Archive of Our Own

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix — Qualifying

“That’s P2. Great job.” His engineer’s voice came through the radio, pleased.

Talon’s eyes flicked to the delta on his steering wheel. He bit the inside of his cheek until it ached.

“Who’s P1?” he asked, though he already knew.

“Kayn.”

Of course, it was Shieda Kayn.

“Eighty-seven thousandths,” his engineer added, almost apologetic.

Not even a tenth. Less than a heartbeat. The difference between tightening and lifting on a corner. And Kayn had been sharper.

“Where did I lose it?”

A pause. “We’ll go through it in debrief. Box this lap. Strat eight, mode in-lap.”

Talon exhaled sharply through his nose but kept his reply flat. “Copy.”

He coasted through the cooldown lap off the racing line, the grandstands a blur. The limiter chattered as he slipped into the pit lane. He rolled to a halt in the parc fermé.

Last race. Last chance. And he’d let Kayn take the pole.

The wheel came off in a violent twist. He ripped off the helmet, leaving the night air to press hot and heavy against his skin. Sweat ran down his temples, stinging his eyes. He waved the water bottle off without looking.

Kayn was already there. Hair sticking in every direction, grin already in place, cameras angling for every frame. Tomorrow’s front row. Enemies, side by side, captured and immortalised. Talon adjusted the strap of his gloves, eyes down, refusing to give the lens anything more. His eyes burned to glance to the side, to take a look at him. One slip, one wrong flicker of expression, and tomorrow’s headlines would write themselves.

When the marshal waved them clear, he didn’t linger. He pushed through the clamour, straight to the garage. He needed the noise gone—all of it.

His hand reached for his phone. Instinctively. His father’s number sat there, as it always did. He was gone, and still Talon caught himself reaching. Back then, the call never had to ring before his father answered. No consolation, never that. Just a clipped remark, voice taut. Not disappointment, exactly. Something harder to name, and it stayed with him still.

Sleep wouldn’t come. His insomnia was back—worse than ever. Clothes and sheets strewn across the floor, half-empty blisters of sleep aids scattered like trash. His phone lay hot in his hand, replaying Kayn’s Quali lap for the hundredth time.

The race was tomorrow. Today, technically. He couldn’t afford to be tired. Everything had to be perfect. Cleaner. Better. 

He forced his body into a comfortable position and closed his eyes.

Thirty seconds. That was all he managed before his hand slid back under the pillow. The video had moved on to the post-qualifying interview.

Kayn stood under the lights, calm as if every question were small talk. Cameras loved him. He loved them back. Everyone was calling him a champion. Five points. Just that deciding who gets to be the champion of the world.

Heat coiled low in his stomach, thighs pressing together. He imagined Kayn on the podium, a step or two below him, as he had so many times this year—brows furrowed, amber eyes glowing with anger, not at him, but at himself. It brought him more satisfaction than any trophy could.

Kayn was in his head, deeper than any rival had a right to be.

Maybe that was why his performance was slipping.

Talon hated that. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t affect him as it did.

He tugged at his hair. The sting at his scalp grounded him, briefly. He wished father were still here, ready to shoot him that sharp, judging look that said Get it together.

He finally threw the phone on the floor, where his hands wouldn’t try to reach.

Ten hours later, he was frying on the Yas Marina. Sixth bottle of water. His clothes clung to his skin—even champagne didn’t stick this badly. He hadn’t stepped out of his room in the team’s motorhome since getting back from the track walk.

“Talon. Interview in ten minutes. Are you coming, or do I need to put out a statement?” His PR manager’s voice cut through the door.

He pressed the cold plastic to his forehead. “Is Kayn going to be there?”

Silence.

He’d spent the entire day avoiding him—avoiding everyone. If one more reporter shoved a mic in his face and asked if he was going to defend his World Champion title, he’d drive his car straight into the media pen.

“You missed the last one. If you skip another, the FIA fines us, and the team’s patience runs out. This isn’t just about you anymore.”

“I don’t feel well,” Voice flat. A lie he knew could pass. “I need to recover.”

A long silence followed, heavy enough that he almost thought they’d gone. Then:
“Is that what you want me to tell them?”

“Yes.”

