fatigue-d

[fatigue-d]

I started a One-shot , but I'm pretty lazy , so there is what I write until now ( I just want to share more Gadri content ) :

Is he good enough?

He knows he's not a bad player or even an irritating team-mate, let alone a selfish companion. But faced with Pedri, all these assertions and certainties seemed to melt like snow in the sun. The older man was, for the Sevillian, the most perfect thing God could have created, and he's not even a believer. But when he stared a little too intently at the black man, he detected a little divine something, perhaps it was in his brown eyes, or even his three-day beard. On a less physical note, the Tenerife native's voice enchanted him, as much as his laugh or his pout. And he hasn't even mentioned his game yet. His passing, his dribbling, his shooting, everything was both precise and instinctive, creating a magic he had rarely seen in the sport he loved so much.

He trained with him almost every day and yet he still couldn't understand how Pedri did it. Everything about him exuded talent, this reading of the game could not after all come otherwise, a divine gift given only to the most deserving. And Gavi could attest to this, the two players sharing their long and gruelling training sessions, he could see the sweat beading, the tension building and the fatigue accumulating on his team-mate's face. Yet the man had something more, a flame that seemed to glow, a singular attitude that allowed him to do things Gavi could only imagine in his wildest dreams. And against this magic, the Sevillian knew he was no match.

It was a simple and unequivocal observation. Despite all Gavi's willpower and hard work, he would never reach the level of his elder.

That was one immutable certainty.

And the midfielder didn't need to accept it, it was obvious, a statement that matches had made unshakeable. He never complained about it, never even thought about it, after all there was nothing to complain about. This constant feeling of inferiority wasn't even bad in itself, Pedri was a generational talent, Gavi was a good player. A simple but important distinction. His dedication to the club wouldn't change a thing. Nor would his dedication to Pedri.

And perhaps therein lies the problem.

Gavi never felt inferior to Pedri, at least not in the most pessimistic view, they both contributed to the club, complemented each other, harmonised. His evil was more subtle but deeper. He wasn't good enough for Pedri. Not for the club. He knew that his loyalty to Barça was rewarded, that his play was appreciated, and that the fans adored him. But that didn't matter, a mere grit of sand in the desert that was Gavi's ego and confidence. What mattered was Pedri. How his team-mate spoke to him, looked at him, complimented him or even touched him.

All this attention Gavi was overflowing with, revelling in it, while at the same time dreading it. For Pedri was like the tide, it came and went, the Sevillian being only a poor believer who hoped that it would never go out again. But the sea was indomitable and if it didn't want you, it would spit you back towards its deadly rocks, leaving you to be torn apart by the threat you were enjoying earlier. Fortunately, the youngest had not yet experienced this. In fact, he was in the opposite situation. Actively drowning in the love and appreciation of the older man. He hoped to sink a little further every day, perhaps allowing himself to die, happy to be surrounded by everything that distracted him from his shattered ego. But he still had a lifejacket to pull him relentlessly back to the surface, a last glimmer of sanity to keep him from falling into that sweet ocean of attention.

And that reason was a simple fact:

Gavi wasn't going out with Pedri.

But the Sevillian intended to do something about it, despite his flagrant lack of qualities:

1 - He can't cook.

Squatting in Pedri's kitchen every week in the hope of scrounging up a few treats, he'd end up with a recipe he knew was impossible for him, and a ration of his favourite dishes that would be enough for a whole battalion.

2 - He can't drive.

The only time he was allowed to drive was under the supervision of one of his team-mates, despite the fact that he has a driving licence. The Tenerife native often took on this role, letting him have access to his car on clasico days, to, and I quote, "give myself an adrenaline shot by experiencing a near-death experience".

3 - He holds a grudge.

He's already almost fought with the older player over pranks that were months or even years ago. He didn't even do it to amuse the gallery, Gavi's memory causing him to have flashes of memory at the worst possible moment (he once remembered a particularly teasing expression from Pedri during a funeral).

4 - He's possessive.

He knows that some people like this trait in their partner, but it certainly wasn't the case for Pedri. What's more, Gavi had a deep attachment to innocuous objects. For example, he loved his shoelaces and hated having to wash them, even though they reeked of mud. The same went for a simple bracelet that he had refused to give away with his youngest cousins, who were barely 5 years old (sorry, but Pedri gave it to him, no one else had the right to this treasure).

That's it !

I hope I'm gonna finish this One-Shot , I like my " intro "

[fatigue-d]

Miffy X Max Verstappen :

Another version :

Inspired by this little image and my F1-addicted mind ( also @sillystappen and giov ( Idk her username 😭 ) )

[fatigue-d]

Your Majesty Pedri

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64711093/chapters/166258837

SUMMARY :

"- So what? If I were a prince, I'd have allocated all the funds for culture to rebuilding the Camp Nou! And on top of that I'd have been called Sir! Just imagine! Sir Pablo Gavira, thank you for saving Barça, that's really stylish, isn't it? Gavi tried to explain with a conspiratorial air.

- That's not how it works, it would have been funnier otherwise. sighed the older, smiling at the younger's crazy ideas. And anyway, being a football player is better, they'd have called me Pedri instead of 'Prince' everywhere, and I could have stayed in the family restaurant with my brother and my parents.

- Mhmmm.... So, I don't think I can take you back to your parents straight away, but at least I can call you Pedri! "

Or Gavi, who falls in love with the most unlikely person in Spain, Prince Pedro González López, aka Pedri.

[fatigue-d]

My honest reaction....

AHHHHHHHHHHH

SO FUCKING PERFECT !!!!!

I can die in peace

You are Enough - Maxiel

Daniel thinks he’s not good enough for Max. but Max disagrees

Not just on bad days. Not just after a rough race or a brutal media day. It's a belief that's etched into his bones now—quiet and constant, like background noise he can't quite mute no matter how loud he turns up the music.

He doesn’t say it out loud, not to anyone, not even to himself most of the time.

But he feels it. In every stumble, in every misstep, in every look from the paddock that lingers just a little too long with pity.

The world reminds him of it daily.

He opens his phone and the comments are waiting for him like vultures. Max deserves better.

