Had anyone got any good fanfic recommendations for Harry Potter/Hogwarts (of any era!) with a chronically ill reader? I’m currently fighting to get a hEDS diagnosis and I’d love to see some representation in fics and I’m fully back in my witch era! Bonus points if slytherin!reader. TIA! X
Finn vs punk again cm punk use your old man manipulation skills and break finn down to the most evil version of himself maybe even the demon WHO SAID THAT
synopsis: after one of the most brutal matches of damian’s career, you find yourself tending to him backstage. he’s battered, broken, and uncharacteristically quiet, the weight of the world pressing down heavier than any title belt ever could. as you clean the blood from his skin, his guard slips, confessions spilling out about the emptiness of fame, the loneliness of success, and the blur between real and fake.
but when his dark eyes meet yours, the truth is undeniable: you are the one thing he clings to. his sanctuary. his holy place. and in a moment of raw, reverent vulnerability, damian falls to his knees before you, not as the archer of infamy, but as a man who has finally found his church.
the roar of the crowd still clung to the air as damian pushed through the curtain, the adrenaline of battle already beginning to bleed into exhaustion. his chest rose and fell with shallow, ragged breaths, every step measured, as though his own body might betray him at any second. he kept one arm wrapped protectively across his ribs, the other hanging loose at his side, his knuckles raw and split from the fight. sweat and blood had streaked together on his temple, glistening under the harsh backstage lights, and for a moment he looked less like the archer of infamy and more like a man carved out of pain and defiance.
the others reached out for him as he passed, clapping him on the back, calling his name, praising the war he had just survived. he acknowledged none of it. his jaw was set, his eyes shadowed, and he moved through the noise like a ghost, brushing past every hand that tried to slow him down. victory meant little when it came at this cost.
you had been waiting. the med kit sat at your side, your heart tightening at the sight of him. it was one thing to watch from the curtain, knowing he’d give everything of himself for the match. it was another to see the toll it had taken so close, the raw edges of a man carrying more than bruises and broken skin.
his eyes met yours for the briefest second. there was no smirk, no cocky tilt of his lips, none of the usual armor he wore so easily. just the weary flicker of recognition before he looked away again, as if even that moment of honesty cost him more than he could spare.
"damian" you said softly, rising to meet him. your hand hovered near his arm, close enough to guide him, but careful not to push too hard. he hated appearing weak in front of anyone, even you. especially you.
he stopped, his frame towering over you, yet wavering on unsteady legs. "i’m fine" he muttered, his voice low, frayed at the edges. the words were automatic, rehearsed, but you could see the lie bleeding through every staggered breath.
"you’re not" you replied, steady but gentle. "sit. just for a minute. let me look at you."
for a moment, he seemed ready to argue, the defiance sparking faintly in his dark eyes, but the fight had already been wrung out of him in the ring. His shoulders sagged, and with a quiet exhale, he let you guide him to the bench along the wall.
the noise of the locker room still buzzed around you, laughter, shouting, the clatter of boots and equipment, but in that small corner, it felt like the two of you were sealed off in your own world. you crouched in front of him, your hands steady as you reached for the kit, while damian sat heavy with silence, his chest heaving as though every breath cost him something he wasn’t sure he had left to give.
and even in his silence, even in his pain, you could feel it: the fragile weight of a man on the verge of shattering, holding himself together by sheer force of will.
the antiseptic stung as you pressed the cloth to his temple again, but damian barely flinched this time. his body stayed tense beneath your touch, like every muscle was braced against a blow that hadn’t come yet. the silence between you thickened, heavy with the things he wasn’t saying.
you were used to it, the way he carried everything on those broad shoulders, as if the world had demanded he bear its weight and he hadn’t thought to refuse. but tonight, with the blood still drying on his skin and his ribs shifting under every shallow breath, that weight seemed unbearable.
"damian" you said quietly, setting the cloth down. "talk to me."
for a long moment, he didn’t move. his hands were braced on his thighs, fists curling and uncurling as though the words fought him from the inside. finally, he let out a short, rough laugh, the kind that held no humor, just exhaustion.
"you want the truth?" he asked, voice raw, like gravel dragged across stone.
you nodded.
he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, the tension in his face softening into something closer to defeat. "out there it’s chaos. the lights, the noise, the people screaming your name, you’d think it would make you feel alive. sometimes it does. but other times" he shook his head, jaw tightening. "other times it feels like i'm drowning in it. like it’s swallowing me whole."
your chest ached at the honesty breaking through his walls.
