you, gripping the edge of your vanity for balance. Your reflection stared back at you—gloss-free, curls flattened, eyes heavy and haunted.

You reached for the drawer by your bed and pulled out the pill bottle again. Hydraxin. Your fingers moved fast, familiar. Two pills. A sip from the water on your nightstand. Gone before you could feel guilty about it.

You didn’t go back to bed.

Instead, you limped over to the chaise by the window, grabbed the soft leather-bound journal from beneath a pile of magazines—your lyric journal—and flipped it open to a fresh page. You picked up the pen tucked in the binding, clicking it once before the words started pouring out like they'd been waiting all night.

“she wakes up from fire, but the heat never leaves skin stitched with sirens, mouth full of pleas how do you heal from what no one sees?”

You paused, chewing on your bottom lip, eyes scanning the verse.

Then you wrote more.

Because if you didn’t, the dream would stay lodged in your throat all day.

Once the page was filled and your hand was sore, you closed the journal, pressing your palm to the cover for a moment before finally standing up.

Today was another long day.

And no one needed to know how you’d started it.

The piano room was quiet—too quiet.

Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, slanting across the gleaming black lacquer of the grand piano, dust motes swirling in the stillness. The room was insulated from the rest of the house, wrapped in soft acoustics and the faint lingering scent of old sheet music and lavender-scented polish.

You sat down on the bench, the same one you'd sat on a hundred times before. Your lyric journal rested open beside you, pen tucked in the crease. You didn’t need to read the words—you already knew them by heart.

Fingers met keys.

A soft chord. Another. The melody came first—slow, aching, fragile like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. You played the verse you’d scribbled earlier, the notes stretching around the lyrics, shaping them into something raw and real.

"She wakes up from fire, but the heat never leaves..."

The words trembled in your throat, almost too heavy to sing, but you pushed through them anyway. Until you got to the next part.

And stopped.

Your fingers stilled on the keys. The silence rang louder than the music had.

You stared at the ivory beneath your hands, blinking rapidly as the next verse refused to come. It sat just out of reach, a shadow of a thought that wouldn’t take shape.

Your jaw clenched.

Your chest tightened.

And then—like someone had flipped a switch—your vision blurred.

Tears spilled silently down your cheeks, landing on the keys in soft, perfect drops. You didn’t wipe them away. You didn’t move.

In your head, the question repeated on a loop—sharp and quiet and unrelenting.

Why couldn’t I have died with them? Why was I the one who lived?

You squeezed your eyes shut. Pressed your fingers to the keys again. Let the notes ring out even as your breath hitched.

But the lyrics wouldn’t come.

Only the guilt stayed. Heavy as ever.

The knock startled you so hard your fingers slammed against the wrong keys, a dissonant chord ringing out through the quiet room. You flinched, quickly wiping at your cheeks with the sleeve of your cotton jacket, smudging whatever mascara hadn’t already bled into your skin.

You turned toward the door, blinking the tears away as best you could.

It creaked open, and Geoffrey—prim and polished as ever—stepped inside, his gloved hands folded in front of him.

“Apologies for the interruption, Miss,” he said gently, his gaze flicking once to your red-rimmed eyes but not commenting. He never did. “Your manager has arrived. He’s waiting in the foyer.”

You blinked. “Now?” Your voice came out hoarse. You cleared your throat and tried again. “It’s early. He’s not supposed to be here until ten.”

Geoffrey nodded once. “Yes, Miss. He insisted it was important.”

You stared at him for a moment, the warmth of the piano room now feeling suffocating.

“Did he say what it’s about?”

“No, Miss. Only that it was urgent.”

You hesitated, one hand still resting lightly on the keys. The journal lay open beside you, tears drying on the pages.

You closed it carefully, fingers brushing the soft leather.

“Tell him I’ll be down in a minute,” you said quietly.

Geoffrey inclined his head. “Of course, Miss.”

He stepped out, closing the door softly behind him.

You took a breath, held it. Exhaled slowly.

Then stood, every step heavy as you made your way to face whatever came next.

You padded down the grand staircase, barefoot and still dressed in your rumpled tank top and leggings, curls slightly flattened on one side from the pillow, eyes heavy from crying and barely sleeping. Your ankle throbbed with every step, but you barely registered it anymore—it was just part of the rhythm now.

In the foyer, your manager stood with his tablet clutched like it might explode, pacing circles into the marble. The second he saw you, he lit up with the kind of panic that always meant something was very, very wrong.

“Okay, finally,” he said, lowering his phone and half-jogging toward you. “You weren’t answering anything. Did you—are you—whatever, it doesn’t matter, we have a problem.”

You stopped mid-step, eyebrows furrowing. “It’s Tuesday. And it’s still dark out. Why do you look like someone set your office on fire?”

He turned his tablet to face you, showing an email confirmation, a calendar invite, and a photo of you mid-performance with the words:

“TONIGHT: Y/N L/N – Special Performance at the Goldnote Gala, Presented by The Silver Chair Foundation. Red Carpet at 7PM. Performance begins 8:30. Champagne reception. Black tie.”

You stared at it.

“I… didn’t agree to this.”

“Nope. But apparently your publicist did. Two weeks ago. As a ‘surprise guest appearance’ to help the fundraiser ‘feel buzzy and exclusive.’” He used air quotes like they offended him personally. “They’re expecting a song. A speech. Maybe some light mingling with people whose net worth could cancel our entire tour debt.”

You blinked. “It’s 6:22 in the morning, Dean.”

“Yes. And guess what? Now that tonight is locked, everything else on the schedule has to be moved up. Soundcheck, dress fitting, glam, vocal warmups, not to mention your actual studio session with the collab artist you forgot about—”

“Oh my god.” You pressed a hand to your forehead.

He kept going. “—So we are now in a code red time crunch, which means we have roughly twelve hours to do eighteen hours of work before you need to be dressed in something that costs more than your car, smiling at rich people while pretending to love philanthropy.”

You groaned, turning back toward the stairs. “Tell Geoffrey I need coffee.”

“Triple espresso?”

“Make it four and a tranquilizer.”

Dean called after you as you ascended, “You better warm up those vocal cords, sweetheart. Tonight, you’re inspiring the 1%!”

You didn’t even turn around—just muttered, “If I’m not back in ten, I’ve fled the country,” and disappeared down the hall.

The gym was nearly empty—just the soft whir of ceiling fans and the occasional clink of weights echoing through the industrial space.

Sevika liked it that way.

No grunting bros. No awkward small talk. Just cold air, steel, and the slow burn of muscle strain. She stood in front of the weight rack, tank top clinging to her torso with sweat, her left arm wrapped in black compression tape, right hand gripping a kettlebell that looked like it belonged on a construction site.

Veins ran like cords down her forearms. Her delts flexed as she adjusted her stance, legs braced wide, thick thighs balanced in perfect form. Her abs—faint but defined—tightened with every lift. She pulled the kettlebell up into a clean snatch, then dropped into a squat, slow and smooth, muscles rippling beneath her skin with practiced control.

Her jaw was clenched, hair damp and swept back. She didn’t wear headphones. Didn’t need music. Just the rhythm of reps and breath.

She paused between sets, rolling her neck and reaching for her water bottle when her phone buzzed on the bench beside her.

Dean.

She sighed and picked up, not bothering to mask her irritation.

“What.”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Dean’s voice chirped through. “Listen, change of plans. We’ve got a full-day situation—surprise gala, red carpet, you know, rich-people nonsense. Can you come in early?”

She wiped her face with a towel, staring at her reflection in the mirror—brow furrowed, still catching her breath.

“What’s early?”

“Like, now.”

She raised a brow. “I haven’t even showered.”

Dean’s tone was flat. “Neither has the day. Welcome to the circus. I’ll text the address.”

Click.

Sevika grunted, tossing the towel over her shoulder as she grabbed her duffel bag. She didn’t mind chaos. She just wished it didn’t come wrapped in glitter, heels, and a walking hazard zone of feelings.

Still, she moved fast.

Because no matter how complicated you were turning out to be…

You were hers to protect.

Tuesday Afternoon

The gala venue was already buzzing when Sevika arrived—stylists, assistants, and handlers scurrying through sleek halls lined with light panels and flower arrangements too expensive to touch. She scanned the chaos with a trained eye, pushing past the noise until she found the right door.

Y/N L/N – Dressing Room.

She knocked once, didn’t wait for an answer, and pushed it open.

Inside, you stood facing a full-length mirror, frozen in place. The gown on you was designer—of course it was—champagne silk that shimmered like water under light, cut dangerously low on one side and sheer in just the wrong places. You weren’t crying, not yet, but your jaw was tight and your arms were crossed low over your stomach like you could hide yourself by willpower alone.