Why is he still with Daniel?

He’s just a washed-up has-been clinging to a golden boy’s coattails.

Some are cruel, some are subtle, but they all sink their claws into the same bleeding spot inside him. His failures are on public record—every DNF, every broken contract, every gamble that didn’t pay off. And even when he smiles, even when he pretends it doesn’t bother him, there’s a part of him that agrees. That maybe they’re right.

Because Max is Max.

Fast, ruthless, brilliant. The reigning champion, the name etched in record books, the face splashed across every screen and billboard. Everything about Max screams excellence. A machine on track. A phenomenon. A living legend before thirty.

And Daniel? Daniel is the joke people whisper when they talk about comebacks that never quite came true. He’s the punchline in too many think-pieces about missed opportunities and faded stars. He tried to carve out something more, something lasting—but the glitter faded, the cameras moved on, and he was left in the shadows with nothing but a grin stretched too wide to hide the cracks.

So he asks himself, every damn day, why is Max still here?

It doesn’t make sense. Not in any logical, sane way.

And yet—

Max looks at him like Daniel hung the moon. Like he’s the one who built the world Max stands on. There’s no hesitation in Max’s gaze, no second-guessing. Just that same quiet intensity, that same infuriating, grounding certainty that Daniel used to carry himself—back when he still believed he was someone worth believing in.

Max holds his hand when they’re alone, and more importantly, when they’re not. He kisses him soft and slow, like they have all the time in the world. He smiles at him across rooms crowded with cameras, in garages humming with tension, like none of the noise matters. Like all that matters is Daniel.

And when Daniel falls apart—because sometimes he does, silently, in the dark, in the moments when his breath catches and his insecurities press down on his chest like a weight he can’t lift—Max is there.

No lectures. No fixing. Just presence.

He touches Daniel like he’s something fragile but not broken. He whispers into his skin,

"You’re more than enough. You always have been."

He says it like it’s fact, like it’s gravity, like it’s so obvious he can’t imagine why Daniel would think otherwise.

And that’s the thing.

Daniel wants to believe it. He wants to hold onto those words and build something around them—some kind of safety, some kind of truth. But the doubt is insidious. It's not loud, it's not sharp—it’s slow. It’s a creeping, sinking thing. Years of public failure, of watching others rise while he stalled, of standing beside Max and wondering if he looks like a mistake.

And yet, somehow, Max makes him forget it.

At least for a moment. When Max cups his face and presses their foreheads together, when he brushes tears from Daniel’s cheek like they’re nothing to be ashamed of, Daniel thinks—maybe. Maybe I am enough. For him.

It’s terrifying.

To let someone love you when you’re not sure you love yourself anymore. To be seen—truly seen��and not run.

But Daniel stays. He stays because Max keeps choosing him, over and over, in the quiet ways that matter. And one day, maybe Daniel will be able to choose himself the same way.

But until then, Max’s belief is enough to keep him breathing.

To keep him hoping.

To keep him alive.

......

The hotel room is quiet. Dim light spills through the half-drawn curtains, catching on the edge of the bed where Daniel sits, hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands gripping his own hair like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. He steps inside gently, the door clicking softly shut behind him. No shoes, no words, just the sound of his socked feet padding across the carpet.

Daniel doesn’t look up.

His shoulders are shaking.

Max’s heart squeezes in his chest.

He crosses the room slowly, crouching in front of Daniel, lowering himself until he’s eye-level. Still, Daniel doesn’t lift his gaze. Max reaches forward and gently pries one hand from Daniel’s head, lacing their fingers together, grounding him.

“Hey,” Max says, voice low and careful. “Talk to me, liefje.”

Daniel huffs out a bitter laugh, one that cracks halfway through and turns into something else—something broken. “What’s there to say?”

“You’re upset,” Max says simply. “So I want to hear.”

Daniel finally looks at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped together with the remnants of unshed tears. His lips part like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. Just another shuddering breath.

“I just…” Daniel whispers, looking away again. “I feel like I’m dragging you down. Like you could be—like you should be with someone who shines like you do.”

Max frowns. Not angry. Not upset. Just hurt that Daniel could even think that. He brings their joined hands up and presses a kiss to Daniel’s knuckles, slow and deliberate.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” Max asks.

Daniel doesn’t answer, but he leans in, just a little.

“I see the man who taught me how to laugh during the worst years of my life. Who believed in me before anyone else did. I see the driver who fought like hell on track, even when the world kept stacking the odds against him. I see the person I love.”

Daniel’s breath catches, and he blinks fast.

“I don’t care about the noise,” Max continues, cupping Daniel’s cheek with his free hand. “I don’t care about stupid fans or journalists who think they know us. I care about you. You, Dan.”

Daniel’s eyes flutter shut at the sound of his name in Max’s voice. It’s so rare—Max always calls him other things: “mate,” “babe,” “liefje.” But Dan feels raw. Real. Intimate in a different way.

“I know it’s hard,” Max says. “I know you hear them. But I need you to hear me more.”

Daniel leans into Max’s touch, his forehead pressing against Max’s. “It’s just… exhausting, you know? Pretending I don’t care. Pretending I still have it together.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Max murmurs. “Not ever.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Daniel crumbles.

Quietly, but completely.

Max pulls him in without hesitation, wrapping his arms around Daniel and tugging him off the bed and into his lap on the floor. Daniel clings to him, face buried in Max’s shoulder, breath hitching against his neck. Max rocks them gently, one hand stroking up and down Daniel’s back, the other still wrapped around his hand.

They sit like that for a long time, Max humming something under his breath, fingers tracing circles over Daniel’s spine. Just presence. Just comfort. No expectations.

When Daniel’s breathing finally evens out, Max presses a kiss to the side of his head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Always.”

And Daniel believes him.

Not because the noise stops. Not because the doubts are gone.

But because when Max holds him like this, like he’s something precious—not a mistake, not a burden—it’s the only truth that matters.

....

It starts on a podium.

Daniel’s not even racing that weekend—he’s just there, part of the team, part of Max’s world. He keeps a low profile, tries to melt into the background even though the cameras always find him anyway. The whispers are constant, same as always.

