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McQueen stood at the edge of the courtyard like a pillar of wrath, wrapped in pastel and fury. Her hands were clenched so tight her nails left crescent moons in her palms. Her jaw clicked. Her pupils dilated. The kind of rage brewing in her bones wasn’t ordinary—no. This was divine judgment type rage. Mythical wrath. The kind passed down through bloodlines and whispered about in scrolls.
Across the courtyard stood Gold Ship.
Barefoot. Soaked to the knees. Shirt inside-out. Eyeliner smeared like war paint. Holding what looked like the still-smoking half of someone’s mailbox in one hand, and a fistful of glitter in the other.
“MAC-CHAAAN~!” she called out, beaming like she hadn’t just caused three separate disciplinary hearings in one morning. “Good news! I solved our communication issues!”
McQueen's voice was deadly calm. “What. Did. You. Do.”
Gold Ship spun dramatically, “So I figured out the best way to honor your elegance was with a surprise global livestream of a reenactment of your childhood diary! Featuring interpretive dance, a dubstep remix of your old race footage, and a dramatic reading of that poem you wrote about your thighs being ‘instruments of shameful perfection.’”
McQueen’s eye twitched. “You didn’t.”
“I DID!” Gold Ship shouted proudly. “And I even added subtitles in six languages for our international fans! They love you in Germany!”
“You did what ?!”
“AND I trained feral pigeons to deliver advertisement posters about it!” Gold Ship gave a thumbs-up. “Also, uh… I may have used your name to get a grant for the pigeon program.”
McQueen’s voice dropped an octave. “You forged my identity… for pigeons?” it came out in the tone of someone preparing to ascend to sainthood through the power of self-restraint
“I regret nothing!” Gold Ship said, smiling bravely through a mouthful of geraniums. “Except… maybe the smoke bombs.”
McQueen’s vision went white. There was no transition. One second, Gold Ship was standing there flapping her chaos mouth, and the next—
She lunged like a woman possessed, her arms snapping around Gold Ship’s neck with terrifying grace. Gold Ship flailed, her face squishing in surprise as her voice came out in sad little wheezes. “NO, YOU DON’T GET TO LAUGH—!!!”
“mghRHGK–Mac-chan–gkkk–you’re so–STRONG–!!” Gold Ship coughed mid-chokehold, arms flailing as McQueen tried to physically strangle the sin out of her. “I–just–wanted to–HONOR–THE–POETRY–OF YOUR THIGHS!!” Gold Ship croaked through, “‘i-i ‘instruments of shameful perfection.’I thought it would–INSPIRE YOUTH!!”
“INSPIRE YOU TO DIE MAYBE!” McQueen screamed, eyes wild. “YOU’VE BEEN PULLING THIS NONSENSE ALL WEEK!”
“C-clarify?” Gold Ship whimpered.
“THE FAKE AWARD CEREMONY?! THE SOAP-SLICKED STAIRCASE?! THE BALLET FLASHMOB WITH CARDBOARD CUTOUTS OF ME?!”
“Should we stop this?” Daiwa Scarlet asked.
“No,” Teio whispered. “She said something about staging another flash mob next week. Better this ends now.”
Gold Ship tried to wiggle free, but McQueen’s grip only tightened, now not-so-elegant fingers digging into the chaos incarnate’s neck. The fury in McQueen’s eyes had moved past anger, past outrage, into the kind of deadly focus usually reserved for historical assassinations.
“I NEARLY BROKE MY SPINE SLIPPING DOWN THOSE SOAP STAIRS, GOLD SHIP!” McQueen roared, her voice ringing through the courtyard like an air raid siren of pure malice. “I will end you,” each word deliberate and sharpened. “I will personally write your obituary and then set it on fire.”
Gold Ship beamed despite the chokehold, cheeks flushed from both lack of oxygen and an unholy pride. “Mac-chan… you’d plan my funeral? That’s so—sweet—”
“SHUT UP!” McQueen shook her violently. “I have endured your nonsense for months , but this week—THIS week—you have taken it to a level beyond mortal comprehension!”
“Y-you say that—like it’s—bad—” Gold Ship gasped.
McQueen’s eye twitched again. For a moment, she was completely still, except for the faint quiver in her lip that meant she was deciding between public execution and exile.
Before anyone could stop her, McQueen lunged again—this time with the pure velocity of a comet about to erase a species.
It took three umamusume—Rice clinging to her left arm like a terrified cat, Scarlet wrapped around her waist, and Kitasan holding onto her ankles—to drag McQueen back from Gold Ship. Even then, she thrashed like an elegant, frothing eel in a designer dress.
“LET ME GO! I’M NOT DONE! SHE STILL HAS A PULSE!” McQueen roared, kicking hard enough to dent the courtyard tile.
Meanwhile, Gold Ship staggered upright, rubbing her neck and grinning like a idiot “Ohhh, what a performance from the Mejiro McQueen of Tracen ! Look at that form! The footwork! The commitment to character!” she bellowed, addressing the crowd like a sports commentator. “A lesser umamusume would’ve lost control by now, but she’s holding it together with the poise of a swan committing homicide!”
McQueen’s voice cracked into a strangled howl. “I WILL REDECORATE THE TRACK WITH YOUR BONES!”
“Ohhh, hear that delivery, folks? That’s a villain arc in the making!” Gold Ship strutted in a slow circle, glitter raining off her like radioactive dandruff. “And the wardrobe! Pastel rage never goes out of style!”
“STOP MAKING FUN OF ME!” McQueen screeched, nearly breaking free before Scarlet bearhugged tighter. Froth practically forming at the corners of her mouth.
“Truly, truly, an artist at the peak of her craft!” Gold Ship continued, gesturing grandly to the crowd. “You can’t buy this kind of chemistry! You can’t train for this level of dramatic tension! This is history in the making, people!”
“She’s… she’s gonna kill her,” Rice whispered to Scarlet, straining to keep McQueen’s arm pinned.
“Yep,” Scarlet grunted, tightening her grip. “We’re just delaying the inevitable.”
“Oh, and for my closing statement,” Gold Ship announced, cupping her hands around her mouth like a town crier, “Mac-chan, if I do die, please make sure my funeral has fireworks that spells out—” she pulled out a megaphone out of particularly nowhere:
“I!”
She threw the megaphone away then pulled out another.
“LOVED!”
…She also threw the megaphone away and pulled out another
“YOUR!!”
Damn, how many megaphones does she have?
“ATTENTIONNN~!!!”
Off to the side, Teio was leaning against a pillar, sipping from a juice box and watching the chaos like it was Saturday morning TV. She tilted her head, utterly unfazed. “You know,” she began in an almost casual tone, “maybe we should’ve just… let her kill Gold Ship.”
Scarlet’s eyes widened. “What?!”
Teio nodded solemnly. “Yeah. And not in a boring way, either. I mean, like, make it a production. Swan feathers. Stage lights. A perfectly synchronized marching band for her victory lap. Maybe even a slow-motion confetti cannon right as she lands the final blow.” She took another sip. “It’d be… beautiful, in a kind of ‘illegal on every continent’ way.”
Gold Ship gasped, clasping her hands dramatically. “TEIO! You get me.”
—
McQueen had decided, after deep and entirely rational deliberation, that she would not speak to Gold Ship for the rest of the day. Possibly the rest of the week. Perhaps forever, depending on whether justice— true justice —was finally served.
This was not an impulsive decision. No, it was the product of hours of careful moral calculation, akin to a judge weighing the fate of an empire. Gold Ship had crossed the line. In fact, she hadn’t merely crossed it, she’d pirouetted over it, built a novelty gift shop on the other side, and was now selling postcards that read “Greetings from McQueen’s Last Nerve.”
Thus, the Silent Treatment had been engaged.
Unfortunately, it was also exhausting.
It was only the second period and she’d already had to:
- Exit the classroom through the other door when Gold Ship appeared in the doorway holding a bouquet of suspiciously damp carnations.
- Refuse a seat in the cafeteria after Gold Ship slid into the one across from her, grinning like a fox in a chicken coop.
