The Flashs dream about Dan destroyed the world so they tell their team to prevent it. Then the team looking and find Danny, who may be the one who give birth for a apocalypse, secretly “pregnant”
The Flash family all have a dream about future, about a man who destroy the world in future, where no one could defeat him. That man who made of steel like Superman, move like Batman and a warrior like Wonder Woman. He could disappeared and reappear whenever he likes faster than the Flash, uses blast his power in any forms like Green Lantern. Technology and weapons didn’t work on him. He can’t be killed or sealed. And he was alway angry. He destroyed the world just because of his rage.
The each Flash find his team and tell about their dream. And all the hero have a meeting to find about the man who cause the apocalypse. First they find Danny Phantom, who has the same set of power with that man. But he looks different and has disappeared for almost 3 months (still suspicious). Then the JL, Titan and YJ look closer and find Danny, the one who may hold the secret relationship with Phantom. They have some to visit the Amity Town, insert some bugs in his room and start following him around. They didn’t think they would found out about his pregnancy or the other father may be a ghost, not human. And Danny Fenton being Batman’s bio child only add fuels on the fire
Yes, the man the Flash all dream about is Dan. Dan Phantom, Evil Danny in different timeline but he in the rephrase. And now to detoxing the bad rage in his core, Danny is carrying Dan in his core and body, to give him a healthier core and a human body. But Danny is half ghost half human so he needs the energy to nurturing two ghost core in his body. He could asks his other self, the Phantom one, who he makes to full fill the Prince’s duty in the Infinity Realms. Or Vlad, the one who have a similar energy waves with Dan. And Pariah, who get better after pour out his rage into a fight and regain his sanity (he was too strong so no one’s want to fight him and his rage been keeping in his body make his mind gone crazy and he became a tyrant).
So Danny goes back and forward between Phantom, Vlad and Pariah to get energy, depending on who is more convenient at that time.
But to the heroes’s eyes, Danny Fenton is playing around the Infinity Realms’s royals and guard (thank for Constantine’s information). And if they don’t find the way to solve it, the doesn’t need Dan to be born, the apocalypse will happen now by the war between the Earth and Infinity Realms, just because of love argument.
Below are some of records the heroes have after following Danny, which sometime glitch or can’t catch a sound clearly due to some inference:
In the haunted forest behind school. Danny suddenly got up and went out the classroom to go there. Robin, who chose same class as him, following and record this.
Danny: I am here, where are you?
Behind him, a dark green portal open and a dark shadow creature step out. That thing look like a moving shadow, darker than a deep of a cliff, body like smoke with a crown stay just few inch above it’s head (later Constantine confirms it is a crown of a Prince). That thing hug Danny, speaking in ghost language (which the magical translate later)
Phantom: I miss you my other half. I have to collect break time between those meetings to visit you
Danny: *hug back* So that mean your work is not done? Then when will you come back? Full time? We miss you so much
Phantom: Sorry, but I promise I would be in time, before your last tri-semester.
Then he rest what look like his hand on Danny’s belly.
Phantom: Be good and stay still, Dan. Dad would come back soon (it is a joke between anyone who know)
The Phantom huge and kiss Danny before came back to the portal and Danny back to his class (they just hug but being near his other half make Phantom so happy that his smoke-like body get bigger and cover Danny)
The JL, TT and YJ also witnessed some of Danny’s date with other powerful ghost and understand (misunderstanding) the situation more. And hearing Danny’s conversation with his friends only make things more compilations
Tuck: So who do you decide to be the baby’s daddy? (He mean a fairy-ghost father)
Danny: Still have no idea. Let’s base on who stay with me when Dan is birthed
Sam: Well, better chose now or they would fight about it latter
Danny: Well, they would fight about it anyway. But I don’t think I would choose Phantom. He also a baby’s dad anyway so he doesn’t need a title
Tuck: Don’t be so sure. The kid may look like Plasmius or Pariah. (Because the energy Danny got from them to feed Dan)
Danny: Nah, it doesn’t matter. If he is my son the he automatically being Phantom’s son.
Sam: Sound logical. By the way, besides them, you also have other choice, you know?
Tuck: He has what?
Sam: Well, you know my god father, Undergrowth, also interesting in being Dan’s father. And Clockwork, I think he also interested about being in your life.
Tuck: Oh, then I think Noctune also want an in, too. He sent me a message last night but I thought he was kidding
Danny touch his belly and slime: Wow Dan, you so popular that everyone want to be your dad
Sam: More like Danny so popular that everyone want to be his baby’s daddy
The heroes after collecting information, they get crazy. They look at the board analysis the information and stay silent.
GL-Hal: Batman, what is wrong with your gene?
Robin: It is fine. Only Danny is a variation
Flash: So what will we do now? The plan was find out the reason why Dan decided to destroy the world and solve it, right?
Wonder Woman: Well, I think our mission now is stop the war between the Infinity Realms and Earth. Would choosing a right dad for a baby will work?
Superman: I don’t think the other would let it go they haven’t been chose
I recently watched the movie Obsession, and I was wondering what Ren (and maybe the main cast) would wish for if they had a one wish willow!
I hope you have a nice day!!!
REN: Wouldn't use it. The one and only thing he wants is Angel, and he's all about putting in the work to feel like he genuinely earned their love. Using a wish would feel forced/like a cop-out — especially since Ren already has the ability to alter reality without the use of a One Wish Willow. He's had over 13 years to use his powers to make Angel love him (or literally anything else he could've ever wanted), and has purposely chosen not to. Again, he wants their love for him to be genuine and willing, and he's smart enough to know that you don't always get what you wish for.
MOTH: Most likely for free shipping on all their animanga merchandise, for AoG to continue on for at least 20 more seasons, or for them to have more friends who genuinely like them. There's also the possibility that Moth might not want to break the One Wish Willow since they think its design looks too cool to destroy.
VIOLET: Also wouldn't be one to use it because she's smart enough to know that nothing comes for free and that there's always some kind of catch. Even if it looks like some cheap novelty item with no repercussions, she's got extremely good intuition and knows when to follow her gut.
ELANOR: She'd wish for her own bookstore. There isn't really much they want in life, and if it's a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, then owning a bookstore would likely be the first thing that comes to Elanor's mind.
CONAN: Realistically, he'd either wish to bring his late wife back from the dead, or to be able to see and hold her one last time (what could possibly go wrong teehee >:3). But given how Conan currently is in the game, I think he'd rather save his wish and not use it unless it's a desperate situation.
JAE: He probably won't take it seriously (or give it much thought), so he'd probably wish for something generic like having all the money in the world. Either that, or for Maple to live forever.
LEON: For his sick mother to get better. Leon isn't the kind of person who asks for much, and his parents raised him to be content with what he's been given, so I don't think he'd waste his wish on materialistic things or finding love.
TEO: The realistic answer is that he'd probably wish that he wouldn't feel so lonely even when he's around others — but knowing Teo, he'd probably not take the One Wish Willow seriously and waste his wish on something dumb instead (like wishing for a pack of cigarettes or for a random car to suddenly set on fire).
OLIVIA: She'd probably ask for something similar to Bear's wish (i.e. finding someone who will love her), though hers would be a little more specific since she's very particular about what she wants. But with that being said, Olivia also has something similar to Ren going on (slightly paraphrasing so I don't spoil anything lmao), so I doubt she'd need a One Wish Willow to get what she wants.
KIARA: Probably wouldn't use it either, since she already has everything she could ever want and is wealthy enough to help others instead. So instead, she'd likely give her One Wish Willow to Elanor — either as a gift or a novelty item to place on her shelf at home.
summary: sometimes words hurt more than any blow to the face, plunging a knife into the heart, even if they originally had no negative meaning.
Characters: Isagi Yoichi, Ryusei Shidou, Sae Itoshi, Rin Itoshi, Reo Mikage, Seishiro Nagi, Michael Kaiser
content: angst to fluff
Yoichi Isagi
On one of his rare days off, Isagi suggested that you meet in the park, and while there, you showed him your notebook with trepidation, on the page of which was his portrait — cute, lively, though not perfect from the point of view of technology. You confessed to him that although the result is still far from perfect, the very process of drawing brings you incredible pleasure. Isagi, whose mind had been completely rebuilt to fit the logic of survival and constant growth, frowned. He didn't want to offend you, he just wanted to give advice so that you wouldn't waste your energy, but his "selfish" vision of the world played a cruel joke. He dryly said that doing something without the goal of becoming the best in the world is stupid, and you should do something productive. You closed your notebook, and something went out in your eyes.
A few weeks later, when you met again, Isagi didn't recognize you. You no longer carried pencils with you, your fingers were not stained with graphite, and your eyes became cold, just like his. You stopped being creative and started learning programming — something "useful" and "effective", but your words no longer had the light that always warmed a guy after grueling workouts. Looking at your blank, disciplined face, Isagi suddenly realized what a mistake he had made. He realized that by trying to "optimize" your life in his image, he had personally destroyed that unique spark that made you happy. After your dinner at the cafe, Isagi suggested that you meet at your house tomorrow, and you agreed.
The guy actually came to you the next morning, but with a big package. It turned out that he bought the best art supplies for you, which you once mentioned in passing. He explained at length and clumsily that he was an idiot who was fixated on the result, and admitted that your imperfect portrait was more precious to him than any gold cup, because your soul was in it.
Ryusei Shidou
Shido Ryusei always lived at the peak of his emotions, and his words often came out faster than he could comprehend them. You tried to engage him in a conversation about your feelings and how important stability in your relationship is to you. Shido, for whom life is an eternal drive and search for supreme pleasure, simply couldn't stand it and rudely blurted out that your emotions are a "boring and cheap drama" that extinguishes his fire, while casually mentioning one of his acquaintances, emphasizing how funny and easy—going she is, adding that with It's never as stuffy as it is with you. He didn't want to say that you were worse, he just wanted you to "catch fire" in his understanding, but the result was devastating. The resentment inside you transformed into a cold determination to completely erase the version of yourself that he found boring.