“What’s Daniel doing here?” “Does Max really need the distraction?” “Why is he still hanging on?”

Daniel hears them, even if Max doesn’t.

And Max… he’s done pretending not to notice.

So when the race ends, and Max wins (because of course he does—he’s Max), he takes the usual path up to the top step. Trophy raised. Anthem played. Champagne sprayed.

But this time, as the photographers crowd the front of the podium and the interviewers line up with their mics and questions, Max does something else.

He takes off his cap, runs a hand through his hair, and glances past the crowd—eyes scanning until he finds Daniel, standing off to the side in the team gear, clapping, smiling that soft, quiet smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Max steps forward.

Down from the podium. Off the stage.

Straight toward Daniel.

And before anyone can process what’s happening, Max reaches for him.

One arm around his waist. One hand cradling the side of Daniel’s neck. A soft, sure look in his eyes.

Then Max kisses him.

Not a peck. Not a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing.

A real kiss. A statement.

And for the first time, the crowd falls silent.

The cameras flash. Dozens, hundreds, a thousand lenses pointed at them—but Max doesn’t care. He leans in like the world isn’t watching, like he’s doing it just for Daniel, but everyone sees.

Daniel freezes, overwhelmed, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. When Max pulls back just a little, eyes still on his, he whispers, low and sure:

“Let them talk.”

Daniel blinks, stunned.

“They don’t know a damn thing,” Max continues. “I love you. That's what matters.”

It’s not just the kiss. It’s everything after.

Max answers every press question with Daniel’s name spoken like it’s sacred. He posts a photo later that night: just Daniel, curled into his side, captioned simply: My win, every day. He brushes off reporters who try to bait him into controversy. “He’s not a distraction. He’s my peace.”

And it works.

Not because the world suddenly becomes kind.

But because Max doesn’t flinch.

Because he keeps holding Daniel’s hand on the grid. Keeps pulling him into frame for photos. Keeps choosing him, again and again, in front of the world.

It doesn’t fix everything overnight. The noise is still there. But it starts to shift. A few headlines soften. A few fans change their tone. A few of them finally see.

And Daniel?

For the first time in a long time, he believes it.

Because Max didn’t just say it in the dark, with no one around to hear.

He said it in the light.

Where it mattered most.

Where the world had to watch—and listen.

...................

Check out my other works in:

Unexpected Cupid – George x Max ft. Kimi Antonelli

Fake love -Lestappen

Paper rings - Maxiel

[fatigue-d]

phone case for the CHARLOS FEST 2025 !! :

( I thought my phone was going to die because of the layers on Canva😓)

Anyways !

HAPPY CHARLOS FEST !!

[fatigue-d]

meet the alonso (not really) || 4.3K

“That way I can officially introduce you to my parents”

“I've already met your parents Fernando,” Mark said with a frown, making Fernando shake his head.

“Well, you've met them as Mark Webber, F1 driver, you still haven't met them as Mark Webber, their son's boyfriend”

[fatigue-d]

Maybe life wasn't so bad after all (remembering tomorrow is Wednesday).

[fatigue-d]

" Dépaysement "

Ships : Lance stroll / Esteban , background: Webbonso

Chapter : 1/?

Tags : emotional hurt/comfort , slow burn , Not traditional ABO

Word : 3.3 k

Summary:

Dépaysement : French word to describe the emotion felt when changing habits or environments. It often refers to the feelings associated with immersion in an unfamiliar environment, different from the original one.

"However, there was still one problem in Lance's life, a problem as annoying as it was addictive, always at Lance's side and terribly vital to the Canadian's routine. This problem came in the form of a person, a driver to be precise.

Esteban ocon"

[fatigue-d]

Webbonso soulmates au please?

What type of Soulmate AU, rather classic with the names or the threads, or more "fanciful", with for example the fact of seeing oneself through one's dreams? because Soulmate AU is rather vast

It's just a request for clarification, because I don't want you to realise at the end that it's not what you expected 😅

[fatigue-d]

May I request Brazil 2003 inspired fic where fernando's injuries were worse than it was and since mark indirectly caused fernando's crash he felt extreme guilt and worry as he tried to help fernando before the medic arrive?

"BRAZIL 2003 "

Word : around 1 K

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Mark took a deep breath, his vision blurred, his limbs weak, he had to get out of here quickly before someone else crashed into him. Almost half the grid had crashed at turn three, the last survivors fighting in the Brazilian rain, Mark had been one of them before losing control.

He now found himself in the middle of the road, the wreckage of his vehicle surrounding him as he tried as best he could to get out of it. He felt gusts of wind whip past him as the survivors still in the race made their way across the minefield.

However, one of them didn't make it and Mark saw a car come into contact with one of the pieces of debris before bouncing off the railings, the front of the car completely destroyed. It all happened so quickly that Mark didn't have time to shout the Spaniard's name before he crashed. The deafening noise made the Australian grit his teeth as he hastily removed his seatbelt.

He only managed to do so after a few seconds of pure struggle, his hands trembling from stress not making the task any easier. His thoughts blurred as he ran towards the brunette, his legs loose, the Jaguar driver on the verge of collapsing. His torrent of thoughts had only one thing in common, tending towards the same point, a person to be precise.

Fernando Alonso

Guilt made his steps heavier, even as he hoped the Spaniard hadn't been too badly hurt. The dark-haired driver never stopped, the dopamine in his blood becoming his drug, the youngest unable to get rid of it, so if someone had told him to slow down, he obviously wouldn't have listened. His only objective was to overtake the one in front of him by any means necessary.

Mark knew that his crash could injure people, he sensed it himself, but now that he was in front of the carcass of Fernando's Formula 1 car, the Spaniard trying as best he could to get rid of it without succeeding, he felt like the world was falling apart.

Shit!

Why was he driving so badly! Fernando had been injured because of him, the Spaniard grumbling in his native tongue before stopping suddenly, staring at the Australian with a frightened look in his eyes.

"What's up? Nando, are you okay? I'll help you out!

- Mark.... My leg's stuck... I can't feel it...

The older man's heart rate suddenly increased, as he imagined all that could have happened as a result of this injury.