- Pretend to be fascinated by the vending machine for an unreasonable amount of time simply to avoid walking past her in the hall.
By midday, McQueen was beginning to suspect the Silent Treatment might be more physically taxing than sprint training. Every evasion was a tactical maneuver. Every corridor a battlefield. Every glance a potential breach in her defensive wall.
She held her chin high, spine straight, and refuse to so much as acknowledge the blur of chaos that occasionally darted into her periphery. A lady does not reward uncivilized behavior with recognition. A lady also, unfortunately, has to pace herself when taking the long way around the school twice in one hour.
In the cafeteria, she’d positioned herself at the farthest possible table from the kitchen, directly beneath an air vent that made her hair frizz, because it was the only vantage point where she could see all entrances. If she was going to be hunted, she would at least be strategically aware .
And yet every time she thought she’d finally achieved safe distance, Gold Ship appeared. Like clockwork. Like fate. Like some absurd cosmic punishment for taking pride in one’s posture.
At the vending machine incident, she had pressed her fingertips to her lips and nodded with all the solemnity of a woman deeply considering the merits of mango soda . In reality, she was listening to the telltale scuff of Gold Ship’s sneakers approaching from behind. She didn’t turn.
Not even when a voice, dangerously close, murmured, “You know, McQueen, that machine’s been out of mango since Tuesday.” Her only response had been a slow, deliberate button press for water, followed by walking away with the poise of a queen ignoring a court jester mid-performance.
By the time afternoon practice rolled around, McQueen’s entire day had been one long exercise in iron self-control. No matter how hard Gold Ship waved, grinned, or tried to mime “I’m sorry” using only interpretive dance and a traffic cone, McQueen did not so much as flinch.
Because this was about principle. And principles, she reminded herself, were far more important than… than acknowledging the warmth that sometimes lingered after Gold Ship’s ridiculous antics. Far more important than how quiet the world felt when she didn’t answer back.
McQueen, of course, was not unaware of the sacrifices she was making for the sake of principle. The moral high ground, she reminded herself, was not meant to be comfortable. It was an isolated, windswept plateau where the virtuous stood alone, robes billowing, gazing down at the petty squabbles of mortals.
Yes, perhaps her robe was metaphorical. And perhaps the billowing was just her skirt in the hallway draft. But the point stood.
She would stand here, even if her feet ached from taking the scenic route to avoid the lockers Gold Ship was leaning against like some delinquent in a teen drama.
She would endure, even if her lunch was eaten cold because she had to wait fifteen minutes for Gold Ship to stop lurking in the doorway like a raccoon at a picnic.
After all, what was one day—nay, a week—of silence, compared to the sheer satisfaction of proving a point?
Unfortunately, Gold Ship seemed to operate under an entirely different set of laws.
Laws such as:
- “If ignored, increase flamboyance.”
- “If avoided, pursue with greater creativity.”
- “If rebuffed, attempt interpretive apology through the medium of harmonica.”
McQueen’s self-control was being tested on a level previously thought unattainable by mortal women.
When Gold Ship attempted to slide an enormous cardboard cutout of herself into McQueen’s line of sight during stretches, McQueen had to close her eyes and recite a silent prayer to whatever deities governed dignity.
When Gold Ship taped a handwritten sign to her back during drills that read, Ask me about my silence, McQueen inhaled through her nose and decided—calmly, gracefully—that someday she would simply push her into traffic.
It was between drills, when McQueen allowed herself the smallest, most private of luxuries; a glance at her phone. A swift unlock, the Mejiro family crest gracing her lockscreen like a banner of lineage and restraint. Noble. Unshakable. Proper.
But once the home screen slid into view—there it was. The one breach in her fortress of composure.
A single photo, tucked between meticulously arranged apps: Gold Ship, standing barefoot in the shallows, her wet hair plastered messily to her cheeks, laughing at something McQueen couldn’t even remember now. Not the wide, theatrical grin she wore for the world, but a small, startled smile—genuine, soft, and unguarded.
McQueen’s chest tightened in a way she refused to acknowledge. It was simply… a pleasant image. One she kept for balance. Like a flower in a study—purely decorative.
McQueen’s breath hitched—only slightly, only internally—and then a voice came from directly behind her.
“...Mac-chan.”
She froze. Her entire skeleton attempted to leave her body. The gasp that followed could only belong to one person, sharp and delighted, like someone unearthing forbidden treasure.
“Ohhh-ho-ho-ho! What’s this ?!” Gold Ship all but sang, voice crackling with mischief. “Is that—IS THAT ME?!”
McQueen’s instincts screamed at her to slam the phone shut, to whirl around and defend herself with the full fury of her family name before this could spiral. But that would mean reacting . That would mean feeding the beast.
So McQueen, with the poise of a woman who had absolutely not been caught red-handed in a moment of weakness, simply locked her phone, slid it into her pocket, turned on her heel, and walked toward the dormitory with her head held so high she could have balanced fine china on it.
Behind her, the silence was deafening.
Gold Ship didn’t follow.
Didn’t call out.
Didn’t even make a joke.
McQueen did not turn around. She would not look. She would not see whatever expression might be on that ridiculous face, whether it was pouty or wounded or—
She quickened her pace.
Principles, she reminded herself. Always principles.
When McQueen reached the hallway outside her room, she realized she could still feel that moment like an ache; Gold Ship’s sharp, joyous energy suddenly cut short, leaving something heavier in its place.
But she didn’t turn around.
Because this was about principle.
…Wasn’t it?
—
McQueen sat at the edge of her bed, posture as rigid as ever, fingers folded neatly in her lap.
It was fine. Everything was fine. Yes, perhaps Gold Ship had looked… deflated. But that was the natural consequence of mischief meeting a brick wall of dignity. Cause and effect. A moral lesson in action.
And yet… Her mind replayed the way that brightness had dropped out of Gold Ship’s voice. The momentary pause before the deep droop in energy, McQueen’s stomach twisted in a way she did not appreciate.
Absolutely not. She would not be manipulated by mere absence of chaos.
She straightened her spine further—if such a thing were physically possible—and reminded herself that nothing , absolutely nothing, could be considered “too far” when compared to Gold Ship’s daily behavior.
For heaven’s sake, just yesterday Gold Ship had—without warning, shame, or the faintest regard for international law—publicly weaponized McQueen’s childhood diary. Not merely read it. No. She had transformed it into a multimedia spectacle, complete with interpretive dance, a dubstep remix of race footage, and subtitles in six languages. McQueen still hadn’t decided which was worse: the dubstep or the fact that Germany now apparently had opinions about her thighs.
Also, there had been pigeons. Feral ones. Sponsored under McQueen’s forged name. And smoke bombs. The less said about those, the better.
Frankly, the only reason Gold Ship was still breathing was that McQueen’s attempt to choke her out had been interrupted by the other students. No, this was not petty avoidance. This was a diplomatic ceasefire for the safety of the nation . McQueen was firmly in the right.
Still… That look—NO! No, silence! Quiet, brain! You will not —
“NO!” McQueen shrieked, leaping to her feet.
Ikuno, in the other bed, jolted awake, her sleep mask half-askew. “…McQueen? Did… did something happen?” she mumbled groggily.
McQueen froze, mortified, hands curling into perfect little fists at her sides. “…Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Ikuno gave her a puzzled, still-half-asleep glance, then flopped back onto her pillow without protest.
McQueen sat back down, clasped her hands again, and tried, really tried, to shove the entire day into a mental vault where it could not bother her.
And failed spectacularly.
Her mind still replayed the moment earlier today when Gold Ship had discovered her phone wallpaper. That bright, delighted gasp… followed by a pause. That sudden drop in energy. That uncharacteristic silence.
—
The next morning dawned far too bright for McQueen’s mood. She sat at the dining table, posture perfectly upright, sipping tea with the air of a princess awaiting tribute. And yet, no tribute came.
Gold Ship was… somewhere. Or maybe everywhere. Or maybe nowhere at all. The menace hadn’t attempted a single loud entrance, no backbreaking hugs, no unsolicited hair-ruffling.
