#As imperceptibly as grief

[apoemaday]

“As imperceptibly as Grief”

by Emily Dickinson

As imperceptibly as Grief The Summer lapsed away— Too imperceptible at last, To seem like Perfidy— A Quietness distilled As Twilight long begun Or Nature spending with herself Sequestered Afternoon— The Dusk drew earlier in— The Morning foreign shone— A courteous, yet harrowing Grace, As Guest, that would be gone— And thus, without a Wing Or service of a Keel Our Summer made her light escape Into the Beautiful.

[gennsoup]

As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away,-- Too imperceptible, at last, To seem like perfidy.

Emily Dickinson, As imperceptibly as grief

[aboutbirds]

As imperceptibly as Grief The Summer lapsed away — Too imperceptible at last To seem like Perfidy — A Quietness distilled As Twilight long begun, Or Nature spending with herself Sequestered Afternoon — The Dusk drew earlier in — The Morning foreign shone — A courteous, yet harrowing Grace, As Guest, that would be gone — And thus, without a Wing Or service of a Keel Our Summer made her light escape Into the Beautiful.

Emily Dickinson, "As imperceptibly as Grief," from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

[choctalksalot]

i think i want the kids a little more fucked up from ascending. i want god tiering to break you apart and put you back together with the same pieces in the wrong places, a nail in a coffin you were told was an altar. i want came back wrong but for the opposite of death

[philhoffman]

[sarahs-library]

Forgotten: Part Two

Azriel wakes to find himself with everything he'd never allowed himself to wish for. Now, faced with the reality of all he thought he wanted, he must come to terms with his desires and the unexpected direction his life had taken.

Word count - 3564

A/N - Thank you all so much for reading the first part of my little story and for all the lovely comments and words of encouragement. I'm still learning how to post and interact on here, a few people asked to be added to a taglist which I've tried to create but I'm not sure if it actually works.

Part One ☪ Part Three

Forgotten Universe: Pretty Eyes

Azriel

Azriel was still under Madja’s knurled fingers as they palpated his temples, the soothing chill of her healing magic drifted over tender, swollen skin. Her copper eyes assessed his face closely and he schooled his features into a blank mask. His gaze drifted over the curve of her shoulder to meet Rhys as he lingered by the open doors of the balcony. The bland smile, the loose set of his shoulders, and the hands that hung casually in the pockets of his trousers irked Azriel. After so many years it wasn’t difficult to read this feigned nonchalance, the worry it masked beneath.

“A lingering effect of the head injury, exacerbated by the bloodsbane.” Madja’s fingers continued to probe as Azriel returned his attention to her. Thickness lingered on his tongue; left over from the medication she’d administered on her arrival to reign in his fever. His head felt clearer now, where his shadows had been silent before they sang again, murmuring of the almost imperceptible anxious shift of Rhys’ weight on the floorboards. Elsewhere the House of Wind was quiet and empty, Elain having fled into Rhys’ arms with a demand to be winnowed home without sparing a glance in his direction. Azriel had been left to stew in solitude until his brother had returned with the ancient healer tucked in his arms, greying spindrift hair windswept, her face lined with wrinkles and kind concern.

“Some amnesia isn’t uncommon with an injury like this,” Madja continued finally pulling her hands away from his face. “Though to ascertain its true extent you must tell us what you remember shadow-singer.” She retreated from him into the chair Elain had occupied earlier, righted by Rhys, and slowly lowered herself on creaking joints. Azriel balked a little under the attention as he tried to force himself to recollect. Pain brewed between his eyes. He remembered the visit to Hewn City, the scheming; the gifting of Nesta’s made blade to Eris. He remembered the solstice party, the disaster of his foray with Elain afterward, and his brother’s wrath. The ensuing weeks had been busy, his mornings occupied with training the Valkyries and concocting obstacle courses modeled after the Blood Rite qualifier. The afternoons and evenings spent keeping tabs on Eris and following up on the dead leads from whispers and fables of high-fae women bearing winged babes. Everything after was hazy, difficult to hold, and worsened the pain in his head if he tried to focus for too long.

“Feyre,” he said, and Rhys cocked an eyebrow, his face encouraging him to continue. “We were following leads on the delivery of winged babes.” The darkening of Rhys’ features filled Azriel with a sense of foreboding. “Feyre,” he continued, “is she…Is the babe...” He trailed off, unsure of how to broach the topic. Rhys’ features softened, understanding his brother had misinterpreted the emotion to be driven by his grief and loss and not for the male before him. Shoulders pulled forward in a rare display of vulnerability, scarred fingers clasping his knees for stability, Rhys struggled to recall a recent memory of seeing his brother so open, so vulnerable. He hadn’t seen him this lost since their youth in the war camps.

“Feyre,” Rhy drawled, fixing Azriel with what he hoped was an abating expression. “And the babe, we named him Nyx, they’re both well. Perfect.” Rhys watched his brother process the information, the small twitch of the corner of his mouth the only sign of his surprise. Watched as Azriel came to terms with the missing months in the timeline, Feyre still had half of her pregnancy to go during the solstice. How would he even begin to broach the missing years? “You don’t remember anything about the attack?” Rhys probed, Azriel bristled under the line of questioning.

“No.” His fingers danced over his injured abdomen and trailed the bandages before climbing up to rub over the empty feeling in his chest, worse than any wound he’d ever gotten. It left him feeling cold and empty. The glint of his rings caught his eye. The signet on his little finger embossed with the Night Court symbol, a gift from Rhys centuries ago declaring him part of his found family, rubbed against an unfamiliar band of gold.

Feyre

Feyre locked eyes with Nuala as she crouched over Nyx playing with his toys on the carpet. The shadow-wraith stepped silently over to them and greeted the young heir to the Night Court with a small smile, producing a plate of homemade biscuits warm from the oven and smelling of cinnamon. Nyx fixed her with his cerulean eyes and toothy smile, cheeks chubby from the lingering fat of youth. Reaching out to fist the crumbling treat in one hand he thanked her, proceeding to get more crumbs in the creases of his clothes than he did in his mouth. Feyre’s heart swelled.

“I’ll be back soon,” she reached out to stroke his midnight hair as his arms waved, one brandishing a small wooden figure and the other his half-eaten treat.

“Okay, mama.” His eyes were drawn to her briefly before he returned to his imaginary world, moving his wooden figure into position to conquer the high ground of his drawing table, covered in drying paint and charcoal pencils.

“You’ll behave for Nuala won’t you?” Nyx nodded eagerly in agreement and proceeded to clash the figurine in his hand against a triangle formation of his enemies with a sound of delight. Feyre rose, leaning close to thank the shadow-wraith on her way to the door. After taking an indulgent glance backward she stepped into the breach, winnowing to a familiar path on the outskirts of Velaris.

Well-manicured grass thick with morning dew poked through the paving stones Feyre stepped between on the way up to the front door. The lower level was in darkness, the windows blending into the dark stone and winding vines. The second level blazed, fae light seeping out of the floor-to-ceiling windows though Feyre saw no movement.

The dark wood of the door opened on a wind under her fist, poised to knock, and Feyre took the invitation to enter. The foyer offset the chill of the early morning air and she made a beeline towards the dark staircase. The open door allowed a beam of sunlight into the sitting area, dark with the curtains drawn, illuminating the comfortable leather chairs perched around the large fireplace.

Feyre eyed the portrait hanging above the mantle, a solstice gift to Azriel the year after his mating ceremony, her heart ached. Depicting the moment after the vows had been said and the food exchanged, hands clasped between them bound by thick dark ribbon, Feyre remembered agonizing for days over how to properly encapsulate onto the canvas the shared look of love and adoration. Feyre couldn’t imagine how you had coped over the last few days, in the last months of pregnancy sitting vigil at Azriel’s bedside wondering if he would wake up. Presumably elated to hear he had awake, only to find him in the arms of another woman, one with whom he shared such history.

Continuing up the stairs to the second floor Feyre followed the fae lights towards the front of the house. The door to the nursery was ajar and she stopped short of the threshold. Your back was to her, one hand tracing the soft carved wood of the bassinet Azriel had spent every spare moment painstakingly crafting. The scent of fresh paint hung in the air, leftover from a few weeks ago when the pair of you decorated the walls with murals of snow-capped mountains, lush forest greenery, and frolicking animals.

Suspended over the bassinet in a sea of miniature stars hung multicolored globes, each spinning on their invisible axis. The spiraling constellation, you’d called it a galaxy, held all the planets known to your people. Feyre wondered how many you’d seen in your trips across the stars as you reached up into the field of magic closest to you to trace your fingers over a small planet of russet brown cratered with darker swirls.

“Rhys told me what happened.” Feyre watched as you continued to agitate the floating sphere. You didn’t turn. She crept closer into the room, torn between giving you space and reaching out in comfort. She waited with bated breath to see if you would respond before continuing. “It’s the head injury, he doesn’t remember.”

“He had no idea who I was.” The hand that hung in the stars moved to cradle your abdomen. “He would’ve…” You trailed off. The posturing, the aggression, there was no doubt at that moment Azriel viewed you only as a threat, a stranger, someone who had invaded his home. That was not the male who had doted on you only a week before, hands cradling you gently as his lips brushed your soft skin singing low lullabies to your unborn babe.

“Elain was at the River House earlier,” Rhys had dropped her there with a rushed explanation before disappearing again. “She feels awful, she wanted to come and apologise.” Feyre wasn’t sure why she brought up Elain, as soon as the words were out of her mouth she realised she’d made a grave miscalculation.

“I don’t care what Elain wants right now Feyre.” The temperature in the room plummeted as you finally turned to look at her. For a moment the air in the room thinned and Feyre struggled against the pressure of the vacuum that forced her to exhale. As quickly as it came the atmosphere in the room returned to normal and she sucked in a shaky breath through her teeth.

“I know, I know. I didn’t mean it like that.” Feyre tried to keep her voice low and soothing, pinned under your gaze as she edged closer, reaching out to place an open palm on your arm. “Madja’s with him now, she says that all this is to be expected. When Rhys spoke to her earlier she said these things usually resolve themselves with time.” Your thumb traced gentle circles on your swollen belly.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a little short on that right now.” The anger in your tone was undermined by the tears threatening to spill. Realising there wasn’t anything she could say Feyre moved to pull your body against her own. Arms encircling you in a comforting embrace, she rubbed her fingers between your shoulder blades. You moved to hold her back, resting your face in the space where her neck met her shoulder as you let the tears fall. “What am I going to do?” Your voice was thin and watery, in the time Feyre had known you she’d never heard you speak with so little conviction.

“We’re going to figure this out.” She pulled away slightly and clasped your face between her hands, forcing you to meet her gaze. “I promise. You have all of us, you’re not alone in this. We’ll do everything we can for you, both of you.” Nodding you sniffed, pulling away. Feyre let you go as you turned your attention back out to the window, eying the gilded disc of the sun as it rose across the Valaris skyline.

“I’m heading to the House of Wind,” Feyre continued to observe you as you tracked the ascent. “Would you like to come?” You moved closer to the window. On the opposite side of the city you could see the grand mountain range and it’s carved residence. Through the morning mist blanketing the base a large, winged figure rose, angling to land on one of the balconies.

“I don’t think I can look at him right now.” Feyre acquiesced her desire to push you to come with her.

Azriel

After Madja had left Rhys with strict instructions regarding Azriel’s rehabilitation over the next couple of days, he’d supported his brother’s weight while they made slow progress to the bathroom. Azriel’s limbs felt stiff, uncharacteristically uncoordinated and he concentrated on remaining upright and shuffling one foot in front of the other.

Steam rose from the bath the House had prepared, swirling to meet the shadows that seeped down his arm as Azriel braced one hand on the edge of the tub. Using the other he edged the loose cotton trousers down over his thighs until they pooled at his feet. Fingers tugged at the cotton on his abdomen to find purchase, loosening and unwinding until the bandaging fell away to reveal an angry pink scar, jagged and stark against tanned skin.

“Want me to wash your back?” Rhys shot him a cheeky grin, but the mirth in his voice didn’t reach his eyes. Azriel appreciated the effort, this small attempt at normalcy. He shot his brother an obscene gesture before raising one leg to step into the tub, thigh muscles twitching as he shifted into the hot water. Using his arms to brace his weight he started to lower himself in, descending too quickly they struggled to hold him up causing a wave of bathwater to soak the floor. Azriel sunk under the warmth of the water, allowing it to soothe him.

“We’ll be in the dining room, come down when you’re ready.” His shadows had already informed him of Cassian and Nesta’s arrival, he assumed the rest of his family wouldn’t be far behind. Azriel nodded, avoiding Rhys’ gaze, pretending to study the shadows roiling over the water. In the mirror on the opposite wall, Azriel watched Rhys’ reflection as he opened his mouth as if to speak, no sound coming out as he considered, before closing it again and disappearing through the doorway.

Dressing had been an arduous process, though no longer stiff and painful his muscles had a weakness that he wasn’t used to. After struggling into the tight second skin of his fighting leathers he felt more himself. Finding truth-teller laid out in its holster on the dresser he strapped it to his thigh. His shadows, now a fuller cohort with the effects of the bloodbane leaving his system, were a thick tangle of moving darkness, sour and agitated in solidarity with their master.

Despite his interrogation, they hadn’t offered him any useful information, it caused Azriel great frustration when they took the stance of purposeful vagueness or outright ignored him. He sent them ahead down the corridor to scout out the dining room only to be turned around by a shield of impenetrable night. Whatever conversations were going on in that room, Rhys did not want him privy to them. His own family, keeping secrets. It left a bad taste in Azriel’s mouth, a sense of betrayal in his chest that sat next to the empty feeling he was growing accustomed to, a limb he didn’t know he had until it was missing.

Azriel reached the closed door, the thick night dissipating as he progressed, the sound from beyond the door returned but he heard no voices. Just the sound of breathing and the clink of porcelain as someone set a cup on a saucer. Rhys must have informed them of his impending arrival. He pushed the door open and took in his family.

Cassian, Nesta, Rhys, Feyre and Amren all sat at the table which had been used for family dinners before the River House was built. Their faces were carefully blank as he assessed them all. Mor was notably absent, information Azriel tucked away, either her efforts across the continent were still ongoing or some other manner of business had her attention. He hadn’t expected to see Elain, not after her spectacular display of anger, but he couldn’t help the feeling of unease and disappointment it left in his gut.

“Finally, the invalid graces us with his presence. Took you long enough,” Cassian sent him an easy grin, arms folded across his stomach as he lounged in his chair. Azriel scowled in response which only made his brother’s smile wider. This had always been Cassian’s modus operadi, an invitation to be provoked into a physical outlet if that’s what was needed, thinly veiled under jibes he rarely meant at heart. For a moment, Azriel considered taking up the unspoken offer, if only to delay what was undoubtedly going to be an uncomfortable conversation.    

“Azriel,” it was Feyre who spoke, offering him a small smile, “Why don’t you join us?” Azriel understood that it wasn’t an invitation and slid into the seat next to Amren. His eyes met Nesta’s who sat across from him. They’d reached a tentative understanding, perhaps it could be considered a friendship, in the months he could recall. He remembered her joy at receiving the solstice gift he’d gotten for her, the resulting rare display of physical affection.

Looking at her now, face resolute and stony with blazing anger behind her eyes, barely contained, he had the sense that something had damaged the dynamic between them. He purposely looked away, instead fixing his eyes on Rhys; then Feyre. He waited for someone to speak, break the almost oppressive silence. He half-expected it to be Cassian again, with some throwaway comment or badly timed joke, but it was Rhys who cleared his throat.

“Azriel, thank you for joining us.” Azriel raised an eyebrow at the formality but stayed silent. “There are some matters we need to discuss.”

“Clearly.” He trailed his eyes over his family again, they all seemed uncomfortable to be here, to be around him. As if they knew he was going to react badly to whatever they were going to say. Rhys let his remark go, seeming resolute to power ahead with the conversation.

“What you showed me of your recent memories,” he continued, eyes drifting to Feyre who gave him an encouraging smile. “Lead us to believe that the memory loss is more extensive than we originally feared. Azriel, what you showed me – it was more than five years ago.” Azriel barely seemed to move under the scrutiny of their gazes. He’d lost years of his life. In the grand scheme of his immortality it felt like nothing, but looking at his family and realising that they lived in a future he didn’t remember left him feeling sick.

Azriel tried to find some rational thought to hold onto as he spiralled. He fell back onto the only thing he could rely on, his role as the Night Court’s spymaster. “Was it the work of the Queens? The attack?”

“The debacle on the continent has been resolved, for the most part. It was only supposed to be a routine investigation, nothing too strenuous or time-consuming given your current…” Rhys paused. “Situation. You were gathering information on some remaining rebellious factions, we didn’t anticipate that you would meet that kind of resistance, that they would have the resources. We’re sorry Az, we never meant for any of this to happen.”

“And what exactly is my current situation, Rhysand? What do you have to apologise for?” Azriel’s voice was low and dangerous. Amren snorted at the display, reaching for her wine glass. He expected a scathing remark, but it never came as Rhys shot her a look, and in a rare moment of deference she adhered as he implored her to remain silent.

“The female that was in the house earlier-“

“The thief.” Azriel interrupted.

“No,” Feyre cut in before Rhys could continue. “Her name is Y/N, and she’s your mate Az. The situation,” Feyre seemed to find describing it as such distasteful, but she continued. “Is that she is pregnant, with your child. That’s why we’re sorry, if we knew how dangerous it would be we never would have asked you to go alone.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Three brothers for three sisters, that was what Azriel had always thought about, always dreamed. The cauldron blessing him with undeniable proof that, though not blood-related, he and his brothers were three equal parts in the eyes of fate. He’d wanted that, seeing how happy they were in their relationships filled him with bone-deep envy. Observing from the sidelines as Rhys and Feyre prepared for the new addition to their family with vigour, as Cassian and Nesta had danced around each other in slowly shrinking circles. The other halves of their souls. That should have been him and Elain, never mind the mockery of the bond Vanserra thought they had. Azriel knew it was a mistake, a sick joke that would all work out in the end because there was no other way it could be. Three brothers for three sisters.

He wanted it all. A house on the outskirts of the city, filled with the sweet scent of Elain’s baking and made beautiful by the flowers she cultivated in their gardens. Filled with sunlight and happiness, somewhere to retreat from the darkest corners of his life. He’d dreamed of that life in the secret hours of the dawn, of a future where the issues of Feyre’s pregnancy had been resolved and perhaps their home was filled with the noise of children.

Now he had awoken in a future where he had those things, a mate, an unborn babe on the way, only to find it wasn’t with whom he desired. Elain, whom he had woken in this world for, who had been so tender in his first moments of consciousness, who had kissed him back. Azriel couldn’t imagine choosing to build that life with anyone else.   

A/N - Phew! I know, the angst was real. I promise it will get better, but there's definitely a long way to go here! Part three is in the works, not sure when it will be finished but hopefully it won't be too long.

Tag list: @kalulakunundrum @impossibelle @we-were-beautiful @going-through-shit @mulansaucey @sv0430 @naturakaashi @amygdtjhddzvb @airstrip-0 @acourtofsmutandstarlight @myheartfollower @whyonearthisyourusernamethi-blog @valencia-rou @amysangel @furiousbooklover @phoenixgurl030 @imnotsiriusyouare @i-am-infinite

[starrylevi]

Levi doesn’t realize he’s shaking, not until you’re placing a gentle hand over his own. He immediately meets your gaze and you see the horror and grief in his sliver blue eyes. “It’s okay.” You whisper softly, trying to soothe him. “It’s over.” Levi continues to stare at you for a moment, still shaking but the intensity of it lowers. “You don’t have to fight anymore.” You continue, pressing your lips to his temple, over his bandage. If you weren’t so close to him you wouldn’t have heard the almost imperceptible sigh come out of his mouth. The silence that follows from him is him pondering your words. He’s always been a soldier and has lived in a constant state of hyper vigilance. He doesn’t know anything but war. But not anymore, all that’s left is you. Only you. And in that moment, he’s never felt more at peace.