Was Fernando going to stop driving because of him?

The Spaniard was born for speed! And Mark was going to crush his dreams.... The brunette will hold a grudge against him for the rest of his life, he's sure of it. He'll look at him with a look of disgust, never forgetting the man he loved but who destroyed him.

At least that's what Mark hopes .... Perhaps Fernando will never want to speak to him again, quickly forgetting him and their life together, their time together, their stolen kiss, their shared laugh....

Mark never wanted to do that.... Damn it.... Why didn't he pay more attention? Why did he keep driving through the torrential rain?

Why did- Mark! Damn it! Mark, help me! shouted Fernando, bringing the Australian's thoughts back into focus.

- Shit, shit, shit," said the Australian quickly, "I'm so sorry Nando, I.....

He hastily removed Fernando's helmet, throwing it on the ground as he checked his condition, the younger man looked lost, his jaw clenched in pain, blood trickling down his left flank.

- Just.... Get me out of here, then we can talk again, the others are still driving, I thought I saw you dead as you ran towards me. Fernando said, his eyes fluttering with fatigue, his head spinning as he felt part of his body bleed to death.

Mark couldn't hear very well, too busy undoing the Renault driver's seatbelt, his trembling hands still failing him as his stress mounted.

- I had to do it, I wasn't going to let you get hurt in the middle of a race!

- You're more likely to die walking on the circuit than I am to get hurt! Fernando replied fervently, his raised voice creating a headache.

Mark preferred to ignore the Spaniard's comment, too busy trying to get him out of the carcass of the vehicle. A sigh of relief left his lips as he finally managed to remove the seatbelt, and he lifted the Spaniard up, but the latter cried out in pain, Mark putting him down immediately.

- It's my leg.... The Spaniard explained breathlessly, the pain making him increasingly irritable and unstable.

Mark bit his lip, a habit he'd had since he was very young, indicating his stress and fear. Fernando had laughed about it once, saying he looked like a lingerie model trying to look sexy.

- Hang on, hang on... I'm going to try something, it might hurt you.

He tried once more to pull the Spaniard, this time more gently, but it was no use, the dark-haired man always screamed in pain when they tried to pull him out of the Renault.

- Mierda", said the Spaniard into the wind, a small tear of pain running down his right cheek.

Mark's anxiety reached its peak, terrified of the consequences of this collision, which he had caused entirely himself.

He can't do it...

He can't help the youngest, even though he promised him.... Promised to be by his side, promised to help him despite their rivalry, promised never to harm him. These weren't promises made in haste, nor written on a contract to make it "official", but they were the basis of their relationship, a shared trust that seemed almost indestructible.

Mark could do nothing but watch the agonised cries of the man he loved as he was finally rescued by competent people, the Australian's helplessness tearing at his insides, a fish making his thoughts fuzzy and his movements slow, his only certainty being his inability to help Fernando.

"Sorry, Nando, sorry" he whispered to himself, as he felt the Spaniard's gaze on him, his eyes watering and his jaw clenched with pain. The Spaniard did nothing, apart from perhaps preventing Mark from looking at his bleeding leg, using his voice as a distraction.

"It's nothing, Cabron, just a scratch! The Renault driver assured him, before leaving for good with the medical team, who were carrying him and preventing the various cameras around and Mark from being able to see the damage caused to the driver's body.

Standing up to face the fruits of his deeds, Mark finally felt the rain stop, bringing this tortuous race to a close. The rain reminded him of a distant conversation he'd had with the Renault driver.

Shit....

He had promised a candlelit dinner after the race....

Having already imagined Fernando's smile when he learned that Mark had learnt some Asturian recipes just for him....

The hospital was the last thing on his mind.

But perhaps if he brought back a dish on the sly, the Spaniard would still be happy.

It was this glimmer of hope that kept Mark from collapsing under the guilt of his actions.

--------------------------------------

HAPPY WEBBONSO WEDNESDAY!!!

You made me laugh because I've already written about Brazil 2003 in one of my fanfics, and it was a webbonso

OK, I'll stop talking!

I hope you enjoyed the fic 🤗

For those who want to do a request too

[fatigue-d]

CHARLOS!!! The kind of trope that screams i miss my husband , or he wouldve done this if he was still here since they pretty much are divorced now

"I miss you "

Word : around 1 K

-----------------------------------------------

Charles moved gently under his sheets, his skin shivering from the cold. After almost four years with a certain Spaniard, he had forgotten how lonely it could be to sleep alone in a bed three times his size. He had got used to his husband's light snores, Spanish words whispered in the night. The memory of a vanished warmth engulfing his body, he had tried to hold on to it as best he could, trying to rediscover the softness and comfort that had lulled him through the nights, but nothing had helped, Carlos was no longer there, and everything in their house was a reminder of that.

His old toothbrush was still in the bathroom, sitting next to the Monegasque's, the two objects forming a pair so inescapable that Charles was obliged to abandon his own to buy a new one, unable to throw both away.

The kitchen cupboards were always full of products straight from Spain, sauces, pastes, spices, all used by Carlos, most of the time to reproduce the recipes of his beloved mother, which Charles was delighted to taste, although he didn't know how the dark-haired man managed to make these recipes so delicious.

If you looked at the entrance to the flat, as Charles sometimes did when he was bored, you could see a bag full of golf clubs. They had been put there after Carlos had the unfortunate tendency to drop things in his haste after being told about a round of golf by his friends. So, whenever the Spaniard wanted to go out, he had his clubs close to him. An ingenious decision by a more carefree Charles, a bitter reminder of his companion's absence for a mature Charles, but one that Carlos would surely have called a killjoy.

The previously bright flat seemed far more macabre, part of it being shamelessly ripped away, the place now haunted by a soul in perpetual search of the one who had once completed it.

Even Leo seemed less enthusiastic, the young puppy only chewing on what was up to him, his master becoming his only interesting toy, the cushions, clothes and duvets finally living without the fear of being torn apart by the mutt's jaws.

However....

Carlos had only been gone for 2 months.

2 short months.