At first, McQueen was certain this was an elaborate setup, a predator circling its prey before pouncing. But as the minutes dragged on, her perfectly tempered composure began to hairline crack.
(…Did she just… move on?)
Her spoon paused mid-stir. No. Preposterous. Impossible. Unthinkable. It had been one—ONE!—day.
She shut the thought down so firmly she nearly chipped her molars, returning her attention to her tea. And yet, a quiet, irrational itch gnawed at the edge of her mind. She could feel her heart listening; listening for the familiar hurricane that was Gold Ship.
The following days unfolded in deliberate acts of avoidance.
Day Two: McQueen strolled past the training grounds with the elegance of a swan that had filed restraining orders against all ducks. Gold Ship was nowhere in sight. No sudden lasso made from jump rope, no surprise kazoo fanfare to herald her arrival. Just the wind and the sound of McQueen’s heels clicking in eerie solitude. She told herself it was… pleasant. She could hear her own thoughts. Peaceful. Wonderful.
Day Three: At lunch, McQueen positioned herself strategically in the farthest corner of the cafeteria, back perfectly straight, shoulders relaxed in the way only someone forcing themselves to look relaxed could manage. No one crashed into her table. No one attempted to swap her tea with a neon-blue sports drink “for science.” She took a slow sip, imagining herself above such nonsense. Her gaze did not—absolutely did not—wander toward the door every time it creaked open.
Day Four: A morning jog through the park. Normally, Gold Ship would appear out of nowhere, jogging backward just to annoy her, narrating McQueen’s stride like a race commentator. Instead, only the chirping of birds accompanied her. She passed a pair of ducks and nearly scolded them for not being disruptive enough.
Day Five: After afternoon practice, McQueen sat, cooling down with a towel draped over her shoulders. A part of her braced for Gold Ship to burst through the door with some catastrophic idea, maybe in a mismatched pair of training boots or carrying a crate of “discount koolaid powder” from a questionable source. Instead, the only sound was the steady ticking of the wall clock. When she left, the hallway felt… wide. Too wide.
Day Six: She caught herself mid-thought, almost wondering what Gold Ship was doing right now. She shut the door on that idea so hard the hinges squealed. Absolutely not. If Gold Ship wanted to vanish into the ether, let her. McQueen was better off . She had more time for herself. Her tea had never been safer from “accidental” seasoning experiments. Her clothes remained mercifully unglittered.
Day Seven: A full week. The number felt heavier than it should have. The silence had grown into a strange, oppressive thing. No sudden ambushes, no absurd announcements over the PA system, no pigeons dropping dubious pamphlets from the sky. McQueen, on the surface, was radiant—more poised than ever. She laughed in the mirror, a perfect, controlled laugh. See? She was happier. Untouched. Unruffled.
And yet… when she passed the empty stretch of hallway where Gold Ship would usually leap from behind a pillar, she felt it. A little hollowness, the kind that echoed if you weren’t careful. She refused to acknowledge it.
No rustle of sudden footsteps, no brash voice in her ear. She told herself she was enjoying the peace. That her days flowed smoothly without interruptions, that her tea tasted better without Gold Ship looming over her shoulder, asking if she could “borrow just one sip” and then draining the cup.
And yet—
The shadows of the trees stretched long on the cobblestones, and in them she could almost imagine a familiar, tall silhouette. Her fingers twitched against her skirt, as though expecting someone to grab her wrist and spin her around.
Better this way, she told herself.
Much, much better.
Her heart, however, refused to sign the treaty. It kept listening, kept straining for the sound of Gold Ship’s antics. But all it found was the very, very stubborn echo of an absence.
McQueen returned to her room that night with the dramatic swish of someone who absolutely wasn’t thinking about her . Definitely not. Not a single thought. Not even a crumb of a thought about where Gold Ship was or what she was doing.
She changed into her nightclothes with dignified precision, folded her daytime dress over the back of the chair, and sat at her vanity, brushing her hair in serene, princessly strokes.
…Or at least, that’s how it was supposed to go.
Instead, her strokes became more and more aggressive as her mind started talking without her permission.
( What if she’s… gone? )
No. Ridiculous. This was GOLD SHIP—Gold Ship didn’t just “go.” She erupted into rooms like natural disasters with worse fashion sense. She invades.
( But what if she’s… invading somewhere else? )
McQueen’s hand froze in mid-brush. Her stomach twisted. Invading somewhere else. Someone else’s personal space. Someone else’s air. Someone else’s hair. Her grip tightened on the brush.
( No. No. Absolutely not. That’s not—It’s irrelevant. I don’t care. )
She rose from the vanity with such abruptness her chair nearly toppled over, pacing like a condemned queen. Her mind was a carousel of stupid, unhelpful imagery: Gold Ship laughing at someone else’s attention, standing too close, touching shoulders—oh great heavens, sharing snacks .
McQueen’s face flamed. “That’s—That’s just tactless !” she whispered harshly to the empty room. “Not to mention unsanitary—N-not that I care! It’s none of my concern if she wants to get food poisoning from… from…”
She pressed a hand over her mouth before she could say someone else .
There was a sharp, treacherous pang in her chest. The kind she refused to name. She stopped in front of the door, hand hovering over the handle. It would be so easy—just a quick walk down the corridor, open the first door with suspicious noises, and… and…
McQueen blinked. She saw herself bursting in, demanding answers, maybe yelling; only for Gold Ship to give her that lopsided, infuriating grin. The grin that made her chest feel like both a war drum and a collapsed sponge at the same time.
Her hand snapped back from the doorknob as if it were red-hot. “No. Absolutely not. I am not lowering myself to that,” she hissed, storming back to her bed and crawling under the covers like she was fortifying a castle.
The blanket was pulled over her head, and McQueen lay there in the dark, her heartbeat deafening in her ears. She didn’t care. She didn’t.
And she was going to prove it if it killed her.
…So why did it feel like it already was?
—
McQueen looked… unpolished. Not in the way of a misplaced hairpin or slightly scuffed horseshoe—no, she looked like the ghosts of insomnia had been gnawing at her edges for days. Her eyes had the faint shadow of sleeplessness, her posture was upright but faintly trembling, and her usual impeccable hair had a rebellious strand daring to escape.
Ikuno, who’d just stepped into the common room with a book under her arm, froze mid-step. “…What in the world happened to you?” she asked, voice pitched between concern and disbelief.
McQueen waved the question away with a brittle elegance that fooled exactly no one. “N-Nothing of importance,” she said, standing and gliding toward the door… only it was less a glide and more the stiff march of someone refusing to admit she was fleeing.
It was barely past sunrise when her feet hit the dirt track. The cool air still carried the smell of dew, the world quiet except for the rhythmic pounding of her own gallop.
One lap.
Two laps.
Three.
Her chest burned, her legs protested, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.
With each stride, thoughts flickered and clung like burrs:
Gold Ship’s smug grin the day she stole McQueen’s ribbon and wore it like a trophy. That ridiculous laugh, loud and unladylike, echoing down the hallway. The time she’d draped herself over McQueen’s shoulders mid-conversation just to “add ambiance.”—The infuriating warmth of her arm brushing against McQueen’s during those shared cool-down walks.
The images blurred together until her vision prickled and her breath came out in ragged, uneven pulls. She rounded the curve of the track and—
It broke.
Tears stung hot, then spilled without ceremony. They streamed freely down her face, mingling with the sweat on her cheeks. Her strides faltered, but she pushed forward, even as her throat constricted with the force of swallowing sobs.
It wasn’t just the absence. It was the silence . No one else could fill it. No one else ever had.
The morning sun crept higher, painting the empty stands in gold, and McQueen kept running as though she could outrun the ache clawing at her ribs. But the track was a circle, and every lap only brought her back to where she started—alone, with the echo of Gold Ship’s energy ringing phantom-like in her ears.
The world was still, but McQueen’s chest wasn’t.
Each inhale was too shallow, too quick; each exhale too jagged, snagging on something lodged between her ribs. Her legs slowed of their own accord, a graceful canter breaking down into uneven steps until the dirt track blurred beneath her.
She stopped.