Behind you, a flustered woman with a pin cushion bracelet and mouth full of pins was fidgeting with a hemline. “Sweetheart, you look stunning. The scar is barely noticeable with the lighting—they won’t even see it unless they’re looking for it—”

“I am looking at it,” you said through your teeth, voice strained but still polite. “And I’m telling you, I don’t want to wear this.”

“It’s a custom piece. It was tailored for this event. We don’t have time to—”

“I said no.”

The woman smiled nervously, glancing at Sevika like she might help.

Sevika didn’t move.

“You’ve got a phenomenal figure,” the fabric woman tried again. “And the cut is meant to—”

“I don’t care what it’s meant to do!” you snapped, voice cracking mid-sentence. “I didn’t ask for a dress that shows my goddamn scar! I didn’t ask for this, and I’m done pretending it doesn’t bother me!”

The room went silent.

Your chest was rising and falling fast now, eyes glassy, lips tight with fury and humiliation. The stylist opened her mouth—maybe to defend herself, maybe to keep pushing—but Sevika stepped forward before a single syllable came out.

“Out,” she said flatly, nodding toward the door.

The fabric woman blinked. “I—”

Sevika took another step forward. Her expression didn’t change, but the weight of her voice dropped lower.

“I said out. Now.”

The stylist backed away fast, scooping up her sewing kit and clipboard like a bomb was about to go off, muttering something about “needing to speak to Dean” as she slipped out the door.

Sevika shut it behind her with a soft click, then turned back to you—still standing in front of the mirror, still breathing hard, arms wrapped tightly around your middle like you were holding yourself together.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did she.

Not yet.

You stood there for a beat, jaw clenched, staring at your reflection like it had personally betrayed you.

Then, barely above a whisper, you muttered, “It’s so fucking ugly.”

Sevika shifted slightly, but didn’t say a word.

You didn’t look at her as you reached for the zipper and shoved the dress down, letting the silky fabric slide off your hips and pool around your feet. You stepped out of it without hesitation, now standing in nothing but your bra and underwear—skin still flushed from frustration, the scar across your stomach stark under the dressing room lights. Raised. Pale. Twisting slightly just above your hip like a quiet reminder you never asked for.

You turned away, heading straight for the closet and rifling through it like you were on a mission to destroy every scrap of couture in your path.

Behind you, Sevika choked on a breath.

“What are you doing?” she sputtered, turning away so fast she nearly smacked into the wall, arms flailing in front of her like she was under attack. “Why— why are you naked?!”

“I’m not naked,” you said coolly, still rummaging. “Calm down, Christ.”

“There’s, like—protocols!” Sevika hissed, eyes glued to the corner of the room, shoulders tense like the entire situation might explode if she looked directly at you. “I’m your bodyguard, not your backup bra wrangler!”

You let out a dry laugh, grabbing hanger after hanger and tossing aside half the rack. “I forgot you’re shy.”

“I’m not shy, I’m professional!” she snapped, still looking everywhere but at you. “And I’d prefer not to get fired for accidentally catching a glimpse of—Jesus.”

You smirked behind a curtain of fabric, holding up a sleek black number with a high neck and long sleeves.

“Relax,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “It’s just skin.”

Her ears were red. Absolutely burning.

“Yeah,” Sevika muttered, still refusing to turn around. “And that’s the problem.” she opened the door and stepped out

You were halfway into a black velvet gown when the door opened again without a knock.

“Y/N, I just got off the phone with—Oh my god,” Dean groaned, stopping dead in his tracks as the dress slipped halfway down your torso, barely hanging from one shoulder.

You huffed, clutching the bodice up with one hand. “Hi, Dean. Nice of you to knock.”

He shut the door behind him and crossed the room in two quick steps, eyes already scanning the heap of discarded gowns on the chaise. “What’s going on? What happened to the Goldnote dress?”

You didn’t answer. Just adjusted the zipper and tried to stuff your frustration back into your ribs.

Dean sighed like you were personally ruining his blood pressure. “This again?”

“I don’t like it,” you muttered, tugging on the too-loose neckline of the black dress. “It’s see-through, it shows my scar, and this one’s not much better.”

“Y/N…” he started, voice already dropping into that tone.

You glanced at him through the mirror.

He walked over, picking up the champagne gown from where it had fallen over the arm of a chair, brushing it off carefully like it was a wounded animal. “You looked stunning in this. Like… starlet-of-the-decade stunning. Everyone’s expecting it. The designer’s already posted a teaser. It’s on Vogue’s Instagram, for Christ’s sake.”

You swallowed. “Dean—”

“It’s not about the scar. No one’s looking at that. They’re looking at you. You’re the comeback story. The survivor. The one who walked through fire and came out shiny and perfect.”

His words landed like stones in your stomach.

“I just don’t want to be picked apart for something I didn’t choose,” you said softly.

Dean softened his voice, stepping closer. “Babe… that’s the gig. And tonight? You’re not just wearing a dress. You’re giving them something to talk about. And we need them talking. You’ve worked too damn hard to back down now because of something that only makes you stronger.”

You stared at the mirror. At yourself. At the scar.

Your shoulders sagged.

You sighed. “Fine.”

Dean smiled—relieved, triumphant, and a little too smug.

You reached out and took the champagne dress from him with a heavy hand, letting the black one fall to the floor.

Back into the sparkle. Back into the story.

Because this wasn’t about comfort.

It never was.

Sevika stood in the hallway just outside the dressing room, her back against the cool wall, arms crossed, trying—and failing—not to think about the way you had looked at her. The way your voice had dropped. The way your lips had almost brushed hers.

She dragged a hand down her face, jaw tense, breath shallow.

“Its just skin.” fuck that. Its taking everything in sevika not to go to the bathroom and get herself off

The words replayed again and again in her head, burrowing into the parts of her that usually stayed locked down tight.

She exhaled, staring at the ground, still trying to cool off when she heard footsteps.

Dean.

She straightened, watching from the corner of her eye as he strolled toward your dressing room, arms full with some last-minute garment and his phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. He didn’t knock. Just opened the door and slipped inside like he owned the air.

A beat passed. Then another.

And when Dean came back out, he was alone.

He didn’t look surprised. Or flustered.

He looked smug.

He adjusted his jacket like nothing happened, letting a satisfied little smirk curl across his face as he walked past her without a word—like he knew something she didn’t.

Sevika’s brows drew together.

What the hell was that?

She gave it a moment—just long enough for Dean to disappear around the corner—before stepping back into the dressing room.

You were standing in front of the mirror again, perfectly still, the champagne gown hugging your frame just as before. Except now, your shoulders were slouched. Your eyes dim. The fire from earlier? Snuffed out.

Her gaze dropped to the scar again, barely visible now through the sheer shimmer of the dress, but still there. Still yours.

She stared for a moment. Quiet.

Then said gently, “You’re back in the dress.”

You didn’t look at her. Not right away.

Just whispered, “Yeah. I guess I am.”

You turned away from the mirror without another word, the heels of your stilettos clicking softly across the dressing room floor as you made your way to your bag in the corner.

Your fingers rifled through it, looking for your lip gloss, maybe your phone—anything to distract from how heavy the dress felt again.

And then—

clatter.

The pill bottle slipped out of your bag and hit the floor with a soft plastic thunk, skittering across the tile like it was trying to expose you on purpose.

You lunged for it, but Sevika was closer.

She scooped it up before you could get there.

Everything in your body went still.

Shit.

You stood there, waiting—bracing—for the lecture. For the disappointed sigh. For the “do you even know how dangerous this is?” or the “this stuff ruins people” or the “you need help.”

But instead, Sevika just turned the bottle over in her hand, eyes flicking to the label. Hydraxin. Prescribed. Heavy dosage.

No emotion. No judgment.

She looked at you once, then simply held it out.

“Here.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You’re not gonna—say anything?”

She shrugged. “Not my business.”

You took it slowly from her hand, your fingers brushing hers for just a second.

She didn’t react.

You smiled—bright, syrupy, practiced. The kind you used in interviews to make people think everything was fine.

“Thanks,” you said sweetly, popping the cap and shaking out two pills like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t routine. You swallowed them dry and slipped the bottle back into your bag.

“God,” you said after a beat, glancing up through your lashes at her. “You really are the strong, silent type, huh?”

You took a small step closer, just close enough for your perfume to catch the space between you. “You sure there’s nothing else you wanna… handle?”

But Sevika’s expression didn’t budge. Stone and steel.

She stepped back, hands sliding into her jacket pockets.

“You’ve got a gala in forty minutes,” she said, voice flat. “Maybe save the charm for people who give a shit.”

And just like that—wall, reestablished.