He stayed where he was, staring at the ceiling as the minutes dragged by, each one slower than the last. He could’ve gone to the sim, checked the data or talked strategy with his engineer. He shut his eyes and pictured the track, every corner etched into his mind, his hands tightening around the non-existent steering wheel. In the darkness behind his eyelids, the engine came alive, rumbling in his head just like it did in the cockpit, almost enough to drown everything else out.

A sharp knock on the door jolted him back.

“Drivers’ parade in twenty.”

He didn’t know if he’d actually fallen asleep or just run all fifty-five laps in his head.

When he finally came down, the PR team swarmed him—fixing his hair, tugging at his collar, smoothing the wrinkles on his shirt. He looked like hell. Felt even worse. The thought of standing less than five meters from Kayn made him want to tear his hair out.

Someone handed him an umbrella. His stomach felt like it was eating itself alive. 

Maybe this was his last parade as #1. The thought made his skin crawl. But even that wasn’t the worst.

No. 

The worst was Kayn wearing his number, as if it had been his all along. He could already see it—Red Bull’s shiny new chassis, the bold white 1 stamped next to the logo, right where Kayn’s cursed 13 should’ve been.

He was getting on edge, again.

Deep breath in, out, in.

He ignored the interviewers on the way. Even Sky News didn’t get enough time to shove a mic in his face before he passed the cameras. He signed a few autographs and caps, gave a few less-than-convincing smiles. He rarely did selfies. He didn’t give any this time.

The sun sat low but sharp, light bouncing off the asphalt. Heat curled up from the tarmac in faint shimmers, blurring the edges of the cars lined up nearby. Even with the umbrella, it felt like it was sinking through to his bones.

His eyes swept over the paddock. Searching. 

Everyone was here—everyone but Kayn.

A hand landed lightly on his shoulder.

“You’re wound tight,” Kayn murmured, low, just enough for Talon to feel it against his ear. “Relax a little.”

Talon jerked back. “Don’t—”

The sun caught the glint in Shieda’s eyes, sharp and teasing. “Cameras are watching, you know. Don’t want to make them think we’re… enemies,” he said, letting the word hang.

Talon’s hands twitched at his sides, a restless urge coiling in his stomach. He clenched his fists instead, nails biting into his palms.

His heart was hammering. He couldn’t step back without drawing attention, couldn’t act without losing control. 

Kayn winked, an infuriating gesture, as he peeled away to go to his teammate.

Kayn’s touch seemed to linger, crawling along his skin, making every step feel heavier. He had to force himself forward, pretending the sensation hadn’t burned through him.

The journalist slid into his path, mic already raised. Blond hair and too-polite smile
“So, Talon—Shieda Kayn on pole, possible title upset. You’ve been a ghost since Quali...”

“Save your breath,” Talon said, voice flat. “I don’t do pity interviews.”

Ezreal’s eyes glittered. “Pity? No, no, I’m thinking nerves. Or maybe…” He leaned in, mic catching the words. “…maybe you already know the title’s slipping away.”

Talon’s jaw flexed. “Just keep watching.”

He snapped the umbrella shut and stalked off. Ezreal’s pen scratched like he'd struck gold.

Inhale.

Hold…

Exhale.

Lights lit one by one.

Red.

Talon slowed his breathing, pulse settling into something steady. The air inside the helmet was warm and stale, each breath echoing louder than the revs around him, louder than the pounding in his chest.
His vision narrowed, the edges of the world blurring until there was nothing but the grid. The wheel in his hands. The car beneath him, tense and waiting.

Red.

The pressure of the helmet on his temples grounded him—a weight he welcomed.
The vibrations of the engine buzzed through the seat, up his spine like a second heartbeat.
Kayn’s rear wing was just ahead, dark and glinting under the sun. Talon stared at it, unblinking. That was his target.
He adjusted the clutch paddle by instinct, feeling the familiar bite point settle under his fingers.

Red.

The heat inside the cockpit clung to him like a second skin, but his body stayed still, locked. No nerves. Not now.
The tension from before had burned away with every corner of the formation lap. All that remained was one thing: the launch.

Red.

His pulse was slow, paradoxically calm, as if his body knew it stood on the edge.
No emotion. No future beyond the next lap. Everything narrowed to a singular point—the exact instant the lights would disappear.