Which seemed interminable to the younger man, they were still a couple, sending each other frequent messages. But Carlos was no longer physically at his side and Charles felt it.

And while Carlos was no longer living with the Monegasque.

Charles had no time for the Spaniard.

The man was constantly busy with the Italian team, being invited to the most sumptuous dinners as well as the most pointless meetings, always there to put on a good show, to represent the 'soul' of Ferrari.

And there was nothing Carlos could do about it. Already, when they were team-mates Charles was overwhelmed, the luxury brand asking much more of the younger than the older, after all Ferrari fans had become addicted to his smile and his eyes, much more than any physical or mental trait of the Spaniard, who had accepted his position as Side-kick.

But since he'd left for William, everything had speeded up, and he no longer even had the chance to call Charles, only being able to send him messages that he hoped the chestnut would have time to read. Perhaps where he lived was warmer, and traces of his loved ones could be seen everywhere. The fact remained that he no longer had any of Charles's possessions, not an accessory, not a piece of clothing, not even a gift, everything had remained in Monaco, their home.

He only glimpsed the Monegasque's life through social networks and the media, a bitter taste spilling into his mouth as soon as he remembered that not so long ago, he was the man behind the camera. The Monegasque loved having "artistic" images of himself or his dog, and Carlos in turn enjoyed taking photos of them, freezing this shared happiness so that he could savour it a little more later.

A promise had kept them going for a while, a simple promise but one that was so important to them, both of them knowing that if he broke it.....

Their relationship would be over.

It was entitled:

"If one of us calls at 16:55, the other is obliged to answer"

Quick, easy, concise.

And as the winter chill consumed his body, Charles thought about it, his eyes glued to the time on his phone. Should he do it or not? He had missed several of Carlos's calls unintentionally and the Spaniard had never complained, so it was his turn to make the first move, wasn't it? And then.... He missed the dark-haired man's voice, his slight accent warming the younger man's body, imagining the tired smile on his partner's face after a tiring, tedious but fortunately victorious race.

The minutes passed like drops falling one by one on a pane of glass, creating a trickle of water like a torrent. Charles counted them, the wait being both too short and too long, the hope of calling but the fear of having no one at the other end of the line growing inside him.

16:53

Charles hastily put his phone under his pillow, short of breath, there was no point in calling Carlos at this hour, he was bound to disturb him. Wouldn't he?

16:54

He fumbled around in bed, almost dropping his phone and breaking it. The screen of the device reflected on his pupil, where it read "Chili 🌶️❤️". His heart skipped a beat at the nickname, it had been a long time since he'd called his husband that. More affectionate nicknames replaced it, the sensation of them still beneath Charles's lips, waiting to be uttered once more....

16 : 55

Time did not stand still as the Monegasque expected, he was not after all in a romance a l'eau de rose, no important moment came, his fingers trembling in front of the icon to call.

And just as he was about to go back to sleep, his eyes darting around and the thought that had been haunting him for a week now finally seeming to come true, he heard a hum. It was short, quick, almost inaudible, but it was there and its mere existence was a breath of fresh air after weeks of swimming in doubt.

"Amor? asked the voice over the phone, a silly grin forming on Charles's face.

-Oui chéri ? replied the Monegasque, slowly catching his breath.

- I.... I mi-Wait! Are you still buying Leo the kibble I recommended?

- The ones that cost more than a gourmet meal?

- Hey! He deserves luxury, he's our prince after all.

- Yeah.... Our prince.... Charles replied, a melancholy smile forming on his lips as he remembered Carlos's love for his dog, their dog, and how jealous he had been of it.

-....

- You only called me to talk about this?

- Why would I call you about anything else? The Spaniard replied point-blank.

The answer was like a dagger to the heart. The Monegasque wasn't sure he could get over it.

- No reason.... I was just imagining things.

- See you in Australia? Promise?

- Promise!"

The call then ended, Charles curling up in his bed, while Carlos insulted himself because of his stupidity. It was the only time the Monegasque had answered him and he hadn't even managed to talk about what he wanted, the feeling of being too much growing inside him as the conversation progressed.

He did, however, write one last little message, hoping that the younger man hadn't fallen asleep yet:

"I miss you"

A little heart being sent in reply, breaking the brunet's heart even more.

Bloody hell!

Why wasn't he in Charles' arms!

He could have comforted him all he wanted, cooking pancakes until he was obese, singing the cheesy French music that the Monegasque loved.

He would have loved to be by her side so much....

So much that it consumed him.

The memories of this shared life were the best fuel for the fire that was destroying him little by little.

But hey...

They were going to meet again, or so he hoped.

The stolen kisses between each race, hidden from everyone's eyes, were surely the best way to stop this destructive fire.

But in the meantime, as it grew day by day, perhaps it would be unstoppable? The damage it would have caused was too deep, incapable of even being cured with any kind of treatment.

This....

Only time will tell.

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I hesitated whether to make the ending happy or sad and I ended up with the open ending, I'm not sure if I'm 100% on theme but all in all I enjoyed writing this little story, I hope you enjoyed reading it 🤗

If someone had a request too

[fatigue-d]

REQUEST ARE OPEN :

1. Only F1 RPF

2. Only Driver X Driver ( ❌ X OC or X reader )

3. Not smut / nsfw ( okay for some innuendo but nothing explicit )

4. I write about specific ships , if your ship is not here so I don't write it ( they can be a Background ships ) :

✓✓ : it's a ship I KNOW

✓ : it's a ship I know we'll

~ : it's a ship where i'm not sure to write well

• : It's a ship where I don't read a lot of fic

| : Only in a platonic way

- Maxiel ( ✓)

- Brocedes (~)

- Yukierre (✓)

- Lesteban (✓)

- Webbonso(✓✓)

- Landoscar (~)

- Charlos (✓)

- Hulknussen (~)

- Galex ( ~ )

- Simi(•)

- Versainz ( | )

- CarCar ( | )

5. I'm okay with any type of trope except those who are illegal

6. I give myself the right to refuse requests

(I'll often give an explanation but I won't force myself to do it if I don't see the point)

7. I only write in the third person , I don't care if it's a pov omniscient, internal or external ( like you want )

8. I can write in English or in French

That's it !