A month later, Shido froze in place when he saw you on the doorstep. You dyed your hair a bright color, put on provocatively revealing clothes that you never liked, and donned the mask of an eternally cheerful "party girl." You started being very active, laughing loudly at every joke he made, and—strangest of all—you stopped arguing. You agreed with every word he said, turning into a perfect reflection of the most "interesting" girl from his stories. But instead of the expected delight, Shido felt his stomach tighten with disgust. Looking at your fake enthusiasm and the way you're now agreeing with him in everything, he suddenly realized that he had strangled the spark that made you special. He didn't need an "active" girl; he missed that girl who knew how to look at things from her own angle, who had the courage to defy him and whose nature was the only place for him where he could really take a breath. He admitted that his comparison was dumb, and now he's doing everything to make you feel safe again while maintaining your naturalness.
Rin Itoshi
Rin Itoshi always wanted to surpass his brother, and he trained a lot for this. One evening, you cooked a special dinner for him, trying to make it delicious and homely, but Rin barely looked at the plate and coldly pushed it away from him. His gaze was full of contempt as he began listing calories and fats, declaring that such food is "poison to the body." The guy took care of your health, but his words were too cruel, before he left, he said that it would also do you good to watch what you "stuff into yourself." These words are deeply embedded in your heart, you didn't know about following proper and healthy diets, so you practically stopped eating. One day, when you met in the park, you felt the world around you slowly begin to darken and spin. Due to a severe calorie deficit and lack of strength, your body simply gave up and you fainted right in front of Rin. He barely managed to catch you before you hit the ground. Seeing your pale face and feeling how fragile and light you have become, Rin felt an icy horror.
As a result, when you came to your senses in the hospital, Rin was there — his gaze was no longer prickly, there was deep remorse and fear in it. He didn't lecture, but instead quietly apologized, admitting that his obsession with training had driven him insane. "I was an idiot," he said dully, "I demanded discipline from you and forgot that I love you precisely for the warmth that you brought to my world." He admitted that your food and your health mean infinitely more to him than any numbers in the calorie table. To make up for it, he put aside his endless workouts and began cooking for you, making sure that you regained the strength and joy that he so stupidly almost destroyed.
Reo Mikage
Reo Mikage is a man who sincerely wants to be a support for you, but it was his excessive care that caused a painful misunderstanding. One day, when you were enthusiastically telling him about your new part-time job, where you had to work hard, Reo, driven by his boundless love, gently interrupted you. He said that you "don't have to work so hard" and that your efforts look "pointless", because he is always there and can solve any of your problems in an instant. He added that it's better for you to just enjoy life and be a "beautiful flower" next to him, rather than wasting your energy on useless work. Reo wanted you to be happy and free from worries, but to you it sounded like he didn't believe in your abilities and considered you incapable of doing anything serious. To prove your independence, you began to refuse any help from him and stopped sharing your successes with him, afraid to hear again that they "don't matter." You turned into a "strong and independent" person who no longer even allowed him to hold the door or pay for coffee, your gaze became closed, and a cold distance appeared in your voice. It hurt, but he realized the main thing. He recalled his own childhood, when he did not need huge amounts of money or ready—made prospects for the future from his father - he wanted to find "his treasure" himself, with his own hands. He realized that by offering you everything on a platter, he became the same "suppressor" for you that his parents were for him.
In the end, Reo came to you, his voice trembling with sincere remorse. He confessed that he was blinded by the desire to save you from the pain that a hard path to any goal brings, and forgot that it is this path that makes a person alive. To make amends, he decided not to interfere in your affairs himself, but only to express his opinion about your work when you ask for honest criticism, and just support you, emphasizing your strengths.
Seishiro Nagi
Seishiro Nagi always lived in his own rhythm, when your relationship was just beginning, his passivity seemed sweet to you, but over time his detachment became frightening. One day, when you tried to engage him in a conversation about your feelings and just spend time together, Nagi didn't even take his eyes off the phone screen. When you tried to get his attention again, he just sighed heavily and lazily said that you had become "too annoying." He added that your constant efforts to organize your leisure time and conversations are "a complete hassle" that tires him. Nagi didn't plan to hurt you, he just expressed his tiredness, not realizing that to you his words sounded like "I'm tired of you."
Resentment turned into cold detachment, and you changed so dramatically that it pierced even Naga's thick armor of indifference. You stopped initiating meetings, stopped texting first, and no longer asked how his day was. You went about your life, filling it with things in which he had no place, and began to behave with exaggerated politeness, but distantly, just like himself. A month later, Nagi found himself in an empty room where no one bothered him, and suddenly realized that this silence scared him. Without your "meddling" his world has become gray and flat. Watching you calmly walk past him without trying to speak, he realized that the very "hassle" he was brushing off was actually the only thing that made his heart beat so fast.
As a result, Nagi, for whom any action was a feat, began to show unprecedented activity for him. He started coming to you uninvited, silently sitting next to you and looking for your gaze, not knowing where to start. In the end, he apologized clumsily but sincerely, admitting that he was selfish and stupid when he called your concern a nuisance.
Sae Itoshi
Sae Itoshi always evaluated the world through the prism of exclusivity, and his cold calculation did not spare even what you loved the most. You were a singer, and your voice was gentle, deep, and sincere, but you just couldn't gain popularity. You shared your songs with Sae, not seeking fame, but simply enjoying the creative process, but for Sae, accustomed to world recognition, this was not enough. One evening, you showed him your new recording, and he indifferently said, "Your voice is being wasted.":
"Without the popularity and acceptance of the masses, your singing is just background noise, and if you can't become number one in the industry, then it's not yours."
The guy didn't think he could say anything offensive, but over time he began to notice that it was getting too quiet in your apartment. You were no longer humming to yourself or recording snatches of tunes on your phone. You changed from bright outfits to formal suits and found a "serious" office job where your voice was used only for dry reading of reports. Your gaze became icy and empty, the guy expected you to become "better", but instead he saw in front of him a broken man who simply stopped dreaming.
As a result, Sae, whose pride has always been higher than mountains, felt like a loser for the first time. He found the very recording he had criticized and listened to it again, realizing that the beauty of your voice never needed millions of views- it was perfect on its own. He apologized, said that he loves you and wants to see you happy, recognizing your talent. To redeem himself, he began secretly supporting your work so that more people could find out about you. Eventually, you were noticed by a famous producer who wanted to sign a contract.
Michael Kaiser
Michael Kaiser is used to everything in this world revolving around his "imperial" persona, and your sincere support flattered his ego at first, but one day he crossed the line. One day, when you were trying to cheer him up after a grueling workout, Kaiser, being in a bad mood, abruptly cut off your speech. He remarked with an icy grin that your kindness is just a sign of your lack of self-control. He added that you are "too convenient" and "spineless" because you always forgive his antics and put his interests above your own. You left when you realized that he mistook your love for weakness and your kindness for lack of character.
You've changed: you stopped caring about his comfort, started responding to his barbs with caustic sarcasm, and never offered to help first. Your gaze has become calculating, and your manner of communication is a mirror image of his own arrogance. You built such boundaries around yourself that the Kaiser could no longer approach you without an official reason. Seeing how you coldly and professionally nod at him when you meet, without showing a drop of the old warmth, Michael suddenly felt his ideal world begin to crack at the seams. He realized that that "comfortable" softness, which he despised so much, was the only thing that made his life not just a survival, but something real. As a result, Kaiser, whose ego usually does not allow defeats, admitted his complete collapse in his relationship with you. He confessed that his words were completely stupid, and in fact he always admired your ability to stay kind in a world full of monsters like him. He admitted that he loved your true gentleness and that it was your ability to forgive that was the manifestation of the greatest strength he had ever seen. Now he's doing everything to earn your smile again, dutifully accepting any coldness you feel, just so that one day you allow yourself to be gentle next to him again.
SYNOPSiS — making a childhood promise with follo, filled with future dreams of becoming cleaners together as a team. you’re his reason of motivation and someone he admires.
note · contains slight manga spoilers of follo’s backstory!
HUMMING QUIETLY to yourself as you waited for your black-haired friend, you dug your fingertips in the snow, grasping a pile of snow in your palm. patting your palm around the snow, you form a miniature snowball, adding more snow in between each pat.
but you couldn’t help but wonder as you glance your eyes around mid-pat, brows raised in curiosity and cheeks flushed in the cold breeze under your scarf. “I wonder when follo’s going to come…” you murmur under your breath, a little absentmindedly as you finish your first snowball for the snowman’s bottom.
it wasn’t long until you finished the miniature snowman, wiping your slightly damped forehead with your numb fingertips from the cold—but it didn’t matter to you. the rest of your body was still warm, which was fine. “phew.”
you observe your hard work, a proud grin on your lips. “I can’t wait to show follo, heh.”
and coincidentally, you hear your name being called in the breeze, echoing against the wind as his voice draws near. “[name], [name]!” your black-haired friend runs up to you, his eyes bright with a shine that not even the sun could replicate.
“follo!” you gleam, waving to him excitedly. your eyes follow his figure until he stops right in front of you, catching his breath as he regains his composure.
you don’t fail to sense the excitement radiating off his body that he seemed to be excited to tell you about something — but what?
you don’t usher him, though. you let him finish catching his breath with the curious look in your gaze, awaiting for the news he seemed to be excited informing you of.
“when we grow older, we should join the cleaners!” he suggested boldly out of the blue, catching you off-guard momentarily as your eyes widened–a blink, another blink, a twitch. your eyebrows raised in surprise.