Red.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. The whole grid held. Even the engines seemed to tremble, straining for release.

Out.

The lights vanished. The clutch dropped. Tyres bit. The rear twitched, then gripped. The engine screamed as the G-force slammed into him like a wall.
He launched. Hard. Clean. Precise.

Now came the hunt.

Turn 1 loomed quickly. Kayn had covered the inside, elbows out and ruthless. Talon followed close, keeping his Mercedes just tucked behind the Red Bull’s gearbox.

Crofty: “And we are racing in Abu Dhabi! Shieda Kayn leads into Turn 1, but du Couteau is right on him, absolutely glued to the rear wing. We could be in for a thriller here under the lights at Yas Marina.”

Brundle: “Du Couteau’s launch was sensational. No wheelspin, straight into gear, and now he’s pressuring Kayn into Turn 5. This is the fight everyone wanted to see!”

The opening laps were chaos behind them, but Talon didn’t care. Every nerve in his body was wired into the chase.
“Kayn’s already weaving,” he radioed through gritted teeth as they blasted down the back straight, the DRS not yet active but the slipstream pulling him close.
“Copy. Stay within a second. We’ll go for it once DRS opens. Let the tyres come to you,” came the clipped engineer reply.
He didn’t respond, jaw tight. Let the tyres come to him? No. He was going to take them. Grip or no grip.

Kayn was already defending aggressively, taking shallow entries and cutting angles. Arrogant, as always. Talon could picture that smirk under the helmet, the way he always raced with a chip on his shoulder and the swagger to back it up.

By Lap 5, Talon was inside the DRS window, waiting for the perfect moment. He stayed close, biding his time, letting Kayn do the early work on the tyres.

“Gap to Kayn: eight tenths. You’re in the window.”

Brundle: “Du Couteau’s playing the long game. He knows Kayn tends to chew through his tyres early. If he keeps that pressure, he’ll either force a mistake or set up the undercut.”

Into Turn 6 on Lap 14, Talon opened the rear wing. The car surged forward, engine howling. He sent it. Late on the brakes. Maybe too late. Tyres locked, the fronts screeching. He barely caught the slide and made the apex, but the tyres would remember.
Kayn juked left, giving him just enough room but no more.

“Kayn just cut me off!” Talon shouted into the radio.

“Negative. You were alongside but not ahead. Stewards will likely call it a racing incident. Tyres okay?”

“They’re vibrating,” he growled. “But manageable.”

Back in line. No damage, but the flat-spotted fronts meant Plan B.

“Box on Lap 15,” his engineer said. “Undercut still viable.”

“Understood. Box this lap. Confirm.”

“Copy. Box.”

He dove into the pit lane on Lap 15, hitting every marker clean. A chorus of drills and shouted commands filled the air.

Brundle: “And there goes du Couteau into the pits—early stop, undercut attempt. Mercedes is gambling here.”

2.3 seconds. Solid. He launched out of the pit box and rejoined in clean air. No traffic. It was now or never.

The out-lap was intense. He pushed the new hards like they owed him something—late braking, aggressive throttle, risking the rear sliding out more than once.

“Purple sector two, Talon. Keep it coming.”

“Where is he?” Talon breathed, teeth clenched between shifts.

“Exit… exit… he’s coming out now. Less than half a car,” came the spotter’s quick answer.

Lap 16, Kayn came into the pits. Talon carried more speed through the out-lap and swept past as the Red Bull staggered out of the pit lane—side-by-side down to Turn 6, he braked later, hit the apex, and took the lead.

Crofty: “And Talon du Couteau has done it! What a masterclass on the out-lap. He’s ahead of Shieda Kayn and leading the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix!”

Brundle: “The stop, the out-lap, nerves of steel into Turn 6. Brilliant.”

For the next 16 laps, it was hell. Kayn didn’t back down. Every lap, he closed the gap. Every corner, he poked his nose in. Talon defended like a man possessed, apex to apex, mirror to mirror.

Second round of stops came on Lap 32. Both drivers dived in. Neither gained. The final stint would be a duel. Tyres were starting to fade—small steps at first, then more noticeable.

“Tyres are done,” he hissed.