[nautilusopus]

okay FIIIIIINE i'll throw my hat into the Goncharov ring

Been a while i've done a proper movie breakdown, may as well be this one.

Rather surprisingly (but perhaps not too surprisingly given the unexpected renaissance of things like the original Dracula and Breaking Bad on this website out of seemingly nowhere and with very little prompting), I'm seeing a lot of new people suddenly interested in Martin Scorsese's seminal film classic Goncharov, originally released in 1973. Obviously a movie like that doesn't make it coming up on 50 years without generating a lot of discussion about the different ways the movie resonates and why, but coming into it in 2022 there's been so much cultural cruft that's collected around Goncharov that (similar to stories like Fight Club and Scarface) it's a little hard to parse what it's actually about with all the mythologising that's gone on around the characters.

Those movies, in one way or another, are about portraying the downfall of their protagonists -- Fight Club's after ironically creating another system of control and dehumanisation and becoming what he sought to destroy, Scarface's after being consumed by the wealth and power he's amassed. A lot of people assume it's that kind of story, because aren't most well-loved movies? However, I think this is ironically an assumption made because of the genre of film it is. All the people that aren't going, "OMG Goncharov is so cool and badass and fucks bitches," are going, "WOW I can't believe Goncharov is a cautionary tale about power corrupting," and in the process people miss that Goncharov is first and foremost about loss, in all its different forms.

I'm both kind of surprised and frustrated people miss this, given how utterly pervasive the movie is with its clock symbolism -- it's the one thing everyone remembers about it, it was in all the tie-ins. I dunno, maybe that got funneled back into the theory where they're meant to reinforce how Goncharov is just a mortal man at the end of the day, which is fine I guess, but the movie overall becomes a lot clearer when you interpret it through the lens of, "These things are gone and you can never get them back; clocks don't go backwards."

One of the most fascinating things about the movie is how every character embodies a different kind of loss. I'm gonna ease into this and start not with Goncharov but with:

Rybak, who is usually associated with loss as we typically think of it, i.e. the loss of loved ones via death. This comes up all the time, either in his trust issues (why he's being such a prick at the wedding), in the card game (he never bothers to bet much money, knowing he's bad at poker, and still loses all the same). Rybak is terrified of loss, cannot manage it, and ultimately is punished by losing what few people he had left and then being spared by Lorenzo who deems him punished enough, and is forced to survive, to grapple with what his life is now without them.

Goncharov's is actually more subtle, and it's loss of small, insignificant things as a result of the larger losses he believes he's processed. This is something that's frequently contrasted against Rybak. The pawn shop going under is actually a microcosm of this whole thing. Goncharov anticipates that this is obviously going to lead to financial issues for him, plans accordingly to deal with this, and... it works! He's saved! Except that means card games can't be hosted at his place anymore, given it's burned to the ground. Does this matter, in the grand scheme of his life? No, of course not. Poker night still gets had all the same. But it is different now, and always will be. Little things like this continue to add up, until something as insignificant as a towel -- a towel that never should have been in his room, but Sofia is no longer there to drop off his laundry and chat with him -- is ultimately the final nail in a coffin built of insignificant splinters, each one an imperceptible change underneath the much more larger, noticeable story beats of things like grief.

Otto is the big obvious one I'm not gonna linger on: loss of his youth, moments in the past that he wants to redo but can't. Most people at least seem to have gotten this one.

(This is also what the clocks get associated with a lot, which again, doesn't NOT make sense but also if it were just for this one character that, while thematically important, was honestly just a side character with limited screentime and only two scenes, would they really be all over the movie before Otto's name is even mentioned?)

Sofia's a bit abstract, and is the loss of self -- of the familiar anchors we have to who we are, what we think our core principles are, our place in society, who we want to be to our loved ones -- and by the time she dies she is rendered utterly unrecognisable to herself, and is horrified by it. She grieves herself the same way Rybak grieves his wife (even gets a direct visual callback via the way her face is lit when she's burning Lorenzo's check). You see echoes of this in Goncharov as well, but while Sofia is grieving the person she used to be, Goncharov is grieving the world around him (even though really, it's the same world it always was -- time keeps ticking on, one second per second, and neither one of them can ever un-fire that gun).

Lorenzo, tragically, gradually loses his freedom (and maybe in a parallel world would actually be the protagonist of a movie where he chokes on his own hubris like everyone seems to think Goncharov is GRUMBLE GRUMBLE). As he comes into his own more and more by his family's legacy, he is afforded fewer and fewer options about what decisions he can even make. Arguably he was doomed from the start, but the further he clings to power as a means to freedom, the more it drives him to destroying everything he ever (thought he) cared about. The tragedy of his character, and what makes him a good villain, is that he can clearly see what he is doing to himself and he absolutely hates it (his walking out early at the wedding is a tacit admission of this), but his absolute refusal to accept loss, to accept grief and pain and all the awful shit that comes with the human condition, is what causes him to toss aside every out he has because if he has enough CONTROL over his situation, surely he will never have to lose anything ever again. But, really, he already has.

I dunno. Goncharov is one of those movies that is great, and everyone seems to realise it's great, but nobody ever really puts into words why, and that's how you get Fight Club fans lmao. And it sucks because the actual discussion around the movie beyond "it's another hubris story but REALLY GOOD guys" is so much more fascinating and a much more earnest emotional truth that just never gets talked about.

[orangeave]

not even ghosts are this empty

wednesday addams x gn!reader

summary: you dug a grave for two but you lay in the casket alone.

words: 1.2k

orange speaks: part two to the great war, with more angst (whoops?). hope y'all enjoy.

Plumes of smoke echo slowly out of your mouth, the blunt in your hand burning the edges of your fingers. You make no move to ease the subtle ache, secretly enjoying the weight of the blisters that form in their wake. A cough flowers in your throat when you inhale the sharp sting of night air afterwards but you hold it in place, forcing it to expand downward to create a rattle in your chest. It encompasses the entirety of your ribcage, swallowing the meat of your organs whole. 

The sensation is fleeting and you mourn it as it fades. There’s an emptiness that follows, one you’re making an unwilling acquaintance with since you left Wednesday’s dorm those short months ago. Time has been infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things, passing by in hiccups of memory that never truly stick. 

The first few days following that night go by in denial, refusing to believe you had lost her. A hollow ticking resounding in your ears proves it to be true; vaguely signaling a countdown that tells you that you now carry a solar flare where your heart should reside, and it’s only a matter of time before it implodes. 

Loving Wednesday isn’t easy but neither is letting her go, and when the denial dwindles into tormenting acceptance, you are left with only the ghosts of her. They haunt each corner of your existence – both mental and physical – creating dark circles beneath your eyes that resemble tattoos more than they do skin. 

You attempt to exorcise Wednesday from your being and the vacancy within you becomes a cathedral; you pray at its illusionary, cobblestone steps but you are bent at the knees before a false god, incapable of offering reprieve. Wraiths have risen in relief’s stead – fallen too far to be ghosts any longer – and they are starving, snarling at the altar of your shortcomings. You will find no peace here when your body, laden with a lifetime of grief that ages you, is pirouetting upon crumbling earth. 

Resorting back to the roach in your trembling hands, you yearn for it to bring some semblance of life into the space you ache to fill. As you exhale, a shadow gathers in your peripheral in the shape of a girl you cannot escape. 

“I see you’ve come to dislike functioning lungs.” Wednesday dishes out, coming to stand by your sitting limbs that stretch out into the pond in front of you. Fathoming why she’s here, in the spot that once belonged to the two of you, is something you can’t grasp. 

Casual conversation is the last thing you want to participate in. It feels cheap; hollow. You deserve more than astute observations and meaningless slights. Something she’s averse to giving you, it seems, and the part of you that continues to die in its place hates her for it.

Youthfulness is forgotten when you are a rotting carcass forcing itself to breathe to a tempo that no longer comes naturally, dangling on flimsy strings that Wednesday commands, waltzing to the tune of her desires. A puppet master is what she is and you find no solace in this dance, not when the past lingers so close to the surface; of who you were to each other but will seldom be again. 

“Something like that.” You monotone, a slight shrug lifting your shoulders. 

There’s a tense set to her own shoulders at your response, the lack of expression in your voice pulling her entire body taut. A vengeful part of you revels in it, only to diminish into nothingness just as quickly, as everything else before it has. 

Your desolate eyes finally raise to meet Wednesday’s, causing hers to widen almost imperceptibly. They trace the heavy bags beneath your lashes then down to your still shaking hands and you come to understand her astonishment because up till now, you’ve managed to avoid her – a feat you were proud of. 

“Y/N…” She murmurs, reaching out for you. Wednesday’s fingers barely get the chance to brush against your arm before you’re recoiling away from the touch, water splashing up into your lap from where your legs hang in the pond. 

Oh, god.

There’s something to be said about the inbetween of dreams and reality; a certain dissonance that easily perpetuates the disruptive cognitive faults which riddle a half-aware person that the past haunts. Nightmares of memory which lead to dark, twisting backdrops that muddy the truth and serve to create monstrosities of unchecked thoughts. 

Falling asleep has always been a terrifying experience for you. In a moment's notice, you are suddenly the backseating, side character in the fluttering reel of torment plagued by the emergence of day. You have absolutely no control over the fate of each suffering you were forced to face and only hold the capacity to watch as it unfolds once again.

You are not asleep but you have spent the past months half-awake, and Wednesday’s touch yanks you right back to that night where your roles were in reverse. The details are still so fresh and it’s too much. It’s not fair the hold she has on you even now. 

“No, you don’t get to do this. Not now.” Your voice cracks, clumsily lifting your limbs from murky depths and rising to your full height. Water cascades down your form, leaving you shivering in the night air. A gasp chokes in your throat, panic seizing you and the ticking in your ears reaches a deafening roar. “I- After all this time, why now?”

Wednesday hesitates, the pause hanging in the air between you.

“Say something!” You bellow, panic turning into anger at her silence.

She shrinks back as you close the distance between you and it is wholly unlike her but you ignore it, invading her space. 

“I will never be good enough for you, will I?” You unevenly gasp out, realizing a long forgotten truth, “I plead, and I bargain, and I sacrifice, in the name of love. To heal the cracks in our façade but you stand before me, stoic as the day I met you, and give absolutely nothing in return.”

Her eyes follow your stance, expression shuttering to impassive and unseeing – hollow in a way you’ll never be able to change. All the anger drains out of you and when she goes to finally respond, mouth tentatively opening as she comes to know the sickness sinking beneath your mirage that you were never able to cleanse, you simply shake your head. 

In loving and losing her, you have lost yourself. You no longer know how to breathe air she does not exhale and disgust flares at who you’ve become; at who you’ve let her make you. Some cowardly thing, bent to the whims of a devil in the disguise of a god. 

Love is a fickle thing, so easily transforming into a monstrous being when betrayal hangs heavy in the space once wrought with the finer side of a bottled heaven. The feeling you welcome in love’s place should terrify you – for a moment, it does – but power is a corrupter in the hands of a widow. 

The implosion within you is beautifully damning – strings held in commandeering fingers snap, the corpse of you reborn in the ash of your submissiveness; flesh of the burnt coagulating into an armor made to pressurize the weight of your footsteps until the force of them cracks the earth, widening the gap of reality between the duality of life and death till it is but a mere phantom pain. 

Say, what’s a soul really worth?

You’ve already lost everything, what’s a little more? 

(– vultures have come to feast upon your bones; only the vulture is you and you’ve gorged upon yourself.)

[pinkandgoldensoul]

CL#16 || Secret Motives || Oneshot

Navigation || Masterlist

If this is your first time here on this blog, please check the Disclaimers here.

pairing: charles leclerc x female f1 driver!reader plot: nothing in your life came easy, and so did f1: facing hardship in your first year at Alfa Romeo, you are met with a familiar face, Charles'. Supporting each other and spending time together will inevitably bind two souls that seemed meant to be or, as someone could put it, that were predestined. genre: friends to lovers, angst, fluff and comfort !tw!: mention of death (not reader's), mentions of grief, dieting and struggles with self-image, car crash, swearing, insecurities If any of the things above might trigger you, please DO NOT INTERACT. Take care of your mental health and stay away from triggers, please ♥ other notes: set in an alternative-not-really-defined 2023 season word count: 19.1k (feel free to use dividers to split the reading into chunks!)

Hope you enjoy it ♥ If you do, please let me know! Thanks in advance to whoever will like, reblog and comment!

Black. Blank. Silence. Calm. After speed, tension and rush, after the chaos and the endless chasing of time, after the high-pitched sound of the engine pierced in your brain as a usual background noise, mixed to the incessant heartbeats dictating sharp breaths, at last, stillness came. A peaceful void.

The voices of the press, of other people's expectations, of your team’s, of yours, they dissipated under the heat of the Spanish sun and they flew away with the wind's gusts. They were nothing but an agglomeration of words, sounds without shape, content without form, thus lacking meaning. You weren't underwater, but it felt like it: floating, soft, every sensation coming to you muffled, delayed, lightened.

You blinked. Imperceptibly moving your fingers, you listened to the rhythm of your heartbeats slowing down, as adrenaline gradually decreased. Your heart was pulsing harder, compelled to pump more blood in a reduced pace. «...okay? Y/n, are you okay? Can you hear me?» You heard your engineer's voice without listening. He didn't sound that worried, to be honest. You didn't care that much either. «Y/n, radio check.» A warm flush radiated through your cheeks, a tickling feeling formed in your throat, and you let out a choked cry: you were suffocating. «Can you hear me?» You let out a cough, unable to breathe. Was it… it? Was that how it felt like to die? At the thought, your mind emptied once again, enjoying the kaleidoscope of light dots dancing before your eyes in a disorganized pattern.

A sudden yelp of the crowd partly awoke you. You'd had a crash. Your car had smashed against the wall at turn 14, probably at around 120 kph; your hands had immediately left the steering wheel before the impact and were now lying lifeless onto your lap, unable to move and possibly switch the radio on, in case you could talk. But you couldn't. Not a single word would come out of your lips, parted under the balaclava, either to speak or try to breathe.

Right as you gave up to the choking clench, expecting it to hurt, to release the pressure building up in your throat and drift into unconsciousness, you noticed a shadow protecting you from the intense heat of the sun. Something tugged your seatbelt and, as soon as it loosened, your whole chest took the most out of that freedom, spasming in search of air, while panting and coughing. Something turned into a pair of hands grabbing your shoulders and carefully squeezing them, probably to get a reaction out of you. Gasping for air, you finally raised your head and your sight welcomed a bright, deep red suit, occupying your entire vision; some muffled words came from the Ferrari driver and got mixed with your engineer's voice, who kept trying to assess your state. Then, in a moment of radio silence, you captured the message of the man screaming under his helmet. Are you okay? For a second, you felt the impulse sent by your brain which asked your muscles to smile. Dying inside your cockpit after a crash, staring at his sparkling eyes could've been... sweet. Your seat in Alfa Romeo would've never been questioned again; your career in F1 would've come to a stop not due to the media's opinion or the team’s decision; you would've been remembered, politics and discussions aside, female or not. Everything you had been wanting to fix in your life, every bad habit, regret, nostalgia and sadness would disappear. But after giving in to the idea for hundredths of seconds, you immediately swept the thought away: how irrational and terribly stupid to think death could solve anything. And the mere possibility it could be used to enhance the narration of "women cannot drive in F1 and y/n's death is a clear example of it" killed you more than G force ever could. The face of your mother covered in tears while watching the race, sitting on the couch and sniffling with a tissue in hand started haunting you without a break. And watching him, bent over, trying to rescue you, eyes wide in alarm, couldn't help but make you feel miserable and ridiculous for even considering such a scenario.

With a shaking hand, you gestured your difficulties in breathing, bringing it near the throat. FUCK! A yell of frustration from him, another pant of struggle from you. Charles needed to get you out of the car, but didn’t know whether you had trouble walking, if your legs were fine after the shunt towards the barrier, if you would pass out while he was panicking trying to decide what to do. He carefully placed his hands under your armpits, beginning to lift you up; he did it with ease as you matched the movement and his effort with your hands and feet. «Oh dear! We’re so glad to see y/n out of the car!» As you kept breathing erratic and frenzy, Charles frenetically reached under your chin to help you remove the helmet and got rid of your balaclava, so that you could have an easier access to fresh air. «And we can see that Leclerc is taking off y/n’s helmet with quite a bit of rush! Hopefully everything’s okay…»

You inhaled and exhaled quite harshly, brows knitted in the effort and the struggle of the task; Charles’ hands prevented your chest from bending forward and crouching down, keeping you up and steady despite your body’s will to cave in. «Right now, Charles Leclerc is… calling for some help from the marshals, I think.» «SHE NEEDS HELP, come on!» The visor of his helmet was lifted, so that you could see his eyes searching for reassurances, which you were unable to provide. His concern pained you and only made you hyperventilate more, trying to get to talk. «Does your back hurt? Is it your ribs? Your head?» he kept asking with insistence and worry. The lost and shattered look inside your eyes gave a simple answer: You had no idea.

«Yeah, he’s gesturing towards them, he wants them to come closer… And look, he’s talking to her, probably making sure she’s alright.»

«Try breathing slower and deeply, like this. Does it still hurt?» Your fingers gripped tight his arms, reciprocating the hold Charles had on yours.

«It was a huge shunt, and it’s not hard to believe she’ll need to undergo some checking at the medical center.» «Not hard to believe indeed, considering the great crash we witnessed at lap 18 of the Spanish Grand Prix…»

You didn’t notice the medical car had arrived until you saw two doctors coming out and jogging on the gravel towards you and Charles. One of them, against your will, moved you away from Charles’ reassuring grab and began talking to you; while his words blurred in the heat and merged with the loud cheers of the crowd, your eyes were fixed upon the Ferrari driver in front of you, who was busy discussing with the other doctor.

You vainly tried to focus on his suit, on the mark the balaclava had gently pressed onto his skin, on his lips moving to articulate sounds and sentences you failed to grasp: his sight cradled you, calmed you down and helped you slowly regaining control over your breath, as you noticed your body being guided towards the ambulance which had just arrived, reluctantly letting go of Charles’ presence. # «Miss, could you please tell me your name?» You crossed your arms, visibly annoyed. «I’m y/n, I’m okay and I know I’ve had a crash.» you replied, annoyed.

The doctor flipped a page of the results from the exams they had run and then sighed, almost amused at your stubbornness. «Miss, from the data the race control has sent us, you’ve had a 17G impact, and the driver who aided you reported you had problems regaining your breath right after the shunt. You might feel fine right now due to relatively high levels of adrenaline, but it is not something meant to be underestimated.» he smiled politely. «May I go on?» You lightly nodded, pensive. You had no measure of comparison when it came to G-force in accidents, but it had definitely been the worst you had got into. No questions. «Do you remember the dynamic of the crash?» You hesitated, staring into the void in search of those moments; as the scene unfolded before your eyes, you began speaking. «I was behind Cha- I mean, Leclerc. I think he made a mistake at turn 13 and I was quicker than him in the last corner, so I wanted to overtake him before the main straight.» Unsure whether you had to continue or stop the report, you glanced at the doctor, who simply waited, silent. «Uhm… Yeah. Since I thought Charles would keep the outer line, I tried to overtake him on the inside. It didn’t work, obviously.» you snorted, sarcastic and let down by your own move. What a stupid choice.

«I shouldn’t have been so daring and optimistic.» you added. «If it helps, Leclerc didn’t seem upset at you at all about that move.» the doctor smiled in reassurance. Reasoning on his words, your eyes went wide, since only at those it struck you. You had taken Charles out of the race. For some unexplainable cause, you hadn’t considered it; seeing him helping you out felt too good to be true, a fairytale dream in which Charles had pulled over and deliberately stopped driving his race to rescue you. Of course, you had dragged him into your mistake, potentially causing damage to his car and putting his life at risk as well. What a reckless, inconsiderate move.