She turned her gaze toward the door, as if looking at you too long might burn something she wasn’t willing to name.

But still… she didn’t leave.

The vanity lights were too bright—warm and soft, sure, but relentless. They reflected off every surface, clung to your skin like stage makeup always did, and made you feel more like a doll than a person.

One stylist was brushing out the ends of your curls, humming something tuneless. Another dabbed foundation into your jawline with a sponge, murmuring about undertones. Someone else adjusted the straps of the dress for the hundredth time.

You sat perfectly still. Smiled when they asked. Nodded when prompted. But your eyes?

Your eyes kept drifting toward the corner of the room.

Sevika stood with her back against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, one boot casually braced behind the other like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her dark jacket had SECURITY printed in block white letters across the back and the sleeve, like a label—like a barrier.

She hadn’t said much since she got there. Hadn’t even looked at you. Not really.

Just stood there, eyes scanning the room, always on alert. Detached. Unbothered.

Your stomach twisted a little.

This was the same woman who’d backed off the stylist earlier without blinking. The same one who’d watched you fall apart in a dressing room and didn’t say a word but still stayed. Who gave you your pills back without judgment, who saw all your mess and didn’t flinch.

And now?

Nothing.

Her face was stone. Her presence heavy but unreadable. You couldn’t tell if she was angry with you or if this was just her default setting.

What’s your deal? you wondered, watching her through the mirror. Are you protective or indifferent? Present or miles away?

She didn’t glance your way once.

And maybe that’s what bothered you the most.

Tuesday Night

The night was chaos wrapped in velvet and flashbulbs.

The gala steps were swarming—fans screaming from behind the barricades, voices rising like a tidal wave every time your name was called. The paparazzi—paparazzi, you remembered with a mental wince—lined the carpet like vultures with thousand-dollar cameras, each one throwing flash after flash in your face like it was open season on your corneas.

You stood in the center of it all like you were born for this.

Hair perfect, dress clinging in all the right places, that practiced sweet-yet-sultry smile frozen effortlessly in place. You turned your head, letting your curls cascade down one shoulder, then did the slow spin your publicist had drilled into you—back turned to the crowd, head tilted over your shoulder, eyes locked on the nearest lens like you meant to burn your image into it.

The lights caught the ink on your shoulder blade—a delicate black-and-grey lily blooming soft and sharp beneath the champagne silk. A memorial. For the woman in the driver’s seat. Sara.

No one ever asked about the tattoo. You never explained it.

But they’d see it now.

And under all the blinding light, something else caught, too.

The scar.

It peeked out beneath the gauzy panel at your hip, glinting under the camera flashes. Faint. Pale. Raised just enough to catch in the wrong lighting—just enough to prove the fabric stylist had lied.

It was visible. All of it.

But you didn’t flinch.

You smiled at the camera. Signed a fan’s photo without even looking down. Said “thank you” and “I love you guys” and “You look so cute tonight!” like a reflex, like breathing. Even as the flashes cracked like lightning. Even as strangers screamed your name like they owned it.

You kept your cool.

The fan photo line had become its own kind of performance—one you knew by heart.

Teen girls with glitter in their hair, clutching custom-made signs and friendship bracelets. Preteens trembling with excitement as they handed you shaky drawings and phone cases for you to sign. Boys with painted nails and bright eyes who gushed about how your lyrics helped them come out. Girls dressed in knockoffs of your concert outfits, crying as they thanked you for "Break My Lipgloss" or “Hydra Heart” getting them through their first heartbreak, their parents’ divorce, the worst year of their life.

Someone apologized for the accident. You just smiled.

Someone asked how you made it. You gave your usual answer—“Hard work. A little luck. And knowing who you are when no one else does.”

You knelt beside a little girl in a sequined jacket for a photo, signing the back of her sparkly backpack. When she hugged you, it was soft and fast and full of the kind of love that didn’t expect anything in return.

Then he stepped forward.

You knew before he even spoke that something was off.

An older man—late sixties maybe, wearing a worn-out tour shirt that looked fake. Not your usual fan. Not even someone who looked like they wanted to be here. His eyes tracked your every move with too much interest. Too much hunger.

Still, you smiled, polite. Trained. You signed his shirt quickly, trying to hand it back before he could say anything. But he stepped in close.

“Smile for the camera, sweetheart,” he said, arm slipping around your waist before you could dodge it.

Your stomach twisted.

The photographer paused, fumbling with his lens. “One sec, sorry, just gotta reload—”

You stood stiffly, barely breathing, trying not to let his hand touch skin. But then he leaned in, breath hot against your ear.

“You know why you survived that crash, don’t you?” he whispered, too close. “You’re not normal. You’re divine. You’ve been here before. You’re one of them. Like the old ones. Greek. Reborn in glitter.”

You froze.

His hand slid lower. Fingers pressing against the curve of your ass like he owned it.

“I could show you what it feels like to be worshipped.”

You moved—fast—but he gripped tighter.

“Let go,” you hissed, voice sharp, panic blooming in your chest.

And then—impact.

Sevika came out of nowhere, a blur of black fabric and fury. Her shoulder slammed into him like a freight train, sending the man flying backwards. He hit the floor with a loud thud, camera lights flickering like dying fireflies.

The crowd gasped.

You stood there, shaking, gasping for air you didn’t realize you’d stopped breathing.

Sevika didn’t say anything. Just stood between you and the man’s crumpled body, one hand raised like she might go in again if he moved.

You turned on your heel, heart pounding, dress catching at your knees as you pushed through the nearest curtain—out of view, out of reach, into the cool dark behind the stage.

Your hands were trembling.

Your scar was burning.

The curtain fell behind you like a closing door, muffling the noise of the crowd.

You stumbled a few steps into the shadows behind the stage before your knees buckled, and you dropped into a crouch, hands gripping the hem of your dress like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

You couldn’t breathe.

Your chest rose and fell too fast, each inhale scraping against your throat like glass. The sound of cameras still echoed in your ears, his voice still ghosting in your head—you’re divine… I could worship you… His hand—God, you could feel it.

You curled in tighter, pressing your forehead to your knees, trying to disappear into the sequins and silk. Your entire body trembled.

Breathe. Just breathe. You couldn’t.

Then—soft footsteps. A shift in the air.

You flinched as someone crouched next to you.

A large hand settled gently between your shoulder blades. Warm. Solid. Not grabbing. Just there.

“Hey,” Sevika said, her voice low, steady. “You're okay. I’m right here.”

You didn’t lift your head, but your breath hitched. She didn’t rush you. Didn’t force your face up. Just stayed crouched beside you like she had all the time in the world.

“Match me,” she murmured, voice barely audible over the thudding in your ears. “Inhale.”

She breathed in slow and deep. You tried. Failed.

“That’s alright. Again. In…”

She counted softly.

You followed—ragged at first, but slowly steadier. Her hand never left your back, the weight of it keeping you tethered to something that wasn’t fear.

Eventually, the tunnel vision faded. Your lungs started to obey. The panic eased its grip.

“I’ve got you,” Sevika said, just once, when your breath finally came without shaking.

A moment later, you heard hurried footsteps.

Dean.

He stepped around the curtain and froze when he saw you huddled beside Sevika.

“Jesus,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he knelt a few feet away. “Y/N, I—I should’ve never let you go out there tonight. This was too much. You weren’t ready, and I knew it, and I still—” he rubbed his face, overwhelmed with guilt. “I thought we could handle it. That if we controlled the press and the dress and the lighting and the narrative, it’d be okay. I’m so—God, I’m so sorry.”

You looked up at him slowly, eyes red, voice hoarse.

“I just want to go home.”

Dean nodded instantly. “Okay. We’re leaving. I’ll have the car brought around now.”

Sevika helped you to your feet, her hand steady under your arm, not saying much—but she didn’t need to.

She was already doing more than most.

The mansion was quiet when they pulled up—too quiet, like even the house knew better than to make noise tonight. The iron gates slid shut behind them, and the staff scattered respectfully out of view as the car rolled to a stop in the long curved driveway.

Sevika stepped out first, her boots hitting the polished stone with a heavy thunk. She made her way around the side of the house toward the garage where her bike was stashed—tucked between luxury cars and a vintage convertible that probably hadn’t been driven in a decade.

She found her helmet, clipped it under one arm, and stared at her bike like it had betrayed her.

It looked smaller here. Out of place.

So did she.

She sighed, dragging a hand through her hair, thinking—not for the first time—that she should start saving for a car. Something low-key. Nothing fancy. Just enough to keep from looking like a damn courier when she parked next to cars that probably cost more than her entire apartment complex.

She was reaching for her keys when she heard soft footsteps.

“Sevika?”

She turned.