“Understood. Stay ahead two more laps, then switch to Strat 6. Full deploy on Lap 48,” came the calm reply.

He found rhythm, conserved where he had to, pushed where he could, and closed back up as the laps dwindled.

Lap 48. Kayn opened the wing.

Crofty: “Here comes Shieda Kayn with DRS! This could be the move. He’s going for it!”

He pulled alongside. Talon braked as late as he could—too late. The rear twitched. Kayn slipped through.

Brundle: “He’s through! Smooth as you like. Talon just couldn’t hold the line anymore.”

“Fuck!” Talon shouted.

“Still time. Seven laps. Focus.”

Talon didn’t panic. He calmed his breathing, re-mapped the tyres in his head, and began to hunt. He trimmed the gap lap by lap, coaxing more life from the rubber, saving energy for a single, decisive throw.

Lap 54. He had one shot left. He backed off briefly into Turn 13, baiting Kayn to take the inside line. Kayn bit, tucked in too deep, and Talon braked earlier than anyone expected. Bait turned into a trap. On the exit, Talon cut underneath, clipped the kerb and kept the Mercedes glued to the surface by inches.

But he was ahead.
“YES!” His voice cracked on the radio.
“Beautiful move. That’s it. Now bring it home.”

Crofty: “What a move from Talon! Where did that come from!? He is absolutely not giving this championship up without a fight!”

Talon’s hands were slick with sweat, but steady. He drove like his life depended on it.

Final sector. Under the hotel. Flashing lights overhead.
Out of the last corner on Lap 55, the car snapped, just slightly—but he caught it.
Throttle down. Chequered flag waved.

Crofty: “And Talon du Couteau takes the win in Abu Dhabi!! What a race! Unbelievable! And with this—YES, WITH THIS—TALON SNATCHES THE 2021 WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP! He gets ahead of Kayn in standings! ABSOLUTELY SENSATIONAL!”

Talon coasted past the finish line, adrenaline still surging. His voice was raw.
Above him, fireworks erupted, shattering the night sky in a riot of colour.
“Is it done?”

“It’s done, Talon. World Champion again. You did it!”

Silence, then laughter, breathless and disbelieving. Then a quiet, “Copy.”

He took the cooldown lap, waving his hand to every side. Victory was his.

He pulled into parc fermé. Shouts. Applause. Mechanics climbing the fences.

As he clambered out of the cockpit, sweat-soaked and shaking, his eyes scanned the crowd.

And there was Kayn, stepping from his car. Helmet off. Expression unreadable.

Their eyes met.

No smirks. No words. Just fire between them. 

And the whole world watching.

Talon didn’t feel his team grabbing him, arms thrown around his shoulders, hands slapping his back, the roar of celebration engulfing him. It was all background noise, muffled like he was underwater. His heart was hammering, not from the win, but from that look.

Someone shoved a cap into his hand. He barely registered it. A mechanic was yelling his name, another was trying to pull him toward the front of the car for the photographs, but his gaze never broke away from Kayn’s. A cameraman stepped between them, and the spell shattered. Talon blinked, sucked in a breath, and finally let himself be swallowed by his team’s celebration. Arms, shouts, and champagne already spraying somewhere nearby.

Kayn sat slouched beside the car, hair plastered damp to his forehead, water straw clamped between his teeth like he wanted to bite it in half. The plastic crinkled every time he pulled too hard, loud in the thick air. He hadn’t taken the win, but Red Bull had clinched the Constructors’. That was enough for the team—just not for him. 

No one came near. He’d spent the last ten laps spitting curses into the radio, voice hoarse from yelling.

Zed finally appeared, headset hanging crooked around his neck.

“Great race,” Zed said.

Kayn snapped his head toward him, eyes sharp. “Don’t fucking start.” The words came out too hot, but he didn’t care.

Zed crouched beside him, elbows braced on his knees. “Could’ve had him in Sector 3.”

Kayn barked out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah. If I wanted us both in the wall.”

“That’s the spirit,” Zed smirked.

Kayn tipped his head back, finishing the bottle in one drag, crushed the empty plastic until it snapped and dropped it on the ground. His chest rose and fell too fast, like he’d run another lap. His eyes dragged back to parc fermé, to where Talon was swallowed in the crowd, arms and champagne spray.