«Is he okay??» you asked, urge laced in your tone. «Yes. His car stopped before impacting against the barriers because of the angle in which you two touched.» the doctor calmly explained. «He was a little bit slower than you as he entered the corner and he spun a little, so your trajectories towards the wall were different.» With lost eyes, you stared once again at the void. It was your third crash of the season. At the Albert Park’s circuit, a collision at the restart had ruined your race. In Monaco, well… It had been your mistake, in qualifying, and it had prevented you from starting in the grid on Sunday. And now Montmelò. The worst shunt out of the three, which would cost a fortune to the team. You closed your eyes, defeated. You knew it would be tough, you’d always known, ‘cause it had always been.

«So, now you’ll be taken to the nearest hospital just for some more routine exams we couldn’t take here, but you should be fine.» the doctor said, standing up. «Take care, miss.» You shook the hand he had offered you, a tad confused, and turning around you were met by your assistant’s worried face. She was in her first year at Alfa Romeo as well; you hadn’t had the time to bond with her deeply, but she probably was the only one you fully trusted in the whole team. Which wasn’t ideal. # «So? Any news?» «They told me they’re taking her to the hospital for further checks, but she seems to be fine.» «Are you sure? She had serious problems breathing…» «Well, all the drivers are breathless after a huge shunt. But you know this better than I do.» Charles sighed at his manager’s words.

He had walked back to the hospitality, got changed and contacted Nicholas Todt right after, in search of news from the primary source. Then, strolling towards the media pen for the routine mid-race interviews after a crash occurred, he had spent the last twenty minutes insistently asking himself what had caused such a contact: he needed to look at some on boards to get it clear, but he wanted to talk it out with you, still worried about your conditions and confused by your driving behavior. He didn’t expect you to try for an overtake there. He wouldn’t expect any driver to. It just… didn’t make sense, for a driver like you.

When he saw you arriving at the pen with your assistant, Charles couldn’t help but leave hanging the journalist who had just begun introducing her question.       His approach took you off guard, but you deeply inhaled, definitely not shocked to have him searching for explanations. «I thought you were doing some other checks at the hospital. Are you alright?» he asked, barely audible. «Yes, it was just… uhm… routine stuff. You know, for the deceleration of the impact.» «Thank God.» he let out, in a sigh, looking elsewhere. «Listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin your race… And put you in danger, of course… It- I thought there was a gap since you were going a bit slower than me, but it was nonetheless a terrible idea, and-» «Don’t worry about my race, I was struggling massively with the tires anyway.» Charles smiled, half trying to calm you down, half downplaying his frustration. «But you’re right, I made a mistake. I should’ve paid more attention to you. You know, I’m not used to rookies going at the speed of light and not having any mercy.» His gentleman smile sparked some light inside of you as well, and you naturally mimicked him. Something… something about the look in his eyes reminded of a distant memory you couldn’t pinpoint. You just shrugged it off: your assistant gently touched your shoulder, suggesting it was time to feed journalists with well-crafted lies. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ Ice cream wrapped around his fingers, he stood next to the fence watching Arthur’s kart speeding past him, waiting for him to jump off the seat and let him hit drive to the limit once again. It was Sunday, but it had rained throughout the night, so the track was green - little to no grip available for the small tires to hold on to - and, because of it, empty. No one had dared to show up in such conditions, except for, that is, two families: Leclerc's and yours. You had never properly introduced yourself to each other before that day, but you were well aware of the phenomenal performances of the fifteen years old guy eating ice-cream with his suit hanging off, ruffled hair, focused on the action. You had raced once against Arthur, his younger brother, but stupidly enough you didn't expect them to be related. Seeing the entire family at the track was unusual, indeed.

«How did the tires feel?» your father asked you. «Good, but…» «But?» your father prompted. «…but some corners are very slippery.» Undisturbed, your eyes didn't fall upon your dad's face once, lost in contemplation. It was only natural for you to miss the other question he addressed, since you were still staring at the white-suited boy, a hand gripping the metallic mesh of the fence. «Y/n?» «Uh?» «Are you listening?» he raised a brow, skeptical. «Sorry. What was the question?» you shrugged. Your dad, subtly, glanced at the point you had been staring, immediately noticing the spark of your interest. «I asked if… if you want to have a snack. It's almost lunch time.» he asked, glancing at his watch. «Yes! I'm hungry!»

You both came back with a sandwich in hand, chit chatting about the upcoming race and your latest performances. Before you could make it back to your van, heavy bullets of rain hit your skin and head: the dark clouds covering the track had turned into a waterfall without any warning. You both ran to your kart, trying to cover the seat so it wouldn't get soaked, putting two umbrellas over it, but depriving yourselves of repair. «Let's go in the trunk!» The air was humid and thick. You sat next to your dad, staring at the rain, him with crossed legs, you with a cheek resting on one of raised knees. He looked at you and laughed at your antics. «Don't be so sad, y/n. You put in a lot of laps yesterday.» «But I wanted to do more. Now we're stuck here and we can't do anything.» «That's not true. We can… enjoy the moment. Look up there, the clouds cover the treetops.» You turned your head towards the point he was showing you, but your eyes were soon caught by a figure walking towards the two of you, under a red umbrella. «Do you need help with the kart?» the man asked, with a thick French accent. You stared at your dad, only to see him indifferent to the offer. «No, thanks, we're good.» You almost rolled your eyes. He was a proud man. He had sacrificed a lot to make you enter the karting world and didn't want you to be considered less of a serious competitor because of money and facilities: you already had to face the prejudices of being a girl. He didn’t like getting help from others, since he had always provided you with everything, and wasn’t willing to give in, at all. «Uhm… I think it would be better to put the kart under our gazebo.» the man said, pointing at it. «It isn't big, but it's better than nothing.» While your father pondered the proposal, you enthusiastically smiled and thanked the man, running towards the kart and starting to push the cart. As you both placed the kart next to theirs, the man - Arthur's father - got near your once again. «We have some ice-cream, if you're hungry.» Your eyes sparkled, and your father knew there was no way of stopping you. Hervé, that was his name, called someone in French words and spoke words you were unable to understand. Your dad first smiled at you, enjoying the smile lighting up your face, then looked back at Hervé Leclerc. «Thanks for… all of this. But… Why…?» Hervé interrupted him. «I know what it feels like to give up everything for your child's dream. I respect you and your daughter a lot. We don't have a lot either, but I'm happy to share it with you.» Your father, stunned, at a loss of words, didn't get the chance to thank the man again, as Arthur and his brothers stormed with a box of ice-cream, yelling in thrill and joy as they chased each other.

A bit unsure, you waited for Arthur to serve himself first, then got near and looked at the flavors, indecisive. «Hazelnut is the best.» you heard behind you. Turning your head, you crossed a pair of big, bright, dreamy green eyes. Your heart was flinging towards them, and you felt so enchanted you wanted to show to everybody such a beautiful sight. «Don't you like it?» he asked, noticing your lost expression. «No, I love it!» you shied away, starting to fill your cup. You both sat down at a small table as Hervé and your father talked; you awkwardly smiled whenever that mysterious Leclerc's eyes would meet yours. «What's your name?» he suddenly asked, probably worn out by the silence. You played with the plastic spoon out of nervousness, flattening a curl of ice cream before answering. «Y/n. And yours?» you shyly said. «Charles.»

«Can I begin? Perfect. So, I think the first topic on the list that we need to tackle is today’s crash…»

Your lips twitched in a sarcastic smile filled with tension and hatred. «Y/n, you know this is your third crash this year and our budget-» «Thanks for asking how I’m doing and checking up on me at the medical center. Glad to see you place more value in money rather than in someone’s life.» As all the engineers slowly turned their heads to glance over at your crossed arms, your eyes pierced the wooden desk, deafening silence. «I’m pretty sure your assistant was there.» «So what? Do you think that’s an excuse? Even Charles, who drives for Ferrari, treated me better than my own team!»

You saw Alunni Bravi, Alfa’s team principal, snorting in annoyance. «Speaking of! If you two have to talk all lovey-dovey, please don’t do it in front of cameras… We’re full of problems as it is…» he said, rubbing his temples to soothe a heavy headache. «I… thought he was going to confront me about the crash.» you lowered your chin. He sighed, hid his face in your hands. «Y/n, listen… You know what we both need: results. The team needs points and the least damage possible, and you need that yourself, to prove you deserve your seat in F1. You see, we are heading toward the same direction, so why don’t we join forces instead of clashing against each other?» «Do you think I crashed on purpose?!» you asked, bewildered. «No, but you can’t afford to be too aggressive, otherwise you’ll get today’s result. It puts at risk your and other drivers’ safety, your team’s finances and gives the mechanics an awful amount of extra work.» The thought of the mechanics staying up late, not respecting the curfew, without receiving any raise for it reminded you of your dad doing the same back in the karting days, always working for you, with you. You swallowed hard your pride. Shifting on your seat to find a more comfortable position, you cleared your voice. «I’ll do better.» The team principal lightly lifted the corner of his lips. «I’m sure you will, y/n.»

Push. You’re worthy. Stronger. You deserve it. Until. You fought for this. You. It makes you feel alive. Make it.

The gym’s mirror reflected your mechanical, precise, controlled movements; you followed them with the sight, eyes and thoughts running wild across the room. The burn igniting your muscles, the sweat glowing in pearls under the neon lights, the skin wrapped inside loose-fitting clothes felt like heaven upon your body. «Okay, that’s it!» At your coach’s voice, you abruptly turned around. «What?» you asked, panting. «We’re done, you did all the reps.» she plainly said. «Already?» you asked, picking up from the ground your water bottle and taking a sip. «We’ve been here for two hours, y/n… Aren’t you tired?» she laughed at you. You shrugged, unable to perceive the weight of exhaustion. «I feel fine.» you replied. «Right, Miss Fine, let’s do a bit of stretching.»

After your coach had given you info about the diet and the workout plan for the next day, you waited for her to leave the gym before changing into a clean outfit. You removed the oversized shirt you always used and looked down at the waistband of your leggings, running the gap between the cloth and your skin with the thumb. You closed your eyes, both tasting the satisfaction of the moment and remotely despising the need for the achievement. But you couldn’t hide it: you were happy you had lost some more weight. You had been working so hard on improving your performance and proving you were putting your maximum effort into it.

It was sick, you felt it: you carried out the exercises like a machine, engaging your muscles and your core to extract all the potential benefits from the workout, convinced that it would automatically lead to better results. You struggled to define it, but it was such a self-consuming delight. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ Being fifteen was difficult. Low self-esteem, identity crises instead of identity building, paranoia, confusion, hormones taking over, fear of the future, broken illusions. Things nobody at that age is programmed to deal with it anyway.

However, being a fifteen-year-old girl competing against pimply guys proved itself to be even more challenging than teenage already managed: more so, if those underdeveloped brains couldn’t spot anything that made you a girl to their eyes. Apart from social isolation and lack of friendships and acquaintances during karting competitions, that is. You had cut your hair short so that it would be easier to put your helmet on and no strand would get in the way; you were as tall as other drivers were, in some cases even taller; and you were thin, lean, light as a feather, dancing on your kart with grace. Clearly, they expected something different: they wanted to see more than a flat chest under the fire suit, more than a nonexistent bun; perhaps a soft and lost stare, the insecurity of someone who doesn’t belong the sport, the ingenuity of the newbie, the incapability of being a serious competitor. You let them down and proved them wrong, one by one. You spared nobody, killed them with obstinate tenacity, flashing smiles only whenever you stepped on the highest stair of the podium. Unluckily, they had another reason to crack jokes about you. Behind the fence, cheering for you, helping as much as possible with the kart setups, the tires, the engine, there was your mother. In the wide multitude of fathers, uncles and big brothers, your mother was the only woman getting her hands dirty and oily to help you out. Mistrust and envy were the inevitable dues to pay, every race, every time you two entered the track holding hands. # «There are too many people.» Charles said, grumbling. «C’mon, you’re doing it for Arthur!» «He’s a lucky brother.» he sighed. Lorenzo and Charles were walking towards the heart of the small paddock and searched for their younger sibling; an impossible task, since the entire place was packed with teens they were navigating through. Slowly moving past people, Charles couldn’t help but overhear a piece of conversation. «Did you see her mom?» «Yeah, they’re both ridiculous!» «Why, what’s wrong with them?» «Arthur!» Charles called, recognizing his brother’s voice. «Finally, here you are.» Without paying attention to the hand resting on his shoulder, the blonde driver still looked astonished at his mates. «Why does her mother come to the track with her?» he asked. «Because her father died.» Charles pieced the conversation back together and blinked a couple of times, making sense of it. As a reflex, like he already knew, he immediately spotted you in the middle of the crowd, holding your cup, hugging your mother. He struggled to make out your face, with the new haircut, but he still could tell it was you, the same girl eating ice-cream and often racing with Arthur, the same driver his father had told him about. He remembered you sitting in your dad’s lap, laughing with him, under the gazebo, surrounded by the sound of the pouring rain, as he spied on the two of you from inside the van, too scared to talk to you any further and ruin the special moment between a father and his daughter. A sea of people separating you, a sidereal space of loneliness and time creating an unbreakable wall: maybe you didn’t even remember who he was. However, Charles searched for thoughts of comfort to offer to you telepathically, not really able to find much; he didn’t know what he really meant to lose a parent and didn’t want to dwell too much on it.

Still, a few years later, looking at some pictures taken on that rainy afternoon, watching your fathers half hugging and smiling to the camera, the two of you sat behind them, being reminded of hidden memories and fears, forcing tears to run inside without showing, getting a taste of the same bitter loss’ cocktail you had tasted, sitting back onto the couch and staring at the void, he would.

«Alfa Romeo has announced some major changes inside the team. In the last couple of weeks some leaks hinted at the possibility of y/n y/l/n being replaced mid-year, during the summer break.»

«I don’t think there’s anything wrong with women in Formula One, but… they need to meet certain standards, you know? And I’m not quite sure y/n is doing that.»

«She's not going to stay in the sport too long without getting results... It's a simple equation: results equal money which equals contract.»

«A lot of drivers would die to have her seat and I’m sure Alfa Romeo has started looking around to see if someone has the right profile… Because let’s face it, it doesn’t seem like y/n does.»

You put down your phone and slowly stirred a cup of coffee the team had offered you. Tiredness crawled in every hidden angle of your body. News like those were filling up the internet since Barcelona; and as if luck hasn’t been abundant enough, you’d had yet another mechanical failure, the second in the span of three races. Some malevolent voices implied they were due to the previous crashes you’d had. You truly wanted to get angry, but you didn’t care anymore. You felt defeated. It felt so miserable to be following the race from the box, sitting there, helpless, either willing to scream or cry, watching the world go round in circles, without you. After all, that feeling wasn’t new to you. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ The first time was tough. Arriving at the track, taking the kart out of the van, setting everything up; ignoring the foreign stares, resting your hands upon the steering wheel, driving the first lap. It was beyond rough. You weren’t as focused as you wanted to: you made a lot of corrections, went wide multiple times, missed the apex a couple of times. You inevitably felt frustrated by your own lack of pace and performance. That was only practice for what was to come; the first race was even harder to handle. A burden down your shoulders and chest made it difficult to breathe, your heart struggled pumping your adrenaline-fueled blood fast enough. You didn’t want to let him down. It was the secret promise you’d made with yourself without even knowing, something you’d always kept silent to others and to your own conscience.

After endless laps of chasing, constantly turning back to see how close your rivals were, examining the gaps and choosing different lines, you crossed the start and finish line and you felt hot tears wetting your skin: you had won the race. It was a strange type of happiness, a conflicting one, which you would get familiar with over time. You quickly wiped your cheeks, jumping out the kart: you just remembered running towards the podium, overwhelmed by that new brimming feeling pulsing inside of you, not capable of determining whether it caused tears to flow in joy or sadness. Proudly holding the cup you had been handed, you lifted it to the bright blue sky, and you looked at him.

With the little trophy in your hand and the helmet hanging off your fingers, you walked to the van and sat in the passenger seat, wrapped by silence. Lost gazing inside the golden reflection of the cup, you cried. Head tilted back, eyes shut in pain, you held your sobs in as much as you could.

It was tough, hitting the track for the first time after your father had passed away; but what hurt the most was that trophy, that unexpected win, which definitely meant you would have to – and could – go on without him, doing what you had always done. Your promise, your secret motive, you’d live for it: as if he watched you from the grandstands, followed you with his careful eyes, cheering for you, and driving you back home after every race, while you peacefully drifted away next to him. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ You sat on a bench inside the paddock as it emptied of life, people leaving and walking around you as industrious ants crowding the space. «Y/n!» At the call, you naturally turned around: it was easy to spot Charles, still rocking Ferrari merch, approaching you. «Hi, Charles.» «Hi.» he said, sitting next to you and looking at the setting sun.

You secretly wondered what had brought him there, absorbed, in silence. He seemed peaceful, but you knew his race hadn't been particularly rewarding because of a grid penalty at the start, and you could almost see disappointment and dissatisfaction creating turmoil inside his irises. A small realization hit you, and it raised a pinch of embarrassment in you as it did: because, since Charles was enchanted by the sunset and you were intent on reading his expressive eyes, you were both caught staring at two beautiful sights.

«Your pace was really good.» he let you know. «Are you saying this because you struggled to overtake me after your pit stop?» you asked, a bit amused. «Well...» At his hesitation, you both laughed. «You had pace and your defending was annoyingly good.» he finished with a smile. «Without the mechanical failure, it could've been an easy P6 for you.» «But I had a mechanical failure, Charles. It doesn't matter what could've been, if it hasn't happened.» you bitterly remarked, staring back at the sky. «It does matter, instead.» he looked at you. «You made a lot of progress since the beginning of the year and I'm sure you'll score your first points very soon.» «If I'm not out by mid-season.» At your lapidary comment, Charles blinked, thinking, then looked at you again. «The team needs you. I know Zhou and he's a good driver, but in terms of pace... you're better.» «But he brings the car home and I don't.» «You've always out qualified him.» he reminded you. «How do you know?» you asked, shocked. You hadn’t even noticed it yourself, how could he know? He shrugged. «Overheard a conversation.»

Charles waited a few seconds before speaking up again, still thinking. «You've worked hard to get here. Don't bring yourself down because of what other people say.» You sighed and faced the sky, a shiver running down your spine as a gust of night breeze caressed your cheek. «They're trying to drown me, Charles.» you sadly reflected out loud, dropping your head down. Charles, looking at your hand gripping the bench, put his hand upon yours. «You know how to swim, y/n. I think nobody else in the grid knows the pressure of the sport better than you do, and since you made it this far it would be stupid to let go right now.» On his features, you read a feeling you didn’t expect: regret. It was all over him, in the way he searched for words, wetted his lips, glanced around, then stared back at you. «You can count on me. For anything, really.» he added. Regret was soon replaced by comfort; the weight of his palm's skin onto yours radiated a wave of calm, quiet, peace. And as the sun dived into the horizon, offering its last rays of orange gold, on that bench isolated from chaos, you felt safe.

As you crossed the start and finish line, your eyes flicked towards the billboard in the pitlane. A rush of excitement freed the breath you had been holding all along: the race was over. «P9! Good job!» «Y/n, congrats on your first points. Had a strong pace all weekend, well done!» «Thank you, thank you, guys.»

Switching off the radio, you screamed under your helmet: in joy and disbelief, because you finally got to the place you deserved to be; in frustration, because you knew the strategy had concealed the true potential of your form and the feeling you had found with the car, making it hard to fully appreciate the results without fantasizing about what could've been. Nonetheless, thanks to the adrenaline and the G-forces loosening their grip, you felt a small weight being lifted off your shoulders: you had achieved your first milestone in F1 and nobody could contest it. Nobody could take those points away from you.