Her breath came in trembling pulls, like her lungs had forgotten how to take air without Gold Ship filling the space beside her. The cold morning air clung to her skin, settling damp against the back of her neck. For a moment, she simply stood there, swaying faintly—an elegant statue with hair out of place and shoulders uneven.
Then, as though her own body betrayed her, her knees buckled, sinking into the dirt. She didn’t even bother to brush it off before folding forward, hands digging into the earth as if to anchor herself in something solid. But the ground didn’t steady her; it only gave her something to cling to while the first muffled sob clawed its way out of her throat.
It was quiet at first. Weak. Contained.
Then came another. And another—
Until the carefully woven silks of her composure unraveled into raw, ugly sound.
Images flickered behind her eyes in jagged sequence:
Gold Ship’s infuriating grin splitting her face wide open. The ridiculous, bone-crushing hugs that left her outfit wrinkled. That awful, wonderful laugh, brash enough to drown out every thought. And the countless times McQueen had turned her nose up with feigned distaste—when all she really wanted was to lean into it, to let herself be pulled into that loud, obnoxious warmth.
She pressed her forehead into the crook of her arm, trying to muffle the sounds, but the memories were merciless. Her shoulders shook with each breath. Her mind screamed at her to get up, to regain control, to remember who she was supposed to be—Mejiro McQueen, the pride of a noble house, refined and unshakable.
But that was the problem.
That girl wasn’t really real.
Underneath the nobility and perfect posture, she was still the same sheltered child who shrank from confrontation, whose stomach knotted at every raised voice, whose heart beat far too fast in the presence of something—or someone—she couldn’t understand.
Gold Ship had slipped through every barrier she’d built. And now, with her gone, McQueen felt… unmade.
McQueen’s breath hitched again, shallow and unsteady, the kind that rattled in her chest before spilling into another sob. Her knees pressed into the dirt, the cold grains digging through her kneecaps, but she barely noticed. Her hands trembled in her lap, and for a moment, she thought they didn’t even look like her hands anymore…
They looked small. Childish. Weak.
She hated that thought.
“Does… does everyone hate me now?” The words barely left her throat, a raw, broken whisper. It sounded foreign to her own ears—no poise, no control, no trace of the composed Mejiro McQueen she’d spent her whole life crafting. Just a scared little girl muttering into the empty morning air.
Teio wasn’t around. None of her other friends had come to chat or train with her in days. They’d all been—busy? Avoiding her? It was impossible to tell, and that uncertainty gnawed like a slow, dull blade.
And Gold Ship.
Where was Gold Ship?
Where had she gone?
The thought was a spear through the gut. She dug her nails into her palms as if pain would stop the spiral, but it only made her vision swim harder.
Why wasn’t she here? Why wasn’t she barging in with some ludicrous stunt, throwing McQueen’s world into chaos again? Wasn’t that what she did? Hadn’t that been the constant, the maddening rhythm of her days?
…Had she driven her away?
She hated these feelings; ugly, messy, sprawling things that refused to be tamed. She hated that she couldn’t tell which of them belonged to the elegant Mejiro McQueen she’d been raised to be, and which belonged to the other one… the sensitive one. The people pleaser who bent at every command, who caved in with the faintest push.
McQueen’s breath came sharper now—not from running, but from the awful, rising tide in her chest that refused to ebb. She wanted to stand. She should stand.
A Mejiro does not kneel in the dirt like some wilted little thing, weeping over…. over this.
The morning air felt too still for how violently McQueen’s chest was heaving. She stayed crouched there in the dirt, hands trembling, eyes swollen, when the soft fwup fwup fwup of wings cut into her ragged breathing.
A pigeon landed directly in front of her, tilting its head in that uncanny, too-curious way pigeons do. Its beadlike eyes caught hers. For a moment, the racetrack’s silence became something else entirely—like the world had shrunk to just two lonely creatures meeting in the open.
It cooed once. Then, with an almost careless little bob of its neck, it dropped something from its beak.
McQueen blinked.
It was a folded slip of paper, the edges a little damp from pigeon delivery. She picked it up with cautious, trembling fingers, and—oh. The handwriting. The ridiculous loops, the almost childish slant, the confident scrawl that thought it didn’t need to be neat to be charming. McQueen’s stomach twisted. She knew that handwriting.
Gold Ship.
The venue details were frustratingly vague—coordinates, a rough time, nothing else. It was so perfectly Gold Ship that McQueen could practically hear her voice in her head: "Half the fun is figuring it out, Mac-Chan!"
She closed her fist around the paper, her jaw tightening.
No—this wasn’t excitement. She was just… just going to make sure that idiot wasn’t up to something illegal again. That was all.
But her heart didn’t listen to her excuses. Even as she stood, brushing dirt from her legs, even as she stormed off toward the dorms, her pulse was doing that infuriating fluttery thing she hated so much. She had already decided—she would go. And if Gold Ship had actually run away?
…Then McQueen would drag her back herself.
—
McQueen had prepared herself for… well, something. She’d even taken the time to choose a proper outfit—crisp, elegant, and far too formal for whatever half-baked scheme Gold Ship was brewing this time.
But she had not prepared herself for this.
The moment she pushed open the door to the coordinates’ location, an ear-splitting cheer erupted. Confetti exploded into the air. Trainers in blindingly neon tuxedos waved heart-shaped balloons. Several Umamusume sported gigantic novelty sunglasses—shapes ranged from stars to swirly spirals—and at least one was wearing a feather boa so large it could double as a winter coat.
In the middle of it all, lit by the golden glow of fairy lights, stood Gold Ship. Wearing a fancy suit. Tailored, pressed, and somehow still utterly absurd on her. She grinned like the cat that had swallowed the entire cream factory.
McQueen’s eyes flicked over the decorations; lace, flowers, giant paper hearts… an archway? Oh no.
This looked like a wedding venue.
Teio was at the back, dressed in what could only be described as “priest cosplay,” clutching a microphone and looking like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. “Ladies and gentlemen!” she boomed. “The bride has arrived! Let us welcome her down the aisle!”
McQueen felt her entire face go hot. “Wh– what —”
“ WOOO!! ” The crowd’s roar drowned her out.
Gold Ship gave a lazy wave, her grin widening as McQueen’s heels clicked furiously against the floor.
Teio cupped a hand over the mic, but her voice still carried. “Whoa! The bride is very excited! Look at her go! True love can’t be stopped, folks!”
McQueen reached Gold Ship in record time, standing so close she could see the smug twinkle in her eyes. “What,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “is this nonsense supposed to be?!”
Gold Ship didn’t even flinch. She shoved her hands into her pockets and tilted her head, utterly at ease under McQueen’s death glare.
“Well, you see,” she began, as if explaining a very mundane grocery list, “ever since last week—you remember that day I was pestering you? Yeah, yeah, that day, I happened to see your phone’s wallpaper. And, you know, McQueen…” She leaned in conspiratorially, like she was about to share state secrets.
“The one with that really cute and totally unguarded photo of me at the beach—remember? The one where I was laughing like a complete dork, hair all messy, and you caught it just right? That moment you never meant for anyone to see.”
She waved a hand dramatically. “And I thought, ‘Whoa, if she keeps a picture of me like that, there’s gotta be something real here.’ Like, we’re practically destined. So I figured, why not celebrate? Fake it ‘til you make it, right? We’re basically eligible to marry!”
McQueen opened her mouth to protest, but Gold Ship steamrolled on, gesturing broadly to the garish scene around them.
“So I thought, ‘Hey, why wait? Let’s just do it.’ Not for real ; I mean, unless you want to, no pressure… but like, a fake wedding! So, I’ve been busy! That’s why I haven’t been around. I was working with Teio—she did all the officiant practice, by the way, you should’ve heard her rehearsals. Then I had to convince the trainers to help, and—”
Gold Ship pointed toward the crowd, where someone in a tuxedo and a full horse mask waved at them. “—get everyone into theme-appropriate outfits. That boa took three hours to find, by the way. Worth it, right?”
She laughed—loud, carefree, oblivious. “Anyway, here we are! Me, the love of my life, the most romantic venue I could book in a week, and just the right amount of coolness! Perfect, huh?”