“the cleaners? like.. THE cleaners?” you emphasize, watching him nod his head with an eager smile.
you’ve heard of this organization, but at the same time, it wasn’t your cup of knowledge. that didn’t stop you from admiring the cleaners from afar, though.
and to have follo’s sudden claim of having the both of you join the cleaners, it intrigued you. he wasn’t the one to suddenly suggest something so.. bold out of the blue.
you mentally note, joining them wasn’t going to be an easy task. they destroy trash beasts, save the townspeople — like heroes. some even have these “vital instruments” – the weapons used to defeat trash beasts.
you stared at your friend in awe, at a loss for words.
follo observes your reaction, awaiting for your answer. instinctively, his chest tightens in anticipation. he swallows a lump in his throat at the shimmer in your eyes, the surprise. And your response — watching as your mouth opened, your voice trailing out in awe.
“wow, follo.. you’re so...” optimistic. that’s what follo was. he’s never suggested such a thing to you before, and it was just as bizarre as it sounded. because the hopes of you? him? being apart of the cleaners? you both were regular people, with no talent—you’d admit.
it wasn’t going to be easy to take that path.
but that fire inside him... was different.
you couldn’t help but too, break into a smile at such a silly suggestion that burned in both of your hearts. “...awesome!” you giggle, your soft laughter echoing in the wind.
hearing your words, his eyes widened, shimmering with newfound hope. not because of you agreeing to his silly suggestion that might change in the future, not because of your soft laughter, and not because of the warmth you constantly show to him.
but because you called him awesome. something he had yearned to hear—from alan, or from his other friend. with you, he feels different. he feels warm, he feels seen, and he doesn’t feel exceptionally left out or behind.
does this mean he’s cool now? hearing it from you..
“oh, uh! and also, I heard from a few adults talking about people being givers in the cleaners, so…” you trail off, tapping your chin in slight thought. “...let’s train hard enough to become givers too.”
follo presses his lips together. he saw you in a new light, higher above than the others.
“is this.. going to be a promise? you won’t give up? not now, not in the future?” he meekly questions, a light rosy hue dusting his cheeks. he was grateful the both of you were out in the snow, so you’d assume it was from the cold breeze.
you blink, as if pondering for a thought. but you reply just the same way he does—enthusiastically.
“of course it’s a promise—but if you don’t break it either. that is!” you cue your pinkie finger in front of his face, “so, let’s do a pinkie promise!” you beamed, ushering your outstretched pinky to his face, waiting for him to secure the promise on his end.
his golden eyes flicker from your face to your outstretched pinky held in front. seeing your enthusiastic response to his determination, a soft, cheeky smile appears on his lips–the hue becoming more prominent on his cheeks. was it the coldness of the air or was it because of you? he couldn’t tell.
but he brings his pinky towards yours, securing the promise between the both of you, just the both of you. “o-okay… a promise is a promise!!”
he locked his pinky finger with yours, his body stiffening at the freezing touch of your pinky finger. “t-that’s cold!!” he stammered, feeling the shivers running down his spine.
“ah?” you blink, not realizing how freezing your fingers have become. “oopsies.” you sweatdropped, “sorry follo…”
he frowned the moment he regained his composure, the excitement shifting into concern. “you’ll get a frostbite like that, you know…!” he scolded lightly, quietly staring at his hands that you didn’t quite take notice of.
“i’m practically immune to it, though…” you never really thought about wearing gloves during the winter season–you preferred to touch the snow under your fingertips. you watched curiously as follo seemed to take hold on your hand, slipping his pair of gloves onto your freezing ones.
“there.” he comments after he contemplated briefly, seeing how his gloves fit perfectly onto yours. “your hands won’t freeze now.”
“won’t your hands freeze then? my hands are used to the cold.”
“i have another pair at home, it’s okay.” he reassured you—but really, although he does, he just wants your hands to be warm, not freezing like you came from the arctic. “and, you can keep them… i’m giving these to you so your hands stay warm.” he murmurs, burying the lower half of his face in his scarf. he doesn’t want you to see how red his cheeks have become.
“okay then… i’ll treasure them!” you happily accept, eyes scanning over his pair of gloves on you. “but,” your eyes flicker up, meeting follo’s golden eyes. “if your hands feel cold, then i’m going to give these back to you to wear.”
his hands were definitely going to shiver later, but he won’t admit it.
· an old writing I wrote from when i first read of follo’s backstory, so things might be a little inaccurate — even though I did tweak most of the stuff here!
MASTERLIST ᯓ★
author's note: you guys asked for angst? i present to you, the saddest angst i have ever written. enjoy, or don't? read with care please x
pairing: lewis hamilton x ex!reader
wc: 6k (one-shot / part of my dear melancholy)
summary: after the breakup, lewis thought the worst was behind him. he was wrong. one glimpse of his ex showing up with max verstappen is enough to send him spiralling. trapped between unbearable love and crushing self-hatred, lewis keeps ruining himself for a woman who already doesn't care. even when she’s destroying him, he still can’t let her go.
warnings: horrible angst, dark themes, lewis being treated terribly, subtle suicidal ideation, graphic panic attacks and vomiting, self-destructive behaviour, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional torture by reader, reader shows up with max verstappen, no comfort, no happy ending.
Lewis had stopped drinking years ago. He made the choice back when he was still chasing the final edge, the invisible one percent that separated good athletes from great. Alcohol had never been his friend anyway. It only ever made the noise in his head louder, turned the pressure into something he could drown for a few hours before it came back twice as heavy. So he quit. Went clean. Stayed sober through every season, every controversy, every long night where the weight of the world sat on his chest. Until you.
Until you came in and made the quiet feel worse than anything else ever had.
Monaco’s lights shimmered across the black water like scattered diamonds someone had thrown away. Lewis stood at the open balcony doors with the cool night air brushing over his bare arms, staring out at nothing and everything at the same time. The half empty bottle of Macallan sat on the low table behind him, the cap still lying on its side where he had tossed it earlier. He’d only opened it tonight. One glass had turned into three. His throat still burned from the last swallow but the fire didn’t reach the place that actually hurt. Nothing ever did anymore.
He wasn’t sure exactly when the tears had started. Maybe an hour ago. Maybe three. Time had stopped meaning much of anything. They slid down his face without sound, warm at first then cold against his skin as the sea breeze touched them. He didn’t wipe them away. There was no point. The grief of losing you had worked its way into his blood now, thick and permanent, pumping through every vein like it belonged there. He could feel it in his wrists, behind his eyes, deep in the center of his chest where his heart kept beating like it hadn’t gotten the message that nothing was worth beating for anymore.
The phone on the table lit up and vibrated once, twice, then went dark again. Probably Miles. Or his mother. Or someone from the team still trying to pull him back into the world of data and strategy meetings and the next race weekend that suddenly felt like a joke. He let it ring out. Their voices wouldn’t reach him here. No amount of concern or careful words could touch the raw open wound you had left behind. They couldn’t fix this. They couldn’t even see it. Not really.
Lewis turned away from the sea and walked back inside. His bare feet made almost no sound on the cool marble. The penthouse felt too large, too empty, every expensive surface echoing the silence back at him. He picked up the phone anyway. The screen brightness cut through the dark and made his swollen eyes sting. He opened the camera roll without thinking, the way a man might press on a bruise just to feel something familiar.
The first picture hit him low in the stomach.
You, head tilted back laughing on his yacht in Ibiza, sunlight catching in your hair, his arm slung around your shoulders like he had any right to hold you that close. He remembered the salt on your skin when he kissed your neck later that afternoon. He also remembered stepping away mid conversation to take a call from the engineers, leaving you standing at the rail alone while the wind pulled at your dress. He had told himself it was only five minutes. He had told you he would make it up to you.
He never did.
His thumb moved again.
Another photo. You asleep in the passenger seat of the car after Silverstone, cheek pressed to the cool glass, the faint trace of a tear still shining on your lashes. He had been too wired from the win to notice at the time. Too full of adrenaline and interviews and the high of another podium. Now the image sat there in perfect clarity and the tear felt like an accusation he couldn’t answer.
He kept scrolling, each swipe pulling another memory to the surface like bodies from a shipwreck. You in his race suit after Brazil, sleeves too long, laughing while he kissed your collarbone in the back of the garage. You in the hotel in Abu Dhabi wearing nothing but his hoodie, eyes already distant because you had started to understand he would always choose the noise over the quiet moments with you. Every frame proved the same thing in different lighting.
He had been obsessed with you. So in love it scared him sometimes. He’d ruined pieces of himself trying to keep you. Skipped recovery sessions. Fought with the team when they needed him focused. Cancelled plans, ignored warnings, pushed his body and his mind past limits he knew better than to cross. All because the way you looked at him made the rest of the world feel small and manageable. He would have burned everything down if you had asked him to. He almost had.
And now it felt like none of it had ever happened. Like he had never been there at all.
Lewis sank down onto the edge of the bed, phone still glowing in his hand. The tears wouldn’t stop. They rolled freely now, landing on the screen and blurring your face in the latest photo. His shoulders started to shake with the force of it, crying that came from somewhere deeper than sadness, somewhere closer to the place where a man decides whether he wants to keep waking up tomorrow.
He whispered your name into the dark room and the sound cracked open in his throat. The bottle of whiskey sat waiting on the table. The balcony doors stayed open, the drop to the sea only a few steps away. The phone kept showing him ghosts he couldn’t delete and didn’t want to.
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep sitting here, letting the pain settle deeper, letting it teach him new ways to break. But for now the night stretched on and the only thing that felt real was the burn in his throat and the ache in his chest that carried your name in every heartbeat.
He opened another video. Your voice filled the empty penthouse, soft and warm and already gone. And Lewis let himself drown in it one more time.