You were standing behind her, still in that champagne dress, now wrinkled and wilted from the night. The dried tear stains on your cheeks glittered faintly under the garage lights.

You grabbed her wrist gently—no drama, no theatrics—just held it like you didn’t want to say what you were about to alone.

“Do you…” You hesitated. “Do you want a drink?”

Sevika stared at you.

Then at your hand.

Then slowly nodded. “…Sure.”

The kitchen was stupidly big. Marble counters. Glass shelves with perfectly lit liquor bottles like a museum exhibit. You moved on autopilot, bare feet quiet on the tile as you reached up and pulled out a bottle that made Sevika’s eyebrows lift the second she saw the label.

Beluga Gold Line Vodka. A price tag north of $400. She'd seen it once in a bar. In a glass case. Untouchable.

You didn’t blink as you poured two shots.

Sevika sat across from you at the massive island, blinking rapidly, like the sheer luxury of this kitchen might call security on her.

You slid the glass toward her, and you both sat in silence for a long beat.

Then Sevika finally broke it.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, voice low but not cold.

Not professional, either.

Just real.

You swirled the vodka slowly in your glass, watching the light catch against the crystal.

“I feel better,” you said after a moment, voice soft but certain. “Still shaky. But… better.”

Sevika nodded once. “Good.”

Another pause.

“Thanks to you,” you added, glancing up at her from under your lashes.

She looked at you—really looked—and didn’t say anything. Just gave a slow exhale through her nose, like she wasn’t sure how to take the compliment.

You smiled faintly, your fingers tapping lightly on the counter as the silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable now. It felt full—like something was waiting.

You leaned forward a little, your forearms resting on the cold marble. Then a little more. She didn’t move. Your eyes flicked to her mouth, the space between you shrinking with every inch.

Her lips parted just slightly. Her shoulders tensed.

You were close. So close.

And then— crack-BOOM.

Thunder exploded outside, rattling the glass panes of the kitchen windows.

You flinched, blinking back to yourself, then gave a breathy laugh as you stood and wandered to the back doors, pushing one open to step onto the patio.

Rain poured from the sky like it had been waiting for the exact moment to break loose. The city beyond the estate lit up in hazy glows and golden halos, skyscrapers blurred through the downpour. The scent of petrichor filled the air—wet stone, grass, ozone.

You stood in it for a second, bare arms catching droplets, your dress soaking slightly as the wind shifted. The chill on your skin made you shiver, but the view was worth it. Rain made everything feel cinematic. Like a sad ending you weren’t sure was actually sad.

You stepped back inside, shutting the door with a soft click and turning to Sevika, who was still planted at the counter, watching you silently.

“You can’t ride home in that,” you said. “The roads are going to be slick as hell.”

“I’ve done worse,” Sevika muttered, but there was no real conviction in it.

“No.” Your voice was firmer this time. “You’re staying. At least for tonight.”

Her brows raised, lips parting like she might argue, but you didn’t give her the chance. You just raised a finger and gave her the look. The one that usually got stylists and choreographers to fall in line.

And, weirdly enough… Sevika listened.

She gave a low grunt of surrender. “Fine.”

Minutes later, Geoffrey was showing her to the guest room—muted, respectful, as if he already knew not to ask questions—and you slipped out of the dress with a sigh, wandering toward the master bathroom with a towel slung over your shoulder.

You lit the candles one by one. The room dimmed to amber.

The bath was massive—white marble, sunken deep enough to submerge your whole body. You filled it with steaming water, drops of oil swirling across the surface in delicate little patterns.

You stepped in slowly, easing into the heat until only your nose, lips, and the top of your head were visible above the surface.

Your eyes fluttered closed.

And then Sevika was back in your head.

Her hand on your back. Steady. Warm.

Her voice, low and even, counting out your breaths like it wasn’t the first time she’d done this for someone. The rough edge of her tone. The tension in her jaw. The quiet way she said, I’ve got you.

It should’ve been just comforting.

But it wasn’t.

Not entirely.

You exhaled slowly, your thighs tightening under the water.

There was something about how she’d taken control without asking. How she hadn’t flinched. How her voice had slipped under your skin like it belonged there.

You sank lower into the bath, eyes half-lidded, water licking at your collarbones.

God.

Even her comfort had turned you on.

Your fingers slipped lower beneath the water, brushing over the soft heat between your thighs. You inhaled sharply through your nose, teeth grazing your bottom lip as you pressed your palm flat and moved in slow, deliberate circles around your clit

You were already aching.

Already imagining her.

The way her eyes had lingered without saying anything. The way her voice had wrapped around you like armor while your world fell apart.

Your hips lifted slightly, seeking more contact, chasing that edge as your fingers grew bolder, stroking tighter, deeper, the water sloshing quietly around your waist. The pressure built with every breath, heat curling low in your belly.

You whispered something you didn’t quite catch—maybe her name, maybe just a plea—and tipped your head back against the rim of the tub, jaw slack as your body trembled.

And when release hit, it rolled through you in waves—sweet, slow, quiet. A sigh slipped from your lips as you sank deeper into the water, eyes fluttering shut.

You stayed there like that for a while, the water still warm, the candles flickering low, your heartbeat slowly steadying.

She was still in the guest room down the hall.

And you didn’t know what scared you more:

That she might hear you…

Or that you wanted her to.

A/N : watching the new tlou episode

comment to be added to the taglist!

@salsalsusu @dynamidedina @sweetvalentineheart @magnificentmilkshakearbite

IF YOU OR SOMEONE YOU KNOW STRUGGLES WITH DRUG ADDICTION, HELP IS AVALIBLE! you're not alone!

Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

#arcane #arcane sevika #sevika #lesbian #sevika x reader #wlw #wuh luh wuh #sissormetimbers

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pikatsum · 9 months ago

Text

Lights, Camera, Chaos | 1 | Todoroki Shouto / Reader

Summary: You and Shouto are forced to make your first televised appearance as a couple. What starts as an embarrassing invasion of privacy completely upends itself once you realize just how cutthroat the world of reality TV can get.

Tags & Warnings: Reader uses she/her pronouns, Quirkless Reader, Pro-Hero Shouto.

Part of the Pretty Boy Summer collab! [cross-posted on ao3]

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Being the partner of a pro-hero was the kind of thing that should really come with an instruction manual. And emblazoned on uncoated paper stock beneath chapter one, the golden rule that nine of ten couples managed to break: keep it on the down-low.

Those who didn’t faced the consequences— particularly civilians.

Their faces were ultimately the ones that got splashed across the front page of every gossip-rag in Japan. They became public pariahs, their names repeated ad nauseam on the news, whispered with glee in hair salons and social clubs. In the story of their life, everything became forfeit to the public— their friends, their profession, their dating history, their homes. All of it.

Now, for nearly three months, you’d been one of them. At the end of the day, that was the noodles’ fault, really.

The summer after culinary school, you’d scored your first full-time role, working as the head chef in a small noodle shop just a few blocks from your college campus, at the edge of the city. The owner, Okuda-san, had been in business for years, but the dreams of grandeur that had brought him to central Mustafau as a young man had long since been struck by reality. Though the quality of his meals had never diminished, he’d vastly scaled back his operations over the last ten years— gone was the opulent restaurant in the center of downtown with its sleek metallic architecture and warm ambient lighting. Gone too was his wife, or so you suspected, based on the mutterings you could pick up from the front office, when business ran slow.

The day you met Shouto, the rain had been coming down in sheets, blurring the windows and filling the reception area with a soothing white-noise as you oversaw reservation bookings, dinner preparations and engaged in a small bit of gossip-gathering on the side. It was that same rain that had led you to warn him about the biodegradable styrofoam that his takeout was packed in, and offer the restaurant’s tiny enclave seating to avoid having his meal ruined by the deluge. You’d shared polite conversation— mostly offering tips for balancing buckwheat dough to make proper soba noodles.

Over time, the street in front of Okuda-san’s little shop had become a well-worn patrol path for Shouto’s agency. Conversations turned to texts, and invitations out with his friends. After an unhealthy amount of pining, you’d finally steeled your nerves enough to ask him on a date— an awkward but effective kickstart to almost two years of the best relationship you’d ever had.

There truly was no protocol for having such an intimate piece of yourself revealed to the public, to millions of your partner’s diehard fans. There weren’t words to describe the moment you first laid eyes on the incriminating photo that had started all of this: the two of you, sharing a kiss on the way up to your apartment. Your longing, exacerbated by Shouto’s tedious travel schedule had faced off against your building’s perpetually-slow elevator doors and came up short.

One grainy picture, posted to one account incited a slew of Internet detectives, stealing your anonymity in a matter of hours.