It was… surreal. The pounding music. The smell of cheap confetti cannons. Gold Ship smiling at her like it was the most natural thing in the world to confess she’d staged an entire sham wedding because of a phone wallpaper.
McQueen’s jaw trembled. She barely registered the crowd anymore. Her voice came sharp—too sharp.
“ EVERYONE SHUT UP! ”
The noise died instantly. Teio froze mid-gesture. Even the boa-wearer went still.
McQueen’s hands moved before she could think, grasping Gold Ship’s, squeezing so hard her knuckles whitened. Her head dipped forward, eyes hidden by her bangs.
“I…” Her voice cracked. A tear slipped down unbidden, hot against her cheek. “…I missed you. I missed you and the others so, so much.” She sucked in a shaky breath, the words tumbling fast now, unguarded. “And I’m sorry—”
Another tear fell.
“—for trying to kill you earlier.”
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Gold Ship’s grin faltered, her eyes softening just a fraction, but McQueen didn’t let go. If anything, her grip trembled, but she didn’t loosen it one bit. Her words spilled out, raw and uneven, like a dam breaking.
“I was losing it, Gold Ship. I thought everyone hated me. Teio stopped coming around, my friends—no messages, no visits—like I’d done something horrible and didn’t even know it. And you—” her voice broke, “—you were just… gone. No chaos, no noise, no you .”
She blinked hard, breath catching. “I didn’t know what to do when you pulled that earlier prank so I… I gave you the silent treatment. I thought it would protect me somehow, I hated it. I’ll never do it again.”
Her gaze lifted just enough for Gold Ship to see the glint in her eyes—red-rimmed, vulnerable, furious. “But you—”
She spat the word like it burned her tongue,
“—you absolute buffoon . Instead of saying anything, instead of letting me know where you were or what you were doing, you disappear for a week and come back with this ? A fake wedding?! Just to pull a stunt? You left me in the dark, you—”
Her voice faltered, crumbling into something softer, almost pleading.
“…you left me.”
“Pull all the pranks you want on me, I don’t care. But don’t be so crude… to just—“ McQueen’s shoulders slumped, the fight bleeding out of her. The pounding music and lights felt unbearably far away.
“Just… please never leave me alone like that again.”
Her hands slid up from Gold Ship’s wrists to her shoulders before pulling her into a desperate, clinging hug, tight enough to keep her there, as if letting go would send her vanishing all over again.
Surprisingly. The crowd stayed silent, the fairy lights glowing warm around them, like the world had shrunk to just the two of them.
Gold Ship didn’t move at first. For once, she didn’t have a comeback ready. Her arms slowly lifted, unsure, before wrapping around McQueen in return, gently at first, then with the kind of firmness that said she wasn’t going anywhere.
“I…” Her voice, usually so loud and unshakable, came out quieter than McQueen had ever heard. “I didn’t… think this through.”
She let out a shaky laugh, not amused, just nervous. “That’s the thing, right? I do think. A lot. More than people think I do. But sometimes I get so caught up in making the big, wild gesture that I forget…” She hesitated, swallowing hard. “…I forget there’s a real person on the other side of it. One who can actually get hurt.”
Her chin rested lightly on McQueen’s shoulder. “I thought—stupidly—that pulling off something this big would make you smile again. I didn’t even stop to wonder if disappearing for days would just make a hole. I just… saw that wallpaper and thought you were telling me something without saying it. I guess I wanted to tell you I saw it, and I… liked what I saw.”
McQueen’s breath caught, and Gold Ship’s arms tightened around her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice steady now, like she needed the words to be heard as much as McQueen needed to hear them. “Not in the ‘oops, prank went wrong’ kind of way. I mean it. I scared you. I made you think you’d been abandoned when the truth is—”
Gold Ship pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, her usual grin nowhere in sight.
“—I’m never gonna walk away from you. Not for a week, not for a day, not for a single damn second if I can help it.”
The room stayed hushed, like even the lights didn’t dare flicker too loudly.
Gold Ship’s lips twitched, but softened with guilt. “You can hate me for being an idiot sometimes. You can yell, throw things, even kick me if you want. But don’t think for a second that I’d leave you, McQueen. That’s not a prank I’d ever play.”
For a heartbeat, silence lingered. Then Gold Ship’s mouth quivered—barely noticeable at first, then a tear slipped down, hot and unsteady, and she blinked like she didn’t even know what to do with it. Her breath hitched, and before McQueen could process the shift, Gold Ship’s shoulders began to shake. until it cracked wide open and her whole face crumpled.
A wet sound escaped her, and suddenly her forehead was pressed against McQueen’s shoulder. Her shoulders began to shake, once, twice, and then—
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
McQueen froze. Her brain short-circuited.
“I’m sorry,” Gold Ship repeated, her voice so soft, so small, that it was almost unrecognizable. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
The words tumbled out over and over, muffled into McQueen’s dress, each one growing wetter, more broken, until they dissolved into full, messy sobs. She buried her face against McQueen’s shoulder, her whole frame collapsing into uncharacteristic fragility as the sobs spilled out, a mantra on repeat.
Her usual volume was gone, replaced by something raw, hoarse, breaking. Each “sorry” wrenched out like it weighed more than she could carry.
McQueen’s eyes widened in full-blown panic. “W–wait—no, Golshi, please—stop crying!” Her hands fluttered helplessly before instinct forced them to hold Gold Ship’s back, patting, rubbing, anything. “I-It’s fine! Do you hear me? It’s fine! Everything is resolved, there’s nothing to apologize for!”
Gold Ship just shook her head violently against her shoulder, still sobbing. “I’m sorry…!”
McQueen’s pulse skyrocketed. “No! No more apologies! Please—please stop, you’re going to make yourself sick! I already forgave you, didn’t I? You’re forgiven! Entirely forgiven!”
And then—
From the back, Teio’s voice cracked through the silence like a commentator unable to hold back:
“…And the crowd… the crowd is crying! Argh—I’m crying too!”
Sure enough, a sniffle echoed. Then another. Then the unmistakable sound of several dozen people sniffling in unison. Trainers dabbed at their eyes with lace handkerchiefs, an Umamusume in spiral sunglasses was audibly blowing her nose, and even the boa-wearer had tears streaking down her cheeks.
“ I’m sorry! ” someone shouted.
“ No, I’m sorry! ” another wailed.
Soon, the entire hall was erupting into a chorus of overlapping apologies, a symphony of guilt and tears that made the air thick with raw emotion.
McQueen’s soul promptly vacated her body.
Her spirit hovered somewhere above, staring down at herself clinging to Gold Ship while an entire crowd sobbed “I’m sorry” like some kind of deranged mass confession.
And yet, even through the chaos, she didn’t let go. Not of Gold Ship. Not when she could feel her shaking. Not when she could hear the apologies breaking out of her like a storm.
Not when, deep down, she realized she didn’t want to let go.
—
The academy gates loomed ahead, and with them came the long walk back to the dorms. Or at least, it would have been a walk, if McQueen weren’t currently dragging a six-foot tangle of limbs and dramatic apologies across the pavement.
Gold Ship had hooked both arms around McQueen’s waist from behind, face pressed into the small of her back like a barnacle refusing to be pried loose. Her legs trailed behind her uselessly, shoes scuffing and squeaking with every tug.
“Please,” Gold Ship sniffled, hiccupping between words, “let me atone for my sins—” hic “—I promise I’ll spend all night by your side! All night! Forever if necessary! Even if the floor swallows me whole, I’ll—”
“You’re already spending all night here,” McQueen replied, not looking down, not breaking stride. Her voice was calm, but there was the faintest note of resignation, like she had accepted that this was simply her life now.
A few steps ahead, Ikuno was watching the spectacle with the tight-lipped expression of someone who’d witnessed one too many ridiculous Gold Ship incidents. “McQueen,” she said evenly, “you’re… dragging her. Across the main path.”
“I’m aware,” McQueen said, tone still patient. “She insists it’s penance.”