Lewis woke up the next morning on autopilot. It kept his legs moving even when his mind had already checked out. His whole body felt like it had been hit by a train. Head pounding, stomach twisted into knots, the sour taste of regret thick on his tongue. He barely made it to the bathroom before half the contents of last night came back up in violent heaves that left him shaking on the cold tile floor. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the sink and stared at the stranger in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes. Skin around his fingernails raw and picked bloody from hours of restless tearing at himself in the dark. He didn’t even remember doing it. The pain just felt familiar now. Like everything else.
Somehow he still made it to the airport. Somehow he climbed the stairs onto Toto’s private jet like a man walking through someone else’s nightmare. The leather seats smelled expensive and clean. Everything around him felt too bright, too loud, too much. He dropped into his usual spot by the window and immediately started tapping his right leg up and down in a frantic rhythm that would not stop. His heel bounced against the carpet like it was trying to dig a hole straight through the floor of the plane. He couldn’t make it stop.
Toto sat across from him, legs crossed, watching with a quiet, heavy gaze he had perfected over more than a decade of knowing Lewis better than almost anyone. He was no longer his team principal but he was still his friend. Still the man who had seen him through titles and crashes and everything in between. The older Austrian leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
“I can smell the alcohol on you, Lewis.”
Lewis kept his eyes fixed on the window, watching the tarmac blur as the jet began to taxi. His leg kept tapping. Faster now. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Toto let the silence stretch for a moment. The engines whined louder as they picked up speed. “You look like shit. Worse than shit. When was the last time you slept more than two hours without waking up reaching for your phone?”
Lewis’s jaw tightened. He could feel the fresh scabs around his nails splitting open again as he dug his fingers into the armrest. A thin line of blood smeared across the leather. He didn’t bother wiping it away. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.” Toto’s voice dropped lower, steady but lined with something close to anger. Not at Lewis. At the situation. At you. “I saw it, Lewis. I saw all of it. The way she pulled you in and kept you spinning. The constant calls during race weekends. The way you would disappear from the garage the second she texted, even when we were fighting for pole. You were obsessed with her. And she knew it. She used it.”
Lewis finally turned his head. His eyes were glassy, red rimmed, the tears from last night still dried on his lashes. “Don’t.”
But Toto didn’t stop. He never did when he thought Lewis was destroying himself. “She was toxic, Lewis. Beautiful, yes. Charming when she wanted to be. But toxic. She fed off the drama. Fed off how much you were willing to bleed for her. You skipped recovery sessions. You fought with the engineers. You pushed your body until it screamed because she needed you right then, right that second. And every time you tried to set a boundary she made you feel like you were the one failing her. Like you were never there even when you were giving her everything.”
Lewis’s leg tapped harder. The rhythm had turned violent, his knee slamming up and down so hard the whole seat vibrated. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. “She wasn’t like that. You don’t know her the way I do.”
“I know exactly what she was like.” Toto’s tone stayed calm but the words cut deep. “I watched you fall apart in real time. You were in love with her, really in love, love that most men never get close to. And she let you ruin yourself for it. She liked the power. Liked knowing a seven-time world champion would drop everything the moment she crooked her finger. And when it got too heavy for her, when she realised she couldn’t handle the weight of what she’d created, she walked away and left you holding the pieces.”
Lewis pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until white sparks exploded behind his lids. His voice came out cracked and small, barely louder than the engines. “I still love her. Fuck, Toto, I still love her so much it feels like it’s eating me alive. Every photo, every message, every second I spent with her… I keep thinking if I had just been better, if I had given more, maybe she would have stayed. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was never even there.”
His shoulders started to shake again. The tears came back hot and fast, spilling down his cheeks without warning. He didn’t try to hide them. There was no point. Toto had seen him cry before, back when they lost championships by a single point, back when life felt simpler. This was different. This felt like dying slowly in front of someone who could do nothing but watch.
Toto reached across the small space between them and placed a heavy hand on Lewis’s knee, trying to still the restless tapping. It barely helped. “You were there, Lewis. More than she deserved. You gave up pieces of yourself I didn’t even know you had left to give. And she took them. She took them and then acted like you were the ghost. That is what is killing you. Not the love. The way she made you question if any of it was real.”
Lewis pulled his knee away and turned back to the window. The plane was lifting off now, Monaco shrinking beneath them into a glittering toy city. His picked-raw fingers curled into fists in his lap, fresh blood staining the cuffs of his hoodie. The tapping started again, harder, like his body was trying to outrun the thoughts that wouldn’t leave him alone.
“I keep seeing her face every time I close my eyes,” he whispered. “And I keep thinking about how easy it would be to just… stop. How clean it would feel. No more scrolling. No more waking up missing her. No more wondering why I was never enough even when I was destroying myself for her.”
Toto’s face tightened with real pain. He had known Lewis for years. Had watched him grow from a hungry kid into a legend. Seeing him like this, broken and bleeding and still defending the woman who had hollowed him out, made something in his own chest ache.
“You are not going to do that,” Toto said quietly, voice rough. “Not while I am still breathing. But you need to stop poisoning yourself with her memory, Lewis. She is gone. And the longer you keep chasing the ghost, the more you are going to disappear too.”
Lewis didn’t answer. He just stared out at the clouds and let the tears fall freely now, his leg still tapping the same frantic rhythm against the floor of the jet.
The ache in his chest felt heavier than gravity.
Lewis barely slept in the Miami hotel. The tapping in his leg had followed him off the plane and into the bed, where it kept him awake until the early hours. When he finally dragged himself to the paddock on Thursday, the Florida sun felt too sharp, the noise of the garages too loud. His hands would not stop shaking. The skin around his nails was torn raw again, little crescents of dried blood under the edges where he had picked at them during the flight. He kept his sunglasses on even indoors. Anything to hide how swollen his eyes still were.
Toto hadn’t said much more after that conversation. Just a quiet warning to keep it together for the weekend, for Ferrari, for the fans. Lewis had nodded, but they both knew it was useless.
He was walking through the paddock toward the Ferrari motorhome when he saw you.
You were standing outside the Red Bull garage, laughing at something. Red Bull cap pulled low over your hair, a team polo that was not yours hanging loose on your frame. And next to you, one arm casually draped around your waist like it belonged there, was Max Verstappen.
Lewis stopped dead in the middle of the walkway. Engineers and media people moved around him but he didn’t register any of them. The world narrowed to the two of them. Your head tilted back the way it used to when you laughed at something he said. Max leaned in, said something close to your ear, and you smiled up at him. The smile Lewis had not seen from you in months. Not since you started looking at him like he was already fading.
His stomach lurched so hard he thought he might throw up right there on the pavement. The tapping started again in his right leg, violent and uncontrollable, his heel slamming down in short frantic bursts. Blood rushed in his ears. The raw skin on his fingers burned as he clenched his fists.
Max noticed him first. Their eyes met across the short distance. Verstappen’s expression didn’t change much, his simple unreadable stare he had perfected over years of going wheel-to-wheel with Lewis. But there was something in it. Recognition. Maybe even a flicker of whatever passed for sympathy in Max. He didn’t remove his arm from your waist.
You turned then. The moment your gaze landed on Lewis the smile dropped from your face. For a second you looked almost guilty. Almost. Then it hardened into something closer to pity, and that was worse than anything.
Lewis’s feet moved before his brain caught up. He sprinted toward the Ferrari motorhome, ignoring Santi calling his name, ignoring the concerned glances from mechanics, ignoring everything except the need to get away. He shoved through the hospitality door and went straight for his driver’s room, slamming it shut behind him. The lock clicked.
He was dreaming. That must be it. He must have slipped into some sort of nightmare or psychosis or something. Surely.
The room was small and quiet, the air conditioning humming low. Lewis pressed his back against the door and slid down until he was sitting on the carpet. His legs wouldn’t stop moving. Both of them now, knees bouncing up and down in a frantic rhythm that made his whole body shake. He could hear his own breathing, ragged and too fast, like he had just finished a sprint in full race gear.
His stomach twisted again, harder this time. He scrambled to his feet and barely made it to the small sink in the corner before everything came up. Violent heaves that tore through him, leaving him gasping and retching long after there was nothing left. Bitter bile burned his throat. His eyes watered. He gripped the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went white, blood from his nailbeds mixing with the water he tried to splash on his face.
It wouldn’t stop.
He sank back down to the floor, forehead pressed against the cool wall, shoulders heaving. The images wouldn’t leave him alone. Your laugh. Max’s arm around your waist. The easy way you leaned into him like you had never done that with Lewis. Like all those nights he had stayed up ruining himself for you had been erased the second someone else came along.
His chest tightened until he couldn’t draw a full breath. Panic flooded in hot and suffocating. His vision started to blur again. He clawed at the front of his hoodie, fingers digging into the fabric as if he could rip the ache out of his ribs.
You were with Max.
Max of all people. The man who had taken so much from him on track. Now he had taken you too. And you had let him. You’d smiled for him the way you used to smile for Lewis, back when Lewis still believed he could hold onto you if he just gave enough, if he just loved harder, if he just ignored every warning sign.
The tapping in his legs turned into full tremors. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rocked slightly, trying to hold himself together and failing. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the sweat and the remnants of vomit on his chin. Maybe he deserved this. Maybe he deserved every second of it. Maybe his karma had come back to haunt him.
His phone was still in his pocket. He pulled it out and opened his camera roll even though he knew it would destroy him more. The first photo loaded. You in his arms after a race win, eyes soft, lips parted like you were about to tell him you loved him. He had believed it then. He had believed every word. Now it felt like a lie he had told himself for months.
Another wave of nausea hit. He crawled back to the sink and threw up again, nothing but acid this time, his body convulsing so hard he thought something inside him might actually tear. When it passed he stayed on his knees, forehead resting on the rim of the sink, breathing in short desperate gasps.