You can ask me in " Writing request/ ask "

Bye ! 👋

[fatigue-d]

"His husband"

Chapters : 3/3

Words : 9 k

Tags : Fluff , domestic fluff , misunderstanding, wedding fluff , Hurt / comfort

SUMMARY:

Daniel had thought it was a dream when Max had called him that, but had he really just said that? A beatific smile formed on his lips as Max fell asleep, oblivious to the impact of his words.

Or 5 times Max inadvertently calls Daniel "his husband" and once he says it knowingly.

[fatigue-d]

"It's you , Despite everything, it's still you. "

Words: around 1k

Inspired by this amazing fanart by @padiduys :

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"IT'S YOU "

Mark gently brushed Fernando's cheek, his loving gaze shimmering in his eyes. The Spaniard took no notice, talking to Kimi about the upcoming race, his eyes full of challenge and his proud smile. He was a competitor, one of those rarely seen, those who live for glory, victory and, in his case, speed. It's all about speed, and always will be. And under these conditions, one wondered how a love affair could be created. But Fernando wasn't just a competitor, he wasn't just greedy, he was greedy too, and that was another sin, but don't hold that against him, he's human after all. In his greed, he had kept deep down his love for his friends, his family and Mark...

He cherished them and didn't want anyone to take them away from him, his sweet words in Spanish, his discreet caresses, his secret and often unexpected kisses, his freshly bought flowers from the local florist, his lame jokes, his charming smile. He dedicates them all to one person, whom he likes to call "Mine". Mark, too, appreciates this attention, moving in it, flanning like the sun, with the certainty that their love will fight anything.

Their love so sweet, their love so strong, their love so secret. Because, as Fernando had said a few lines earlier, he was greedy, and his greed manifested itself in his need for secrecy, for "their things", for lies.

After all, perfect love means discreet love.

" DESPITE EVERYTHING "

I'm not going to Ferrari," says Mark.

And his words destroyed everything. Absolutely everything, a chaos of screams, insults, annoyance, everything but crying. Because why cry over so little? He was just a colleague, after all, just a colleague....

Yet this sentence had been like a bomb, said in public, the atmosphere previously ecstatic, the moment now as if frozen by this sudden coldness.

Mark knew what he was getting into when he said this, because it wasn't Ferrari's refusal that had led to the dispute, it was the confirmation that next year, he would be retiring. That the words were heard by all only added fuel to the fire, for even if Fernando's greed was proven, Mark's was far greater. So when he destroyed the open secret, everything went with it.

Fernando had done his best to get him to stay, trying to convince him to change teams, to finally leave Red Bull, which no longer respected him. But he was tired, terribly tired, but his love for Fernando is intact. For, despite the fact that he was leaving, he had hoped to stay with him, to share his days and nights, and so had Fernando, but the separation was too strong, and sooner or later one of them would have cracked.

So it was on one of their dates that Mark accepted his sentence, knowing the consequences but unable to accept them. But if it wasn't him who put an end to it, it would have been Fernando, and that would have been far more heartbreaking and destructive. For Fernando loves passionately, a flame seemingly burning in his heart, fueling his will, his hope and his love. And Mark had plunged into it, unafraid of getting burned, but perhaps he should have, for now he could only see himself as a charred corpse.

So....

He said the word.

"It's over"

He bitterly regretted the second he said them, then knew he couldn't go back when Fernando cried in front of him. He'd never made him cry before, not from joy, not from sadness. He'd hoped the Spaniard's tears would flow when he proposed, the mark of his ring box still visible on his faded jeans. But he'd dreamed too much.

And when he'd left the restaurant, he too had felt drops on his cheeks, his vision blurred, but he hadn't noticed them. Probably too absorbed by the sadness he'd caused the man he loved, and would love forever, to feel.

" IT'S STILL YOU "

Seeing Fernando in a green outfit was confusing for him, as he was far too used to Ferrari's reds and Renault's bright blues. Yet this color suited him like a glove, as did all the others if you asked him, but I doubt you'd be interested in hearing a middle-aged man's monologues about his husband.

His beard was grayer than the last time they'd shared a podium, wrinkles adding to his face as age crept into both their lives.

It had made them mature, Mark hoped, they had seen each other again, after a long time, but they had still managed this small step after years of radio silence.

Their first conversations had been tinged with nostalgia, remorse, sometimes resentment, a strange taste of bitterness sticking to both men's palates. Yet Mark had recognized one thing he'd forgotten after their break-up, and that was gentleness.

The gentleness in Fernando's voice when he spoke of them, his smile, his touch, shorter than before but as comforting as ever. He'd created a portrait of the fearless, fearless Spaniard, but he'd completely overlooked a part of the Spaniard's personality.

His concern for his loved ones, his love of animals, his desire to advance the next generation, his muted anger, always more impactful than shouting.

All this less flamboyant side of the Spaniard had been forgotten after so many years. But it was this one that made him fall in love again, even more strongly than the first, because it was still him and had always been him.

And maybe now the ring on Fernando's hand would be the talk of the town, maybe this time the secret would be less guarded, maybe this time Mark wouldn't be able to deny it.

But it's about time, discretion has a limit and for Mark it stops at affection. For he has no intention of stopping dating Fernando for any reason as stupid as fear.

Fear of other people's gaze, fear of a distant and unpredictable future. Because he knew he had Fernando Alonso by his side, always by his side despite the passage of time.

Because it's him , despite everything, it's still him.

--------------

I hope you enjoyed it! Credit goes to @padiduys for his incredible fanart, I think my idea was pretty far from the fanart, but Fernando's smile was just too tender for me not to write about it.

[fatigue-d]

" His husband "

Chapter : 2/3

Words : 5500

Summary :

Tag : fluff , domestic fluff , misunderstanding

Daniel had thought it was a dream when Max had called him that, but had he really just said that? A beatific smile formed on his lips as Max fell asleep, oblivious to the impact of his words.

Or 5 times Max inadvertently calls Daniel "his husband" and once he says it knowingly.

[fatigue-d]

Because I almost screamed when I saw the news, you'd feel my despair :

He get jealous of euthanized dogs.