Ikuno’s gaze shifted between McQueen’s impeccable posture and Gold Ship’s ungainly sprawl, a strange mixture of disbelief and faint amusement creeping into her features. Then, with the air of someone making a difficult but ultimately merciful decision, she sighed. “I believe this… situation… would be best resolved by allowing her the alone time she so clearly desires.”
McQueen’s polite smile did not waver, though there was a subtle note of resignation in her sigh. “Very well.”
And so, Gold Ship was rewarded for her shamelessness with what she’d been angling for since they left—sharing McQueen’s bed for the night.
Gold Ship was still attached, though now she’d shuffled around to the front, arms looped loosely around McQueen’s neck. She looked absurdly pleased with herself, eyes still red from earlier but lit with that familiar spark of mischief.
When they entered the room, Ikuno gave McQueen a knowing look—equal parts sympathy and warning—before slipping out, closing the door behind her.
The quiet that followed felt… oddly soft.
Gold Ship lay on her side, still facing her, still a little blotchy around the eyes. McQueen had changed into her nightwear and slipped under the covers without so much as a fuss, the very picture of grace and patience.
“You’re… really not mad?” Gold Ship murmured, her voice soft in a way it never was during daylight hours.
McQueen’s lips curved in a small, tired smile. “I’m not happy you and the others vanished for days, no. But you’ve apologized. And you’re here now. That’s enough for me.”
Something in Gold Ship’s throat tightened, and she shuffled closer until their foreheads touched. “You’re too good to me, Mac-Chan...”
“...Mhm,” McQueen replied lightly, adjusting the blanket to cover her properly. “Now go to sleep. You can ‘atone’ in the morning.”
She was then met with Gold Ship immediately curling in, arms tightening around her like she was afraid McQueen might vanish if she let go. For once, the contact wasn’t boisterous or teasing—it was steady, almost reverent.
The two lay there for a while in comfortable silence, the only sound the faint rustle of fabric as Gold Ship adjusted to press her forehead against McQueen’s shoulder. She didn’t speak, and McQueen didn’t push her to. Instead, McQueen reached up and gently smoothed a hand over her hair, fingers combing through silver strands that had been mussed from hours of clinging and crying.
Gold Ship had somehow managed to defy gravity in her sleep-hugging technique. Not only was she plastered against McQueen’s side, but one long, lanky leg had wrapped itself around her waist like a boa constrictor, and her entire upper body had collapsed over her like a sack of cement.
McQueen was beginning to seriously consider whether she should start writing her will.
“...Golshi… I can’t… breathe.”
“Mmmgh.” Gold Ship mumbled, cheek mashed into McQueen’s shoulder, arms tightening like she was trying to merge them into one single, two-headed creature.
McQueen, cheeks burning, stayed still. It wasn’t as though she disliked the warmth—quite the opposite—but her heart was going to explode if this went on. She could hear Gold Ship’s lazy breathing right in her ear, and every now and then she’d feel her hair tickle her neck.
Then, without warning, Gold Ship suddenly raised her head, peering down at McQueen with bleary seriousness. “...McQueen.”
McQueen blinked. “What is it?”
“My punishment.”
“...Your what?”
“My punishment for my sins! I did a sham wedding, made Teio the priest, and probably traumatized you in seventeen different ways. It’s only fair I take my medicine like a champ.” Gold Ship jabbed her own chest dramatically. “So… go on. Punish me.”
McQueen stared for a moment, her mind going through every possible meaning before stopping on one that made her ears go pink. “You… just want an excuse to have sex with me, don’t you?”
There was silence. Then—
“WH—NO!!” Gold Ship jolted upright so fast she almost fell off the bed, flailing her arms in wild protest. “I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT! I meant like, make me actually focus on training! Or feed me only celery for a week! Or—why are you looking at me like that?!”
McQueen’s own face had turned crimson. “W-well excuse me for making a reasonable assumption! You worded it so strangely—!”
“I worded it perfectly !” Gold Ship threw her arms up. “You’re just a perv deep down!”
McQueen sat up as well, pointing an accusing finger. “I am not ! And even if I was, you’re the last person I’d—” She cut herself off, realizing her voice had jumped about two octaves.
Gold Ship smirked despite her own blush. “The last person, huh? So there’s a ranking system? Am I in the top five? Top three? Ohhh! am I number one?!”
McQueen narrowed her eyes, exhaling through her nose like she was disciplining a wayward child. However, the faintest smile tugged at her lips. “But if you’re so desperate for punishment…” Her gaze swept—purposefully, deliberately—from Gold Ship’s ridiculously too pretty face to the creases in her suit she hasn’t changed out of.
“…Then shed your clothes.”
Gold Ship froze. “...What?”
McQueen tilted her head ever so slightly, a glint of mischief breaking through her composed facade. “There’s no one around. No cameras. No audience. Just us. Surely you’re not afraid of a little… vulnerability?”
The words landed like a direct hit. Gold Ship’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again—her brain clearly short-circuiting as she searched for an appropriately obnoxious comeback.
“Pfft—AFRAID?!” She puffed out her chest like a cartoon character about to walk into an obvious trap. “Ha! You think I’m scared? Hoooo boy, you got nothing on me! Golshi the god fears nothing! Not the cold, not the void of space, and definitely not—uh, clothing-related requests from pretty ladies!”
McQueen arched an eyebrow. “So you admit I’m pretty.”
Gold Ship’s brain caught up about two seconds too late. “I—uh—NO! Wait, yes! I mean—uhhh, obviously !” she stammered, throwing her arms wide in exaggerated bravado. “You’re practically the poster girl for elegance and refined beauty! I’d have to be blind and stupid not to see it! …Which, granted, I am sometimes, but not right now !”
McQueen didn’t even try to hide the amused curl of her lips. “Mm. Then go on.”
That was all she said. No further explanation. No teasing little prod. Just… an expectant gaze that pinned Gold Ship in place like a butterfly under glass.
Gold Ship swallowed hard. This was weird. Normally, McQueen would be huffing, scolding, or rolling her eyes by now. The fact she wasn’t—
…Well, that was unnerving.
Still, a challenge was a challenge.
Gold Ship stood, tugging at her blazer with a flourish so dramatic it would have made a matador jealous. She whipped it off and spun it overhead before tossing it onto the bed like she was on some Vegas stage. “Behold!” she announced, wiggling her eyebrows. “The Smokin’ Sexy Style™ in full swing! Don’t blink or you’ll miss the magic!”
McQueen simply watched, her chin propped on one delicate hand, eyes cool but… warm? Amused? Something in between.
Gold Ship kept going, making a production out of unbuttoning her shirt—pausing halfway to strike a pose, turning her back for an unnecessary over-the-shoulder glance, adding an obnoxious finger gun just because she could. “And now, ladies and gentlemen—oh wait, just lady , singular—your feature presentation: Golshi, unwrapped!”
Normally, McQueen would’ve sighed, groaned, or told her to hurry up. Instead… she stayed silent, gaze steady, lips faintly curved.
And that silence was starting to kill Gold Ship.
By the time she kicked off her socks with ridiculous high-kicks, her energy had shifted. The routine got less theatrical, more fidgety. Her smirk faltered at the edges. She kept sneaking glances at McQueen, expecting the usual snarky commentary… and getting nothing.
Finally, in just her underwear, she planted her hands on her hips and blurted, “Okay, WHAT is your deal? You’re not even—like—annoyed or flustered! I don’t know how to handle that!”
McQueen’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate. “You said you feared nothing, Gold Ship. I’m simply testing that claim.”
Gold Ship’s stomach flipped like a panini. “…Well, stop. You’re making it weird. ”
“Gold Ship, we’re literally about to have sex.”
Gold Ship froze halfway to leaning in, blinking like a deer caught in the light. “…Yeah, but—! I’m supposed to be the one making you weird!”
McQueen didn’t move, didn’t even twitch. Her posture was still perfectly poised against the pillows, legs drawn just enough to frame Gold Ship’s hips without touching her. The only betrayal of her composure was the faint flush across her cheeks—and even that she carried like it was a carefully chosen accessory.