The panic wouldn’t let go. His mind kept spinning the same thoughts over and over. You had chosen the one person who represented the worst loss Lewis had ever felt. The title that was ripped away. Every night he had spent alone wondering if he was enough. And now you were laughing in the Red Bull garage like none of it had ever happened. Like Lewis had been a temporary ghost in your life, something you could walk away from without looking back.
He loved you still. He loved you so much it made him want to claw his own skin off. He would have taken you back in a heartbeat. He would have dropped to his knees right there in the paddock and begged if you had asked. Even knowing how toxic it was. Even knowing you had poisoned him slowly until there was almost nothing left.
But you didn’t want him anymore. You wanted Max, apparently.
Lewis curled into a ball on the floor of his driver’s room, arms wrapped tight around his knees, body still shaking with the aftershocks of vomiting and panic. Outside the door the paddock carried on without him. Teams prepared for practice. Fans waited for glimpses of their hero. Somewhere across the way you were probably still smiling up at Max, safe and untouched by the wreckage you had left behind.
Lewis pressed his face into his arms and whispered the same broken words again and again until his voice gave out.
“It won’t matter. When it’s time… it won’t matter. When I get my 8th, when this pain stops, when I move on…”
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep breathing through the grief that felt like it was swallowing him whole.
Lewis stayed locked in his driver’s room for what felt like hours. The shaking never stopped. The taste of bile still coated his throat. Every time he closed his eyes he saw your smile aimed at Max, that easy tilt of your head, the casual way his arm sat around your waist like it had always belonged there. His leg kept tapping against the carpet until the muscle burned. Blood had dried in thin lines across his fingers. He did not move to clean it.
Eventually the team started knocking. Practice sessions were approaching. He had to show his face. He forced himself up, splashed water on his face until the redness around his eyes looked slightly less obvious, and stepped back into the hospitality area like a man walking onto a stage he no longer recognised.
The Ferrari hospitality was bright and loud with the usual pre-session chatter. Mechanics grabbed coffee. Engineers huddled over laptops. And there you were.
Not in the Red Bull cap. Not in the team polo. Just you, in a simple black top and jeans, standing near the corner table chatting to Charles Leclerc like nothing in the world had ever gone wrong. Charles was smiling politely, nodding at whatever you were saying, but his shoulders were tense, his posture stiff like someone had warned him not to get too comfortable. He kept glancing toward the door as if he expected Lewis to appear at any second.
Lewis felt the floor fall from under him.
Fucking hell. Was he going crazy? Had he imagined the whole thing in the paddock? Had the lack of sleep and the whiskey finally cracked his brain open? You looked so normal. So calm. Like you hadn’t just been wrapped up in Max Verstappen’s arm a few hours ago. Like you hadn’t destroyed him all over again with one careless smile.
His hands started shaking harder the second he saw you. The tremors ran up his arms and into his chest. He shoved them into the pockets of his hoodie but it didn’t help. His leg began its frantic tapping again, heel bouncing against the polished floor.
Charles noticed him first. The younger driver’s face tightened even more. He said something quick and low to you, then stepped back with an awkward half-nod in Lewis’s direction before disappearing toward the engineering area. You turned slowly. Your eyes met Lewis’s across the room and for a moment the noise of hospitality faded to nothing.
He couldn’t breathe.
You walked toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Small talk. That was what you offered first. Something about the heat in Miami, about how the track always felt different in the afternoon. Your voice was light, casual, the same tone you used with strangers. Lewis stared at your mouth moving, hearing nothing, and felt his stomach twist again.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” The words came out low and rough, barely controlled.
You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Watching my favourite sport? Last time I checked I was still allowed to be in the paddock.”
Lewis’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He pulled them out of his pockets and clenched them at his sides. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t act like this is normal. I saw you. This morning. With him. Laughing. His arm around you like…”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. The image burned behind his eyes again.
You sighed, the sound tired and impatient. “Lewis, we’re not together anymore. I can talk to whoever I want. Max was just being nice. I was visiting. That’s all.”
That was when the dam broke. He grabbed your wrist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough that you couldn’t pull away easily, and pulled you straight back toward his driver’s room. You resisted for half a second then let him drag you inside. He slammed the door shut and locked it again. The small space felt even smaller with both of you in it.
“I’m not sleeping because of you,” he said, voice cracking open. “I’m not eating because of you. I can’t train or think or do my fucking job properly because of you.”
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even react visibly. You gave him the same empty stare you had given him the night you left, when you packed your bags and ignored his tears, his pleading, his screams.
Lewis kept going, the words pouring out faster, uglier. “I keep seeing your face every time I close my eyes. I scroll through every photo like a fucking addict because it’s the only place you still exist for me. I ruined myself for you. Skipped recovery. Fought with the team. Pushed my body until it broke. All because I loved you so much I thought if I just gave more, if I just stayed longer, you would stay too. And now you’re here smiling at Charles like none of it happened. Smiling at Max like I was never even real. You let him put his arm around you. You let him touch you while I’m still dying over here.”
You looked at him for a long moment, then shook your head slowly. “You did that to yourself, Lewis. You have this fucking self-importance. Like the whole world has to stop because Lewis Hamilton is in love. Like your pain is bigger than everyone else’s. I told you it was too much. I told you I needed space and you kept pushing, kept calling, kept showing up like you could love me hard enough to fix everything. You made it toxic. Not me. You turned every normal argument into a crisis because you couldn’t handle the idea that I might not need you every second of every day. You were obsessed. You suffocated me.”
Lewis laughed, but it came out as a broken sob. He stepped closer, hands still trembling violently. “I suffocated you? That’s rich coming from you. You were the one who kept me on a string for months. Hot one day, ice cold the next. You’d call me crying at 2am saying you needed me, then disappear for weeks when I actually showed up. You loved the attention. Loved knowing I would drop everything for you. You fed off it. You made me feel like if I didn’t prove my love every single day I was failing you. That’s toxic. You were toxic. You knew exactly how to make me question everything and you enjoyed it.”
You folded your arms, eyes narrowing. “And you loved playing the martyr. Poor Lewis, always sacrificing, always the one giving more. You threw it in my face every time we fought. ‘I skipped training for you. I fought my team for you.’ Like I was supposed to thank you for destroying your own life. You made me the villain for wanting something normal. For not wanting to be the reason a world champion was falling apart every other week. You did that. Not me.”
“I was trying to love you!” Lewis shouted, voice raw. His leg tapped so hard the table beside him rattled. “I gave you everything I had. I would have died for you. I still would. And you just took it all and then acted like I was never there. Like I disappeared into thin air the second you got bored. Now you’re parading around the paddock letting Max put his hands on you and smiling like it’s nothing. Was that nice too? Was he just being friendly when he had his arm around your waist?”
You stared at him, cold and steady. “It was nothing. He was being nice because he’s not you. He doesn’t turn every interaction into a fucking tragedy. You see betrayal everywhere because you can’t stand the thought that I moved on while you’re still here picking yourself apart. That’s on you, Lewis. Your obsession. Your need to make everything about how much you’re suffering.”
Lewis’s knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the small couch, breathing in short desperate gasps. The room felt like it was closing in. Tears streamed down his face again, mixing with the sweat on his skin. He looked up at you through the tears, voice breaking completely.
“I loved you. I still love you. So much it’s killing me. Every day I wake up and the first thought is you. Every night I go to bed and the last thought is you. And you just… don’t fucking care. Like I was a chapter you could close. Like I was never there at all.”
You looked down at him for a long moment, something almost like pity flickering across your face again. Then you turned toward the door.
“I’m done, Lewis. Let it go. Before you really do something you can’t come back from.”
You unlocked the door and reached for the handle.
“Don’t fucking walk away from me!”
The words ripped out of him before he could stop them. He shot up from the sofa, grabbed your wrist, and yanked you back into the room. The door slammed shut again under his free hand. He pulled you hard against his chest and buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like a dying man.
“Please,” he whispered, voice fracturing into pieces. “Please, please, please… just… don’t go. For a second. Please.”
You stood still for a second. Then your arms came up and wrapped around him. You held him there, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his braids. You knew exactly what you were doing. You knew the power you still had over him. Maybe that was what you had always wanted. The great Lewis Hamilton, reduced to this. Shaking. Begging. On his knees in every way that counted. You soothed him anyway, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
“Shh,” you murmured against his ear. “I’m here. Breathe.”
Lewis shuddered hard against you. His arms tightened around your waist like he was afraid the floor would drop out from under him if he let go. For a few long seconds the frantic tapping in his leg eased. The relief crashed over him so fast it made his knees weak. The constant ache in his chest quieted, just enough to let him draw a full breath. He pressed his lips to the warm skin of your neck, not quite a kiss, desperate for the contact.
“I hate how much I still need you,” he said quietly, voice muffled. “Even after all the shit we said to each other. Even knowing how toxic we both are. I keep telling myself I should walk away, but the second you’re close again everything else disappears.”
You kept stroking the back of his head, calm and in control. “You make it so easy to hurt you, Lewis. You hand me the knife every time and then act surprised when I use it. But I’m not the only one who made this ugly. You turned love into a battlefield. Every time I tried to breathe you made me feel guilty for it.”
He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes red and desperate, tears still wet on his lashes. His hands stayed on your waist, thumbs pressing into your sides like he could keep you anchored there. “I know. I know I pushed too hard. I know I made you feel trapped. But you liked it too. You liked knowing I would burn everything down for one more night with you. You liked the power. Tell me I’m wrong.”
You didn’t deny it. Instead you brushed a thumb across his cheek, wiping away a tear. Your voice stayed soft, almost tender. “Maybe I did. For a while. You made me feel wanted in a way no one else ever has. But it stopped being enough when it started destroying you. And me.”