Word : around 500

Inspired by @allphatauri and his amazing fanart :

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Yuki took the news calmly, knowing deep down that he would not be chosen once again. Liam had never played a full season, nor beaten Yuki in the qualifying rounds, let alone reached his level. But the cycle repeated itself tirelessly, and despite all his huffing and puffing, crying and bleeding, the seat seemed so far away. Maybe it wasn't worth it, he knew what was waiting for him, just a second seat that would never trouble Verstappen. He'd seen it with Ricciardo and Pierre, completely decimated by the Dutchman, he didn't think he was up to his level. But nonetheless, the observation was the same:

He get jealous of the euthanized dogs.

How was this his fault? He'd been promised this seat since his arrival, he could die in it if he had to, the driver who took it having to force the steering wheel off Yuki's lifeless body. Christian knew, Helmut knew, everyone knew. Alpha Tauri had never really been his home, he'd performed for one purpose and one purpose only, that damned Red Bull seat. But in doing so, he had created his own gilded cage, become indispensable to the team, and needed to find a replacement if he was to finally have the chance to achieve his goal. But that wasn't up to him, as the phrase kept repeating in his head:

He get jealous of euthanized dogs.

He was still full of life, or so he hoped, he could still chase that batton he was told to catch. But in the back of his mind, he hoped he'd finally be able to rest, euthanasia was a rest like any other after all, it had the particularity of being eternal, that's all. He could already feel himself shuddering at the sting, his last ounce of life extinguished when he hadn't even been able to achieve a victory. But at least the deathbed he'd find himself on would be comfortable, bloody red, pinching yellow and deep black, as if to taunt the next puppy waiting his turn to die painlessly. But he wasn't there yet, the same blue-and-white blanket enveloping him as he watched his pairs join the destructive machine one by one under the bull's banner. His eyes attentive to every process, the desire to join him as soon as possible, but always with the same taste in his mouth:

He get jealous of euthanized dogs.

He knew one of them intimately, and Pierre made him believe he'd escaped the sweet breath of death. He didn't last long, his lifeless body quickly returning to the soft, warm blanket he'd once abandoned. Despite his ardor and eagerness to conquer all, there were times, in the dark Italian nights, when the scar of an injection adorned his shoulder, a constant reminder of who he was. Yuki had never dared touch her, even when the two of them were wearing their simplest clothes after a wild night out. The Frenchman never spoke of it, his eyes always gazing at Yuki with tenderness, knowing that he had yet to taste his slow, sinuous destruction by a team that would suck his talent down to the marrow, discarding him after his body had run out of energy, with only a swift, gentle and painless death to save him. Yet Yuki continued to huddle against his right flank, where he wore his death like an ornament, the Japanese man's eyes always pointed towards the mark he wanted to wear one day. After all:

He get jealous of euthanized dogs.

--------------------------------------------------

I hope Yuki gonna have his seat in RB a day , but now I need to scream or cry , or both.

[fatigue-d]

My early Christmas gift 🎁 :

CHRISTMAS LETTER

Ship : Yukierre ( Yuki X Pierre ) and Charlos ( Charles X Carlos ) in background

Tag : Fluff

Word : around 2000 words

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Yuki scanned the 'thing' in front of him with fear and curiosity. There were no other words to describe what looked like a pile of biscuits straight out of a Ketamine workshop. The smell of burning made the Japanese man cough as he opened the windows, sending a quick apology to his neighbours who would have to smell this filth on New Year's Eve.

Now it was time to look for the culprit of this culinary crime, so he chose not to throw the biscuits away despite the nauseating smell, and went to investigate. The first thing he found was Charles gazing lovingly at his partner, Carlos, dancing to the applause and laughter of the other guests. The Monegasque wasn't the most skilful with a whip or a knife, but he knew how to manage a minimum, he wasn't at his boyfriend's level, but as the days and months went by, his level had increased significantly.

Nevertheless, Charles had never tried his hand at pastry-making, and where Carlos excelled, Charles excelled, golf being a perfect example of that. The Spaniard could pride himself on having made some magnificent swings, while his companion struggled to hit the ball, dropping it three quarters of the time into the water, which made him wonder whether he should become a diver instead of a pilot. So the question arose, and Yuki was definitely not known for his tact.

"Charles? Did you bring us biscuits? It's nice, but it was definitely not necessary. Asked Yuki, pointing to the experiment that boasts the name of edible food.

- Oh, that! It was already here when Carlos and I came, we hesitated to throw it out but we kept it here because of the note next to it.

Yuki frowned at the Francophone's explanation, there had been no words when he'd seen the pile of 'defective' biscuits, perhaps he hadn't been paying enough attention? Or looked carefully enough? He thanked the older man for his answer and went to check the kitchen again, looking for the overcooked biscuits.

After having to greet at least five people to get to his favourite room in the house, he was surprised to discover that the pile had disappeared! He would have said good riddance, but with it, the paper that had intrigued him had also magically evaporated.

So he resumed his little investigation, this time in search of the mysterious thief or gourmet, although he doubted it very much, who had stolen a note that was surely intended for him. After all, everyone knew that the kitchen was Yuki's territory, and those who had forgotten must have remembered to their cost. Daniel sometimes stroked his head, remembering the blows he'd received from the Japanese when he'd let his greed do the talking on New Year's Eve last year. It had amused the crowd, but it had also made it clear that if anyone entered this sacred place without the Asian's permission, they would receive his wrath or worse.

The only one who was guaranteed never to receive any physical punishment was Pierre, the Frenchman who enjoyed immunity thanks to his status as, and I quote: "Boyfriend of the paddock's favourite gremlin". This made more than one person smile, especially Pierre who enjoyed his privilege as he saw fit, having fun annoying the Asian while he was cooking, distracting him either by showing him videos while he had to watch the dough, or by incorporating new ingredients himself. Luckily Yuki was a real chef, the Asian redoubling his ingenuity to hide his partner's blunders, often making his dishes even more succulent. Definitely, the duo worked like clockwork.