At the very least, you’d been blissfully unaware at first— overlooking the increasing stares from the diners at Okuda-san’s, and glossing over the fact that the cab driver knew your name on the way home. You’d remained blissfully ignorant up until arriving home to find Shouto on the doorstep, still in his costume. He’d quickly shepherded you up to your apartment and barricaded the door. In full pro-hero mode, he’d guided you through the essentials to pack in a duffel bag, and then quickly brought you back to his, to wait out the full extent of the madness.

The worst of it was concentrated in that first two weeks. You’d been unable to turn on the TV without hearing the diminutive nickname the media had chosen for you— “Noodle Legs”— coupled with the same clip of Shouto guiding you up the steps into his high-rise building, over and over. Unfortunately, your legs had been wobbling, as the full magnitude of what was happening had finally begun to set in. In those first days, you’d sequestered yourself in the guest room with the blinds drawn, the drone of the TV only semi-effective against the catastrophizing taking place in your mind.

The public had judged your relationship with Shouto and you clearly had not met expectations. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Even a decade on from the war that had rewritten the operations of superhuman society, competent wasn’t a word that paired well with Quirkless.

As the media storm raged, you had never seen Shouto so upset. In the first few days, his schedule was particularly erratic, his whereabouts always announced by text and sticky notes left on your door, or the bathroom mirror in tight, neat script. Often, he was out amidst the public, speaking to media outlets on his own, trying to stem the influx of public opinion about you that had become the nation’s topic de jour. As you slowly began to emerge from your cocoon of solitude, you saw just how oppositely this ordeal was affecting him.

When he was home, Shouto paced, relentlessly. He completed a book of Sudoku puzzles as you absently cooked enough udon to feed a small army— or at least four of his pro-hero friends. Each night, he scarcely settle in on the couch next to you before noticing a stray sock or a flickering lightbulb, some small thing to put right. Nothing was enough, anymore, and even as you asked him to come to bed— his bed— he only ever seemed to sleep on the couch, if at all.

After nearly a week, his mania and your melancholy finally collided, spectacularly. You could still remember the whisper of the paper against the hardwood, as it slid under the bedroom door, late that night. Nearly two pages offered a handwritten letter apologizing for the upheaval of your entire life, and his absence in the aftermath. The third carefully recorded the plan he’d been building to mitigate the fallout, mentioning the friends he’d enlisted to help him and proposed ideas for a manufactured scandal, enough to take the limelight off you. That moment of shade, he argued, would allow you to distance yourself.

“I promise to help you establish a future that will make you happy.” the letter concluded, “And I understand, if that future no longer includes me.”

It was carefully-worded, largely self removed and so quintessentially Shouto that it nearly broke you all over again. Not much about your future was determined that night, apart from one, indelible truth: you didn’t want a future without Shouto in it. If that meant you’d have to face the public— the cameras and opinions and bigotry— so be it.

You’d casually perused enough gossip magazines to know the general strategies that hero & civilian relationships used, publicly. Some couples went on luxurious (sponsored) vacations, their devotion shamelessly showcased through glossy magazine spreads and corny ‘What’s in Our Suitcase?’ Q&As. Others used their moment in the limelight to launch one partner’s passion project — a private art studio, a taproom, a crossfit gym— often trendy, always overcrowded and never necessary public infrastructure.

The rest wrote memoirs. So. Many. Memoirs. You’d just finished “Catching the Copycat. — How I Fell in Love with Phantom Thief” earlier that month, and it wasn’t half bad. Amidst the unending slew of public attention and the realization that you were going to have to market yourself somehow, the idea of writing a novel was contenting. At the very least, your partner’s versatile Quirk meant there was no end to the pithy puns you could come up with for a title.

And then, Shouto’s PR team put out a press release announcing that the two of you would be starring in the next episode of Split Shift— the Hero Network’s one and only reality television program.

‘Think you’ve got what it takes to be a hero? Think again!” announced its pithy tagline, in the promotional packet,’ Each week, Split Shift lets its viewers experience a day in the life of the nation’s top defenders, exposing their personal sides, through the eyes of their inner circle!.’

The two of you had tried to fight it. Oh, how you had tried, your combined efforts quickly spawning endless hours of email chains. But Shouto’s public relations team was relentless— apparently, the clamor of the public for more details, photos, evidence of your leaked relationship was stronger than any villain in the known universe. And without it, they warned, Shouto’s rank in the heroics charts was severely at risk.

“I’m sure you’re aware,” Omori Mika, Shouto’s head of PR, explained, fingers flying across her keyboard as a window of metrics popped up, “a significant portion of Shouto’s fanbase finds him anywhere from “considerably” to “highly” attractive. Early this year, he dethroned Best Jeanist to win Quirk’d Magazines’ “Hottest Hero Alive.”

“Oh, yes— well deserved.” you nodded, sparing a glance to your own well-loved copy, resting on the coffee table. The cover-shot had really captured his intensity, the haunting contrast of his heterochromatic gaze in low lighting.

From the other side of the couch, Shouto cleared his throat, and you found yourself impishly delighted by the fact that he refused to meet your eyes.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because that faction in particular wants to know — why her?” Mika made a brief gesture towards you as she expounded, “Why, out of every person in the nation— the world, even— why is she the one you chose?”

Shouto blinked, glancing between you and the laptop.

“Do they want a list? I’d have to ask Midoriya for—“

“—evidence is the name of the game, Shouto.” Mika broke in, “Photos, maybe, but what people really want is footage.”

“Footage that we have to get by being publicly humiliated, got it.” you sighed.

A notch appeared between Mika’s perfectly- plucked eyebrows.

“I know you’re both unhappy about the booking, but the Hero Network is the best platform to showcase Shouto’s capabilities. The nature of the show won’t just remind people why they trust him— it’ll show that he’s chosen a capable and resourceful partner, as well.”

You flushed and averted your gaze. Capable and resourceful were just about the last things that you were feeling, at the moment.

“And honestly, Split Shift is tame in comparison to some of the shows that have been asking for you.” Mika began to flip through her color-coded planner, “Let’s see… Quirktastrophe, Save my Love Life… oh, you’re lucky we didn’t put you on Zero to Hero, I hear that host is a real piece of work, off-camera…”

“Message received.” Shouto intoned, cutting off the diatribe. You moved your legs enough to allow him to scoot over, leaning forward to minimize the chat window and zoom in on a contractual document, written in a font size in the single-digits. He met your eyes

You took a deep breath and sealed your fates with a nod.

“Where do we sign?”

The devil worked hard, but apparently the scheduling team for Split Shift worked harder. Less than a week later, the two of you were arriving at the studio at the crack of dawn, for what promised to be a grueling day of filming. The process began two blocks before the filming lot, a two-man crew driving out to meet in an adjacent parking lot. You and Shouto were each asked to step out of the car in order to have a microphone pack strapped and secured beneath your clothing. They also hooked a small portable camera to the dashboard, to “capture your authentic reactions to arriving on-set.”

In a mutual act of defiance, you and Shouto remained dead-silent for the remaining two blocks. It was a welcome respite, especially given that it seemed those silences would be few and far between for the rest of the day.

Two steps out of the car and you were being accosted by a human gale-force. She arrived in a cloud of cherry-scented perfume, and wasted no time in handing over the two smoothies she was carrying. The badge pinned smartly to her dark blazer read “Noujuu Yōko”.

You’d just barely opened your mouth to offer a ‘thank you’, but the woman barely spared a glance before she turned and circled a finger in the air to follow.

“You’re seven minutes late.”

“Your crew was delayed and there were a number of road closures en route.” Shouto fell in line, his cooler hand lacing with your free one, “We weren’t—“

“—I sent a reminder email at 2:45 AM with these details. Your coordinator should have shared them.”

You watched as a notch appeared in your partner’s brow, a subtle display of his annoyance. Before he could retort, you broke in with a small laugh that felt as awkward and forced as it sounded.

“Sorry about that.” you said, “This is all… very new.”

You didn’t receive a response, nor at this point were you particularly expecting one. Avoiding the wires criss-crossing the asphalt while keeping up with her brisk pace was taking enough effort, anyways. Unfortunately, an experimental sip of the smoothie in your hand revealed that it tasted like chalk.

“Don’t feel the need to apologize.” Shouto murmured, as you slowed your pace. This close, notes of mint and jasmine stood out in his cologne as he leaned over to murmur to you, “She’s just high-strung. They can film and record as they like, now— I’ve already seen a camera following us, from the right. They’re looking for reactions.”

“So, no public meltdowns— got it.” you smiled weakly, a chill going up your spine at the prospect of indirectly being ‘on-air’.

Yōko led the way back to the first of the sound stages as she explained that Split Shift was filmed in a “psychologically-backed” sequence. The core of that process was candid footage, occasionally guided by interviews.