"i’ve got friends or at least people who call themselves that. they’ll stand behind me until it suits them to stand somewhere else. and the more i win, the more i lose track of what’s real." his voice dropped lower, quieter, as though admitting it aloud made him smaller. "it’s all smoke and mirrors. sometimes i can’t tell if i’m even part of it anymore, or if i’m just another trick of the light."
he fell silent again, his gaze fixed on the floor, shoulders hunched forward as though he could fold in on himself.
you reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing his hand where it rested on his thigh. at the lightest touch, he startled, not physically, but in the way his head lifted sharply, eyes locking with yours. and there it was: the crack in the armor. a flicker of something fragile, desperate, searching.
"i don’t know what’s real anymore" he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "but when i’m with you it feels different. it feels" he broke off, dragging a hand through his damp hair, as though even now he wasn’t sure he could give shape to the truth.
but he didn’t pull his hand away from yours. not this time.
his hand twitched beneath yours, as though he meant to pull away, but instead his fingers turned, curling slowly to catch yours in his grasp. the contact was warm, calloused, trembling just faintly. you could feel the fight still buzzing under his skin, not the match he’d survived, but the one raging inside him.
damian drew in a shaky breath and pressed your hand flat against his chest. beneath your palm, his heartbeat thundered, strong yet uneven, like a drum trying to keep pace with too many burdens. his eyes found yours, and for once, there was no mask there. no smug grin, no sharp defiance. just the raw edges of a man stripped down to the bone.
"when everything else falls apart" he murmured, voice rough but steadying, "this" he pressed your hand harder against his chest, "this is the only thing that feels solid. real."
you swallowed, your throat tight, but you didn’t look away. you couldn’t. the weight of his gaze rooted you in place, dark eyes burning with something unguarded, something almost reverent.
"i walk out there, and it’s all noise" he went on, words tumbling out now, halting but unstoppable. "pain, pressure, people pretending they’ve got your back until they don’t. i tell myself i can handle it, that it doesn’t get to me." his jaw clenched, his voice breaking. "but it does. it eats at me. every damn day."
his fingers tightened around yours, desperate, as if he needed to anchor himself before he drifted too far. "and then there’s you. you cut through all of it. you make it stop. you make me remember i’m not just some shadow out there, some monster everyone’s waiting to tear down. you make me feel like" he hesitated, breath trembling against his lips, then finished with quiet finality, "like a man again."
the confession hung between you, heavier than the blood on his skin or the bruises blooming across his ribs. for the first time that night, the chaos seemed to fade, the noise outside dimming until all that existed was the thundering of his heart beneath your palm and the fierce way he clung to you, as though you were the only thing tethering him to the world.
the silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating, as though the entire arena had gone still just to listen. damian’s grip on your hand remained unyielding, his heartbeat thrumming desperately beneath your palm. his eyes searched yours, dark and unsteady, as though he was afraid you’d slip away if he blinked.
when he finally spoke, his voice was low, trembling with something you’d never heard from him before, not in the ring, not in the locker room, not even in the quiet moments between matches. "you’re my sanctuary."
the words were a confession, raw and jagged, spilling from him like blood from a wound he could no longer hide. his throat worked as he swallowed hard, eyes dropping for a second before snapping back to yours, more desperate now.
"my holy place" he whispered, the syllables breaking as though they cost him more than any fight ever had. "when the world feels like it’s swallowing me whole, when i can’t tell what’s real or fake anymore, i look at you. and i know."
he leaned forward, his forehead almost brushing yours, the heat of his breath ghosting over your lips. his body was trembling, whether from exhaustion, pain, or the weight of finally saying what he’d buried for too long.