Well, not necessarily, or at least not any more, given the Frenchman's smile of both laughter and regret as he ventured into his partner's realm. His eyes averted, he placed the object of the Asian's covetousness in front of him, embarrassment showing on his face. In the end, Yuki didn't need to make any enquiries, the source came to him, perhaps he had such a force of attraction that problems were solved as soon as he knew they existed. He'd talk to Lance about it, I'm sure he'd understand.

"So? Did you make his biscuits? he asked, looking frankly unconvinced by his boyfriend's cooking skills.

- It was supposed to be a surprise, but Esteban's just tasted them, and he's throwing up in the toilet right now. So I thought I'd take them out quickly before you discover them. Explained the Frenchman with a slightly proud smile. Definitely, anything that could make the life of his French colleague more miserable was beneficial to him.

- Don't try to cook on your own again! You're wasting ingredients for nothing. exclaimed Yuki, Pierre's face breaking down at his boyfriend's remark.

- Come on Yuki! I wanted to please you! I even wrote you a little note! Pierre defended himself, taking the Japanese man in his arms and quickly stealing a kiss. Yuki let out a quick insult in his native tongue and his cheeks flushed at the chestnut's amorous gesture.

The Japanese man, finally overcome by his partner's murmurs of love, took the pretty decorated Christmas card from the older man's hands. The many drawings on it surprised him as he opened it, seeing his initials and Pierre's, his name in Japanese and a whole bunch of other terribly useless but endearing scribbles, which framed his boyfriend's message.

"Dear Yuki,

It's been 3 years since we celebrated our Christmas together, I would have told you that it's only the food that has embellished these moments with you, but you surely know that there are many other things.

Here's a non-exhaustive list:

• Your little mumbles in Japanese when you're angry or thinking

• Your habit of talking while you sleep (you've already confessed to me 4 times like that)

•Your cheeks that turn red as soon as it's less than 5 degrees.

•Your addiction to fry chicken

• Your Christmas jumpers that are too big (I've bought you a new one, by the way, look on our bed)

•Decorating the tree is becoming a competition with you

•Your long phone calls with your family, while you cry because you can't see your nieces (there's something waiting for you there with the jumper)

•Your fear of Father Christmas (it's just because he's bigger than you, admit it)

•Your collection of collector's snowballs.

And many more, but I don't have the space to write them all down.

Every holiday I spend with you makes me want to celebrate Christmas every day, just to see your excitement over the presents and the look of pride on your face when you see someone enjoying yours.

I hope we can all celebrate together.

Pierre, your beloved boyfriend

To my favourite elf."

Yuki felt tears fall down her cheeks, her vision blurring as a result. His boyfriend was sometimes stupid, even very stupid, but he loved him and it was during these moments that he remembered him the most.

"Me too.... He whispered as he leaned his head against the chest of the man he liked to call his soul mate, he'd never tell him, it would give him too much of a headache.

The Frenchman's heart quickened at his boyfriend's words, he hadn't expected him to cry, Pierre wasn't the best at comforting. But his arms would always be there to support him, whether in moments of joy or sadness, after all it was his duty as his boyfriend. And he would never fail in this task. Because Yuki deserved it, he deserved this tenderness and this love, and the Japanese man had to realise this sooner or later, because the Frenchman would remind him of it for the rest of his life.

- Is that all? I expected more, given everything I've written. Pierre commented with an amused smile, a lack felt deep inside him as he felt the youngest leave his arms.

- I've already complimented your shopping list enough! replied Yuki, trying to sound annoyed, the tears in the corner of his eyes making him lose all credibility.

Pierre laughed at his words, his hand taking the younger man's, leading them towards their bedroom where a gift wrapped on their bed was waiting, the Frenchman's apprehension growing as he saw Yuki quickly tear open the gift packet, his eyes lit up with curiosity.

These were soon extinguished by the tasteless garment in front of him. A picture of a shrinking man with the phrase "I love my PETIT-ami* " and the usual Christmas motifs in the background. He changed his jumper, however, putting on the new one, which was once again too big for him. He was sure that Pierre was now deliberately bringing back one size larger, but he was giving him the benefit of the doubt, after all he had taken the time to write him a letter.

While he was putting on his top, he saw some plane tickets at the bottom of the gift packet. Pierre had prepared a trip for them? But there were far too many, the date on the tickets had expired, and the destination was Italy. And just as he was about to question his boyfriend, the latter covered his eyes with his hands, whispering to him to turn round and wait a few seconds. Yuki hesitated to bite him, Pierre deserved to be bitten for the jumper, and was about to do so when Pierre took his hands away from his eyes, letting him see several people in front of him shouting "Suprise! ".

His vision finally clear, he recognised his niece running into his arms, her expression shocked as he turned towards Pierre who was smiling lovingly at him. The amazement in his eyes as he heard his family talking to him.

"It's not thanks to me, it's thanks to them. Pierre whispered, pointing to his nieces as he left to let Yuki enjoy her time with her family.

- Your Prince Charming took us on a tour of Italy! exclaimed the youngest.

- How did he do that?

He'd often complained to Pierre about not being able to see his nieces because of the time difference, or even the shopping schedules that never coincided with their school holidays.

- He called Mum on 3 November to talk about our trip. It took a while, but we managed! explained the taller of the two.

Yuki had felt hurt when Pierre hadn't wanted to spend the night with him after the victory, but that was to prepare his Christmas surprise.

The hours passed like that, his family and friends mingling under the mistletoe, the smell of gingerbread and the fir tree towering above them. Finally came the time to say goodbye, his close friends returning home while some of his family stayed in the many guest rooms.

And as he cradled his youngest niece, he spotted Pierre admiring them from the corner of the door. He finally finished his story over the snores of the youngest, and joined the one he could now call 'mine'.

The two whispered a sweet phrase to each other, close to falling into Orpheus's arms.

"Joyeux Noël Yuki"

" メリークリスマス Pierre"

End.

---------------

* Petit-ami = boyfriend in french and literally " Little friend ".

* Joyeux Noël = Merry Christmas, same for Yuki.

I'm reluctant to write another little one-shot like this, I had to do it for the Yukierre because I love this ship and it doesn't get enough attention. I hope you enjoyed it.