“You’ll be interviewing throughout the day, both separately and together.” she explained, at the door, “At midday, we’ll have a thirty-minute lunch, and a touch-up with hair and makeup. The afternoon will then be dedicated to wrapping up the heroics case.”

“The… what?” you asked, glancing at Shouto, “Is there something you’re supposed to look into?”

“Not that I am aware of.” Shouto said, “Although I assume, based on the increasing number of cameras that have tracked us here, that this is meant to be some kind of dramatic twist.”

It took you a moment to begin to spot them— angled around corners, hidden in the shrubbery and eaves of the soundstage. There was even a drone flying overhead, high up enough to muffle the whine of its motors. Apprehension bloomed in your chest, counting at least fifteen cameras, knowing there were likely more.

The tone Shouto adopted was pure apathy— but you knew it as a defense mechanism, to hide the anger he hated to show.

“Is there a particular direction you’d like us to face, to express our shock?” he said.

Yōko’s chartreuse eyes narrowed in a silent declaration of war.

“This way will be fine.”

In the next instant, a loud metallic screech made you jump. Whirling around, you realized that the garage door of the warehouse was opening, and although you couldn’t see much through the gloom, the sun’s rays did catch off another two camera lenses, at least.

“We’ve made a few changes on set.” Yōko had to raise her voice to speak over the shuffle of the film crew as they filled in the space, the descending screech of the drone, “Audiences used to prefer viewing the world of heroes at street-level, through the eyes of those they loved most. Now, they want to experience it, for themselves.”

You weren’t looking at her, though, or any of the multitudes of cameras. Instead, your gaze was focused on the mannequin angled in the center of the sound stage, and dressed in a disconcerting blend of lycra and tactical gear— specifically an all-too-familiar vest and utility belt.

Yōko’s voice rang out behind you, sending a chill up your spine as the full scope of what you had gotten yourself into began to click into place.

“So, [Last Name] [First Name]. Are you ready to become a hero?”

#todoroki shoto/reader #prettyboysummercollab #todoroki shoto #bhna x reader #mha x reader #beloved: shouto

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

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No, Uber's (still) not profitable

Going to Defcon this weekend? I'm giving a keynote, "An Audacious Plan to Halt the Internet's Enshittification and Throw it Into Reverse," on Saturday at 12:30pm, followed by a book signing at the No Starch Press booth at 2:30pm!

https://info.defcon.org/event/?id=50826

Bezzle (n): 1. "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it" (JK Gabraith) 2. Uber.

Uber was, is, and always will be a bezzle. There are just intrinsic limitations to the profits available to operating a taxi fleet, even if you can misclassify your employees as contractors and steal their wages, even as you force them to bear the cost of buying and maintaining your taxis.

The magic of early Uber – when taxi rides were incredibly cheap, and there were always cars available, and drivers made generous livings behind the wheel – wasn't magic at all. It was just predatory pricing.

Uber lost $0.41 on every dollar they brought in, lighting $33b of its investors' cash on fire. Most of that money came from the Saudi royals, funneled through Softbank, who brought you such bezzles as WeWork – a boring real-estate company masquerading as a high-growth tech company, just as Uber was a boring taxi company masquerading as a tech company.

Predatory pricing used to be illegal, but Chicago School economists convinced judges to stop enforcing the law on the grounds that predatory pricing was impossible because no rational actor would choose to lose money. They (willfully) ignored the obvious possibility that a VC fund could invest in a money-losing business and use predatory pricing to convince retail investors that a pile of shit of sufficient size must have a pony under it somewhere.

This venture predation let investors – like Prince Bone Saw – cash out to suckers, leaving behind a money-losing business that had to invent ever-sweatier accounting tricks and implausible narratives to keep the suckers on the line while they blew town. A bezzle, in other words:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/19/fake-it-till-you-make-it/#millennial-lifestyle-subsidy

Uber is a true bezzle innovator, coming up with all kinds of fairy tales and sci-fi gimmicks to explain how they would convert their money-loser into a profitable business. They spent $2.5b on self-driving cars, producing a vehicle whose mean distance between fatal crashes was half a mile. Then they paid another company $400 million to take this self-licking ice-cream cone off their hands:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/herbies-revenge/#100-billion-here-100-billion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money

Amazingly, self-driving cars were among the more plausible of Uber's plans. They pissed away hundreds of millions on California's Proposition 22 to institutionalize worker misclassification, only to have the rule struck down because they couldn't be bothered to draft it properly. Then they did it again in Massachusetts:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/15/simple-as-abc/#a-big-ask

Remember when Uber was going to plug the holes in its balance sheet with flying cars? Flying cars! Maybe they were just trying to soften us up for their IPO, where they advised investors that the only way they'd ever be profitable is if they could replace every train, bus and tram ride in the world:

https://48hills.org/2019/05/ubers-plans-include-attacking-public-transit/

Honestly, the only way that seems remotely plausible is when it's put next to flying cars for comparison. I guess we can be grateful that they never promised us jetpacks, or, you know, teleportation. Just imagine the market opportunity they could have ascribed to astral projection!

Narrative capitalism has its limits. Once Uber went public, it had to produce financial disclosures that showed the line going up, lest the bezzle come to an end. These balance-sheet tricks were as varied as they were transparent, but the financial press kept falling for them, serving as dutiful stenographers for a string of triumphant press-releases announcing Uber's long-delayed entry into the league of companies that don't lose more money every single day.

One person Uber has never fooled is Hubert Horan, a transportation analyst with decades of experience who's had Uber's number since the very start, and who has done yeoman service puncturing every one of these financial "disclosures," methodically sifting through the pile of shit to prove that there is no pony hiding in it.

In 2021, Horan showed how Uber had burned through nearly all of its cash reserves, signaling an end to its subsidy for drivers and rides, which would also inevitably end the bezzle:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/10/unter/#bezzle-no-more

In mid, 2022, Horan showed how the "profit" Uber trumpeted came from selling off failed companies it had acquired to other dying rideshare companies, which paid in their own grossly inflated stock:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/05/a-lousy-taxi/#a-giant-asterisk

At the end of 2022, Horan showed how Uber invented a made-up, nonstandard metric, called "EBITDA profitability," which allowed them to lose billions and still declare themselves to be profitable, a lie that would have been obvious if they'd reported their earnings using Generally Accepted Accounting Principles (GAAP):

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/11/bezzlers-gonna-bezzle/#gryft

Like clockwork, Uber has just announced – once again – that it is profitable, and once again, the press has credulously repeated the claim. So once again, Horan has published one of his magisterial debunkings on Naked Capitalism:

https://www.nakedcapitalism.com/2023/08/hubert-horan-can-uber-ever-deliver-part-thirty-three-uber-isnt-really-profitable-yet-but-is-getting-closer-the-antitrust-case-against-uber.html

Uber's $394m gains this quarter come from paper gains to untradable shares in its loss-making rivals – Didi, Grab, Aurora – who swapped stock with Uber in exchange for Uber's own loss-making overseas divisions. Yes, it's that stupid: Uber holds shares in dying companies that no one wants to buy. It declared those shares to have gained value, and on that basis, reported a profit.

Truly, any big number multiplied by an imaginary number can be turned into an even bigger number.

Now, Uber also reported "margin improvements" – that is, it says that it loses less on every journey. But it didn't explain how it made those improvements. But we know how the company did it: they made rides more expensive and cut the pay to their drivers. A 2.9m ride in Manhattan is now $50 – if you get a bargain! The base price is more like $70:

https://www.wired.com/story/uber-ceo-will-always-say-his-company-sucks/

The number of Uber drivers on the road has a direct relationship to the pay Uber offers those drivers. But that pay has been steeply declining, and with it, the availability of Ubers. A couple weeks ago, I found myself at the Burbank train station unable to get an Uber at all, with the app timing out repeatedly and announcing "no drivers available."

Normally, you can get a yellow taxi at the station, but years of Uber's predatory pricing has caused a drawdown of the local taxi-fleet, so there were no taxis available at the cab-rank or by dispatch. It took me an hour to get a cab home. Uber's bezzle destroyed local taxis and local transit – and replaced them with worse taxis that cost more.

Uber won't say why its margins are improving, but it can't be coming from scale. Before the pandemic, Uber had far more rides, and worse margins. Uber has diseconomies of scale: when you lose money on every ride, adding more rides increases your losses, not your profits.

Meanwhile, Lyft – Uber's also-ran competitor – saw its margins worsen over the same period. Lyft has always been worse at lying about it finances than Uber, but it is in essentially the exact same business (right down to the drivers and cars – many drivers have both apps on their phones). So Lyft's financials offer a good peek at Uber's true earnings picture.