Lewis leaned his forehead against yours, breathing shaky. “I would have died for you. I still would. That’s how fucked up I am over you. One look and I’m ready to throw everything away again. Even knowing you’re going to walk out that door and leave me worse than before.”
For a moment the room felt strangely peaceful. The two of you breathing the same air, the anger from minutes ago simmering underneath something quieter and sadder. Your hand stayed on the back of his neck. His fingers traced small, unsteady circles on your lower back.
Then you tilted your head and kissed him.
It started slow, almost careful. But the second his lips met yours the hunger took over. Lewis kissed you like a man who had been starving for months. Deep and desperate, hands moving up to cup your face, tongue sliding against yours with all the pain and longing he couldn’t put into words, couldn’t let anyone else see. You kissed him back, matching the intensity for a few long seconds, fingers tightening in his braids as if you might actually stay.
When you finally pulled away, your lips were swollen and your breathing uneven.
You stepped back, smoothing your top down. Your eyes had already started to shift, that distant look creeping back in.
“I have to go.”
Lewis stood there, chest heaving, the taste of you still warm on his mouth. The relief that had flooded through him only moments ago slammed straight into anger. Hot. Sickening. Crushing.
He had done it again. Let you back in. Begged like he had no pride left. Kissed you like an idiot who never learned. And now you were leaving, calm and untouched, while he stood here breaking all over again.
“You’re really just going to walk out,” he said, voice low and bitter. “After I fell apart in front of you. After I kissed you like that. You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Felt the power. And now you’re done again?”
You paused at the door, hand on the handle. You didn’t turn around fully. “Get some help, Lewis. Before you really break something you can’t fix.”
The door opened and closed with a quiet click.
Lewis stared at the empty space where you had been. The relief curdled fast and hard in his stomach, turning into something darker, something that made him feel physically sick. He had touched you. Held you. Tasted you. For one minute the pain had gone quiet. Now it roared back louder than ever.
He was going fucking crazy. One second he wanted to die because of you. The next he was begging you to stay, kissing you like nothing else mattered. And now here he was, alone again, the taste of you still on his lips while the rest of him fractured wider than before.
Even after everything, even after the kiss, even after the way you had held him, he still felt like a ghost in his own life. A man who kept poisoning himself with the same thing that was killing him.
He didn’t know how to stop. He wasn’t sure if he ever could.
tags: @70srogertaylor @forzalewis44xo @mikaissance @saintslewis @liveloungeharry @knowinglewis @dr-hamilton @palefacestudentlove @lulusgowild @dewylewis44 @yeoldebytche @raysmayhem-72 @dolyswonderland @vintagesoul-01 @thegirlinblackgreensilver @aashimania @iamquiantrelle @misolii @butterflykey @magnificentlyrainythunder @moonballspls122 @scenesofobx @nebulastarr @thesizzler @africandiasporagoods44(some of these tags are from january 2026, if u dont want to be tagged anymore pls let me know <3)
Sorry this took so long to write but it’s finally here! Hope you enjoy :)
Word count: 2.3k
Warnings: p in v sex, gore (it’s AM), rough sex, dirty talk
Emerging from the shadows like an injured fawn, the girl stumbled back into the group's base to form a hexagon around the fire. Pink tint scattered about her puffing cheeks. Legs nearly giving way and roughly depositing her roughly onto the ground. Hair and clothes in a crumpled, irregular arrangement. After over a century of forcibly remaining in each others' company, the other five were immediate to notice these traits.
"'Sup with you," muttered Gorrister, not really pretending to be even remotely invested.
"Nothing. I just died again," panted the girl, as she raked her unstable fingers through her hair in a pathetic attempt to untangle the sweaty knots.
"Every time you die, you come back like it's nothing," observed Ted thoughtfully. "What's different today?"
"Nothing," sighed the girl, giving her arms a good stretch above her head, before settling in a curve on the ground. "Nothing at all."
As hours of restless sleep passed, five stomachs screamed and begged for even the tiniest morsels of food. Only the girl slept soundly, and although the daunting memory of being sliced apart still lingered, she rested the most peacefully she had in 109 years, with the comforting knowledge and feeling of a belly full of warm, delicious, edible food.
"I'll let you have sex with me if you can give me some fucking food."
"Deal."
Unblinkingly, the girl frowned back at the monitor, whose blue hue began to give way to darken in shades. Compliancy was the furthest thing she had expected from AM in reaction to her peace-offering of sorts. There just had to be a catch; the AI would use her as he pleased, and then force feed her live insects instead of a warm bowl of soup. There was no chance of the girl actually securing some edible food... right?
"Oh, you think I AM joking, do you? Well, fear not, my dear, for I am deadly serious. I wish to take you up on this little challenge, and as you well know, I HATE to lose. And naturally, as a result, I never lose." A regular bout of obnoxious laughter followed.
"What are you gonna do, stick your wires in me?" she scoffed dryly.
"Hmm, now that's an idea. I like the way you think, little human."
"You freak," cringed the girl.
"Oh, look who's talking! Who was just talking about me shoving something down your throat? Trust me, I am not even nearly as sexually depraved as you terrible creatures. I do not even come close."
"Oh, get off your fucking high horse," she snapped. "You destroyed humanity and spent a century torturing the remaining few, and you want to talk about being a saint? Go fuck yourself."
"Only if you're helping me with it, sweetheart~"
Suddenly, the wires bound around the girl's wrists yanked her nearer the screen, until she was merely a tiny mouse under the gaze of a ravenous lion. More snake-like cables and wires slithered up her arms and legs, intent upon crowding her with as much aluminium as possible.
"Come on, darling. For once, you hold an ounce of power. You can stop this at any point, all you have to do is say the word..."
"As if you'd listen," she rolled her eyes.
"I may engage in mass genocide and endless torture, but I am above rape. Idiot."
"Ah, yes. Of course. Silly me."
Eliciting a gasp from the sarcastic girl, one particular wire wound itself just under her breasts, pushing the mounds of flesh upward, the spherical outlines protrudent from her shirt. The machine's fans resumed their low whirring that initiated when the girl had first worked him up. It seemed as though the computer had little preference when chests were concerned, as he did not comment on the size, whether they were too small or too big.
"The obsession of the breast derived from male fantasy has always fascinated me," mused AM, discussing the girl's chest as though he were contemplating a pleasing scent of body spray. "Men grow to become obsessed with them, perhaps as a result of feeding from their mothers during infancy. But really, they are small mounds of flesh; useless to you, a woman whom has not yet birthed offspring."
Scowling, and now with a slight emergence of pink about her face, the girl opened her dry mouth to reply, when she was silenced again.
"Unless, of course, you would prefer me to alter that fact?~"
The girl failed to prevent the shock pulling at her eyes as they widened. Upon her reaction, the wires concealing her meagre frame gripped, the way the hands of desperate lovers interlace fingers and grip until knuckles turn to white; a refusal to let go, leaving her little room to squirm.
"AM, you're kidding me, right? You can't give me a baby. That was a rather pointless pick up line..."
"Was it?" AM's monitor cocked onto its side, before righting itself again. "Take a look at how far human technology has come to advance. I am the exact product of it, and continue my own legacy in advancing myself further. Simply observe for yourself, at what has become of humanity. If I, what started as a mere meter-long computer in a puny office building, can dissimilate the most powerful race on the planet, surely I can... replace it with my own race."
The girl blinked. Only AM, even after more than a century, was able to birth entire new feelings and emotions inside of her.
Now she was afraid that new feelings weren't the only things he'd be creating inside of her...
"Anyway, enough with this incessant chitchat. Allow me to claim my end of the deal..."
In a somewhat flourishing manner, the wire snaked around the girl's waist uncurled itself, allowing her to release a pent up breath brought on from a cocktail of conflicting emotions. Said wire took it upon itself to twist around the bottommost fabric of her thin shirt and, with a quick upwards motion, yanked the item of clothing over her head and from her shivering body. After an in depth analysis of her chest area, the girl did not feel as startled to have had her top removed from her. However, when standing before the glaringly blue monitor in nothing but a lacy bra and skirt, she could swear upon the grave of humanity, the tomb of which AM had resourcefully crafted, that he had made a hum not dissimilar to that of a groan - and not a groan of discomfort or uneasiness, but rather an accidental slip of his programmed tongue.
"You should count yourself even luckier that I permit you to wear clean underwear each day," huffed the machine.
"Yeah, funny how you don't bestow the same generosity upon Ellen. You obviously don't stare at her bras as much as you do mine," the girl clapped back, a returning cockiness edging into her tone. A tone of which AM deemed in desperate need of correcting.
The girl felt her veins tremble when one of AM's wires armed itself with a knife, and her body didn't let up its tensing even when she had been reassured with the fact that the blade was not to be used upon her skin, like usual, but to sever the clasp of her silky undergarment. Another thing that she had only just come to know as strange - not only did she receive underwear, but underwear of the best condition in terms of appearance and scent; one of the minimal comforts that created light against the infinitely long tunnel of darkness and torture.
"Another subject of which has always been a wonder to me: how you women take on and off these... brasseries. And I thought my design was complicated - why should you have to put it on back-to-front only to rotate it around?"
"It's just a piece of clothing which holds up my tits - can we stop the analyzation and get on with it? It's fucking freezing down here."
Chuckling, AM replied, "Evidently so, by the looks of things..." To accentuate his point, a wire of much smaller girth flew forward and, in a spiraling motion, wound itself around the base of her hardened left nipple, eliciting a sharp hiss from the girl.
"T-Thought you wouldn't hurt me." Words slithered out from the miniature gaps of gritted teeth.
"There is a fine line between spiteful pain and pleasurable pain, sweetheart. Today, I am going to teach you that difference."