“Talon hates me,” Kayn finally muttered. Low and tight.

Zed raised a brow. “You think?”

Kayn’s mouth twitched into something meaner than a smile, eyes still locked on Talon. “No, he hates me. You can see it in the way he looks at me. Like he’s deciding whether to punch me or—” He cut himself off, teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek hard enough to sting.

Zed snorted. “That’s not hate, Kayn. That’s obsession.”

“Same thing,” Kayn said too quickly, but it landed flat. He was still staring, shoulders tense, fists flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them. His voice dropped, more to himself than to Zed. “He’s got me in his head. Every lap. Every corner. Probably even when he’s off the track.”

The silence that followed only made the air feel thicker. Kayn kept watching Talon, like they were still racing, hunting to overtake him. “I could use that.” The edge in his tone made it sound like both a promise and a threat.

Zed’s smirk softened. “Then use it,” he said quietly. “But don’t drag yourself. You still got a year,” Zed didn’t get it. It wasn’t about being the youngest world champion… though part of him burned for that, too.

Zed straightened, punching his shoulder lightly before leaving. Kayn pushed himself off the ground, helmet dangling from his fingers. His grip on the chin strap was so tight it cut into his palm.

He headed to the cooldown room.

It was empty when he came in. The screen was already replaying his overtake—clean, ruthless, textbook perfect. And useless.

Kayn dropped into a chair, helmet clattering onto his lap. His fingers drummed restlessly on the shell, too loud. He blew out sharp little huffs through his nose, back rigid. His body wouldn’t calm down, not even now.

He grabbed a towel and dragged it over his face, scrubbing hard enough that his skin burned. It didn’t help. He was still hot all over, buzzing with a tension that wouldn’t fade. He raked his hair back, damp strands sticking up at wild angles.

It wasn’t even the loss that bothered him. It was Talon’s face after. 

The way Talon's looked at him—like the whole win had been for him and no one else. Like Kayn was the finish line.

The thought punched low in his gut, heat curling there in a way that made him want to tear the towel in half. He muttered “ fuck ” into it, then threw it on the table.

He sat forward, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands for half a second before he yanked them away. He couldn’t sit still. His leg was bouncing again, heel rattling against the floor. He wanted to break something.

The door swung open. His teammate strolled in, face still flushed from the race. He gave a nod. Kayn didn’t bother nodding back. He pressed his tongue to his teeth, jaw aching with restraint.

Minutes dragged. Finally, the door cracked open again. An FIA official peeked in, calling them for the podium.

Kayn’s eyes flicked toward the door. Empty. Talon wasn’t there. Of course not—World Champion now, probably being pulled in ten directions at once, everyone wanting a piece of him before the trophy cooled.

He shoved himself to his feet and set the helmet down harder than he needed to.

The sound hit him first—cheers crashing against him in waves, bass from the DJ rattling his chest. Cameras flashed as he stepped from the tunnel into the lights.

The track shimmered under the floodlights, still holding the day’s heat. The W Hotel glowed purple and blue beyond Turn 20, its reflection rippling across the water lined with yachts. Kayn raised his hand in a polished wave, his smile bright and razor-sharp for the cameras.

It didn’t touch his eyes.

The view from the podium had been his dream since karting. Flags fluttered on the screens behind them, but Talon was nowhere—neither the Mercedes principal nor the trophy itself had arrived. Kayn exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair, impatience gnawing at him.

And then he saw him. Talon finally came, slightly dishevelled, running to claim the top step. He didn’t glance at Kayn, not once, even though every fibre of Kayn’s body ached for their eyes to meet.

The anthem began. Hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid, eyes fixed just above the crowd. He had never felt more out of place.

Only a few centimetres separated him from first place—a canyon the size of a world championship. Thirteen had never been lucky, but it wasn’t that.

I should have been the champion, the thought kept echoing, even as the trophy warmed his hands. 

So close. 

He should’ve taken them both out. 

He raised the cup because that’s what you did. He didn’t spray champagne. Instead, he tipped the bottle back and drained the rosé in one long, bitter swallow. Fuck the press.