“You’ve been doing an admirable job so far,” McQueen murmured, voice like velvet over steel. “But it’s rather entertaining, seeing you… falter.”
Gold Ship made an indignant noise that came out way higher-pitched than intended. “I’m not faltering! This is—this is a strategic pause! Y’know, for dramatic tension!”
McQueen tilted her head, letting her gaze drift slowly— deliberately —over Gold Ship’s frame before meeting her eyes again. “Oh? Then by all means… keep me in suspense.”
Gold Ship’s throat went dry. She was on top, her hands braced on either side of McQueen, but somehow it felt like she was the one being caged in. Every time she thought about saying something snappy, McQueen’s calm little smile short-circuited her brain.
In a desperate attempt to regain the upper hand, she leaned closer, close enough that her hair brushed against McQueen’s shoulder. “You think you can out-stare me? Hah. I’ve been in staring contests with seagulls that lasted—uh—minutes.”
McQueen’s voice was barely above a whisper now. “Then prove it, Gold Ship.”
McQueen’s gaze didn’t waver, but her posture shifted, her chin lifting just enough to give the impression she was the one allowing Gold Ship to tower over her in nothing but her underwear, and not the other way around.
“Mm,” she hummed, her voice laced with a velvet sort of mischief, “you seem awfully quiet all of a sudden. Where’s that dazzling bravado? Or have I already stolen it from you?”
Gold Ship made a flustered noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Y-you wish. I’m just… uh, pacing myself. Yeah. Gotta build suspense, you know? Like a… like a well-seasoned stew.”
“Then I suppose,” McQueen murmured, tilting her head just slightly, “we should turn up the heat.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. Gold Ship felt her pulse in her ears. Almost without thinking, she reached out and took McQueen’s hand.
Her fingers closed easily around it—too easily. McQueen’s hand was dainty, pale, almost delicate in hers. She couldn’t help but notice how her own hands dwarfed them, her long fingers curling over McQueen’s knuckles like they were meant to fit there.
“…Wow,” Gold Ship said before her brain caught up. “Your hands are so small. Like… really small. Look at this, I could probably hold two of ‘em in one of mine.”
McQueen’s brows arched. “And this fascinates you because…?”
Gold Ship swallowed, her voice dropping just a notch. “…It’ll feel nice, right?”
For a moment, McQueen’s composure cracked; the faintest hitch in her breath, bright pink dusting her cheeks. But her chin stayed high, her smile unbroken. “I-I suppose,” she said coolly.
Gold Ship's heart raced as she took McQueen's small hand in her larger one, marveling at the delicate contrast. Slowly, tentatively, she raised McQueen's hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.
McQueen's breath hitched, her eyes widening slightly at the unexpected gesture. "Gold Ship..." she murmured, her voice breathier than before.
Emboldened, Gold Ship trailed her lips along McQueen's fingers, nipping playfully at the pads. She could feel McQueen trembling beneath her touch, a thrill shooting through her at the knowledge that she had this effect on the usually composed woman.
"Does this feel nice… m'lady?" Gold Ship said, her voice a low rumble. "Just wait until I show you what other parts of me can do."
With a grin, she slid her free hand down McQueen's side, her fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her pants. McQueen let out a muffled squeak, her hips involuntarily arching into the touch as she hugged her tight, fists unravelling into palms on Gold Ship’s back.
“Yes… just like that, good girl.” McQueen said
She rubbed slow, teasing circles over McQueen's mound, feeling the heat building beneath the fabric. McQueen's breath came in short pants, her fingers tightening around Gold Ship's as she chased the pleasure. A single fingernail scraped oh-so-gently down the sensitive ridge inside McQueen’s ear, a whisper of sensation that made her knees threaten to buckle.
Gold ship slipped her hand beneath McQueen's undergarments, her fingers finding her slick folds. McQueen gasped, her head falling back against the pillows as Gold Ship began to stroke her sensitive flesh.
"That’s it…" McQueen whimpered, her hips rocking against Gold Ship's hand. "More."
Gold Ship obliged, plunging two fingers deep into McQueen's tight heat. She pumped them in and out, curling them just so to hit that magic spot inside. McQueen's moans filled the room, her walls fluttering around Gold Ship's driving digits. “I’m doing this okay, right?" Gold Ship said, a lazy grin spreading across her face as she felt McQueen's inner walls clench around her fingers. "You like that, hm?"
“Shut your mouth and keep going.” McQueen spat out the words.
Gold Ship continued to pump and thrust, her digits plunging deep into McQueen's slick heat. The wet, squelching sounds of her fingers moving in and out filled the room, mingling with McQueen's increasingly desperate moans.
"Faster…" McQueen panted, her hips bucking wildly. "Harder…. I-I need... I need more."
Gold Ship added a third finger, stretching McQueen's tight entrance.
McQueen could only whimper in response, too lost in pleasure to form coherent words. Gold Ship took that as her cue to amp things up even further. She began to fuck McQueen with abandon, pounding her into mochi, the bed frame creaking under the force of her thrusts.
She curled her fingers just right, knowing she had hit McQueen's g-spot when she let out a particularly high-pitched keening. "There we go! You're so close, aren't you? Just let go for me." With a final, particularly deep thrust, Gold Ship pressed her thumb hard against McQueen's clit, rubbing quick circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves. That was all it took to send McQueen careening over the edge.
McQueen cried out, her back arching as her climax crashed over her. Her inner walls spasmed around Gold Ship's fingers, gushing fluids as she rode out her intense orgasm.
"It’s like a waterpark here!" Gold Ship said, weirdly enthused, feeling the warm splash of McQueen's release on her hand.
She gentled her movements as McQueen slowly came down from her high, pulling her fingers free with a lewd pop. McQueen panted heavily, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Gold Ship's fingers had left her feeling deliciously full and aching, her sensitive walls still fluttering from the aftershocks of her intense orgasm.
Slowly, she rolled onto her side, facing Gold Ship with an unfamiliar glint in her eyes. "Impressive…" she purred, reaching out to run a finger along Gold Ship's jaw. "But don't think you've bested me just yet."
With surprising strength, McQueen flipped their positions, pinning Gold Ship to the mattress beneath her. She straddled her hips, a wicked smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Now, I believe it's my turn to take control," she said, her voice a purr.
"And I have a few ideas of my own..."
“W-Wuh oh!” Gold Ship gulped.
She leaned down, capturing Gold Ship's lips in a searing kiss. Her tongue delved into her mouth, tasting and teasing as she ground her hips against Gold Ship's.
"Mmm, you feel so good," McQueen murmured against her lips, her hands roaming over Gold Ship's body. She palmed her breasts, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh until Gold Ship was arching into her touch.
"Sensitive, are we?" McQueen cooed, pinching her nipples between her fingers. "I'll have to remember that."
Gold Ship whimpered, her hips bucking involuntarily as McQueen continued her sensual ministrations. McQueen chuckled, a deep, seductive sound that sent shivers down Gold Ship's spine. She continued to tease and torment her breasts, rolling and pinching her nipples until they were hard peaks.
Slowly, McQueen began to trail kisses down Gold Ship's neck, her tongue flicking out to taste the saltiness of her skin. She worked her way down to her collarbone, nipping and sucking until Gold Ship was writhing beneath her.
"P-please... I need..." Gold Ship begged, her voice breathy and needy.
McQueen smirked, knowing exactly what she needed. She sat up, straddling Gold Ship's lap, McQueen's thighs squeezed possessively around the other’s waist, the heat radiating from her core a palpable promise. Those low, throaty pants vibrated against Gold Ship’s damp skin.
She guided one of Gold Ship’s hands, the fingers still glistening faintly with both their essences, up towards her own center. The air crackled as Gold Ship’s fingertips brushed the slick, swollen folds nestled between McQueen’s powerful thighs.
McQueen inhaled sharply, a tremor running through her. "Yours," she stated simply, her voice catching slightly. "Show me how well you learned." It wasn't an order, not quite. It was an invitation edged with a thrilling surrender. Her hips gave a minute, instinctive roll against Gold Ship’s tentative touch, seeking more pressure. "Make me feel it."