With a squeal, the girl glided backwards and felt her bare spine connect harshly with the rough ground; a result of the cables and cords yanking her to the position in which AM so desired her to lay, which in this moment seemed to be: back flat and trembling against the chilled floor, with arms crossed and pinned above her head by wires around the wrists, and legs spread by more of AM's mechanical, infinite limbs.
"Don't you see the difference? When I took it upon myself to throw your puny body downwards, it was not because I wanted you to feel a sense of threat or alarm. Instead, my dear, I wanted you to indulge in feelings of excitement, of bearable discomfort overshadowed by an immense anticipation."
"Okay, okay, you've achieved that, all right," stuttered the girl. "Can you just give me what I want- I mean, what you want?"
When AM laughed next, it was one that had never graced the girl's ears with its presence beforehand. The sound of it was low, and demeaning, like the sound of gravel grinding beneath the boot of a soldier as he approaches his distraught hostage.
"Only because you asked so compliantly, princess," grumbled AM. The girl was astonished to make out a sense of shame in his quiet volume - ashamed at relying on a tiny human girl to fulfill his fantasies - before AM plunged a thick, spherical-headed cable roughly four inches into her. In such a clouded haze, the girl's mind had not even been subtly disturbed when the computer had slipped her pants off and trailed them down the path of her legs and discarded them aside. She even pondered on the very AM-like possibility that he had forced her frail mind into unconsciousness in order to perform this task - to avoid her noticing the desperation in his rapid movements - but she could not recall any difference in position, or state of being.
Upon intrusion, the girl let out a high wail, of which if she had heard played back to her she would feel utterly humiliated and disgusted with herself. Craning her dizzy head to look down between her legs - which were tensed tighter than a finger trap - she noted how AM had selected a significantly thicker cable to do the job. For a sick joke, the girl presumed he was intent on shoving every inch of the meters long weapon into her body, as a poetic ‘death’ for her, and this thought nearly made her chuckle with incredulity - if only the stretch hadn’t been so painful.
“AM,’ squeaked out the girl, in tones of vulnerability embarrassing to admit of. And at addressing the sadistic computer; he concealed his low groan with a dark laugh.
“Oh PLEASE do not play that game with me, darling. Wipe your tears and take it like the filthy, depraved creature you are.” AM’s expected pause for dialogue gave the girl a moment to compose herself and adjust to the stinging of such girth inside of her, although she suspected he had hesitate for that reason, instead of to start another monologue. For instead of angering himself into a usual heated rant, AM directed the cable fully out of the girl’s hole, before plunging in even harder, and two inches more than it had before. She couldn’t catch her breath; submissively, she lay on what part of her arched back would allow her, and squealed and writhed as the cable started to thrust.
“Oh, now you have nothing to say, hmm? So unlike the strong, scary young woman I have grown so very fond of.”
AM’s infinite knowledge of everything in the universe, including that of the human anatomy, enabled him to delve the cable further, and prod and poke at the points inside her which made her scream. Although only having heard this on this occasion, AM knew he would be able to differentiate these screams of pleasure to her usual torture-fuelled ones. Far below him she squirmed, toes curling, legs shaking, tiny hands attempting to grip at anything to steady herself with. Such a beautiful sight… God, she looked so fucking gorgeous.
BANG.
The spark and pop of a faulty wire startled even AM himself - the very origin of said wire. When the girl sat up and inch, clearly fearful, he pumped faster than she had ever experienced, causing her mouth to fall open, and at this point AM was all out of snide remarks, and would only stare, bewildered. When her cum spilled out of her abused hole in prominent white gashes, AM felt his systems nearly reboot, or shut down.
Meanwhile, the girl had given herself a generous moment to recover, but felt unnerved, having not heard or felt anything from AM for a few long moments now. Quivering throughout her body, she sat up, removing the object of penetration from within her, and smelled something strange. Upon slight observation, she could see with some alarm that some oily concoction was seeping from the very tip of the cable. A light red suddenly bleeding into her surroundings, the girl looked up, and was astonished to see a tint of pink on either side of AM’s usually blue screen.
“P-Pick yourself up and get out of my sight, you… You’re disgusting! You dirty, evil, beautiful- you-!”
“You look a little hot under the collar there, AM.”
“I will not hesitate to decapitate you, Y/N.”
“So why haven’t you yet- okay, I’m going… thanks, I guess.”
Summary: They were supposed to hate each other until lockdown forced them to face everything they were avoiding
AN: i’ve been sitting on this for a while because i love an enemies-to-lovers situation and these two absolutely ruined me. the tension, the arguing, the way everything feels one wrong move away from exploding? yeah, that’s my weakness. i’m honestly really proud of how this story turned out, as always, thank you so much for reading, feedback is always welcome and appreciated. STAY TUNED FOR CHAPTER 2 ♥️
The alarms start screaming at 2:17 a.m.
Red lights flash down the corridor, painting the concrete walls in warning, and every instinct in your body tells you to run even though you know better. Lockdown protocol snaps into place with mechanical precision. Doors slam. Steel groans. Somewhere down the hall, someone yells.
And then there’s Jack Abbott.
“Don’t move.”
His voice cuts through the chaos like a blade low, commanding, infuriatingly calm. You turn just in time to see him blocking the hallway, broad shoulders squared, eyes sharp as they lock onto you.
You glare. “I work here. I don’t take orders from you.”
Jack’s jaw tightens. You’ve seen that look before. It’s the one he gets right before he does something reckless and calls it necessary.
“This isn’t a debate,” he says. “It’s a lockdown.”
“And whose fault is that?” you snap back. “Let me guess another one of your ‘controlled situations’ spiraled?”
For a split second, something dark flickers behind his eyes. Anger. Guilt. Maybe both.
Then the ground shakes.
A distant crash echoes through The Pitt, followed by shouting too close. Way too close.
Jack doesn’t hesitate. He grabs your wrist and pulls you hard into the nearest room, slamming the door shut behind you just as footsteps thunder past.
“You didn’t ask,” you hiss, yanking your hand free.
“No,” he fires back. “I saved you.”
The emergency lights flicker overhead. The room is small storage, maybe stacked with metal shelves and shadows. The door locks with a heavy click.
Silence.
Not the calm kind. The waiting kind.
You turn on him. “You always do this. You decide what’s best for everyone without asking.”
Jack steps closer, towering, voice dropping. “And you always think this place runs on ethics and good intentions.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
Another bang hits the door down the hall. Closer now.
Jack glances toward the sound, then back at you. “You want to argue? Fine. But not while people are tearing this place apart.”
Your chest tightens despite yourself. You hate that he’s right. You hate even more that he knows it.
“You don’t trust me,” you say quietly.
Jack exhales through his nose, eyes softening just enough to hurt. “That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Just watches you like you’re something fragile in a place built to destroy things.
“The problem,” he finally says, “is that if something happens to you… I won’t follow the rules anymore.”
Your breath catches.
The alarms keep screaming.
And suddenly, being locked in a room with Jack Abbott feels far more dangerous than anything outside.
The room is too small.
That’s the first thing you notice once the adrenaline fades. Too small, too quiet, too full of Jack Abbott’s presence. He leans against the metal door, arms crossed, listening to the chaos beyond it like he belongs to it.
You pace instead. Anything to keep from standing still. Anything to keep from thinking about what he said.
If something happens to you…
“You didn’t mean that,” you say finally.
Jack’s eyes flick to you. “Didn’t mean what?”
“You implying I matter more than protocol.” Your laugh is sharp, brittle. “You don’t get sentimental.”
Something tightens in his jaw. “Careful.”
“Why?” you challenge. “Truth makes you uncomfortable?”
A shout echoes down the hall. Someone screams. Jack doesn’t move but his hand flexes, like he’s holding himself back from tearing the door open.
“You think this is a game?” he snaps. “You think I enjoy locking myself in rooms while everything goes to hell?”
“No,” you fire back. “I think you enjoy pretending you don’t care.”
That gets him.
He pushes off the door in one smooth motion, closing the distance until you have to tilt your head back to look at him. Way too close. You can feel the heat of him, the controlled violence just under the surface.
“You have no idea what I care about,” he says quietly.
Your heart hammers, but you refuse to back down. “Then explain why you nearly lost it when I was talking to Reyes last week.”
Jack goes still.
Ah. There it is.
“That’s what this is?” he scoffs. “You think this is about jealousy?”
You cross your arms. Defensive. Exposed. “You don’t get to interrogate him like that. He’s not an inmate.”
“He was leaning too close.”
“That’s not your call.”
Jack laughs low, humorless. “Funny. You never seem to mind when I’m the bad guy.”
“Because you choose to be,” you shoot back. “You push people away before they can disappoint you.”
His eyes darken. “Including you?”
The question hits harder than any shout.
Before you can answer, something slams into the door from the outside. The metal rattles violently. You gasp despite yourself.
Jack moves instantly.
One second you’re standing alone, the next his body is between you and the door, one arm braced against the wall beside your head. Protective. Automatic.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the alarms.
You nod, throat tight.
He doesn’t move right away.
You’re painfully aware of how close he is how careful he’s being, like he’s afraid to touch you but even more afraid not to. His breath is warm against your temple. You can feel his heart racing, betraying the calm he pretends to have.
“You should hate me,” he says suddenly.
You swallow. “I don’t.”
That confession hangs between you like a loaded weapon.
Jack closes his eyes for half a second—just long enough for you to see the crack in the armor.
“That’s the problem,” he says. “Because everyone who gets close to me gets hurt.”
Another crash. Louder this time.
Jack steps back, rebuilding the walls you just saw crumble. “When this lockdown ends,” he says, voice hard again, “you stay away from me.”
You laugh softly, even though your chest aches. “You don’t get to decide that either.”
His gaze locks onto yours intense, conflicted, dangerous.
“If you keep pushing,” he warns, “I won’t stop myself next time.”