His gaze finally locked on Talon. Champagne streaming down his neck, foam sliding over his throat as his head tipped back, eyes shut against the spray. Under the floodlights, every drop caught and glimmered.

Kayn’s mouth went dry.

The Red Bull afterparty was everything it should’ve been—music rattling glasses on the bar, neon lights painting every face blue and red, a hundred people packed shoulder-to-shoulder, chanting his name like he’d won the championship. Drinks pressed into his hands before he could even refuse. Arms looped around his neck, teammates shoving him toward the dance floor, the DJ announcing “our young star” like he was the reason for all this.

It should have felt good. It should have felt like glory.
But it wasn’t his party. It wasn’t his win.

The Constructors’ was a team trophy, not his. All he’d done tonight was lose to Talon.

Kayn tipped back another drink just to keep his hands busy. It burned hot down his throat, but the numbness never came. He laughed when he was supposed to, leaned in for photos when someone pulled him into frame, but his mind wasn’t here. It was back in parc fermé.

He shouldn’t be thinking about Talon. Not tonight. Not when his entire team was out here to celebrate him. But the thought had already burrowed in and refused to leave. Talon winning, Talon glaring, Talon standing on that podium with champagne streaking down his throat—
Kayn swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the empty glass.

He needed air.

He slipped through the crowd, ignoring the protests and playful shoves, jacket left on the back of a chair. Outside, the night pressed hot and humid, quieter only by comparison. He pulled the collar of his shirt loose, head tipped back to the sky like maybe he’d find an answer up there. 

Nothing.

His legs moved before he decided anything. Down the steps, across the service road, toward the glowing lights of the Mercedes motorhome. The party was subtler there—classier, quieter. Exactly the opposite of Red Bull. Exactly where Talon would be.

Halfway there, he froze. What the hell was he even doing?
He should’ve turned back. Should’ve gone to his hotel, drowned himself in whatever minibar they’d stocked. Instead, he kept walking, hands shoved in his pockets like he could hide his own hesitation.

Two security guards stood outside the entrance, arms crossed, suits sharp under the floodlights. Kayn slowed, running a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it into something that looked intentional instead of restless.

One of the guards eyed him. “Red Bull’s that way.”

“I know.” Kayn’s grin slid into place, easy, practised. “But I hear Mercedes pours the good champagne.”

The guard didn’t move. “Team only.”

Kayn tilted his head, grin sharpening. “What, you think I’m gonna start a fight in there? Relax, I just wanna congratulate the World Champion.” His voice dipped lower, persuasive, but playful. “Off the record. Won’t take long.”

The guard hesitated. The other shifted, not convinced. Kayn’s stomach twisted, but he leaned in, turning the full weight of his charm on them, the same way he did with reporters. Smile wide, eyes glinting, voice smooth enough to sell a lie.

“You let me through, and in five minutes, I’ll be gone. Promise.”

The taller guard sighed, finally stepping aside. “Five minutes.”

Kayn winked as he slipped past, but the moment he was inside, the grin faltered.

Mercedes’ party felt like a different world. The music was softer, the lighting dimmer, mechanics and engineers in pressed shirts instead of polos. Laughter was quieter, more refined, and every head turned the second they saw him.

He didn’t belong here.
Didn’t belong anywhere tonight.

He swallowed, scanning the crowd anyway. Searching.

“Wrong party, mate,” a voice drawled near the bar. Kayn glanced over, lips twitching into something sharp, but inside, he felt like the floor might give way.

“I’m just looking for Talon. Have you seen him?”

What the hell was he doing?

Talon could finally breathe. He wasn’t a party-goer. Lights and Music had suffocated him more than Abu Dhabi’s heat. The ache pulsed at his temples, but at last he could relax in his hotel room. Hands and chin on the balcony railing, he watched the streets pulse with late-night life.

An ambulance sliced through the noise; he followed it until it disappeared around a corner.

He is a World Champion. Even earned, it didn’t carry the weight of the first. His father had died three years ago, Talon had carried that absence through every season since, a constant shadow over every corner and every lap. He remembered the headlines from his first championship: “Talon du Couteau fulfils father’s legacy and becomes the World Champion.” It had been hollow without him there to see. Talon didn’t know if he could ever match his father’s success. Three championships were a lot. Kayn was breathing down his neck—four years younger, hungrier. The next year would surely be his last as number one.