"i don’t pray" damian admitted, voice shaking. "i don’t worship. not anything, not anyone." he drew in a ragged breath, his chest heaving beneath your touch. "but if you were church" his voice faltered, his eyes closing for a moment as though he had to drag the words from the deepest part of himself. when they came, they were a vow. "if you were church, i’d get on my knees."
the last thread of his armor snapped with those words. all the fight, all the posturing, all the iron walls he’d built around himself crumbled. and what remained was damian, not the archer of infamy, not the champion, not the towering figure bathed in smoke and lights. just a man laid bare before you, confessing the one truth he could no longer keep inside.
the words lingered in the air like incense, heavy and unshakable, their weight pressing down on the space between you. damian’s hand tightened on yours once more, and then, slowly, he moved.
you felt the shift before you understood it, his broad frame lowering, his knees hitting the floor with a muted thud that reverberated in your chest. one moment he was towering over you, the embodiment of strength and defiance, and the next he was kneeling, humbled, every line of his body drawn taut with vulnerability.
he kept your hands in his, raising them carefully as though you were something fragile, something sacred. his lips brushed against your knuckles, a reverent touch that contrasted the raw power in his grip. for once, there was no violence in him, no swagger or bravado, just devotion.
when he lifted his head, his forehead pressed lightly against your stomach, his dark hair damp against your shirt. his breath fanned hot and uneven over you, each exhale trembling with exhaustion and confession. his voice was low, muffled against you, but every syllable burned into your skin.
"if you were church" he murmured, words breaking as though they were carved from the marrow of his soul, "this is where i’d be. on my knees. always."
your fingers slid instinctively into his hair, grounding him, steadying him as he clung to you like a man at the edge of a storm. his shoulders shook once, a quiet shudder that betrayed how deeply the admission had cost him. he didn’t look up, didn’t need to, he stayed there, anchored against you, as if worship itself had never felt more natural than this.
and in that moment, the world outside, the lights, the noise, the endless cycle of pain and glory, ceased to exist. there was only damian, kneeling before you in quiet reverence, and the unspoken truth that you were his salvation.
you let your fingers drift through his hair, slow and soothing, until his trembling quieted beneath your touch. damian’s weight pressed into you, not crushing, but heavy in a way that spoke of surrender — of finally allowing himself to rest where he was safe.
"look at me" you whispered, your voice soft but steady.
it took him a moment. he shifted reluctantly, lifting his head as though it cost him every ounce of strength left in his body. his dark eyes met yours, glassy with exhaustion and something far more fragile, something he’d never shown anyone else. the archer of infamy was gone. all that remained was a man stripped bare, waiting for you to decide if his confession had ruined him.
you cupped his face in both hands, thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his bruised cheekbones. "you’re real, damian" you told him, firm enough to cut through the doubt etched into his features. "out there, the world can twist itself into whatever it wants. but here, with me? you don’t have to question it. you don’t have to question yourself. you are real. and you’re not alone."
something broke in his expression then, the tension in his jaw easing, his shoulders sagging as though the weight he carried had finally been given permission to slip away. he closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, his lips brushing against the heel of your palm with a tenderness that felt like another vow.
for a long moment, there were no words. just the quiet of his breath evening out, the warmth of his hands still holding yours, and the unshakable truth that you had become his refuge.
when he finally spoke, his voice was no louder than a prayer. "you’re my salvation."
you bent down and pressed your forehead gently to his, sealing his confession with your silence, your closeness, your steady presence. the world outside raged on, the noise, the lights, the chaos of it all, but none of it touched you here.
here, there was only damian on his knees before you, his armor discarded, his soul laid bare. and you, the sanctuary he had finally allowed himself to believe in.
What begins as an ordinary race weekend ends with a performance so sharp and unshakable that it sends ripples through the entire paddock — and leaves certain teams questioning the choices they made.
It keeps her awake at night. She should've been elated.
The race had been one of her cleanest all season. Every braking point had been exact. Every overtake clinical. Every sector wrung dry of wasted time.
And yet, when she looked into the Mercedes garage, the same electricity in the air was non existent. No laughter, no back-slapping, no engineers replaying her overtakes on their monitors.
She remembers how he said it, "Kimi Antonelli will be replacing you next year." It landed like a blunt-force hit to the chest. Toto believed it's best for the future of the team.
He didn't thank her for the races she'd given them. He didn't mention the podiums, the late-night debriefs, the way she'd carried the team through the worst seasons since their dominance began.
It was business to him.
She left without looking back. The air outside felt too thin, her Mercedes suit suddenly too heavy. The chatter in the paddock blurred into white noise.
By the time she reached her hotel room, the headlines were already forming in her mind.
MERCEDES PARTS WAYS WITH YN LN
ANTONELLI TO REPLACE MERCEDES' SECOND SEAT
IS THIS YN'S END?