Arriving at the pitlane, the team engineers seemed to react lukewarm to the performance; the mechanics, though, engulfed you in a group hug and clapped at you, visibly satisfied and content with yours and their work as well.

«Y/n! How does it feel to score your first points in F1?» «Well, of course.» you smiled, a bit nervous at the unusually welcoming question. «I’m satisfied with today’s race, but… I think there is more work to do. Our pace deserved more and better results are definitely within our reach.» «So hungry for points after tasting them for the first time!» the journalist joked, laughing. As you tried to shy off embarrassment with a smile, holding onto the barricade a bit tighter, you felt a soft touch brushing your back, halfway between a greeting and a request of permission; the light weight lingered a few seconds, before a figure dressed up in red reluctantly positioned next to you to be interviewed. His smile only made you smile bigger and redder. «Good job!» Charles spoke in a soft tone, his fingers still vaguely tracing circles on your back, unbeknownst to the cameras facing the two of you. «You did a good job too, with George. Some fair and hard racing!» you referred to a scene you had been able to see on the screens throughout the race. «Tell me about it.» he laughed. «But what did I say? Was I wrong about your first points?» he added, subtly tickling your back with his fingertips.

Lost in the bliss of the interaction, flustered because of the heat and the cameras pointing at you, the redness of your face lit up brighter as the journalist spoke. «What’s that, Charles?» she asked, intrigued by his words. «Did you tell her she would score points in this race?» He mildly smiled, getting closer to the fence – and to you – looking down to collect his thoughts. «No, I didn’t.» he laughed. «But I was sure she would end up in the positions that matters pretty soon and… here she is!» His body involuntarily leaned over to you to answer the question, combined with the kind and gentle tone he was delivering compliments with, made you glance elsewhere and forced you to suppress a smile. «So did you guys talk about it?» the journalist teased again. «We bumped into each other in the paddock and I told her, yeah.» «You seem to trust her skills a lot.» «I do. I mean, I’ve seen her race in karting and in minor formulas a couple times and I could see it with my own eyes. She was well-known for her talent and hard work, and now she’s proving it in one of the toughest and most competitive motorsport championships of the world. To be honest, I’m not surprised and I’m happy for her because she clearly deserves it.» «Y/n, how do you feel about these words?» the journalist finally addressed you once again, waiting for your answer with a grin. «Grateful. Usually people are complaining about my performances…» you laughed, a bit uptight. «So… hearing appreciative words from a driver I highly respect and look up to means a lot.»

Charles couldn’t help but grin in delight at your words: he had involuntarily kind of followed your career up to Formula One, and the idea you had possibly taken him as a point of reference flattered him deeply. He had always known you would make it. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ Fidgeting with his Ray Ban sunglasses, Charles walked inside the paddock alongside Pierre. «The weather is so nice here.» «It’s Brazil, what do you expect?» the Frenchman snorted. «I’m just saying.» Charles replied, putting his glasses on. Not paying attention to the cameras taking pictures and videos of them as they casually strolled by, Pierre suddenly awoke from his silence and spoke. «I forgot to ask you something.» «What is it?» «You know the girl who races in F2 with Arthur?» Charles hummed, looking back at him. «Yeah, y/n. What about her?» At his best friend’s confidence, Pierre raised his brows. «Do you know her that well? I don’t even remember her last name.» «Well, didn’t expect much more than that from you.» The inevitable jokingly taps and protests Charles deserved for that comment caused laughter between the two of them. «So? What about y/n?» Charles asked, going back to the topic. «They say she’s racing for Alfa Romeo next year.» «Well, she’s leading the championship right now.» Charles said, matter-of-factly. «Yeah, but do you understand how big the news is? A woman in F1 after so many years…» Pierre lowered his head, in thought. «Alfa must be in a difficult situation if they’re doing this.» «Why?» Charles quickly inquired. «Because sponsors will court her, which means a lot of brand deals… and money to the team.»

Charles knitted his eyebrows together and walked looking at his shoes. It wasn’t possible that a talent like you would only get hired because of money. He had seen you drive, win against his brother and a lot of other good drivers, he had seen your determination every time he had celebrated one of Arthur’s podiums, because you were always in the top three. On the other hand, Charles couldn’t say he was a stranger to the financial difficulties Alfa Romeo was facing: the lack of upgrades, the never-ending waltz with sponsors and actionists, the upcoming renewal as Sauber and then Audi. Alfa danced in a sea full of uncertainty, so it probably represented the only team in the position to gamble and provide a seat for the first female driver after such a long time. Once again, his father’s words of appreciation towards you resurfaced: Charles hoped the rumor to be true, because he was sure you deserved it. # «Thank you, Esteban. Charles, I’m coming back to you: can you share with us your thoughts regarding the news too? We know your brother is racing in F2 as well and we’d like to have your piece of mind.» He raised the microphone, smiling to himself, sure he would be asked about it as soon as he had heard the question. «I’ve attended and watched some races because of my brother, as you’ve mentioned, but I think numbers speak for themselves. She’s leading the championship and from what I know she’s always performed brilliantly in minor formulas too.» «Right. We know that you and y/n share the same agent, Nicholas Todt. Were you ever introduced to one another by him?» Charles frowned at the follow-up question. «Uhm, no, we never met through him.» «Okay, thank you very much. Moving on to the next question…»

As Albon was addressed by the journalist, Pierre, sitting next to him, raised a brow and gave Charles a inquiring look, perceiving a lack of clarity in your answer. The Monegasque simply glanced over him and pretended not to see his confusion, keeping to himself that distant but lifeful memory of you. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ «And this is the end of the tour.» your assistant said, gesturing with her hands to the hospitality hall. «Thanks, it looks… fresh.» you commented, still looking around. Exiting the building, you followed her steps, going towards the media pen for some brief interviews of that Wednesday. Your first ever week in F1.

Before you could notice, your assistant waved at a girl dressed in red, focused on her phone; greeting her as well, the two approached one another and engaged in a conversation. «Hi.» As you heard that unforeseen greeting, you finally noticed Charles, whose assistant was caught talking with yours. It was the first time you were seeing him after such a long time: the rubber smell, the oily hands, karts speeding on the track for hours. A pang of nostalgia hit your stomach like a punch, paired with those green eyes you’d never been able to forget and a tiny smile onto his lips. «H-hi!» you only managed to say. «I’m sorry I didn’t congratulate you before, but I thought I’d do it once I saw you on track. Really happy for you.» «Oh, thank you.» The contrast between the deep conversation running right next to you and the silence full of untold memories sharpened the veil of embarrassment trapping you: you both couldn’t stop glancing at each other briefly before diverting gaze as soon as you got noticed. The moment your assistants seemed to be over the intense chatter, you almost sighed in relief. «See you soon, y/n!» Charles greeted, walking away. With a small hand gesture, you reciprocated his kindness with awkwardness. It was hard to hide it: receiving such a pleasing treatment from another driver warmed your heart, as much as the thought of his young face and the few moments spent together did.

Sitting onto a leather couch, pressing your knees together, you peeked at the jewelry exposed onto the crystal table coffee in front of you. Lost in contemplation, you immediately raised your head as a pair of heels echoed through the room. «So… This is the winter collection we’d like to promote.» the woman said, sitting in front of you. «We’d like you to pose and take pictures with the bracelets first and then with the entire parure on. Then, if there is the chance, you’ll be joined by one of our biggest promoters for some overview photos of both the male and female collection.» «Of course.» you nodded.

You would’ve never thought being a female F1 driver could have perks… But it did. And one of them was that an endless number of brands wanted to be promoted by you. At first you had been reluctant at the thought of spending part of your summer break going through sponsors activities and promos, but at the sight of the building location chosen for the shoot and the fine jewels laying before your eyes, the laziness left room to placid enjoyment of the moment. At least you were sponsoring some good products. # «Raise the arm a bit higher, please… Perfect! Beautiful!» Enjoying the breeze onto the balcony, you glanced over at the sea behind you, caressing your arms’ shivering skin. The light reflecting upon the water made a mesmerizing scenery to stare at, joy filling the eyes. The blissful haze got suddenly interrupted by a bunch of steps, shuffling and chatter: it all quickly marched towards you, invading the space of the balcony and disturbing your peace. In confusion, you scanned the faces of the newcomers, only to be met by the graceful figure of Charles. A rush of electricity linked you both as you made eye contact. «Y/n, this is the person I was talking about earlier, Charles Leclerc.» said the woman who had given you instructions at the beginning of the shoot. Charles couldn’t help but laugh a little. «Oh, don’t worry, she knows.» he told her. «Oh, really?» she gaped. «We’re… we’re both F1 drivers.» you said, nervously chuckling. «Right! I’m so sorry! I feel embarrassed now… Well, I see no introductions are needed, then.» she blushed heavily. «It’s okay, there’s no need to apologize.» he reassured her.

He swiftly moved next to you and started whispering without looking at you, a courtesy smile plastered on his lips all throughout as he joined you scanning the surroundings and the staff moving around erratic. «I didn’t know you were a sponsor as well.» «Didn’t expect to find you here either.» you raised brows, to display surprise. Charles simply leaned his forearm onto the handrail of the balcony and gazed inside the living area, still smirking. «Well, let’s show the world how to do this properly.» One person from the staff came back to you with the jewels you had to wear, offering Charles some as well. # «Last but not least… We’d like to have a picture with this necklace.» As it was handed to you, you stared at it in awe: your eyes brimmed with the Swarovski’s reflection of the fine piece, delicate and bright as a snow crystal under the sun. «It’s beautiful.» Charles said, stealing the words you had in mind. «It is.» you remarked. Seeing your hands open the necklace and bringing it closer to your nape, Charles immediately halted your movements touching your hands, gently stopping them. «What… What if we take the picture while I put the necklace for her?» he asked, addressing the staff. Your wide eyes read excitement and appreciation in his proposal.

Without even acknowledging the fact those movements were mere acting for the shoot, you sincerely enjoyed the moment, getting surprised by Charles’ tenderness while brushing your hair away, while you were looking down at the charm and admiring it between your fingers, unconsciously smiling. You couldn’t help but quickly turn your head and look at him, too fast to think of how close that would bring your faces, your lips a few inches away. Green, gold and pink heavenly mixed on his features as colors on a canvas, taking over your senses. «Amazing! That was awesome. Thanks!» the photographer said, getting the attention of the both of you. With a silent sign of end of activities, while the staff moved around to bring all the equipment back inside, you turned around ending up between Charles arms, still spinning around the shining charm. «Do you like it?» he murmured, fingers brushing your forearms. «It’s… It’s beautiful, really.» you replied, eyes down on it. «And you? What do you think?» you asked, smiling. «It looks absolutely perfect on you.» Flustered, since your question wanted to refer to the collection and not on the way the necklace fitted you, you mentally thanked the sponsor manager walking up to you. «Well, thank you for your time. You did an extraordinary job and I’m sure the launch of the collection will be a success!» With a thanking smile on, you didn’t expect to hear the words Charles said right after. «Can she keep the necklace?» Almost choking on your own saliva, your eyes wide opened in shock; the manager hadn’t anticipated that either, at a loss of words. «I can buy it, of course.» Charles quickly added, afraid her puzzlement was caused by the impossibility of gifting for free the jewel. «No, there’s no need to! If… if you like it that much, we’re more than happy to gift it! There’s nothing better than sponsors who love our products.»

After the weird conversation, you both stared at her walking back inside the apartment, still standing next to each other on the balcony. «Why did you do it?» you looked up at him and asked. «Because I wanted to ask you something and I need to hear a yes.» he chuckled, while you mouthed a “What?”. «No, I actually think it looks good on you, so I thought you should have it.» «What’s the question?» you quickly let out, in order to shoo away his flattering comment which made you blush. «Why don’t you join me for the rest of the summer? To work out, go to the beach, spend time together, you know.» «I can’t believe you’ve bribed me with a necklace you didn’t even pay for.» you laughed. «So? Did I hurt your pride?» Charles asked, subtly encircling your waist. «Yes, and I’d like to avenge…» you said. «But unluckily I’ll need to come along with you if I want to.» «Oh, that’s bad news.» Charles raised his brows, mirroring your playful grin. «That sounds like a plan, then.» «It does.»

Sunkissed, you enjoyed the rays tickling onto your skin, eyes shut due to the light, propped onto your hands. Waves, iodine and freedom rocking you back and forth like a baby inside a cradle, your lips naturally curved upward, in bliss. «Hey, y/n!» Turning your head in reaction to the call, you noticed it was one of Charles’ close friends. «Do you want to play table tennis with us?» «Of course!» you chirped, quickly getting up from the deck chair you were sitting on. «Who is winning?» you asked, when you came close to him. «We’ve just started, but Charles is already losing somehow.» he laughed. «Good job!» you joined him.

The inside of the yacht was finely crafted, emanating comfort and luxury, but it didn’t feel cold: decorations and clutter clearly characterized it, added a personal and unmistakable touch that made it even more welcoming. Walking to reach the guys playing on the opposite end of the boat, you were caught by a picture on a shelf, which hit you like a freight train full of memories, nostalgia and tenderness all at once: looking at it, you struggled to recognize your father’s face, realized the sound of his voice was so hard to recall. You quickly diverted your eyes from the happy stare of your dad’s, focusing on two teens in the background, sitting onto plastic chairs: you were eating ice cream with a leg huddled and the other touching the ground, while Charles sat leg-crossed, looking at you.

You couldn’t believe time had flown by so fast, so destructive, so insensitive and so careless in pulling strings that crossed the years, only to bring you in that yacht and contemplate the beauty of destiny. «Good memories, huh?» Charles’ voice surprised you, making you turn your head abruptly to glance. «Came here not to feel the burn of defeat?» you asked, teasingly. «You wish. I’m winning, I think that’s obvious.» he said, overconfident. After the quick exchange, you both looked back at the photograph, incapable of ignoring it for too long. «I didn’t know they took a picture that day.» you said, more to yourself than really talking to him. «Arthur took it. And this is why we’re also in it, even though it should’ve been just them.» Charles said, unable to hold a smile at his brother’s poor skills. «Do you think it is possible to make a copy of it?» you asked, after a couple of seconds. «I think so, yes. Do you want it?» You hesitated, then nodded towards him. «I’d like to gift it to my mom, she really likes looking at old pictures. But cut us out, I’d prefer the photo with just the two of them.» you said, pointing at the younger versions of yourself. «What?! We’re so cute, why do you want us to be cut out?» Charles asked, infecting you with his laugh. «You can make a separate picture with the cutout.» you joked. «I will, for sure. I mean, we look too good.» You chuckled at his words. «Me wearing a suit dirty with engine oil and you eating ice cream like you care about nothing else.» «On plastic chairs.» you added. «On plastic chairs.» Charles remarked, nodding and widening eyes at the umpteenth funny detail. «But the fact that it’s ridiculous makes it interesting.» «I can’t believe the only photo we have together has me eating in it.» you laughed. «We can always take new pictures.» As you felt Charles’ eyes on you, you immediately searched for them, locking stares, a bit surprised by his offer. «Charles, where are you?» someone shouted from outside. «We should go.» you awkwardly said. «Yep.» he immediately turned around on his feet, embarrassed as much as you were. # You hadn’t played table tennis a lot before, but being Charles’ teammate didn’t help increasing your winning chances. You miserably lost. «I couldn’t see anything, I had the sun in my eyes!» you tried to protest. «Your complaints are music to our ears.» «Guys, come on!» Charles pleaded in frustration towards his friends. «Nope, you promised before starting the match.» «I promised nothing, I wasn’t even there at the beginning!» you contested. «But you joined, so now you’re in this together.» You threw a desperate look at Charles, who simply covered his face with his hands and scoffed with a smile. «I think we don’t have a choice, y/n…» The idea of jumping in the water fully clothed and going around all wet until dinner made you uncomfortable and annoyed already, but you hadn’t time to ponder the dare further as Charles quickly splashed into the sea. Carefully getting close to the edge, you looked down the boat: you had never feared heights, however the blue expanse below you seemed an endless abyss, the yacht being far and far away from the coast. «Are you scared?» Charles’ friends asked, half-way amused and confused by your reticence. «Of course not.» you tried to play it cool. Charles, moving his arms to stay afloat, could read the hesitation blocking you. «I’ll catch you, don’t worry.» he shouted.

The impact with the water was softened by the waterfall of bubbles following your body and lifting you up towards the surface. Before you were able to notice, resurfacing, your body slid onto Charles’, who had swum next to the point you had fallen. The friction of your clothes brushing against each other seemed to slow you down in re-emerging: you clearly felt his skin caressing yours under the soft texture of his shirt, his fingers quickly searching for your body gliding on his. When you came to the surface, gasping for air, his hands were already firm around your waist, and you couldn’t tell if you were breathless out of effort, fear or because of the unexpected and sudden closeness with Charles' striking stare. «Are you okay?» he asked you with a husky tone. You knew he didn’t mean to do that, that probably his voice had dropped in order not to be heard – as if the rocking sound of the water wasn’t enough to hide your breaths – but his words, his presence, the unexpected intimacy of the moment made you crave to drown back down. The contrast between the warmth he radiated and the ice-cold water surrounding you dazed you, your head going in tilt. «Yeah, I’m good.» you frantically nodded, still holding tight on to him. «Let’s go, then.»

Charles’ friends had a trip planned out for the week following your adventures on the yacht in Sardinia, so they left; you and Charles, though, kept hanging out, going back to Monaco.

The days you had with him were pure fun, shading momentarily your uncertainties and doubts regarding your future in F1; and if not bright enough to put them aside, Charles was always receptive to your needs, willing to discuss them and listen, since you were both navigating the same environment. You hoped that spending time with him could help you, somehow. # «Is it that bad?» he inquired, unsure of his cooking skills. «No, it’s pretty good.» Charles tasted it and hummed in delight. «Finally! Something that doesn’t taste like death.»

A lazy movie night had suddenly turned into testing Charles’ abilities in the kitchen: he wanted to order some food, you joked he could cook instead, he took it as a challenge and he decided it was time to finally improve at it. You had teased him all along, questioning his choices, his measurements, the ingredients he was using… and you both laughed throughout the process, until you sat down with steaming dishes. Charles saw you slowly moving the fork around the plate. «Aren't you hungry?» he asked, snorting with a laugh. «Not... not really.» His amusement turned into a serious expression, surprised at your lifeless response after all the laughter you had shared just some minutes earlier. «Is everything okay?» he inquired, a veil of worry weighing upon his brows. «Yeah, I've just lost a bit of appetite because of the new diet I'm following.» You looked down as you spoke, and he noticed. As soon as the topic was brought to the table, Charles subtly clenched his jaw a bit, poked his inner cheek with the tongue, then parted his lips as if to say something. He refrained the words he was about to use, opting for some cautious ones. «I see. I know I’m not the one in charge of it and shouldn’t… interfere, but you're the lightest driver on the grid, y/n. I don't think that's needed to improve your performance.» «It's not just about the weight, I'm trying to work on my strength as well and I... I had to readjust my diet a bit.» «Fine.» he said, shaking his head. The lies adorning the truth made it feel like a whole bunch of bullshit: deep down, you knew you were going way too strict about it, that it was nobody’s but your idea, though you thought that was, indeed, the only way things would get better, the only way you would get better, the only way people could see the best in you. The only way to prove you were worthy. «I don’t know what the diet involves, but as a guest of mine, you have to taste once again the first decent dish I’ve cooked in a very long time and deeply enjoy it.» Charles rediscovered playful tone managed to pull out a shy smile from you. # You both agreed on working out together, to make it more fun - and consequently see each other more. There was an intimate complicity between the two of you, a murmured comfort in the moments you shared: smiles, fleeting exchanges of glances, jokes and laughter. Neither of you could describe it, but in each other's company your personalities matched, merged as one. The fear, the weight of expectations, the voices and malice of the people around you would lose meaning, set aside for as long as you could stare at one another.

«Here we are.» he announced, coming off the locker room. «So classy! » you laughed, pointing at Charles' shorts. «Stylish, right?» he said, looking at them and laughing as well. «Isn't your shirt too big?» «I like being comfy.» you simply said. «I see.» he kindly smiled.