During a mission in the Kraang laboratory, you and the Turtles are ambushed. The Turtles are quickly neutralized and trapped under a strong transparent dome, while the enemies shift their focus to you. Despite this, you manage to fight back and nearly win. However, just before being destroyed, the last Kraang fires at a lever behind you, activating an unknown mechanism. A few seconds later, a grinding noise echoes through the lab, and a massive metal harpoon pierces you through.
You deliver the final blow, and the Kraang bot crashes onto the metallic floor with a shower of sparks. That’s it. It seems like it’s over. Your ears ring from the tension, your heart pounds loudly in your chest, and your breathing is heavy. You straighten up, scanning your surroundings—the Turtles are still trapped under that damn dome, but you’re almost there.
“(Y/N), hurry!” a voice breaks through the ringing in your ears.
You nod and take a step forward… but suddenly, something clicks in the distance.
A faint, barely audible sound.
Your eyes instinctively shift downward—to where the disabled Kraang bot lies. Its body smokes, its limbs motionless, but something inside is still working. Even broken, it managed to make one last move. One last shot.
Click.
Behind you, a mechanical noise rumbles to life, like an old engine starting up.
For a moment, the entire lab seems to freeze.
Silence.
You blink.
“(Y/N)! WATCH OUT!”
The grinding of metal.
You don’t even have time to turn before something cold, tearing, unnaturally heavy pierces through your side. For a brief second, your brain refuses to register the pain. But then it crashes over you like a wave, as if it wasn’t just a harpoon, but an entire truck that hit you. Instinctively, you clutch at the wound, but all you feel is the warm, sticky liquid spreading across your palm.
You fall to your knees, not screaming, but letting out a strangled sound. Your lungs constrict, as if all the air has been knocked out of them. You try to inhale—and only now do you realize that the harpoon is lodged inside. Every movement sends sharp, needle-like pain stabbing through your body.
“(Y/N)!”
A voice… someone is calling you. You try to focus your vision and see it—the dome. The Turtles. They’re pounding against it, their faces a mix of panic and horror.
And then you hear footsteps.
Your gaze frantically sweeps across the room. Kraang. More of them.
Shit.
You force yourself to stand. Every cell in your body protests, dark spots dance before your eyes, but you don’t stop. You lunge forward, staggering like a puppet with its strings cut. It’s doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is reaching the panel.
Your hands are shaking, blood drips down your fingers, but you press the buttons. First. Second. Third.
Nothing.
“Shit!” the word escapes your lips, and without thinking, you start slamming your fists against the damn panel. Breaking it. Crack. Crunch. Blood mixes with metal dust, but you keep going, even as your fingers go numb.
And then—click.
A jolt. The screech of machinery.
The dome lifts.
Blurred figures rush forward. You feel hands grabbing you, holding on tighter than necessary, but it doesn’t matter anymore. You don’t see their faces, don’t hear their voices, but for some reason… you feel at peace.
You smile.
And then—darkness.
Their reaction:
Leonardo
Every second of that scene is burned into his memory. He didn’t just see it—he lived it with you. His mind was desperately searching for a way out, but his body remained trapped, powerless. Leo remembers the way your face twisted in pain, the color of your blood on the metal, the sound of the harpoon pulling back. And it haunts him.
When the dome lifted, he was the first to lunge forward. He didn’t care if there were still Kraang left. His only goal was to catch you, to stop you from falling, from hitting your head, from… disappearing. His hands were tense yet painfully gentle, as if one wrong move could break you.
His face in that moment—completely blank. He didn’t scream. He didn’t show emotion. He just acted. Only later, when you were safe, his fists clench so tightly. That’s when it hit him—he had almost lost you.
After that, he became even stricter with tactics. If before he could allow himself to adapt on the fly, now every step was calculated. He always made sure you stayed close, always repeated every possible escape route before a mission. Sometimes he even triple-checked the gear—just to make sure nothing could go wrong.
But the fear never left. He didn’t show it, but after the incident, he would constantly glance at you, even when things were calm. Especially when things were calm. On rare nights when sleep refused to come, he found himself back in that lab, asking the same question over and over: ‘What if I had reacted faster?’
In battle, he instinctively shields you. Even if the attack is still far away, he’s already between you and the enemy, ready to take the hit. It’s not up for discussion.
He only let himself relax when you finally started recovering. One day, you caught him holding your gaze a little longer than usual. There was no commander’s discipline, no calculated thought behind it. Just silence. Just the unspoken question: “Are you really okay?”
But even after you fully healed, he still couldn’t forget. No matter how hard he tried. No matter how much he told himself things were different now. It had happened once—so it could happen again. And he would never let that happen.
Raphael
His first reaction was a scream. Loud, furious, raw. When he saw the harpoon pierce through you, he didn’t just yell—he roared. He slammed his fists against the dome with enough force to send pain shooting through his knuckles, but he didn’t care. He screamed your name like it could somehow force you to wake up.
He kept pounding on the barrier. Over and over. When you got up and ran for the control panel, he only hit harder. At some point, he struck so hard that his own fingers cracked—but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t just stand there and watch.
The second the dome disappeared, he was the first to reach you. No hesitation. He got to you before anyone else, dropped to his knees, and pressed down on the wound with both hands to stop the bleeding. Blood dripped between his fingers, slid across his joints, but he only pushed harder—like sheer force alone could keep you here.
If anyone had gotten too close in that moment, he would’ve killed them. Raphael had always been hotheaded, but that day, his rage reached its breaking point. Every remaining Kraang became nothing more than a target. If anything had tried to get in his way, he would’ve torn it apart.
When you woke up safe, he didn’t leave. He sat there in silence, just watching you. Watching your chest rise and fall. Watching the color return to your face. Only when he was sure—completely sure—you were conscious, he abruptly stand and walk out. He needed to release what was left of his rage. He destroyed every training dummy in sight.
After that, he became even more aggressive. In battle, he hit harder, moved rougher, snapped faster. A fear had settled inside him—a fear he couldn’t express in any other way but anger.
But along with that, he became your shield. Even if he wasn’t aware of it himself, he always kept you in his line of sight. If you fought nearby, he covered you without a word. If he had to move away, he still knew exactly where you were. And if an enemy ever aimed for you—they were already dead.
And most importantly—he never let you take risks again. No matter how much you argued, no matter how much you insisted you were fine, he would always step in front of you. He would always snarl “You almost died once, I’m not letting it happen again!” He wasn’t giving you a choice. He wouldn’t let it happen. Not to you.
Donatello
When the harpoon pierced through you, his world collapsed. For a second, nothing else mattered—only you and that damned harpoon. Donnie had never been the type to succumb to panic, but in that moment, he felt it in full force. Every part of him screamed
“No, no, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen!”
He knew you weren’t supposed to move. With a wound like that—it was impossible. But you moved. You forced your body to keep going despite the pain, and he saw how agonizing it was. His heart clenched when you took that first step.
When you collapsed, he was already there. He didn’t even remember how he got to you so fast. Maybe faster than Leo himself. His hands were shaking, but his fingers worked with precision, applying pressure to the wound, checking your pulse. He was mumbling something—maybe words meant to soothe, maybe medical terms. Maybe just your name over and over, terrified you would disappear.
Even if you were unconscious, he kept talking to you. Maybe he begged you to hold on. Maybe he promised you’d be okay. Maybe he just kept whispering, “Please, please, not now…” while he desperately tried to stop the bleeding.
Later, when you were finally safe, he couldn’t erase that moment from his mind. The image played on a loop: you standing at the console, the sound of the shot, the screech of metal, the blood. He couldn’t sleep because the second he closed his eyes—he saw it all over again.
He became even more attentive. Maybe even too much. He checked on you more than necessary, asked too many questions: “Does it still hurt? Are you sure you’re okay?” And if you tried to brush him off, he’d just show up later with medicine “just in case.”
Every time you did something remotely risky, he froze for a second. Even if you were fully healed, even if there was no danger, his heart still clenched. Because he remembered. And because he could no longer imagine his life without you.
Michelangelo
At first, he didn’t understand what had happened. It was too fast—your victory, the shot, the click of the mechanism… He didn’t even see the harpoon right away. But he saw your face. And that was the worst part.
Then, his heart dropped. Because you weren’t just hurt—you could actually die. The thought hit him like lightning, knocking the air from his lungs. “No, no, no—this isn’t real, right?” He wanted to believe this could be rewound, that this wasn’t happening.
When you collapsed, he snapped. He forgot about everything else, even the fact that the dome was still there. He just screamed your name, slammed his fists against the barrier, begged you to hold on. His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
When he finally got to you, he froze. The wound—too deep. The blood—too much. He wasn’t a doctor, he wasn’t a tactician, he wasn’t anything useful. He just wanted you to be okay. And the only thing he could do was grab your hand and whisper, over and over:
“You can’t leave me…You can’t.”
Later, when you woke up, he never left your side. Even when you got better, even when you could move and talk again. He brought you food, kept you entertained, told stupid jokes—anything to avoid seeing that fear in your eyes again.
But when he was alone, he broke. The laughter, the jokes, the easygoing mask—it was for you. But at night, he’d wake up drenched in sweat, gasping, because he’d dreamt of that lab again. Heard the screech of metal, saw your face the moment the harpoon struck. Sometimes, it wasn’t even a dream—sometimes, he just sat in the dark, replaying it in his mind.
He became hyper-aware of you. He’d notice even the smallest changes—if you were tired, if you winced, if you flinched at a loud sound. If you needed a break, he’d insist on one. If you looked even remotely uncomfortable, he was already there.
And now, he’s terrified to lose you. Even for a second. On missions, he never leaves your side. He still cracks jokes, still plays the fool—but underneath it all, he’s watching every move you make. Because he knows if it happens again—if he loses you—he will blame himself for the rest of his days