She didn't bother turning on the lights. She sat on the edge of the bed, bag on the floor, staring at nothing. Mercedes had been home. And now she's standing, with nowhere to go.
The days blurred after Suzuka. Monday, morning the official announcement had dropped. The press release was so sterile it could've been written by AI -- "We thank YN LN for her contributions and we wish her the best in her future."
No montage. No heartfelt tribute. Just a neatly packaged send-off designed to look professional, while feeling like an afterthought.
Sports channels replayed her career highlights between panels. Commentators spoke in polite tones about "fresh talent." Others, less kind, wondered aloud if she'd already peaked.
She didn't watch them. Not directly, anyway. The clips found her -- sent by friends, tagged in posts, or playing faintly from a TV in cafe below her apartment.
Social media was worse. Some fans were furious on her behalf. Others seemed eager to close the chapter.
user: i am in physical pain rn. merc fumbled so bad.
user: she’s finished. the sport moves on.
user: the loyalty this woman showed them and THIS is how they repay her?? nah.
user: sources say ferrari & red bull both interested 👀
user: i want her to sign with literally anyone else just to make them regret this.
By Thursday, the texts started strickling in.
"Heard the news. Don't let them make you think you're done."
"You deserve better. Call me if you want to talk."
And then, one made her sit up. From a certain newly promoted team principal.
"Let's talk."
It was grey and raining when the car pulled up to the Red Bull Racing headquarters. The lobby was all glass, steel, and clean branding. She barely registered it, because Mekies was already there, waiting at the far end.
He looked exactly like she remembered from past FIA briefings -- calm, unreadable, with a half-smile that wasn't quite friendly, but wasn't hostile either.
"You came," he said simply.
"You asked," she replied.
He led her to a meeting room whose walls were lined with Red Bull's history -- photographs of victories, trophies lit from below, candid shots of mechanics mid-celebration.
They sat across from each other. He didn't waste time.
"I won't give you a pity seat," he said. "We don't do pity here. We do winning."
Something shifted in his expression. A spark of interest. "Two years," he said.
"Full backing. You'll be alonside Max. If you can't survive that, you won't survive here."
"Beating him's the plan." Her voice didn't waver.
For the first time, he smiled fully. "Then welcome to Red Bull."
The contract was signed on a Thursday afternoon. The announcement didn't come in a press conference, or a neat little tweet.
At noon sharp next day, Red Bull posted a ten-second video:
A black screen. The roar of an engine climbing through the gears. A matte-black helmet with her colors slamming down onto the desk. Her voice, steady and low: Let's do this.
Then it cuts to white text: WELCOME TO RED BULL RACING -- YN LN
The internet exploded.
user: OH. MY. GOD. YN TO RED BULL. MERCEDES PACK IN SHAMBLES.
user: max + yn in the SAME GARAGE?????? prayers for the FIAAA
user: i’m not even a merc fan but… this feels like betrayal in 4k.
user: toto watching this like
user: "let’s do this" oh she’s about to ruin careers i can FEEL IT
It's Bahrain, pre-season. The RB was lighter in her hands than the Mercedes had ever been. It bit into coners like it was alive, hungry. The power down the straights pressed her into the seat so hard it almost hurt -- in the best way.
When she pulled back into the garage after her first run, Max was leaning against the entryway.
"You're fast," he said.
"So are you. Guess we'll see who's faster."
The smile he gave her wasn't friendly. He never gave one that was. It was competitive. Respectful. Dangerous.
In the first race, she placed P3 on the grid. P2 at the flag. Ahead of both Mercedes.
The champagne sprayed, the crowd roared, and the cameras caught Toto's face as she stood on the podium -- tight-lipped, unblinking, watching the driver he'd thrown away stand above his cars.
The victory wasn't hers. Not yet.
The next three races blurred into a fever dream of podium ceremonies, debrief rooms, and restless nights. She hadn't even unpacked her apartment in Monaco yet; her suitcase lived half-open on the floor, clothes in perpetual rotation between the laundry and her next flight.
And with every race, the narrative shifted.
No more "Is YN still competitive?" Now it was "How far can she go?"
RB's machine was merciless -- date sheets that bled into the early hours, simulations stacked one after another until her eyes burned. But for the first time in a long time, the pressure didn't feel like a noose around her neck. It felt like breathing.
By the time the circus arrived in Barcelona, the tension between her and Mercedes and was no longer subtle.