Throughout the workout, you did a few circuits, alternating at machines, adding a bit of challenge and variety to what would’ve been a quite repetitive activity, if done alone. Charles had a lot of fun, enjoying your presence, peeking at you during some exercises and smiling to himself. «Time to stretch!» Andrea said. You cackled at Charles protesting pleads, while sitting on the floor. «Turn on your side and hold your knee, like this.» your coach instructed you. Charles, told to do the same, pointing his head toward your lying body. The oversized shirt you wore had risen a bit in the movement, revealing a portion of your skin and showing some ribs. Charles quickly tried to divert gaze, not wanting to be caught in contemplation, a bit flustered by it.

«We're done, guys! You can go change!» Andrea said, with a clap of hands. «It was fun.» Charles stated, searching for confirmation. «Yeah!» you replied, a bit taken aback by his sudden comment. «Maybe... We can do it more often, whenever we have the chance...?» You turned to face him before entering the female locker room and pulled a small smile. «Of course!» Charles grinned as well as he very slowly headed to the door next to yours. # You opened your bag, searching for your clean shirt, then took off the one you had on. You halted. Don't, you said to yourself. But you did; you gave in to the quick impulse of reaching the mirror of the room and checking yourself out. It seemed... fine. And the idea killed you, because it still wasn't enough, it still didn't help your performance, it still didn't look as good as you imagined it to.

You turned to take a look at your profile: sucking your stomach in, you pulled the skin above your bellybutton to make it even flatter, hands gripping under your bra, to see what you wanted to see, what others wanted to see, the unreachable goal you had been chasing for years, setting yourself up for failure. So skinny, and still not successful on track. So skinny, and still everyone despised you.

As you watched, tantalized, your ribs showing, both proud and disgusted of what you had achieved after years of obsessive discipline, you didn't notice a silhouette appearing in the reflection of the mirror. «Y/n.» You gasped. Facing the mirror once again, you avoided looking at him, vainly covering the sight with your arms. You tried to ignore it. «What are you doing?» But you couldn't: the fear he would start thinking lowly of you, that he could be ashamed of what you were doing froze your blood.

Charles had been eaten by self-doubt for a while, but had finally decided to ask you if you wanted to stay at his place until the end of the summer break, since he had been enjoying your company a ton; during the small walk from his locker room to yours, he had been rehearsing the words he needed to say in order not to freak you out or be rejected, so he definitely wasn’t paying attention while entering. He didn’t expect to be met with the sight of your almost bare chest; and above all, under the loose fire suit or a t-shirt, he had never imagined to see such a thin, small-waisted and fragile looking body. Charles got closer with caution as you stood still, walking with hesitance, not entirely sure of what the real situation concealed beneath its surface. But those ribs, the same he had clearly seen while you were stretching, were marked in his irises, fear and confusion taking over him. «Please, look at me.» he pleaded, soft. As those words left his mouth, your mask fell off, dragging tears with it, and Charles swallowed hard as a realization started to set in. «What's this, y/n?» he whispered, hoping you would tell him off, somehow, maybe reassuring him it was all a dream, prompting an explanation that he failed to find. But you cried hard and you couldn't offer any word of comfort. Charles engulfed you in a hug, feeling his heart race faster to follow the thread of his thoughts, eyes scattered around the room in search of answers, while his fingers caressed your hair through the weeping. «Why are you doing this to yourself?» Words died against your vocal folds before they could turn into sound. Your weeps were low, inaudible at times, desperate. «It’s not enough.» you breathed. A sting hit Charles’ chest. «I… I don’t know what to do… It’s never enough, Charles.» As your voice cracked, new tears fell down to fill your abyss. «Enough for what? Enough for who?» Holding your face upward, he awaited your answer. But you froze. What were you doing all of this for? If you knew it was wrong, if you felt it was wrong, then you certainly weren’t doing it for you. Was it for your team? To prove your effort, your dedication, to show that you cared about the sport above anything, above yourself as well? Was it for the press to notice you deserved that seat, that opportunity?

And then, finally, like lightning cutting through the air and reaching land, shattering your entire world, a realization struck: it had started way before entering F1. The sense of control, impulsive discipline, always aiming for unreachable perfection had been your self-destructive coping mechanism for your father’s loss. That promise you had made to yourself, to never disappoint him, never let him down, prove yourself worthy of the love he had given you broke before your eyes like glass. The oppressing fear of not being enough, of not repaying the immense sacrifices he had done for you, the idea of all his life being wasted to chase your dream had triggered the guilt you’d been living with for years.

Letting it all go against Charles’ shoulder, holding onto him like an anchor, scared of being suddenly left broken and alone in such a vulnerable moment only made his hug brace you with a firmer grip, hand caressing your hair. «It’s not your fault.» he whispered to your ear, like a lullaby. «Whatever it is, it wasn’t your fault.» Loosening the hold a bit in order to look at you, he softly wiped tears off your cheek. «We’ll solve it, I promise. You’ll never have to feel like this again or do this to yourself.» «I didn’t mean to do it.» you sobbed, shaking your head in denial. «It’s okay, y/n.» Charles pulled you back into the hug. «I’m not leaving you alone.»

You woke up early, tiredness deep inside your bones. The initial plan was to go back home and spend more time with your mom, but after the day at the gym Charles had insisted you to stop by and stay at his apartment for a little while. You had hated seeing him so heartbroken and gutted for you, since it wasn’t his responsibility to take care of you; still, he had said multiple times he wanted to help you out, that he had ways, that he knew people, proving with facts that he genuinely cared. You quickly got up from bed and headed to the kitchen to have a tasteless breakfast, bitter thoughts taking over as you opened the cabinet. The cliff of uncertainty had always been your environment since the beginning, but you had never felt so close to falling as you did in that moment. You had never been that high either, so it was only natural to be afraid of stumbling down in such a position.

Putting the moka pot onto the stove, you then walked towards the window, catching a glimpse of the waking world, a thin layer of fog hugging the skyline. Your phone vibrating onto the table distracted you from contemplating. Seeing a big “Mom” written on the screen didn’t surprise you. «Hi, mom.» you greeted, with a smile. «Hi, dear! How are you doing?» You lightly nodded to yourself. «Good, I’m relaxing a bit before the final rush.» Your mom simply hummed, leaving the end silent for a few seconds. You hadn’t told her why you had refused to come back home. It was true you had simply accepted Charles’ offer, but on the other hand you were quite relieved you didn’t have to fake calm and inner peace with your mom despite being in a stressful situation. «Y/n, how is it really going? You know you can tell me anything.» Her regretful tone urged you to provide reassurances. «It’s fine, why wouldn’t it be?» «I… I’ve heard about your seat being at risk and… I don’t like to be nosy and I know that you want to be the only one worrying and being responsible for everything, but I can’t help worrying, y/n. You and your father have worked so hard for this-» «It’s just rumors, mom, don’t worry about it.» you interrupted her. «I’ve talked with the team and they’ve reassured me about the renewal of the contract.» Lie. «Really?! And you didn’t tell me?!» she almost screamed in joy. «I wanted to wait a bit because… because there’s actually a bigger team interested and Nicholas is negotiating.» Lies. Nothing but lies. «Oh darling, I’m… I’m so happy for you. I was sure people would notice your talent! You deserve all of it! Oh, I’m so glad…» «Mom, there’s no need to cry…» you said, tears forming in your eyes as well. «Of course, right.» you heard her sniff. «But thinking of everything you and dad did back then and seeing where you are now… It makes me emotional, you know?.» «Mom…» you kindly scolded her. «Okay, I’ll stop! I have to go anyway, the shop is about to open.» «Love you, mom.» «Love you more! Bye, y/n!» As you hung up, words finally started to weigh down on you, sinking your heart like rocks. You had no reason to play with your mother’s feelings only to postpone a disappointment that you couldn’t avoid anyway.

When did you become so shamelessly cruel? Which sick part of you could only imagine Alfa Romeo was willing to renew your contract and at the same time another team was striving for having you on board next season? Not even your wildest fantasy could be that delusional. How many other people did you want to let down? Why did you keep setting impossible expectations and standards? Where did your hunger of perfection stem?

The thud of a mug being placed onto the table made you turn around. Charles had woken up to the sound of your voice and followed it toward the kitchen, unintentionally eavesdropping on the conversation, and he had tried not to interrupt or make himself noticeable. After hanging up, he saw your hand reaching your temples, and he knew right away how you were feeling. Because he had done the same exact thing with his father. He knew, better than anybody else. But at the same time, you knew as well: for once in his life, Charles didn’t feel alone in his regrets, in his doubts and struggles, and could relate to someone else’s experiences and fears. The tension between the two of you had always been an invisible string pulling you close, uncovered but present, binding lives that still had to unfold and show their similarities.

Taking a mug from the cabinet in order to make himself noticed, Charles had waited for you to stare at him. You didn’t know he had been there all along, but the truth was already emerging from his expression, sweetly scolding you, as he moved a few steps towards the stove. «You know you don’t need to protect her from everything, right?» Charles said, pouring some coffee for himself. «It seems like the only option, at the moment.» You got close and served some coffee for yourself as well. «It seems, but it never is.» Charles sighed, opening another cabinet. «Do you want biscuits?»

You turned your head while walking in fast-paced steps, trying to escape his grab. Your laugh sounded like heaven, punctuated with light rain drops sliding onto Charles' tanned skin. Running to reach you, he fell in love with every detail of the moment: the chase, the heart filling up of pure joy, your teasing steps, as you stopped to let him catch up a little, only to sprint again away from him.

With the sand becoming more compact under your feet thanks to the gentle rain, Charles was gaining pace advantage over you, until he finally managed to stop the hunt, gripping your wrist; you both almost fell as you halted, laughing uncontrollably and senseless. Your breaths were heavy, but through your smiling lips they came out as a rhythmed symphony, eyes locked, matching stares brimming with happiness. Charles' hands roamed onto your arms, while yours rested upon his chest.  It felt pure, magical. Timeless. Charles was the first to break the silence, looking up to the grey clouds. «We should go home.» «Should we?» you asked, enchanted by the falling drops. «I really like it here.» I do too, Charles thought to himself. «We'll get ill, if we don't. But don't worry, I have an idea for when we come back home.» His words enlightened you. «Really? What is it?» «Follow me.» he said, taking your hand into his and locking fingers, while a smile lit his face.

Passing a hand through your damp hair, you eyed Charles entering the kitchen, away from your sight, so you decided to go change your clothes. Reponing the clothes back in the wardrobe right after, you saw Charles approaching, armed with two spoons, a can and a mischievous grin. «Is it ice-cream?» you asked, surprised. «How can it be a summer holiday without ice-cream?» «You’re right.» you smiled. Before you knew it, you were sitting upon your king-sized bed, crossed legs like two kids, bending over the can placed between the two of you. «Isn't it going to wet the comforter?» you asked. Charles hummed, in thought. «I'll keep it for us, then.» he said, grabbing it and taking off the lid. Without warning, he took the first spoon of it, leaving you speechless, but getting to taste Charles' smile while he watched your reaction. «Hey, bring it here!» you said, moving near with the spoon. Stuffing a mouthful of ice-cream, you were soon surprised by the flavor. «It's hazelnut.» you thought out loud. He grinned, looking down at the can like a little kid being caught red-handed, while he took another spoon of it. «You remember, right?» The sound of the rain falling down, you two sitting in front of the other, hazelnut ice-cream, lingering eyes. «I do.» Diving the spoon back again, you only took a few millimeters of ice-cream, observing it before quickly licking it away, in thought. And Charles noticed. «Don't you like it?» «It’s the best hazel-nut ice-cream I’ve ever tried, but… We shouldn't be eating so much of it.» «But today is cheat day.» he raised a brow, sure to win with a counterattack.

Since the night he had caught you staring at your fragile body and breaking down inside his arms, the wheel of change had been set into motion: Charles had promised to do anything to help you, and he kept up with the promise. You had dumped the coach who was supposed to follow and guide you and Andrea, Charles’ athletic trainer and dear friend, had suggested you a new one whom you had liked way better just at first glance. Without even realizing it, as you spent more and more time with Charles, you began opening up to him about it and started noticing thoughts patterns you were utterly oblivious to beforehand. His presence brought comfort, trust, support and clarity in your life, as much as fears regarding your future in F1 couldn’t be subsided completely. But Charles made life so easy. He could turn ice-cream on a rainy day into the most perfect and appealing way to spend time together. The idea he had thought through it, that he knew you’d be concerned about the diet and had chosen your cheat day on purpose so that you wouldn’t have to worry, so that you could both enjoy the moment, sparkled something inside of you, a kind gratefulness, a warm joy. You would’ve crawled closer to him, cuddled with him ‘til the daylight, either laughing or saying nothing, so that all your doubts would move away like rainy clouds. «You’re right.» you said, taking another small spoon of it. «Geez, it’s too good.» you complained, humming. Charles chuckled at your heartbroken expression, ice-cream melting in your mouth.

Spa never spared itself when it came to unpredictability. The few times you had raced there when you competed in minor formulas, chaos had taken over the results, crashes and crazy overtakes being the main characters of event-packed GPs.

The forecast had announced a small chance of rain throughout the weekend, pushing every team to choose a low downforce set up; indeed, in both free practices and qualifying only a few drizzles of rain sprayed the track, nothing crazy or unforeseen, and you had managed to earn a decent position to start at for the race. However, as you had learned over the years, Spa never ceased to amaze, playing the unexpected. # The rain falling down onto the dark asphalt, making your medium tires slide throughout lap twenty-four, after a lasting and on-going, strenuous defending against the DRS train which had formed behind you, felt like pure violence. «In sector two it's pouring.» you warned your engineer. «Copy.» «What's the forecast??» you encouraged, hoping to get them to consider the situation carefully. And get them to box, possibly. «It should rain for the next twenty minutes.»

Laps chalked up, wrapping around the tires, making them even more slippery, as every driver in front and behind you disappeared inside the pit lane and left you alone on the track, struggling with grip. «Can we box?» you asked, almost with a pleading tone. «Negative, we'd like to extend this stint.» How? Are they stupid? The tires were already quite worn out and in order to stay on track with the rain you were driving inevitably slower than everyone else, hence becoming prey of undercuts. «Guys, we're losing time! It's raining too much!» Unheard. Neglected. Nobody answered. You sighed, frustrated. «Thank you.» # The pale, yellow light of the panels installed around the track, reflecting through the thick layer of pouring water, struck Charles, who started gently braking, only to hear Xavi speak to him through the radio right after. «Safety car deployed, safety car deployed! Keep the delta positive.» Charles exhaled, relaxing a bit, as well as slowing down the car. «What happened?» he asked, more out of habit than really meaning it. As he carefully drove through Pouhon, his question was automatically answered: a car was smashed against the barriers, but he couldn’t even tell whose team the car was, due to the heavy rain. «Fuck, who is it?» Charles asked his engineer, thinking how bad the impact must have been, considering how fast that specific corner was. «I-it's y/n.» Charles didn't hear. His ears could suddenly capture the sound of the waterfall of rain crashing against the track, the engine and the power unit revving behind him, the cheers of the fans around the circuit. A piercing fear rummaged inside his bones, his stomach, crawling up his heart and clenching it, unable to process the information. Not in Spa. Anywhere, but there. Anyone, but you.

«Is she okay? Did she get out? Is she hurt?» «I will let you know.» his engineer answered, as calm as he could possibly be. Charles urgently pressed the radio button once again. «No, Xavi, I need to know! Please.» «Copy, she's still in the car.» «Is there any team radio or...?» «Not at the moment, but I'll keep you updated.»

Charles stared intently at the red lights of the cars in front appearing and disappearing before his eyes through the rain. He wanted to disconnect his brain, to forget everything, to focus on the race; but there was no way he could. # «Are you okay?» your engineer said, crackled. Breathing in and out your mouth, heavy, tired, full of fear, you looked around you, unable to see anything due to the rain. You pressed the radio button to answer, but you noticed the small activating light didn't lit up in the process. The radio was gone. Still breathing erratically, you bursted out crying. Unheard. Why did they leave you on slicks, aware of the danger? Neglected. The umpteenth race thrown to the wind, when you were fighting for good and well-deserved points. Frustrated. Your cries ricocheted inside your helmet, hoping someone would hear you, hoping someone would care, hoping efforts could be rewarded, sooner or later. # «She's out of the car, she seems to be okay.» «Was she still on inters?» Charles asked his engineer, as he drove into the pitlane after the race had been red flagged. «No, she was on mediums.» Mechanics placing a gazebo upon the car to shelter him from the rain, Charles reasoned Xavi’s words, trying to make sense of them. Everyone had stopped to put intermediate tires and, right before the safety car’s deployment, a lot of drivers already had boxed for full wets. How could she possibly drive on slicks with those conditions? What sick strategy was that? No, it could only be a joke. «Mediums? Are you sure?» Charles double-checked, hoping his engineer had got confused. «Yes, y/n hasn’t pitted since the race start.» Charles’ chest filled up with a wave of rage and deep frustration, so strong he thought he wouldn’t be able to control himself and would get out the cockpit, running towards Alfa Romeo’s garage in order to ask them what their plan was, if it was an attempt to kill you or if they were fucking blind and couldn’t see the track’s conditions. He couldn’t bear it at all; not after what had happened in Spa’s rainy days, not after losing already two of his friends on track. And Charles, while drops of rain were hitting the gazebo, indifferent to the mechanics’ movement around the car, sitting still with a downpour of feelings sliding off his hands, couldn’t even process that he had just risked losing you as well. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ The fresh smell of grass and soil itched your nose, sharp and nauseous, fueling the tears gathering above your waterline. The sun was hidden behind the soft veil of clouds, casting a feeble light on the field. A valley of grey marbles cut open new wounds. Staring at it, you recalled your mother asking you to choose a picture you liked, but you immediately regretted seeing it plastered upon the grave: the happy memory behind it would've been forever merged with mourning, grief. Death.

Birds chirped from high above a tree, drowning out your mother's weeps.  How do I keep them quiet?, you wondered. How to fade out the inner noise, the chaos, the pain flowing out of your eyes? You walked out. Indifferent to the eyes pointing at you, indifferent to your mom crying louder, indifferent to her sorrow, you marched towards the gate out of Hell. How were you supposed to watch your father being buried? Your dad, the one who taught you how to walk, how to race, how to love? How could you do that? How did people cope with it? How did your mother keep her composure, holding the handkerchief close to her nose so that no feeling would run out? How didn't she scream from the bottom of her lungs, losing her voice, scratching her skin with the nails, tugging at her hair while doing so? Why was everyone seamlessly indifferent to him? Why did everyone stand his death like anything normal, a simple news to be heard and forgotten?  Did anyone but you love him at all? How come you were the only one devastated by it? Why did it amplify, ricocheting inside your soul, doubling, growing stronger and more unbearable?

Birds answered your sobs with a graceful melody, as a sudden ray of sun reached your shaking shoulder. ✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼ You managed to hold your tears before the cameras, pride poking your eyes. You wouldn't give in to provocations and feed the journalists with whatever they were trying to gain from you; Charles had told you a bit about his own press experiences, he had advised you and you had agreed with each of his reflections, hence followed his suggestion. You were stronger than that, and that was something you had learned from him: he had shown and proved it to you, how you didn’t need other’s approval and validation but your own.

Still, on the verge of falling down like glass and helplessly breaking in thousands of pieces, held back by anxiety and fear, you frantically looked left and right at the media pen in search of one person only. You had waited for him until the end of the race, your assistant long gone after your interviews, but you had felt incapable of facing the pouring rain and the walk of shame twice.

You had tried to enjoy the race from a small screen inside the pen but, to pretty much everyone’s dismay, Charles had been forced out of the track after the restart caused by your crash and had ended the race tenth after running third all along. It wasn’t fair.