Lyft is actually slightly better off than Uber overall. It spent less money on expensive props for its long con – flying cars, robotaxis, scooters, overseas clones – and abandoned them before Uber did. Lyft also fired 24% of its staff at the end of 2022, which should have improved its margins by cutting its costs.

Uber pays its drivers less. Like Lyft, Uber practices algorithmic wage discrimination, Veena Dubal's term describing the illegal practice of offering workers different payouts for the same work. Uber's algorithm seeks out "pickers" who are choosy about which rides they take, and converts them to "ants" (who take every ride offered) by paying them more for the same job, until they drop all their other gigs, whereupon the algorithm cuts their pay back to the rates paid to ants:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

All told, wage theft and wage cuts by Uber transferred $1b/quarter from labor to Uber's shareholders. Historically, Uber linked fares to driver pay – think of surge pricing, where Uber charged riders more for peak times and passed some of that premium onto drivers. But now Uber trumpets a custom pricing algorithm that is the inverse of its driver payment system, calculating riders' willingness to pay and repricing every ride based on how desperate they think you are.

This pricing is a per se antitrust violation of Section 2 of the Sherman Act, America's original antitrust law. That's important because Sherman 2 is one of the few antitrust laws that we never stopped enforcing, unlike the laws banning predator pricing:

https://ilr.law.uiowa.edu/sites/ilr.law.uiowa.edu/files/2023-02/Woodcock.pdf

Uber claims an 11% margin improvement. 6-7% of that comes from algorithmic price discrimination and service cutbacks, letting it take 29% of every dollar the driver earns (up from 22%). Uber CEO Dara Khosrowshahi himself says that this is as high as the take can get – over 30%, and drivers will delete the app.

Uber's food delivery service – a baling wire-and-spit Frankenstein's monster of several food apps it bought and glued together – is a loser even by the standards of the sector, which is unprofitable as a whole and experiencing an unbroken slide of declining demand.

Put it all together and you get a picture of the kind of taxi company Uber really is: one that charges more than traditional cabs, pays drivers less, and has fewer cars on the road at times of peak demand, especially in the neighborhoods that traditional taxis had always underserved. In other words, Uber has broken every one of its promises.

We replaced the "evil taxi cartel" with an "evil taxi monopolist." And it's still losing money.

Even if Lyft goes under – as seems inevitable – Uber can't attain real profitability by scooping up its passengers and drivers. When you're losing money on every ride, you just can't make it up in volume.

Image: JERRYE AND ROY KLOTZ MD (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:LA_BREA_TAR_PITS,_LOS_ANGELES.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

I’m kickstarting the audiobook for “The Internet Con: How To Seize the Means of Computation,” a Big Tech disassembly manual to disenshittify the web and bring back the old, good internet. It’s a DRM-free book, which means Audible won’t carry it, so this crowdfunder is essential. Back now to get the audio, Verso hardcover and ebook:

http://seizethemeansofcomputation.org

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/09/accounting-gimmicks/#unter

Image: JERRYE AND ROY KLOTZ MD (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:LA_BREA_TAR_PITS,_LOS_ANGELES.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #bezzles #hubert horan #uber #rideshare #accounting tricks #financial engineering #late-stage capitalism #narrative capitalism #lyft #transit #uber eats #venture predation #algorithmic wage discrimination

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mattsturnioloz · 6 months ago

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I found you again: Pt 3.

Summary: Sequel of 'Then I lost you', A year after a devastating break up, Y/n finds herself reuniting with the love of her life, Matt Sturniolo, at a mutual friends birthday party. Will they rekindle their love?

Pairings: Y/n x Matt Sturniolo

Warnings: UTI, cussing,

A/N: (honestly i’ve been so lazy to work on this part but I gathered the motivation to write it since you guys love it so i hope you guys enjoy 💚)

I slump myself on the ground, still crying. The night air getting colder by the minute. I look up at Matt who’s taking deep breaths, trying to compose himself.

“Look Y/n, let’s get you home okay? You’re drunk, you’re not taking an uber and i’m not letting you stay here so come on, get up.” He says, calmer, a little bit of guilt in his tone. He takes a step forward holding his hand out but I don’t take it. I try to balance myself as I stand up and I stumble back to my original spot in the car, opening the door and getting in next to Chris again.

I buckle myself in, crossing my arms as Matt opens the drivers door and gets in. I wipe my tears when I look over and see Nancy staring at me with a smug look on her face and it pisses me off even more. “What the fuck are you looking at bitch?!” I spit out, aggressively, my voice still shaky from crying.

“HEY! ENOUGH!!” He yells, turning his whole body around to look at me with disbelief written all over his face as her jaw drops, smiling as she scoffs. I roll my eyes and look over at Chris and Nick who are waking up from all the yelling. “Matt, don’t fucking yell at her like that.” Chris slurs, sternly, his voice groggy from waking up.

“Chris go back to fucking sleep kid. You guys need to shut up and relax, i’m tired of it!” He replies, in the same stern tone. “Can you just drive?!” I yell. “Fine!” He starts the car and starts driving. Finally the car is moving.

A few minutes later Matt starts playing music to cover up the silence in the car and Chris looks over at me empathetically and he can see I was crying. “Are you okay?” He says putting his arm around my shoulder pulling me to his chest and I nod. Surprisingly he’s already starting to sound pretty sober, considering that I still feel like I JUST got drunk.

I fall asleep for what feels like a few minutes but I wake up when I feel the car coming to a complete stop, thinking I was home. I lift my head from Chris’s chest to see but we were just dropping his girlfriend off at her house first. She goes in for a kiss but he moves his face dodging it. Probably to make up for making out with her in front of me earlier. She scoffs and gets out slamming the door.

Matt sighs before starting the car, driving off again. A few minutes pass and I still feel empty, my chest feeling like there’s a big metal ball in it. “H-hey you passed my street!” I say leaning forward to talk to Matt. “You’re not staying home alone, Y/n. You’re drunk.” I know he was right so I don’t protest.

We get to the triplets house and I open the door, stumbling out and I fall. I feel dizzy when I look up and see the world spinning and everything feels lighter as I feel myself pass out.

I wake up in the middle of the night in Matt’s bed covered in blankets, the smell of fresh sheets and candles filling my nostrils. I take a look around and take in the familiar feeling of the room since it was once mine too. I felt a massive hangover coming from the slight headache that was starting to throb.

I get up and leave the room to get some water and pain killers from the kitchen and I see Matt at the couch. Feeling the need to talk to him, so I look for an excuse. “What time is it?” I ask him.

“3:47” He says not even looking at me. “Why are you still up?” I ask, I don’t even know why I did. “Why do you care?” He snaps, turning his gaze to the tv, watching gravity falls. He always loved that show, especially when we were together he would put it on almost every night before bed.

“There’s no need to get snappy, it was just a question.” I reply, with a frustrated tone and all he does is scoff. I roll my eyes and taking some pain killers and I feel hungry all of a sudden.

“Can we go to Mcdonald’s?” I ask, quietly. I’m surprised he even heard me. “It’s almost 4 am and you want Mcdonald’s?” He gives me a baffled look.

“I’m already feeling the hangover and i’m hungry.. please?” I put my hands together, pleading him. He lets out a sigh and gets up. “Fine, go get my keys.” He answers with an attitude. I don’t know what his issue is all of a sudden but it’s starting to get to me.

I go get his keys and hand them to him. “Can I borrow a sweater?” I ask, shivering a bit. “No.” He simply replies. “What’s your issue?” I almost yell. “Nothing, now do you want Mcdonald’s or what??” He raises his voice tilting his head with an annoyed expression.

“No, just take me home.” I reply, looking away. “Come on don’t be like that. I swear you’re so difficult Y/n.” He walks towards the front door opening it and waiting for me to follow so I do.

I leave the house, the cold air hitting me as soon as I do and I get whole body chills. We make our way to his car and I get in buckling myself in before crossing my arms, looking out the window.

He buckles in and pulls out of the driveway and I notice that he’s driving to Mcdonald’s. “What are you doing? I said I wanna go home.” I look at him waiting for a response. “I’ll get you home after we get Mcdonald’s, relax.” He sighs and looks back at the road.

The car goes silent the rest of the way before we go though the drive-thru and we get our food and park in the parking lot to eat. The only sounds being us eating our food.

“Thank you..” I give a slight smile. “You’re welcome.” He says with the same smug face. We finish eating and he starts driving to my place. It all felt so wrong. The silence was so fucking awkward, so quiet that I might go crazy.

We arrive at my place and I unlock the door to leave but before I could open it he locks it again. I look at him confused and when I look at him he opens his mouth before closing it, like he wants to say something. “What are you doing?” I ask, super confused.