Sharp, frantic knocks drew him out of his thoughts.

It was past midnight. Not room service—it could be a murderer, an obsessed fan with his address. His body tensed, but his hand moved.

Kayn stood in the frame, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, shirt half-undone.

“What are you doing here?” Talon’s voice was flat; the grip at the edge of the doorframe betrayed him.

“What?” Kayn pushed his bangs back, grin wide and hungry. “I can’t congratulate the World Champion?”

“You already did. On the podium.”

“That was for the cameras.” Kayn’s voice dropped. “This is for you.”

He wouldn’t have come here like this if not for a reason. It felt like a dream he’d rather not recall.

“You think I need it?” Talon said, voice like gravel under his tires.

Kayn tilted his head, the grin sharpened. “No. I think you hate that you want it.”

He stepped forward just enough to hurt him if Talon slammed the door, but he didn’t.

They held each other’s gaze too long. Then Kayn closed the distance, hands sliding to Talon’s waist, pressing him back into the room. The kiss was all tongue and teeth. Talon had no time to think before his back hit the wall and the door thumped shut.

His hands hovered at Kayn’s shoulders, then tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make Kayn groan. He wanted to drag him closer and shove him away at the same time.

“I should have won today,” Kayn murmured against his lips.

“Shut up.”

Kayn’s pupils were blown wide. He kissed down Talon’s throat, teeth grazing the skin just beneath his jaw, leaving marks that would take days to fade. Talon made a sound he couldn’t stop, baring his throat as his hips pitched forward, grinding against Kayn’s thigh.

“Bedroom,” Talon said. A command and surrender at once.

“I should have been the Champion.” The words were heavier now, the reason Kayn had come etched into every syllable. His fingers dug into Talon’s thighs, halting the motion. “Say it.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Talon hissed through clenched teeth.

“It’s just words,”

Kayn pressed harder, their cocks ground together through the fabric. Talon’s nails bit into skin, leaving crescent moons behind. He turned his face away, jaw locked, silent.

Another grind, another moan. His fingers went for Kayn’s belt, clumsy with need, only to be stopped.

“Needy, huh?” Kayn teased. Talon ignored him, yanking him forward by the loops until they hit the couch. Their mouths crashed together again before Talon dropped lower.

Shirt hit the floor in seconds as Kayn shoved it off, hips lifting to kick his pants down. No underwear. Fucker.

Sprawled wide on the couch, he looked like he’d been the one to take the title tonight. His cock slapped against his stomach when Talon freed it, flushed and slick. A bead of precum slid lower, catching in the ridges of his abs before a rough hand wrapped around him, jerking hard and unrelenting.

A curse slipped from Kayn’s mouth, eyes narrowing as Talon twisted his wrist at the base, squeezing just enough to sting.

Leaning in, Talon dragged his tongue up the underside, then spat directly on the head before swallowing half of him in one go. His throat flexed as he worked him down.

Kayn’s head tipped back, a low groan breaking free before he bit it back. Fingers tangled in Talon’s hair, steadying him but not daring to guide—not that Talon would’ve allowed it. Neck muscles held firm; years of training made sure of that.

Talon’s thighs pressed tight together, grinding against the couch for the friction he refused to give himself.

“World Champion on his knees,” Kayn rasped, voice sharp around his breath. “Should’ve made you do this on the podium… cameras flashing…”

The glare Talon shot upward was answer enough. Teeth scraped up the length, then he sank back down, deeper this time, throat working. Cheeks hollowed. Eyes watering. Still, he held it. Kayn’s thighs trembled, jerking forward for more.

Then Talon pulled off, spit stringing from his lips to the tip. He waited just long enough to make Kayn stop twitching, then dove back down, fast and merciless. His head worked with a messy, hungry rhythm, hand stroking where his mouth couldn’t reach, pumping him harder with every plunge.

Kayn clawed at the cushions, desperation shredding through the edges of his voice. “Fuck—don’t stop—please, I’m gonna—”

The grip at the base tightened, denying. A few more swallows around him, then Talon pulled away completely, leaving him raw and trembling.

Kayn whimpered — a sound he’d never meant to make, spilling out before he could stop it.