As soon as he stormed inside the interviews’ area, Charles halted his steps abruptly at your sight, almost about to leave the journalists hanging and bring you far away from worries and guilt. His assistant’s hand, though, reluctantly convinced him to first get done with his duties, but not without  throwing a last glance at you, who still hadn’t noticed him and were searching for his appearance. Once you did, you never lost sight of him, holding onto his frustrated body language, his shrugs full of disappointment. And then it came sudden. His hurried steps, his pained eyes, the pair of arms skillfully grabbing your waist, anchoring light, firm but not too tight: it made your world crumble and shatter once for all.

You both stayed silent, as tears reached your twitching chin and Charles wetted his lips, frowning, frustration visible through his tensed features. In a matter of seconds, he was already holding your hand, guiding you far away from the chaos, dragging you out of the suffocating atmosphere. # Charles flung his room’s door open and left your hand in order to lock it. Founding yourself in a safe place, alone, you sobbed louder, letting your brows clash upward, face crumpling. As he turned and saw you, a pang to his chest, he waited for you to crush inside his embrace. What can I do?, he asked himself. What was there to say? How could he erase mistakes from the script of your life, of his own? How could he make it beautiful and happy so that no tears, no sorrow had to be shed inside your souls? «I gave everything.» you cried. «I know.» Charles said to himself, caressing your cheek. You drank in his touch, thirsty for love, but those words didn’t empty the box of sadness trapped beneath your chest. It didn't feel enough to you. «I gave everything for this, Charles.» you tried to say, voice cracking. «I…» At the sudden thought of your father, you stopped talking and cried harder, filling a deafening silence. «I know.» Charles struggled to prevent his thoughts and breaths from running, so he tried to point all his attention upon you; putting strands of hair back in place, wiping tears away, keeping your face upward and fighting against its natural tendency to drop down. But the more he looked at you, the more his own thresholds were being knocked over. «My father...» you bit your lip. «No, it's okay, y/n.» Charles immediately pulled you back into a hug. «It's okay, don't think about it.» He couldn't listen to it. He couldn't bear hearing from you to the thoughts he was trying to subside in his own mind. Every word was a stab, a crack through the wall, willing to create a breach. However, you couldn’t surrender and suffocate in his hold everything you needed to say, so you rebelled and loosened the grip. «It's not fair.» «Y/n...» he almost pleaded. «I don't deserve it. You don't deserve it, Charles! You...» you sniffed and sobbed before proceeding.  «You are worth so much more than that.» You saw his irises wavering. Then, finally, a lonely tear slowly began travelling towards the side of his nose, nestling onto his skin. «I don't know what to say.» In the way his voice dropped and trembled, you knew that was the last straw.

You sat onto the couch, both at the same time, with slow movements, hands cupping each other’s faces. You were so close you couldn't tell whether the tears falling onto the leathered couch were his or yours; there was something intrinsically intimate and desperate in crying that close, in receiving each other's sobs, foreheads touching, noses brushing.  There was nothing else to be said, words wouldn’t fulfill the purpose: a stronger bond, a deeper sharing replaced unsatisfying talking. Crying had never tasted so sweet and purifying. You didn't simply feel understood: you felt felt. It was two bodies and one soul, one shared fate. And as one, you both leaned in, lips connecting softly. As everything in your life, joy had chosen its place to spring amidst the storm, nurtured by the rain falling down, lacing sorrow and tears. «I love you.» Charles said. «I love you.» you said back, still crying. «I love, y/n.» Charles breathed, leaving a kiss onto the corner of your mouth. «I love you...» he kept repeating, as a prayer, peppering kisses all over your face and then sealing his words onto your lips once more, hands holding your face as the dearest and most fragile flower of the world. «I love you so much.» you whispered. A smile crossed his face broken by sadness and mended it, like trails of gold gluing splinters of a vase.

«We shouldn't do it here.» you said, breathless. Charles leaned in and stole another kiss from your lips, which you were completely unable to resist, hands unconsciously pulling him even closer. As he broke the contact painstakingly slowly, about to smirk, Charles stopped only a few centimeters away from your face. «Sure? You seem to like it.» You jokingly patted his shoulder as you both smiled at each other, getting your bodies the farthest they had been in ten minutes. Sat upon a chest of drawers belonging to Charles’ preparation room, you stared at him, tracing with the sight his perfect features, the fireproof shirt draping him and clinging onto his skin, fingers playing with his bracelets, while you twisted the charm of the necklace he had gifted you, and you then gazed at his rosy lips, so bright and tempting. He joined your hand and caressed the charm, only to close the gap between you two once again.

You had never made out with anyone so sweetly, so tenderly, going at a gentle pace, careful of vulnerabilities and wounds, lust being replaced by a soft yearning. A bloom of butterflies spread all over your body whenever Charles' hands unexpectedly moved, making you discover angles of skin you didn't even know you had, seeking refuge in the comforting warmth of his kisses. «We need to go...» you tried to dissuade him after he began leaving quick pecks from the corner of your mouth down to your neck. «Just five more minutes.» he moaned, still caught in his tantalizing kisses. «My mom is waiting for me, Charles...» you laughed. «Mine is too.» he briefly replied, without letting his lips stray from your skin. «Another reason to go greet them.» Charles looked at you, inhaling as to refrain from kissing you again. «Fine.» he sighed. «Let's go. I also have a gift for you.» «Really?» Charles wiped your cheek as your whole face lit in joy. «Yes. But let's get out of here quickly, please.» he pleaded, smiling. # «There you are!» your mom exclaimed, gesturing towards you and Charles walking in, a shy smile as you stood a little bit too close to him. «I thought you had forgotten about us.» Pascale teased, following with the sight his son, who reached a bag abandoned on the floor and approached the three of you once again. «Early Christmas!» Charles handed a package to your mom, who opened her eyes wide, one to Pascale and, lastly, one to you. «That’s so nice of you! Can I open it??» your mom asked, thrilled. «Sure!» Charles smiled. You watched her unwrapping the paper with excitement, gaping as soon as she recognized the jacket your father wore in the photograph she was holding. «When did you take this picture?» Pascale joyfully asked, staring at the same framed photo your mom had. «Must’ve been a long time ago.» your mom said, smiling, but voice low. «Thank you so very much, Charles!» «It was y/n’s idea to print a copy for you.» he added, willing to point out the thoughtfulness was all yours. Blushing a bit, you looked up at him, fluttered. «C’mon, open yours.» Charles gently encouraged you, speaking in a lower tone. But there was no surprise: it was, indeed, the cut-out picture you had talked about, with you two only. You had expected it to be funny, a photo you two would laugh at; however, as Charles’ hand joined yours in holding the frame and stared at the picture with you, out of the blue you sensed a soft and delicate aura you hadn’t perceived the first time, as if Arthur had caught you in an intimate moment no one should’ve seen or disturbed, inside a bubble of innocence and sweetness.

Pascale and your mother felt the same way looking at you two being lost in gaze, both holding the frame, so close to each other, and smiling like two idiots. «Can we see it?» Pascale asked after an awkwardly long silence. The spell being broken, you both tilted your head up at the question. «Of course!» you stuttered, handing it over. Your mom couldn’t help but flip her eyes between you and Charles, searching for the invisible string tying the two of you. «Who would’ve thought you would meet again…» Pascale commented, handing the frame back to you. Those words warmed Charles’ heart up, as memories of the last months played in his head: it was more than simply meeting again. It was bonding, connecting on a deeper level without really knowing why, the same way you had done that rainy day; taking care of each other, supporting through hardships and enjoying little, special moments together. It didn’t feel real. And deep down, recalling his feelings on that first time you met, he had known something was different about you from the beginning. He definitely hadn’t seen the beautiful ending coming, both falling in love with each other. But he loved every second of it. # As you walked back to the hotel in your mother’s company, she looked back at the pictures Charles had given you. «You seem really happy, y/n.» A bit taken aback by the statement, you glanced at her, trying to read into her words. «I am.» you smiled, genuinely content. «Is it because of Charles?» she asked. You diverted the gaze, pressing your lips together in an attempt to hide the grin that was about to light up your face. You had never felt so comfortable around anyone, protected by the harshness of the sport, free to be yourself, loving and loved. It didn’t feel real. For the first time in years, your mother didn’t fear leaving you deal alone with your life in the majority of your trips all over the world: she didn’t have to silently check over and worry about your health, both physical and mental, because she clearly saw happiness written inside your eyes, and she had acknowledged you weren’t alone. «Maybe.» you rushed, with a mischievous grin, shrugging your shoulders. «Does he make you feel good?» At the question, your father immediately came to mind: you overlayed the feelings you had from happy memories in his company with some of the ones you’d had with Charles, and a suffused bliss permeated the both of them, almost blurring into each other. You smiled, joyfully nostalgic. «Yes, he does.»

When you received the call on Saturday evening, the bubble of happiness you had been trying to live in for a while plopped before your eyes. In silence, staring at the void, you replayed Bravi’s words in your head over and over again, in search of the deeper meaning hidden beyond those. Talking about the contract the day before a race, and not any, but Monza, which was pretty much home for the team, put you on the edge more than it would’ve normally. It must be serious, you thought.

Exiting the hotel, you saw Charles still caught signing and spending time with fans after the stellar pole position he had taken in the afternoon; you tried not to get noticed, which you managed to do successfully, and sneaked out heading to the track. # «Hi, y/n. Please, sit down.» You never stopped looking at him, watching every movement, fathoming the desk for signals and signs onto eventual sheets of paper that offered clues. «There’s a race tomorrow.» «I know. What about it?» he asked, baffled. You deeply inhaled. «You shouldn’t make huge decisions before a race, since it could affect the results of it.» «Do you think I would do that if I knew it could deny us the chance to confirm the P5 you conquered in qualifying today?» «I don’t know.» you shrugged. Bravi backed down onto the chair and reached a drawer, picking up a folder from it and placing it in front of you. «Audi is scoping the surroundings to find drivers suitable for the team and have them experienced and ready for its debut in the 2026 season. As you can imagine, it’s hard to sign contracts with drivers who are still under other teams and whose futures are still uncertain, so… they decided to take a look inside their own garden and, apart from the mistakes you’ve done due to inexperience, they were pleasantly impressed by your performance as a rookie.» Gently smiling at your loss of words, Alessandro kept talking. «They would offer a three-years contract, so that you would be part of the team throughout the transition to Audi as well and would be driving, of course, in 2026. To be fair, the contract looks more like a 1+2, since they still need to evaluate you next year… But it’s an incredible offer nonetheless, y/n.» He moved the folder towards you with his fingertips. «You can examine the contract with Todt, but please note that you have two weeks to either sign or refuse the offer.» Here it was. The passport to your dreams, the chance of your life being renewed in ways you had never even dared to imagine. What had you done to deserve it? You stopped that trail of thoughts immediately: you had worked so hard, you had been on the edge for months, reaping success but failures as well, partly dictated by the stress of the situation you found yourself in. Still, you had learned from it, you had improved, and everybody knew it, Audi knew it. It was time to let go of doubts, to judge and see yourself the same way others did, without dwelling on the negatives. What did you need to do in order to prove you deserved it? How could you turn that news into grateful motivation? There was only one answer. «We’ll have it.» you said. «We’ll have that P5.» # «Good morn- fuck, it’s 9.20.» Charles growled, one hand still wrapped around your waist, the other one checking the time on his phone. «Good morning to you too.» you chirped, turning around to face him and greet him with a quick peck on the lips. You saw Charles slightly frowning with a smile. «You seem really happy.» «I am.» you admitted, looking down. Adjusting a strand of your hair, he took the opportunity to lean in and kiss you; then, tender, he brushed the tips of your noses in a slowly intimate awakening gesture. «Is it for the race?» he asked. You raised your eyes up, in thought, then shook your head with a pout. «Is it… because of me?» Charles smirked before bursting in a loud laugh, downplaying his own suggestion. «Partly.» you answered, coquettish. «Then what is it?» he asked, wrapping his arms around your body and bringing it closer to him, still grinning. You diverted your gaze, smiling both at the thought of Audi’s offer and Charles’ curiosity. «I can’t tell you yet.» Disappointed but playful, Charles gently loosened his hold on you. «Why not?» «It’s not official.» you giggled.

He studied your expression with challenging eyes, then suddenly got on top of you, placing his hands at the sides of your head, so that you were trapped down between his detective stare and the pillow. «So, now… What’s this unofficial thing that’s making you so giggly and happy?» «Charles, I haven’t even talked with Nicholas about it…» As he widened his eyes in surprise, only in that moment, you realized you had just slipped up mentioning you two’s manager. «Did Alfa renew you??» Charles urged, now more serious. «Kind of.» you replied, nonchalant. «Audi offered me a three-years contract. But, you know, they still have the chance to drop me at the end of next year, so…» «And did you sign?» Charles asked. «No, as I told you I still need to read the contract and evaluate it. But let’s be real, I don’t think I’m getting a better offer in two weeks…» you laughed. «I still can’t believe they’ve chosen me.» «They did it because you deserve it. You’re talented, hard-working and you managed to achieve results the team hasn’t seen in years.» he said. «Also, despite some stupid journalists, fans support you and love you because they can see how much passion you put into driving, and everybody knows you are so…» «So?» you waited for him to end the sentence. «… Lovable.» «This doesn’t seem like a very technical comment, Mr Leclerc.» you laughed, patting his chest. «Was I supposed to be technical?» he asked, slowly bending down to slowly press his lips at the base of your jaw, right under the ear. «No, you weren’t, but still.» you said, caressing his hair as he pulled away.

He took a few seconds to stare at you, trying to read your expression. «Does it add pressure for today’s race?» he asked, his tone low, gentle, almost careful. «No.» you answered, lost in thought. «They made the offer before today’s results, so that just motivates me even more for the race.» «I’m so happy for you.» he added with a smile, getting close to give you a proper kiss. «And for us.» Confused, you raised a brow as he settled back to your side. «Waking up with you before free practice, warming up together ahead of qualifying… Making out to get ready for the race…» As he ended the list smugly, you pat his shoulder, earning his heaven laughter. «Travelling the world with you and sharing the passion that brought us together. Doing life with you, going at the same pace. Quite literally.» At the pun, you couldn’t help but cackle. «Don’t laugh, you’re quick with that little Alfa.» he pointed out. «Little Alfa? Are we so insignificant to you?» you joked, still laughing. «Of course not.»

You laid facing yourselves, both your pair of hands brushing, tracing with featherlike weight each other’s features, insatiable of touching, of closeness, of intimacy. No words were needed: silence was enough for you to communicate and bond, while everything else cluttered a background you didn’t even pay attention to. You had never experienced anything like it, and it was the best feeling you’d ever had. «Should we get up?» you whispered, scared to break the dreamy atmosphere. «We still have a bit of time.» Charles said, caressing your forearm. «Okay.» you smiled, completely content with cuddling in bed for a little bit more. «Okay.» he murmured. # «Safety car in this lap, y/n.» «Copy.» Waving on the straight before the Parabolica in order to put your front tires into temperature, you mentally assessed the situation. Rolling start. Four laps ‘til the end. Still P5.

You’d been extremely lucky the safety car had been deployed: you had stopped to put hard tires quite early in the race and your rear had been slipping for the last couple of laps, facilitating the comeback of Russel, who had been behind you all along, but at a safe distance. Among the sea of information your engineer had provided, one thought prevailed: let’s bring it home. # Smoke.  All you were able to see was a whitish cloud of burned rubber, which entered your nostrils and made you inhale the smell of fear, danger but, most importantly, of victory. You quickly realized Perez had suffered a huge lock up braking towards turn 1: he ended up into Carlos’ rear, which caused the Spaniard to strike Verstappen as well, who was taking the outer side of the chicane to oppose Charles at the inside. An absolute carnage you didn’t expect, and that you managed to avoid.

Driving through Curva Grande, you checked your mirrors waiting for one of those cars to appear once again, to no avail. «Russel behind, at 1.5» your engineer warned. «What about the mess in turn one?» you asked, breathing heavily. «They are in the middle of the group, but they all have damage, so they’re either stopping or retiring. No need to worry about them.» «No red flag?» you questioned, scared of how big the risk would be for you if another restart was needed. «No, they managed to keep going, it’s okay.» your engineer tried to reassure you. But you couldn’t believe it. Charles’ car was ahead of you, leading the race, and you followed pretty close, despite clearly not having the same pace as the Ferrari did, in second place. # Time had taught Charles there were different tastes of happiness. To be fair, the one he had tried the most had the pinch of bitterness and loss in it, a much-demanded karmic price but probably not a sufficient reward for suffering. Whenever sadness laced joy, tangling its dark tails around the golden rush, feelings doubled and echoed louder inside Charles’ chest, a nostalgic symphony resonating all over, marking memories with the indelible sign, every time. But not that day.

He crossed the finish line waving in delight to celebrate his win in Monza, fans roaring strong enough to rock the world, a rude red awakening of passion. It felt right, deserved, earned: shared with the explosive energy of Tifosi. And shared with you.

Looking in his mirrors and seeing your Alfa made his beating heart swell in excitement and thrill, unable to fully process what was happening. Charles, being himself, would’ve loved fighting on track for the lead, in Monza, but he knew as well that his pace advantage was unfair and such a fantasy was unrealistic. Though, through the lap of honor, waving at the grandstands, he frantically searched for your car and slowed down in order to proceed side by side, grinning with his whole eyes, raising a thumb towards you with might. It felt like happiness lacing happiness, gold upon gold, far from being sickening, burning brighter than the sun.

Down the pitlane, he got out, standing on the nose of the car, throwing a fist to the sky as a loud roar followed his gesture in cheer. He ran, faster than he could, and threw himself inside the mechanics’ embrace and pats, sharing the rush and the adrenaline after achieving the dream win. His name, like a chant, echoed through the crowd, numbing his senses and unlocking the secret drawer of emotions to open and overflow, pour down as warm rain nurturing the soil of his heart. «Charles, here! Please, Charles!» the photographers asked for his attention. In vain. He had turned his head behind, searching for you, and he had found you: still sitting inside the cockpit, visor opened, hands reaching your eyes. It took nothing else for his feet to carry him next to you and lean down, touching your shoulder with love, and he smiled. You were shedding tears of happiness. «Congratulations for your first podium. You were amazing.» he tried to let you know through the helmet. You stared at him, incapable of speaking. You wanted to congratulate him as well, you needed to express your love and affection and pride so much, yet felt speechless. So, instead of talking, you started unfastening your helmet, and Charles involuntarily mirrored your movements. And as your balaclava freed your hair from its protection and you stood up gripping the halo with one hand, you did the only thing you were able to do: you pulled Charles close into a kiss. Your intention was for it to be quick, a simple and fast peck placed onto his lips in sign of gratitude; though, you didn’t feel surprised as you felt his arm wrapping around your waist to hold you up, deepening a kiss which was meant to be brief.

You both didn’t pay attention to the loud whistles, you were too lost into each other’s embrace; foreheads tenderly touching, rosy cheeks after an intense race, you two couldn’t help but grin, catching breaths. «I love you.» you whispered. «I love you more.» he replied, not as whispered, almost aiming to be heard, willing to let the entire world know. And he showed. Offering his hand to help you get out the cockpit, after you had just put down your feet to the ground, adrenaline still running high, Charles lifted you off bride-style and twirled around, both giggling. Wiping off a tear and chuckling at the same time, you held your arms around his neck when Charles reached the interviews’ area and brought you back down.

Russel was still ecstatic and thrilled narrating his race while you and Charles faced each other, silently exchanging affectionate stares and speaking a few words. «I’m so happy for you, gosh… You won, Charles!» you said, unable to contain excitement. «It was hard, but it feels so good.» he exhaled, shutting his eyes in a tired and relieved motion. «And you don’t even know how special it is to share this win with you on the podium as well.» he added, caressing your cheek.