“L-listen.. can we talk?” He says with a vulnerable expression but I honestly don’t even want to hear it. “There’s nothing to talk about Ma-“ He cuts me off all of a sudden and grabs my hand.

“I still love you, Y/n..” He says, looking at me dead in the eye. I freeze up and I feel myself start to shake. I’m so confused, was was just so rude to me and now he’s saying he loves me? no! He’s staring at me and I feel overwhelmed, not knowing what to say as I grow nauseas.

I open the door not saying anything and I get out closing the door a little too quick and I run inside my house slamming the door behind me. I slide down my front door after locking it and I feel my eyes fill with tears. I left him hanging. I shouldn’t have done that. I know I have to apologize. I just can’t right now.

1,286 words.

A/N: (I hate this so much, i’m so sorry for the delay guys, I haven’t been able to write at my full potential, it’s been a rough time for me but i have like 50 anons asking for this chapter so here you go 🫶🏼)

Taglist: @watercolorskyy @chrissfleshlight @realuvrrr @stonermattsgf @pvssychicken @venusbabysblog @kayla-hearts4sturniolo @endereies @starzinasblog @urfavstromboli @sturniqloo @star-yawnznn @h3arts4harry @asherrisrandom @tsturniolo4 @urmom69lol @luzsturniolo @ncm9696 @valkatriee @sturnslut1 @annielolz @sturnlover4eva @luzsturniolo @anyaa2s @sturnzpro @tpwktahlz @nataliesturn @openurbocaputitonmyballsbitch

#chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo angst #matthew sturniolo fluff #matthew sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo

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janettheblackcat · 24 days ago

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The Cat | Lando Norris x OC

Summary: After waking up in a mysterious, run down Paris flat, Lando Norris is forced to get to know the dj he spent all night chasing—finding out who she is, wondering what happened to him and why, trying to plan his way back to Monaco, and searching for his belongings (including his helmet.)

Word Count: 1.3k

Pairing: lando norris x dj!female oc

Warnings: +18, suggestive content, adult content, adult language, implied drug abuse, implied date rape drugging, implied roofies, fluff, slow burn, sexual tension, mention of bd/sm, mention of petplay, mention of latex

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°

Chapter 2 (Chapter 1)

Norris, rather disoriented, was awoken by sounds of out of sync mixing and frustrated groans. “Sorry, Simon. This next set won’t be ready for this weekend. I’ll just have to take the weekend off—“ Lando proceeded to look up at a collection of curly braids in a low bun, the headphones atop of her head were pulled back off of her right ear, as she continued to pet a little black cat and converse with someone on the other end of her lilac cellphone. “No, he’s still unconscious as far as I know. I gave him the bed, yeah. I didn’t know who to get in touch with, I don’t know anyone in Monaco who’d know him.” The rustling of the bedsheets brought the woman’s attention towards him. She was beautiful—golden skin and full eyebrows, her lips pouted, her eyes were commanding yet unforgettable—the race car driver immediately knew it was the dj from the night before, only dressed in a white turtleneck and white satin maxi skirt. “Gotta go.” She immediately hung up the phone, set aside her earphones, and walked over to him. “Good morning—“

“Who are you?”

“I’m Fritzi. I work at Le Carmen.”

Fritzi, he pondered. “What happened to me last night?”

“I’m not too sure, but I think you were roofied—“

“What—“

“Like someone put something in your drink and tried to—“

“I know what roofie means!” Lando shot up and started to survey the flat with his eyes, still without complete balance. “Please…” she guided her hand up his bicep and helped him sit in a nearby gaming chair. “Relax. I will help you get back to the station. Coffee?” She smiled gently at him. Suspiciously unsuspecting of her, he agreed. She stood awkwardly before walking out of the bedroom.

He rolled the chair he was placed in behind her setup—two pioneer cdjs and one 2-channel mixer. He began to scroll through her rekordbox before she lightly tapped his hand. “Don’t go touching stuff! I was practicing before you interrupted me!” He looked up at her and slyly removed the mug from her hand. “Your name, it’s German.” Fritzi smiled to herself. “Yes, it is. I’m from Heidelberg! I studied techno djing and production in Berlin before moving to Paris after making a name for myself working at Berghain—that’s how I got my residency here at Le Carmen.” He sipped his hot coffee and proceeded to stare into her eyes. “You made a name for yourself dressing like a cat?”

“Well, yes. I am from Germany. There is a whole community there full of rubberists just like me, so I adapted my personal persona to connect with the people; besides, I do wear it for my own satisfactions.”

“So, are you like a furry?”

“No!” She laughed wryly. “Petplay and furryism are two different things. I’m merely a rubber doll who enjoys dressing up like a kitten.” Lando began to nod empathetically before shaking his head, catching glimpses of his memories of last night. “My helmet!” Before he could stand up, Fritzi laid a gentle hand on his chest. “Hey, I have all of your stuff, okay? It’s in the living room. I stayed up all night in there and watched the door, just in case someone followed us.”

While watching her walk away, his eyes wandered all across her room. Records, in many languages and genres, were scattered across the floor. Her bed was just a singular mattress on the ground, with white sheets and pillowcases. Her desk, alongside her music equipment, was where her pet cat laid asleep—pure black with white tuffs on his head and chin—and all of his cat toys and beds covered the little floor space she had left. The view from the small window showed the Eiffel Tower, dull against the morning sky. “Here!” He turned away from the window to see her plop his purple helmet, and other possessions, onto the bed. “Your phone was ringing in there. Sorry I couldn’t hear it over the mixing. Sennheiser.” She points to her headphones.

Looking through his phone, Lando received countless calls and texts. Max. Oscar. Lewis. Zak! He dialed up his boss, only to have him answer a second later. “Lando Norris, where the hell are you?! Why the fuck have I been hearing from the other drivers that you ran away to Paris for some bet—“

“I’m leaving now. I’ll be in Monaco in a couple hours. I’m alright.” The silence across the line was deafening, only leaving the static behind. “You are one of my only two drivers, Norris. The partying you do, these stunts you pull—it’s not easy on us here. You could’ve gotten robbed or killed! You’re not James bloody Hunt!” Lando slightly brought the phone away from his ear, grimacing at Brown’s anger, and placed it back. “Get home. Get packed. Get showered and dressed! We’ll be picking you up and getting you on the next plane to Spain. The calendar doesn’t wait for any driver, no matter how famous they are.” The line cuts, and he exhales. He looked to Fritzi, who’d been putting on her shoes and messenger bag, preparing to walk him to the train station. “The walk is only a couple blocks from here.” She grabbed her wired apple earbuds and walked over to the door. Before she could open it, Lando grabbed her wrist lightly. “What about what happened?” Her eyebrows start to furrow. “I will start an investigation as soon as I go back to the club. There’s cameras in certain areas—I’m hoping that they caught a glimpse of who did it. Before you leave here today, though, I just want you to know that it wasn’t me. I was behind the booth the whole time after you came in, and I only followed you out after I saw you start to lose your footing. I dragged you through the alleys and back here myself, watching our every move. I didn’t sleep, and I even had one of the gogo dancers bring me your helmet and all of your things back from the club this morning. I promise you, Lando Norris, I will find out who did this to you.” His eyes scanned her face like a lie detector—searching for a tell he could not find. She was telling the truth. His eyes softened at her beauty. He knew he still didn’t get to know her—not all of her anyway. “Alright, catwoman. I’ll let you roar.” He giggled, and held the door open for her.

Lando and Fritzi walked along the Paris streets, attempting to avoid the gawking and shuttering of the cameras. While being stopped for photos, Fritzi moved out of the way, even taken a few for some of his diehard fans. “Did you know who I was when you saw me?” She nodded her head slowly. “I actually love Formula One. When I saw you, in that helmet, I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t even know you liked techno! You seem like such a house kinda guy. You all do.” He looked away shyly. She knew who he was, a fan even, and she didn’t ask for a picture, autograph, or even told anyone, other than who were there when he collapsed, that he was at her home. He somehow felt safe and comforted by her presence, even though he understood that he barely scratched the surface of who she is. He knew he wanted to get to know her, and yet, he knew that he would never fully get to either.

As the trains whizzed by, Fritzi handed Lando a piece of ripped sheet music paper. “This is my number and address. When you get a chance, let me know if you’re okay. I will be looking into things for you.” Before she walked away, the racing driver held onto the dj’s hand and pulled her back towards him. “Will I see you again?” “Only if you look for me.” She pointed to the train as it opened its doors. Lando ran to catch it—as he looked back to see her walk away, she’s nowhere to be found. He took his seat next to an old man, and flatten out the crumpled page against his knee. Next to her information, was a scribbled drawing of a little cat. He smiled to himself as he melted into his ride back to Monaco.

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