RB's YN LN ahead of both Mercedes in the championship
Antonelli struggling to find pace?
Wolff's replies: No Regrets.
Her first sight of Toto that weeked was in the paddock tunnel. He didn't speak. But she caught the way his eyes flicked over the Red Bull team shirt she was wearing -- the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
It was Qualifying on Saturday.
The RB was again, flawless. Every corner carved into muscle memory. Every exit snapping like a rubber band into the straights.
On her final flying lap, she pushed into Turn 9 so deep that the rear twitched, but she held it -- held it -- through sheer force of will. When she crossed the line, her delta was growing green.
P1. Pole position. Max's lap came in three-tenths behind hers.
The garage was chaos when she climbed out. Mechanics shouting, clapping her on the back. Mekies standing with his arms folded, smiling that small, dangerous smile that always looked like he was thinking three moves ahead.
Max approached with his helmet in had. "Nice lap," he said.
"Thanks," she replied. "Try to keep up tomorrow."
He grinned at her like she'd just given him a challenge he couldn't refuse.
It's now Race Day on Sunday. The lights went out, and the RB launched like it was shot from a gun. She hed Max at bay into Turn 1, then widened the gap with clean precision.
The Mercedes in her mirrors fell back quickly -- Russell struggling with balance, Antonelli overcooking corners like he was chasing ghosts. She didn't think about them long.
She only thought about the rhythm.
Lap after lap, she fed the RB exactly what it need -- no more, no less. Brake temps perfect.
By Lap 45, she was five seconds clear of Max. The radio crackled with her race engineer's voice:
"Looking good. You're free to push if you want fastest lap."
Her grin was involuntary. Of course she wanted fastest lap. She pushed. The car sang for her, the engine note higher, sharper. Through the last chicane, she could almost feel the RB begging for more.
When the chequered flag waved, it was her name at the top of the timing tower.
Her first win in Red Bull colors.
She slowed on the cool-down lap, the noise of the crowd bleeding through the radio static. In the grandstands, fans waved flags — not just Red Bull blue, but her own custom livery. She spotted signs in every language, her name painted across cardboard and fabric.
In parc fermé, she climbed out of the RB and pointed straight at the Red Bull logo on her chest before raising her fist.
The cameras caught Toto’s face in the Mercedes garage as the replay of her final lap played on the screens. His jaw was locked. His hands were clasped behind his back.
No regrets, he’d said. But in that moment, his eyes told a different story.
user: SHE DID IT. FIRST WIN WITH RED BULL. MERC PACK HOLD THIS L.
user: this isn’t just a win this is a revenge tour
user: toto watching yn on the top step rn >>>>
user: she looked straight down the camera when she pointed at the red bull logo. i am SOBBING.
user: max p2, yn p1… red bull dominance is UNREAL
user: remember when they said she was washed LMFAOOOO
The anthem played, and she stood in the middle, higher than Max. She didn’t look at him, or the crowd, or even the trophy in her hands.
She looked directly at the Mercedes team on the pit wall, visible just over the barriers. She held the trophy aloft and smiled — a small, sharp smile meant for exactly one audience.
It wasn’t about proving she could win. It was about making them watch.
second to last chapter, my loves!!!! i promiseeeee the last chapter will be worth it :) tysm for all the loveeee that you've given driver!yn and i'm more than happy to expand her universe. ily all x
1) Vaping is confirmed to cause cancer. Vaping coats the lungs with toxic substances, such as heavy metals and benzene, which are known to cause cancer
2) Many vapes contain diacetyl, which, when inhaled causes popcorn lung, or scarring of the lung
3) Ultrafine particles, when being inhaled, can be lodged in the trachea (not good!)
4) Ultrafine particles can also constrict the arteries in the lungs potentially causing A HEART ATTACK
5) Vaping is relatively new. Not much studies have been done in comparison to tobacco. Plus, the vaping companies are powerful people. There is a large chance that they are purposely downplaying and even burying any evidence that vaping is harmful - just like the tobacco companies before them. They do not care about you, or your health, or the truth. They only care for money
Please I’m begging yall as an asthmatic, your fruit-flavored vapor will still give people around you who are smoke-sensitive attacks. So will weed. Don’t do it inside; if you’re at a bus stop or something try to not stand right next to people or move downwind of them if you can.