Up from your podium step, the sea of people flooding the track, the flags, the giant prancing horse pulsing in front of you was the scenery of a movie playing all years as a ritual, but you felt like it was the first time ever seeing it: the afternoons spent on the couch watching F1 with your father suddenly disappeared, leaving room for astonishment and the childish curiosity of toddlers before the amazing simplicity of the things. Once you were handed the cup, feeling everybody’s eyes on you, especially Charles’ next to you, you raised the trophy to the sky, the crowd cheering for you. Among the choir of chants, voices, screaming Charles’ name, in that ocean of faces, in the clouds above the track, everything reminded you of your dad, and you could hear him cheering in joy for you.

Champagne already flying up in the air and drenching confetti falling down, Charles knew exactly what you were thinking as soon as he caught you scanning your surroundings, a bit lost in the overflowing feelings. He raised the champagne bottle forward, waiting for yours to join in a celebration toast. Off guard, Charles started spraying champagne all over you, engaging in an endless war nobody could enter or halt, no chance to interfere or dissuade you. You had your secret motives to celebrate; and you would both keep dancing under liquid gold until your arms got tired of holding, until your eyes got tired of staring, until your lips got tired of kissing. Until your hearts got tired of loving.

I'm really sorry if there are typos or mistakes, but it was really hard to revise such a long fic. Hope you'll be understanding 🥺 THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! ♥ I’D REALLY APPRECIATE IT IF YOU LEFT A NOTE FOR FEEDBACK, SO THANKS IF YOU DO! HOPE YOU HAVE A NICE DAY! . · ˚✧

Navigation || Masterlist

[uh-wriring]

Like a Wild Animal

Prompt: You're in an argument with Miguel regarding the situation with Miles. He doesn't know how to deal with things.

Tags: Miguel & gn reader. Angst, grief, he raises his voice, a bit of physical violence.

Drops of rain fell from the clouds above, painting the sky in shades of gray and blue. The rooftop held a kind of beauty, with the smell of water hitting the concrete, birds flying to their homes much like the people bellow on the street.

You’d appreciate the scenery so much more if you weren’t arguing with O’hara, who just raised his voice at you. Not in the “you fucked up in a mission” way, no, much worse. You just touched an open wound, and like a wild animal, he showed his teeth and claws, clearly telling you to stay away.

He wasn’t disappointed, he was defensive.

Suppose that’s what you get for bringing Gabriella up. Or maybe for disagreeing on the “Miles subject.” Likely both, though.

“You know I’m right, Miguel.” You recover your previous poise, the one you held before you tuned out as he screamed. “You know it.”

“Do not compare my situation to this.” his posture tells all you need to know. He’s ready. Alert. Angry. Who were you to even mention his family, let alone mention them in this context.

In reality, he is still grieving. You had been through something so similar, the pain that reoccurs can break a vein in half, shatter your lungs and take you out for a days, but Miguel insisted on keeping on working and looking at old pictures, and he just… He’s grieving.

And grief is an abyss.

One that threatens to swallow even the highest of hearts. You knew the urge to throw yourself into work, to revisit old memories, to keep moving forward just to keep from sinking. And that’s what he is doing.

“This is different. Miles is different.” You say, mouth now aching and throbbing.

“It isn’t.” he turns to the exit, so high and strong, he almost looks fragile. But you continue, pushing through the pain in your mouth.

“We could help him, imagine what that would mean for the society- he wasn’t even supposed to be spider -man, and, if it’s the Spot that’s killing his father, wouldn’t that make his death the consequence of an anomaly- don’t - Miguel!”

The exit door makes a click when opening.

He fucking walked out on you.

You go after him, walking through the pale corridors of the spider society, almost screaming.

“You know damn well this isn’t the same, O’hara!”

He doesn’t answer, he only walks, always walking, always running, always facing but never feeling. Oh how he would hate you for your next words.

“He isn't doing what you did!”

His steps slowed, his back rigid. The words must’ve hit him like a punch to the gut.

He froze, his fingers trembling almost imperceptibly. And then, as if the weight of your words had cracked something open within him, he turned back to you.

The tension in the air was thick, charged with unspoken history.

And then it happened.

His fists collide with you, your body crashing to the ground. The pain was sharp, the taste of copper in your mouth strong, warm, coming from above.

“You don’t know shit about my family.” He looms over you, presence almost suffocating. He could kill you if he so wished. And maybe you wanted to make him wish that.

Your head rests against the cold floor, accepting the physical loss.

“You know what makes people like us?” you ask, “We try, Miguel. We always try. Isn’t this worth a try?”

For a second, a maroon, cloud gazed, second, you catch his eyes shifting from anger to something softer. But just like summer rain, it goes away, and he threatens:

“I won’t let him break the universe more than he already has. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

And then he left.

The corridor was silent, save for the rain hitting the walls and the sound of your ragged breaths. You gingerly touch your nose, your fingers coming away red.

Your words hung in the air. Hopefully you had planted a seed.

And as the rain continued to fall, a steady rhythm seemed to mirror your heartbeat. You contemplated the path ahead. Perhaps Lyla could help.

[serenescribe]

pénthos Twisted Wonderland | 2.2k Summary: Silver is dead, and everything is wrong. AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52165603 TW: Major character death, heavy angst

I wrote this a few days ago while trying to process my complex feelings about death and life continuing on, mainly due to the sudden decline in health of one of my family's dear pet cats. It is, in essence, a vent fic; it deals with a lot of grief and hurt.

Nevertheless, writing is still a form of expression, and I hope that someone can find some meaning in this, in spite of the heavy content.

The cottage door opens with a long, drawn out creeeaaak.

He covers his nose and mouth with a hand as he steps inside, eyes squinting against the deluge of dust and musty air that permeates the inside of the house. For a moment, Lilia lingers there, standing stock-still in the doorway, his other hand still wrapped around the handle of the door. His grip tightens the slightest bit, the movement imperceptible, matching the way his heart is squeezed within his chest — a scarcely noticeable gesture to match such inner, invisible pain.

With deliberate effort, Lilia forces his hands to drop to his sides.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.

And then he dives in.

A home is a place, everyone says. That is the textbook definition of what it is — a place where one lives permanently, especially as a family member, or as a member of a household. This cottage is a home, has been a home for all these many years spent deep in the woods of the valley. It was once decrepit, abandoned, falling to pieces, but Lilia had restored it for the purpose of creating a home.

A home for two — for him, and for his son.

His steps are slow, soles practically dragging against the dirt-stained floor. Despite the way the stale air makes him cough, with barely any fresh oxygen in this musty household to revitalise his soul, Lilia leaves it as it is; it is far more fitting this way, than to push open the windows and allow sweeping gusts of forest air to burst inside, washing the living room alight with life.

The decrepit atmosphere matches his mood, the emotions clawing inside his chest, tearing into him from the inside out. There is no point bringing life into a home, when to him, it does not feel like one anymore.

And with that thought, that realisation, Lilia stills. He blinks, and for a moment, it feels as though something indescribable has overcome him — an emotion so peculiar, so powerful, eating at the hollow abyss that has festered within his chest ever since it happened. His shoulders stiffen, teeth snagging against his lower lips. He raises his head, pulling his eyes away from moth-bitten curtains and dust-smeared windows to glance around instead.

Lilia looks at the frames on the wall, housing paintings and photographs within them — an oil painting of him, hair streaked fuchsia yet still draping over his shoulder in long locks, a slumbering toddler seated on his lap; smaller colleges of him years later, laughing in black-and-green uniforms with a boy who towers over him; and scribbly doodles on yellowing paper that tears at the edges, crayon scribbles of stickmen, with wobbling words that read: “Papa and me.”

The claws of fate snatch at his chest, and strangle his heart.

Pressure builds behind his eyes, something wet pricking at the edges. Before he even knows it, Lilia is pressing a hand against the framed drawing, tracing the amateurish yet loving strokes, a lump forming in his throat to choke him until he collapses into the black.

From the very moment he found a crying bundle in a castle of thorns, he has known one singular truth: Lilia has never intended to live longer than the son he shall raise.

Even all the way back then, as he used magic to bless the baby, watching sunlight-spun hair turn to streaks of silvery moonlight, Lilia has always known that his end was near. His only mistake was assuming he had more time than he actually did; if he were truly aware of how meagre his magic reserves were, of how he would run out before Silver even reached the threshold of adult maturity, he would have taken careful steps to preserve it longer.

But Lilia has always known he would not outlive his son. For all his human mortality, Silver was young, and Lilia was old; death has always followed him in his shadows, stalking him with each ticking year, looming like an inevitability that would one day swallow him up.

And yet, the fates had been cruel. Far, far too cruel.

Everywhere he steps in the cottage, Lilia sees him.

He lingers in the bookshelves, from the picture books to survival guides and training manuals. He is there in the wood-carved critters, from amateurish carvings of a bird to much more detailed squirrels and bunnies, that gather dust along the shelves, keeping the neglected books company. A candle, half-burnt, the wax melted a significant amount, sits on the square table they take their meals at; it would always be lit by a smiling son, who started with matches and ended with flickers of budding fire magic.

He haunts the creaking steps and groaning floorboards, the hinges that squeal as Lilia pushes into room after room. He stiffens with each sound, whisked back to years of the past; suddenly, he is playing hide and seek again, and he expects to hear a squeal or a giggle as he calls out a playful warning; “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” When Lilia steps into the bathroom, he spots the laundry basket that the giggling boy used to sit in, when he was tiny enough to hide inside and pull the lid over his head, unable to stop his laughter from squeaking out as Lilia entered and feigned ignorance about his obvious whereabouts.

He lives on in the withering potted plants and the bird houses hanging from the outside of the windows, still visible even through dirtied glass. Signs of life taken care of, from the flora which flourished under his care, lapping up water poured from a little cup and blooming with ample sunlight, left in the view of the shining sun, to the birds and squirrels who would clamber up swinging feeders, chirping and chittering as they tucked into meals of nuts and berries, a veritable feast gathered by a young boy who simply loved the world.

The hollow ache in his chest never dissipates. It only grows and grows, consuming his heart.

Lilia feels something streak down his cheek, and absentmindedly wipes it away.

Silver’s room is untouched by time.

Everything is just as he left it, coated with thin layers of dust. His bed is made, quilted duvet folded and spread over it neatly, his pillow fluffed up at the headrest. His tables are cluttered with a few trinkets, and his training sword, wrought from wood with some metal to emulate weight, leans against the wall. Books line his shelves, next to gifts received from his years of schooling — clocks received as gifts from hometown travels, a little jewellery case that gleams with far too many expensive jewels, and a memory album received in his final year. Lonely clothes hang within the wardrobe, limp and sad without their owner to adorn; he swallows a lump in his throat at the sight of a silly hat tucked away within an inner drawer, thinking back to the silly smile his son adorned when he wore it for the first time.

The weak rays of a setting sun streak into the room. Dust dances in the air.

Lilia stands in the middle of the room, and stares.

Slowly, he moves to the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, and he spreads a hand against the patchwork quilt beneath. Lilia can remember every little patch of fabric and their origins; against the logic that barely stands out in his tumultuous, aching mind, he summons what little bits of magic he has left, closing his eyes as he casts—

“Far Cry Cradle.”

Silver is young, and Lilia is younger than he is now, new to fatherhood with little idea of what to do. Silver outgrows his clothes at a rapid pace, faster than Lilia expects — how peculiar it is, the way the little human baby seems to grow in the blink of an eye!

The clothes pile up, again and again and again. Silver is older, tottering around on two feet. He giggles at him and claps his hands together, babbling at him over and over.

Lilia has always held a weapon in his hands. The calluses marring his flesh is proof of that. The needle he picks up feels pathetically small in comparison, thread looped through the little ring on the end. Silver slumbers in the cot nearby. A pair of scissors rest on the table to his side, along with a mountain of tiny patches of fabric.

A patchwork quilt. Baul told him about it, when Lilia visited him and his daughter and her family, and had grown interested in the colourful blanket folded across her child’s bed. “She sews one for everyone in the family,” Baul tells him, his voice gruff, though pride and affection underlines it deep within. “It’s her way of showing her love.”

So he tries. He uses Silver’s old clothes, before he moves on to his own, and then he moves on to anything else he can get. Silver grows as new squares are added, his stitching clumsy before it slowly straightens out over the slowing movement of time.

By the time he is six, Lilia wraps him in a thick, snug blanket, heart soaring at the way the young child beams at him, flashing him a toothy grin.

“I love you, Papa!”

Silver is dead, and everything is wrong.

“The worst thing about loving humans,” Baul’s daughter said to him once, when he’d visited in a panic over Silver growing sickly and ill, “is that they don’t live long.” At the time, she had fed the baby some medicine, mixing herbal remedies with some warm milk before feeding him with a bottle, and when she and Lilia began to converse, she had been rocking the slumbering baby in her arms.

Her eyes had grown distant as she glanced down at Silver, before raising her head. Their eyes met; “The knowledge that you will outlive them won’t ever go away,” she told him, her voice tinged with a miserable acceptance. A sad smile graced her lips, scales across her face shifting with her emotions. “I will someday have to bury my own husband, and perhaps even my own children. And yet, that is the risk I have taken, to love who I love, and to raise those who are mine.”

“I do not know if I will outlive Silver,” Lilia had confessed. He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, eyes floating down to the slumbering baby cradled in her arms. “I’m not sure how much Baul told you about me, but I am rather old, as it stands. And it isn’t just an issue of age,” he added. “I… greatly overworked myself during the days of war. Magic is what makes us who we are, after all — and how much longer can a fae live without their magic?”

There had been a pause, a comfortable silence filling the air. And then Silver had hiccupped noisily, eyes squinting open the slightest bit. He babbled, hands raising weakly, and Baul’s daughter had smiled at Lilia, reaching forward to pass him the little bundle of life. “You never know what may happen, Lilia,” she said, as Lilia took Silver into his arms, the baby breaking into a toothless smile. “Lifespan is one thing. Have you ever considered how much more fragile humans are?”

“Of course I have,” Lilia answered as he rocked Silver back and forth, heart bursting with such melting warmth. “Who do you take me for?”

And that was precisely why he decided, there and then, that he would raise Silver to be the strongest human that ever was. To live long, to live forever, to live past Lilia, and thrive through the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, fingers clenching tight around the quilt. He hangs his head, the tears finally flooding forth, pouring down his face as he gasps for breath. “Silver, I’m sorry—”

But the only thing left for him is the ghost of a home, an empty cottage ladened with dust.

Even as Lilia wraps the patchwork quilt around him with trembling hands, burying his nose into the fabric in hopes of drinking what little snatches of Silver there still are, he knows, deep down, that Silver is gone. A horrible reality he never hoped to pass has come true — he has outlived someone he always knew he would, no matter how hard he tried to cope, lying to himself about a shortened lifespan and dwindling magic.

Fool, he thinks to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. You absolute fool, you—

A home is not a home without the son he so truly loves. As Lilia tips backwards, collapsing into the bed, he stares at the ceiling. The little mobile with the carved animals that he made when Silver was just mere months old still hangs over the bed. Even as Silver outgrew it, he still insisted on hanging it when he upgraded from a cradle to a bed of his own.

Lilia watches as the animals drift the slightest bit — barely moving, for all intents and purposes, static.

He sucks in a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

[soundbulb]

my friends tease me for loving manosphere stuff, which is true, but they always find it kind of baffling and I guess I did too until I realized the manosphere men admired the men in these shows. obviously we all wish we could monologue in beautifully paced and well articulated philosophy, that's not what I'm saying, but the men who like this story seem incapable of viewing rust cohle as someone who is expressing beliefs that create ironic tension in his own narrative, same as marty.

it's not quite as bull in a china shop as marty saying "a man needs boundaries" in monologue while we watch him break down the door of the twenty something woman he's cheating on his wife with. but from the moment rust brings up "encouraging the capacity for illusion" it becomes glaringly obvious rust's mainlining of the secrets of the universe -- as well as the bulk of his philosophies outcropped from grief -- are exactly that same encouragement of illusion. "the world needs bad men" and "it was never supposed to work, the whole man-woman thing" is hitting you over the head in the context of the show; rust is ducking and hiding. it's intolerable, how grief irrevocably changed him as a person, the marriage that crumbled from that grief ("we turned on each other"), and the resentment it bore, and not because nature programmed it to end but because it all just did.

but that belief, that nature programmed it to end, is an extension of his idea of time as a flat circle. if you will be reborn into the life you've always been born into, than none of these choices are really yours to begin with. none of what happens has anything to do with you, which is how it feels when you lose everything to an accident on some regular day. so if you believe you're wrought through every motion in repetition, then in this repetition you're exponentially separated from anything resembling agency. but still, nature's programming is You, somewhere at some point in imperceptible time; You at one point lived the life for the first time, then over and over and over, it's Your programming, Your design. the marriage ended who knows how many times. it was never meant to work. your kid died who knows how many times because she was always going to, and you have to continue even though it feels like you're trapped inside a predetermined motion, predetermined not by a benevolent power, or even a malignant one, but by You. everything you ever did or everything done to you happens over and over, there is no such thing as once. which is just true within our lifetimes, we still live inside our decisions, our trajectories, and the trajectories of other people worn on us.

but I'd be surprised if rust believed in a "first time" like that. it's like if you roll a marble on a looping track; an elastic collision got it going, but it's already on a loop. you're born without preexistence, but does this mean that first life is a byproduct of your decisions? in the same way gravity dictated you'd move kinetic, a certain shape, slowing and speeding up at this part and that part, can the same be said for how time dictates you move through your life?

but this is what it feels like when your life is completely devastated by something random. it's the aimless inattention of a couple people at the same time; it's positions in space and speed and impact, gravity; it's an accident. you can't cope with the scope of that. you'll lose everything, but of course the world doesn't change, and the giant devouring mystery is no closer to sated or understood or whatever you believe it seeks. it's in the same way a pandemic wipes through your life and leaves you injured and ill. a plague doesn't really care about anything but living, it was never about you; lives in you but doesn't know what You are, in the same way you don't know what massive devouring mystery you live inside.

even in the murder of dora lang and marie fontenot, murders that are actually committed by men with malice and forethought, there's this thing looming above these women and children as though they're likewise devoured by something too large, incapable of seeing them. this is why it's important that dora lang and marie fontenot are easy targets, "chum in the water". it's impersonal, the accumulation of hundreds of other things that made it easy to pick them off. for some of them it was hurricanes. I love the use of hurricanes in true detective, great use of massive destroying mystery. anyway, it's why marie fontenot's disappearance is paired with the "cerebral event" that paralyzes her uncle. all of these are acts of horror too large to perceive, and why this horror is cosmic depends on where you are in the narrative. is it because evil is a design of nature (or god)? is it because you were propelled into this motion, and gravity will bring you back here, to the moment you're devoured? is it because the only closeness to this mystery is in it's silence around you, incapable of speaking to something like you, so small it could never know you were there at all? that one comes at our half way point with joel theriot -- "all my life I wanted to be nearer to god. the only nearness, silence."

the men doing the killing believe they're feeding this cosmic mystery, that it's a mouth and gut and gets hungry for the people they already view as consumable. they make it into a god that demands sacrifices. rust seems to believe it doesn't need to be fed, it will always eat. his relationship to it is hard to pin down, it clearly guides him, but when he speaks of it it's more like it's coming for him. "it's like something's got your name on it, like a bullet or a long nail in the road."

I do relate to this instinct to embrace "there was never another version". whatever I've lost to encephalitis and it's autoimmune consequences, I have this feeling in my gut there's no version of life where it doesn't happen. there's no trajectory for the me before this except becoming the me in this and after this. I think that's why rust's version of grief does resonate so much, because there's nothing he can do about how random it is, so he turns it into a bullet with his name on it. what he embraces here is the morbid version of "it was fate".

so he's mystified his experience of grief, rightfully so, because grief is inherently mysterious, and that is quite literally the process of engaging your capacity for illusion. and ultimately the story isn't telling you what's eating you, it's saying you'd know it much better by it's silence than by anything definable, present.