His cock twitched helplessly in the open air, glistening under the dim apartment lights. Pre-cum spilling over Talon’s knuckles with every throb.

"Winners finish first,” Talon murmured, giving him one last stroke, cruel and tight. “But you came second, remember?”

Kayn groaned, fists digging into the couch. He looked ready to throw Talon down to fuck him on the floor, but he was still shaking too badly to move.

“Fuck… you…” 

Talon rose to his feet, pulling away before Kayn could grab him. He stripped—shirt first, then pants, sliding down his legs until they pooled at his ankles. The sharp cut of his waist, the curve of his ass catching in the light.

Kayn’s smirk clung stubbornly to his lips.
“Gonna ride me, Champion?”

Talon’s answer was wordless—he shoved Kayn back into the cushions and straddled his hips. Spitting into his hand, he slid a finger inside. Dry, unforgiving. Talon’s teeth bit into his lip, holding back the sound clawing up his throat.

For once, Kayn was silent, pupils blown wide, drinking him in like victory.

When Talon finally sank down, inch by inch. Kayn filled him, every nerve lit up and trembling, and still he forced himself lower, nails digging into Kayn’s chest until he was seated fully, thighs quivering with the effort. The ache was brutal.

“Fuck…” he hissed, forehead tipping forward, breath ragged.

Kayn didn’t move. Jaw tight, hands gripping Talon’s thighs hard enough to bruise, but waiting for permission that never came.

Talon rolled his hips slowly, grinding down until sparks clawed up his spine. His cock dragged wet across Kayn’s stomach, leaving streaks that glistened in the dim light. He didn’t need his hand, didn’t need anything except the sharp, relentless stretch of being filled. It felt like racing—except there was no father, no consequences to his mistakes. Only Kayn.

Every shift of his hips pulled another sound from Kayn, low and guttural, but Talon barely heard it over his own pulse hammering in his ears. He wanted to hold control forever, to prove he could drive Kayn into the ground without giving him an inch of power. And yet—each roll, each desperate clench of his muscles betrayed him. His body wanted. His body begged.

Kayn’s hands twitched on his thighs. “You’re killing yourself just to stay in control,” he rasped. “Let me—”

Talon’s jaw locked. He shook his head, grinding down harder, chasing the edge like he always did on track. But when Kayn’s eyes caught his—burning, hungry, unbearably certain—something in him fractured. For once, he let go.

Kayn didn’t wait. The moment Talon’s grip loosened, he snapped his hips upward, driving deep enough that Talon’s breath shattered against his shoulder. The control he’d fought to hold slipped away in an instant.

Every thrust was brutal, each one stealing what little air he had left. Talon’s nails tore fresh lines down Kayn’s chest, a desperate anchor as his body jolted and shook.

Kayn’s voice broke. “Look at you…”

He buried his face in Kayn’s neck, gasping against sweat-slick skin, every nerve burning with the sharp, perfect stretch. The sound rising from his throat was unrecognisable, nothing like the calm mask he wore for the media, for himself.

His muscles begged for mercy, but he didn’t want mercy. He wanted this—Kayn breaking him apart and holding him together in the same breath.

The pressure snapped all at once. Talon came hard, spilling across Kayn’s stomach, shuddering as sparks tore through him. He clung to him, body trembling, thighs locked tight to keep him buried deep inside.

Kayn followed, thrusting once, twice, before groaning into his neck and spilling inside him. His whole body shook with it, hands dragging Talon closer.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the ragged sound of their breaths. Talon’s body still ached, but he didn’t move. His head stayed on Kayn’s shoulder, their chests rising and falling in sync.

Kayn’s hand slid up the back of his neck, thumb brushing sweat-damp hair. He could have shrugged it off, could have broken the moment the way he always did. Instead, Talon let it stay.

When he finally found words, they came rough, quiet, cracked open.

“You should have been the Champion.”

Kayn’s lips curled into a slow, familiar smirk. He kissed Talon’s shoulder, voice low and teasing but softer than the grin suggested.

“Next year, then.”

Talon du Couteau and Shieda Kayn in a secret relationship? New footage from the Las Vegas Grand Prix stuns everyone!

Author:   Ezreal Lymere
Published: November 18, 2023