The shift was electrifying. Gold Ship’s eyes widened, the haze clearing to be replaced by dawning wonder and a surge of protective possessiveness. This was McQueen giving her control. Gold Ship’s fingers trembled slightly as they traced the slick heat radiating from McQueen’s core.
She explored the plump outer lips, feeling the softness give way to velvety inner folds already slick and desperate. A low, needy whimper escaped McQueen’s throat as Gold Ship’s middle finger found her entrance, circling it with agonizing slowness.
"Gold Ship..." McQueen breathed, her head tilting back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. Her hands clenched on her own thighs, knuckles white. "Don't... tease..."
Heeding the raw plea, Gold Ship pressed inward. The resistance was minimal, McQueen was so gloriously wet, so ready, her fingertip slid smoothly into the tight, molten clasp of her lover. McQueen gasped, a full-body shudder wracking her frame as her inner walls immediately rippled around the intrusion. Her hips lifted instinctively off Gold Ship’s lap, seeking deeper penetration.
"More," McQueen commanded hoarsely, though the command was undermined by the desperate arch of her spine. "Give me... more of you."
Obediently and uncharacteristically quietly, Gold Ship added a second finger alongside the first. The stretch was exquisite; McQueen’s breath hitched, a high-pitched sound catching in her throat as she accommodated the girth. Her head fell forward, lavender hair cascading around her face as she focused entirely on the sensation blooming deep within her.
Gold Ship marveled at the feeling—the unbelievable heat, the tight muscular contractions gripping her fingers like a silken fist, the slickness coating her skin.
Then, McQueen began to move.
With a low groan that vibrated through her entire body, she lowered her hips, impaling herself fully onto Gold Ship’s fingers. She set a slow, deliberate rhythm at first, rising up until just the tips remained inside, then sinking back down with a deep, grinding motion that forced Gold Ship’s knuckles deep against her entrance.
Gold Ship watched, utterly captivated, as McQueen rode her hand. Sweat beaded on McQueen’s brow, tracing paths down her temples. Her smaller breasts swayed heavily with each downward plunge, nipples peaked and straining.
Her expression was one of fierce concentration mixed with unraveling bliss, brows furrowed, lips parted on ragged breaths, eyes half-lidded yet blazing with intensity.
"Harder," McQueen gritted out between thrusts. "Curl them... there..." She guided Gold Ship’s hand minutely, angling the fingers upward inside her.
Gold Ship obeyed, crooking her fingers against that spongy ridge deep within McQueen’s channel on every inward thrust.
McQueen cried out, the rhythm stuttering violently. Her internal muscles clamped down hard, pulsing erratically around Gold Ship’s fingers. "Yes! Right there! Just like... ah!... just like that!"
Gold Ship focused entirely on that spot, rubbing firmly as McQueen rode her with increasing abandon. The soft slapping sound of skin against skin filled the room, mingling with McQueen’s gasps and choked moans.
Her movements became less controlled, more frantic, driven by pure need. She ground down hard on Gold Ship’s palm on each descent, seeking maximum pressure, maximum friction. Gold Ship gathered the thick base of her tail in one hand, squeezing rhythmically, deliberately, each pulse sending jolts straight to her neglected core.
"Can't... hold on..." McQueen panted, her voice strained and high. Her eyes squeezed shut. "Gold Ship... I'm... I'm gonna...!"
Gold Ship’s thumb found the velvety inner curve of McQueen’s left ear, rubbing slow, maddening circles just where the soft fur met delicate pink skin, and McQueen’s sharp intake of breath hissed through clenched teeth.
The orgasm tore through her with brutal force. McQueen threw her head back, a raw cry ripping from her throat as her body locked rigidly above Gold Ship.
Her inner walls convulsed violently around Gold Ship’s fingers in a series of intense spasms. Wetness gushed freely around the pistoning digits, soaking Gold Ship’s hand and dripping onto her own stomach and thighs.
McQueen’s hips jerked erratically, chasing the sensation as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over her, leaving her gasping and shuddering. Her proud posture crumpled; she collapsed forward, bracing herself shakily on Gold Ship’s chest as the last tremors subsided into deep, ragged breaths.
She rested her forehead against Gold Ship’s shoulder for a long moment, utterly spent. When she finally lifted her head, her eyeliner was smudged, her cheeks flushed crimson, and her eyes held a dazed softness. A slow, utterly sated smile curved her kiss-swollen lips.
Gold Ship, meanwhile, was sprawled beside her on her stomach, face buried in the pillow, suspiciously motionless.
McQueen glanced down, her usual composed demeanor tinged with concern. “…You’re awfully quiet,” she said gently. “Was it… not to your liking?” Gold Ship stirred, her shoulders rising and falling with two slow, deliberate breaths. Then a third. McQueen was about to speak again, when Gold Ship suddenly exploded .
“—HOOOOOO-BOY!!” She shot upright, hands flailing, hair flying like she’d just been struck by lightning. “That was—ohhhhhh my sweet Mother of Triple Crown glory—that was AMAZING!”
McQueen blinked, utterly unprepared for the sudden volume.
“I mean, like, WOOO! ” Gold Ship threw her arms up like she’d just crossed the finish line in first place. “I feel like I just ran three Derbies, wrestled a crocodile, AND won a pie-eating contest in one afternoon! My soul’s doing backflips! My brain is singing in stereo!”
McQueen tried— tried —to keep a straight face, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “…I’ll take that as a yes, then.”
“Yes? YES?!” Gold Ship grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her—not hard, but with enough energy to make McQueen’s hair sway. “That was a whole symphony of YES! That was the YE S 5000 Turbo Deluxe Limited Edition!”
“…You are ridiculous,” McQueen said at last, but there was undeniable warmth in her tone.
“Ridiculously yours forever and ever!”
Gold Ship suddenly stilled again, eyes going glassy, like she’d just ascended into some higher plane of thought. Then, slowly, she collapsed back onto the pillow, one arm flung out in theatrical exhaustion.
In a voice that could have opened a fantasy audiobook, she intoned:
“A god… is nothing… to a universe.”
McQueen blinked. “…What?”
“You heard me, O Celestial Empress of My Heart,” Gold Ship continued, rolling onto her back to stare up at the ceiling with an expression of awe and reverence.
“A god—me—can bend reality, flip mountains, punch the moon for fun… but a universe… you—” she gestured dramatically at McQueen, “—you contain it all. You make the stars worth looking at. You give gravity its pull. Without you, all my divine shenanigans would be meaningless set pieces!”
Gold Ship ignored McQueen’s confusion entirely, a single tear of unrestrained joy sliding from the corner of her eye. “Tonight,” she declared, “the god was humbled. And the universe… was merciful.”
McQueen put a hand over her face, but her lips twitched in spite of herself. “…You’re unbelievable.”
“And unbelievably lucky,” Gold Ship said, grinning like a fool.
—
The next morning, sunlight streamed in through the thin curtains, washing the room in pale gold. McQueen stirred, the pleasant haze of waking melting into the awareness that something heavy—warm—was wrapped firmly around her.
Gold Ship.
Both arms locked around McQueen like steel cables, biceps squished right against her throat and face, her legs tangled in a full-body embrace that left absolutely no escape. Gold Ship’s slow, even breathing puffed against her hair.
McQueen should have been annoyed. Should have been struggling to pry herself free with a dignified huff. But instead…
Her cheeks warmed. The weight of Gold Ship against her was strangely comforting, like the world outside had no chance of intruding here. She let her gaze drift over Gold Ship’s sleeping face; loose hair, softened expression, a faint smile even in dreams. And without warning, memories slipped in.
All the times she’d searched the crowd and not found her. The empty space where her voice should’ve been. The gnawing frustration, the irrational ache. And now, here she was. Holding her like she might vanish if she loosened her grip for even a second.
McQueen’s throat tightened, not from Gold Ship’s arm, but from something deeper. She shifted just enough to nestle closer, letting herself have this moment without overthinking it to pieces.
A whisper, barely audible, slipped past her lips.
“…I guess you really are ridiculously mine. Forever and ever.”