[tvseries-writings]

Road Trip VIII

Road trip masterlist

Wandanat x Bioquake x reader (Bobbi x reader platonic!)

TW: blood

Summary of previous chapters: When Nat, Wanda, Daisy, Jemma and reader have an accident, reader is injured so badly that Jemma and Wanda must combine science and magic to save her with only one side effect...special healing powers that allow to project the injuries onto someone else but at a high price. What happens when the girls find out what this “high price” consist in?

Silence invades the room since you told them the truth about the tests. You had hoped that lie would last at least a couple of weeks, but instead it hadn't even lasted a day. Jemma looks at the papers in her hands, barely holding back tears and quickly shaking her head.

They say there are five stages of grief. And even if that is not their mourning, not yet at least, each of them, knowing the truth, is going through at least one of those stages.

Jemma is facing denial, rereading again and again those words that are incomprehensible to you but which Fitz has diligently summarized for you, as if by doing so he can find a permanent solution to your situation that you can accept.


"No, no, there must be something we can do...if you don't use your powers then, maybe-"

Daisy paces back and forth across the room, making her shake just barely, almost imperceptibly to anyone who doesn't know her. Daisy is incredulous, bewildered by a revelation of such magnitude.

"This is not your choice, all right? I wanted to tell you because I was forced to," you cast a glare at Daisy before continuing to speak, "and you have no say in the matter, get over it."

You know you've been hard on them, you know it and you see it in their looks but it's for their own good and for your own sanity. No one banned them from using their powers, even when they were hurting them so they have no right to ban you...not if you can save lives. You could even heal cancer with your powers, how can they not understand that.


"You may be right, sometimes our powers hurt us but we don't sign a death warrant every time we use them detka." Wanda takes a few steps toward you but you back away, shaking your head.
"I could save who knows how many lives, I...you are special, you always have been, by your powers or your qualities and now I too will finally feel useful in something" "Even if it means your death y/n? Because that's what we're talking about, you can't deny it and each of us is all too aware of it; do you realize that if you keep using these strange and dangerous new powers, you'll only destroy yourself until there's nothing left of you?"

Natasha struggles to keep the fear from seeping into her voice but you know her, you know she is only scared and afraid of how far your recklessness may take you this time.

You look away, unable to sustain the former widow's sharp but concerned gaze.


"I'm aware of that Nat, I know I'm signing my own death warrant but if it will help even one person then I'll be more than happy to take the risk."

"This is bullshit! Are we really going to allow her to do something like this? This is stupid and dangerous. You're committing suicide y/n and I can't stand by and watch you do it, at the cost of stopping you by force."

Daisy raises her arm toward you, she doesn't know why either but hopes to stop this madness even though both you and she know she would never hurt you. In fact, after a few seconds in which you all remain silent, the inhuman lowers her arm with a defeated air.


"Please love, please...we would not survive without you."

Daisy lets tears line her cheeks as she collapses to her knees, repeatedly shaking her head, "you can't choose to leave us if you have the option to not to, please..."

Your heart breaks and your body moves before you can stop it. You kneel next to her and hug her, kissing her cheek and whispering that it will be okay even though you know it is a promise you cannot keep. Wanda approaches you and joins the embrace, Jemma follows her while Nat remains motionless, just a few steps away from you. She would like to join but the pain she is feeling right now prevents her from doing so.


"Nat" Wanda whispers, turning toward her lifelong companion, inciting the redhead to join but the latter shakes her head.
"Please" you look up, mimicking the word with your lips, and she resists for a few seconds before complying with your request. This warm squeeze is supposed to be for Daisy but actually, if you have to be honest, you think it serves all of you.

You don't know how long you stay like this but when you speak again, your mouth is dry and your voice trembles.
"I'll...I'll be careful, I'll only use them when I think it's necessary okay?"

The girls nod, not what they wanted to hear but they know they won't get anything else from you.
"All right but first I want to do some tests and many, many blood tests so I suggest you prepare yourself psychologically."

You huff dramatically and hide in Wanda's arms.

"Wands save me" you whimper and Nat pats you on the butt shaking his head.
"I don't think you're going to get off that easy" "No no, Jemma is right and in fact, we'll help her hold you down for as long as detka" Wanda leaves a kiss on your temple and smiles when you let out another whimper.
"If you're going to have your way at least you have to suffer a little" Daisy sticks her tongue out at you and you kick her on the shin which makes her pout and massage the injured area.

"I hate you" "No you don't" "No you don't...I hate you very much."

"Y/N!"

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

During the next three weeks Jemma doesn't give you a break and Bobbi certainly doesn't help. You have pitted arms and think you're missing a lot of blood after all the blood draws the biochemist forced on you. Just like she's doing today.


"Stop it Bobbi, that's the third one today..please."

You sigh, shaking your head and withdrawing your arm from the blonde's hands and almost injuring yourself with the needle.
"Y/n! Be careful or you'll hurt yourself."

Bobbi removes her gloves and places them, along with the syringe, on the small table to your right.

"I know you hate all these rockstar withdrawals and I know how terrible you are as a patient but-"

Your phone rings and as soon as it does, you immediately recognize the ringtone.
"Director Fury, tell me."

Bobbi watches you throughout the entire call, trying to figure out what your boss is telling you but can't. She has never been good at reading other people's emotions, let alone their looks.

"All right director, no problem. We'll leave right away."

You end the call, putting the phone back in your pocket and getting up from the infirmary bed. A dizziness forces you to sit back down and Bobbi snaps toward you, grabbing your arm to keep you from falling to the floor.

"Hey hey, easy. I just took a liter of blood from you, I don't think it's a great idea to get up so fast without even drinking your juice."

Bobbi hands you the juice and watches you carefully as you drink it all so as not to infuriate her.

"Can I get up now boss?"

A smile of defiance paints your face and the spy rolls his eyes, nodding his head to give you permission.


"What did Fury tell you?"

Bobbi tosses the used syringe and gloves into the trash can, but continues to watch you out of the corner of her eye to make sure that once you're on your feet you don't get hit with dizziness again. 
"We have a mission and we need to leave right away, it's a 084."

"Origin unknown..." Bobbi whispers and you nod. You both know that code all too well, as does Daisy.
"We need to warn the others and move now."

You head for the infirmary exit but Bobbi blocks you.
"You can't go on the mission, Fitz hasn't finished designing the electricity absorber for your neural connections yet and if anything goes wrong Jemma would kill me, non-" "Bobs, I know. It's going to be okay okay? I promise. Now get ready, I'm going to call the others."

When you finally find them, they are all four ( or almost) engaged in a violent, but also deeply exciting, sparring session.

Natasha is on top of Daisy, pushing her against the mat beneath them while Wanda and Jemma watch them on the sidelines with mischievous smiles on their faces.
"Do you give up Agent Johnson?" "Forget it Romanoff."

It takes Daisy a couple of tries before she gets the better of Nat and knocks the redhead to the ground, holding her hands above her head and legs apart.

That sight makes you hot, but as soon as you remember the real reason you came after them, to your regret, you interrupt the little scene before you.

"As much as I hate to interrupt you...Fury called me, we need to leave immediately for a mission. It's about an 084."

Daisy untangles herself from Nat's grip and looks at you with a look you've never seen on her before.
"When do we leave?"

………………..………………………..…………………………….

In less than four hours, 084 turns out to be much more "known" than expected, and you, Daisy, Bobbi find yourselves tied, in a cold, dreary gray cell, to each other, because of a white, misogynistic, and, above all, psychopathic Nazi asshole.


"I remembered you dead."

You spit on the floor; the mix of saliva and blood settles inches from his designer leather shoes.

You cast a glance at Daisy and Bobbi. The former is still unconscious but the rise and fall of her chest indicate that she is still alive while the blonde is awake and struggling against the handcuffs as she watches that being torture you helplessly.


"Oh my dear, you know how we Hydra people are...when you cut off one head two more pop up."

Whitehall smiles; a crooked, sick smile so sadistic it makes you cringe, even if you don't show it.
"Although it's been years, I see you still use the same jokes. Old age is looming eh? Indeed, since you ran out of your beauty serum, quite a few wrinkles have appeared."

Another fist crashes against your jaw and is so hard that your head snaps to the side and more blood joins the blood from before on the floor. Whitehall wipes his hand on a handkerchief taken from the pocket of the ivory jacket he is wearing.

He shakes his head, smiles at you and grabs your face with his right hand, cupping your chin between his index finger and thumb so hard you think he might shatter it. Despite his age, the asshole still has a lot of strength.

As long as he takes it out on you and leaves Daisy and Bobbi alone, though, he's more than okay. At least until Nat, Wanda and Jemma come to your rescue. Knowing them, they will already be hot on your trail.


"Now tell me agent y/n, where is the journal that S.H.I.E.L.D. seized from me?"

Whitehall grazes your cheek with the scalpel, causing a small cut that makes Bobbi wiggle even more from her restraints; you know that look, she's telling you not to pull too hard.

"For the umpteenth time, you Nazi prick, I don't even know what you're talking about!"

Blood drips from your nose, probably broken considering the throbbing pain. Obviously you know what he's talking about, it's no secret that S.H.I.E.L.D. came into possession of the red journal inside of which were engraved the super-soldier activation words but I doubt that a Hydra bigwig would need it so badly that he would kidnap three S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.

Daisy lets out a groan as she slowly opens her eyes and you freeze, aware that Whitehall will now focus all energy on her.

And to think he only managed to capture you with a sedative in the form of gas...uh, Nazis, those assholes never change.

"You Americans are so stupid...the red diary, from Hydra. Seems obvious to me."

Whitehall cracks a smile before carving you one more time with the scalpel only this time, the cut is deeper and all too close to your carotid vein and Daisy, who has just woken up and recovered from the sedative, as soon as she sees how you are reduced struggles against the handcuffs and yells at Whitehall to stop.

"The destroyer of worlds...glad you could join us in this pleasant reunion."

He turns away from you, focusing on Daisy. The Inhuman tries to activate her powers but can't, the collar on her neck prevents her from doing so, and the Hydra scientist smiles as he sees her tenacity.


"Daisy Johnson, Quake, the Destroyer of Worlds, many names but without powers you are nothing."

Whitehall approaches one of your soulmates, and when he injects something into her neck, you can't see anymore and the handcuffs become completely useless against the rage you're feeling and the fear that whatever that was inside that damn syringe might cause Daisy harm.

It all happens quickly; Whitehall reaches down and grabs you by the chin again and then uses that same hand to dab the blood that suddenly comes out of the wound in his neck-the exact same wound he gave you that is now gone from your skin and transferred to his. The blood from your nose comes out even faster and more copiously so that your head starts to spin but you can still make out a smile on that psychopath's face.

"Ha Ha, I knew the rumors were true, and a little water injected into one of your lovers gave me the confirmation I was looking for. What amazing powers, the gift of healing and destruction as sides of the same coin."

Whitehall shakes his head while continuing to smile as he takes his handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs the blood coming from your nose; not that it has much effect since the bleeding is due to your powers.
"I look forward to experimenting on you, my dear. It will be painful but you know, breakthroughs require experimentation."

He turns to the two energetic men on either side of the door, the only way out of that room, and motions for them to take you away.


"Pick her up and take her to the room. I'll prepare for operations; we must start now. Science does not wait!"

Bobbi watches intently, and as soon as Whitehall and one of his two henchmen emerge from the gray and far too brightly lit cell in which they are keeping you locked up, the handcuffs that held her bound fall to the floor. The sound the handcuffs make as they hit the floor makes Igor the enforcer turn toward the blond spy. Bobbi picks up the chair to which she was tied and smashes it over the giant's head, and within seconds the latter falls unconscious to the floor before he even realizes what is happening.

You observe your surroundings without really doing so. Your head is spinning and the nosebleed still doesn't seem to have stopped; in fact, you don't know if it has; you are so dazed that you don't realize it. Passively, you watch Bobbi untie Daisy and then pick up the gun that the giant idiot dropped after being stunned. And then, as Daisy approaches you and Bobbi unties you, you feel yourself return to the reality around you. At least in part.

"Hey, look at me, are you okay?"

Daisy takes your face in her hands, tearing off a piece of her shirt and dabbing at your nose to the best of her ability.

Bobbi keeps her gun pointed at the door as her spy skills take over, though that doesn't keep her from checking you out with her eyes every few seconds. After all, she is one of your closest friends and she cares a lot about you.
"You're an idiot, you shouldn't have used your powers for me."
"You would have done the same for me Dee," you whisper, concentrating on focusing on her face and straining to pronounce the words correctly. Daisy does not respond and merely looks at you, continuing to hold the now blood-soaked piece of her T-shirt under your nose.

"Shit Bobbi, it won't stop bleeding. What should I do?"

Bobbi continues to watch the door as she kneels down to slip something metallic from her right boot before tossing it to Daisy.
"This is the neural connection stabilizer that Fitz designed, it's only a prototype but it should help. Besides, it's not like we have much choice right now sestra."

Bobbi shoots you a look, startled by how out of it you seem and lacking connection to reality. Daisy applies two electrodes to the sides of your temples, attaching them to the thick and particularly heavy iron headband at the back of your neck, and then, as soon as she presses the power button Bobbi points to her, the pain suddenly fades and your head stops spinning considerably, the same way the blood stops going down.


"How I love Fitz," you smile, shaking your head just barely to try to ward off even the dazzling nausea that unfortunately has not yet gone away.
"Yeah well, don't push it, we don't know how much it holds and I'm not about to find out y/n" Daisy gives you a warning look before helping you to your feet. You sway dangerously to the side as the world tilts but Daisy keeps you firmly anchored to herself, giving you a concerned look. It takes a few seconds before you stabilize.


"I just feel a little dizzy, that's all. I'm okay Dee."
"Yeah, sure, you're okay...if you're okay, I'm the director of S.H.I.E.L.D."

You roll your eyes and snort, giving Daisy a gentle nudge and realizing only then that the Inhuman is still wearing the collar that blocks her powers.

"Bobbi, can we get it off without hurting her?"

You turn to the blonde, and when the latter shakes her head, you tighten your lips, thinking how much you'd like to put a good bullet through Whitehall's skull.

Noises outside the door alarm you and you waste no time in grabbing a broken chair leg to use as a weapon.
"Oh, that's scary."
"Better this than air."

You stick your tongue out at Daisy, and for a few seconds you think you are safe, perhaps on the couch, sitting between the women you love most in the world as you watch a few movies on one of your movie nights.

Then, three gunshots cause you to take a defensive stance, putting yourself in front of Daisy to protect her just as the door to the closed cell you are in is smashed open and falls to the floor with a thud.

Bobbi doesn't lose sight of the entrance, but when she recognizes the silhouette of the person standing in the knocked-down doorway, a smile breaks out on her face and her shoulders relax as she lowers her gun.
"Did I step on your moment?"

Natasha smiles and runs toward you and Daisy, squeezing you in a hug before exchanging a pat on the back with Bobbi.

"Good entrance Romanoff, I see you still like to show off."
"Oh Morse, you know me well. My ego comes first."

Natasha presses the earpiece she has in your ear, looking at both you and Daisy relieved to see that you are both okay albeit with a few bruises and some blood.
"Jem, Wands...yes, I found them, they are fine. Whitehall escaped but we will find him."

...............................................................…………..

The journey to the Zephyr is silent, methodical and full of bullets lodged in the heads of Hydra soldiers. When you arrive on board, you are greeted by a warm, smothering embrace from Jemma and Wanda, and even Bobbi cannot escape it. And then, as was bound to happen, Jemma drags all three of you to the infirmary.

"Come on Jem, I'm fine. Really." you grumble as the biochemist wipes the crusted blood off your face, ignoring your protests.
"You're not fine, you used your powers and you shouldn't have. It was stupid and reckless, so let me do my job."
"That lunatic injected who knows what into Daisy, I couldn't stand by and do nothing Jemma! You would have done the same. All of you would have, don't lie."

Jemma shakes her head, casting a glance at Daisy before moving to the front of her crib.

"Oh, don't start with me. Think y/n."

Daisy gives you a dirty look, one of those that a brother gives his sister after the latter has ratted you out, and you amiably show her your middle finger. You two really love each other only you have a strange way of showing it, that's all.

The biochemist tilts the Inhuman's head, looking closely at the tiny little hole the syringe has left in Daisy's skin.

As Jemma drains Daisy with at least two vials of blood, you approach Bobbi and brush her arm with your hand.

"Hey, are you okay?"

You whisper and Bobbi nods, sighing so softly you almost heard it.

"You went too far, it could have been bad," the blonde whispers and clenches her jaw. You look away, doing anything to avoid meeting her eyes," she could have killed you and I couldn't have done anything about it. Do you understand that y/n? You cannot jeopardize your life like this...your life is not worth less than my life or Diaisy's life."

You shake your head and flinch away from Bobbi, drawing the attention of the other two girls in the room.
"I had no choice, you know how fixated Whitehall is on Daisy and her mother!"

Bobbi remains silent, she probably would have done the same thing in your place but the fear she felt at almost losing her best friend a few hours earlier still grips her stomach.

"Y/n, Bobbi is right. My life isn't worth more than yours and I don't want you to do shit like that ever again."

Daisy gets off the crib and walks over to you, taking your hands between her own and drawing circles on your skin.


"Yeah, I'd say we have enough stubborn, reckless people in this relationship already."

Natasha says, entering the infirmary at that moment. Behind her, Wanda crosses your gaze, turning a small smile.
"Honestly-and happily-I still don't know how you are all unharmed considering you never think before you do anything."

Jemma shakes her head and emphasizes a sigh of exasperation to let you know how much you stress her out.

You smile and the tension that seemed to hover in the room before quickly dissipates. Jemma picks up the tablet next to the crib Daisy was on, looking at the results that the fast S.H.I.E.L.D. machines have sent her.

"Well, then Dee looks like Whitehall was telling the truth. I don't know if it was water but it didn't alter any of your values so at the moment I'm satisfied...Not that you're safe from any future tests in the days to come, let's be clear."

Daisy snorts and Wanda hugs her to comfort her, unsuccessfully holding back a smile. After Jemma finishes observing your test results, the biochemist clears Bobbi for any substantial damage, simply giving her a palliative for a nasty bruise on her shoulder, and then, after long and careful consideration, decides it is time to remove Fitz's device.

She has you lie on the crib, though your protests are anything but feeble, and then hooks you up to a million machines. Heart rate, blood pressure, breathing, CO2--everything.
"Bobbi come here, Wanda stand by in case your intervention is needed."

You feel like that crib is your bedside, with all the people you love around you and wires poking out of your body everywhere. Jemma lifts up your shirt, gluing the two electrodes one above your left breast and the other under your right armpit.
"Oh Jem, I don't think we should do this right now," you whisper, pretending to be scandalized as Jemma pats you on the shoulder. The whispered word "idiot" and the laughter that follows make your heart warm.

Daisy, Wanda, and Natasha remain silent as they watch Jemma slowly and carefully detach the electrodes on your temples, also slipping off the iron tube behind your neck.


"How do you feel?" Bobbi says, watching the monitors and checking your vitals, noting a gradual increase in your heart rate.
"Simmons, heart rate 95 and BP 130/85 and rising."

Jemma runs to one of the drawers; you can't quite make out her movements or the faces of your girls despite the fact that they are inches away from you. Your vision is blurry and you're pretty sure your nose has started bleeding again and profusely too, considering the concern-laden tones of voice of the girls around you.
"Shit y/n, stay awake," Bobbi says to you, slapping your face a couple of times when she sees you squint.

Natasha is dabbing your nose with all the paper she can find, and her face contorts more and more from worry with each blood-soaked handkerchief she throws on the floor. And then, in the general chaos, while Jemma is injecting you with drugs for hypertension and to try to lower your heart rate, Daisy does the only thing that makes sense to her: she takes the electricity absorber and puts it on you in the exact same way it was just moments before. And everything disappears, your vitals return to normal and stable, and the nosebleed stops.

In your regained lucidity, you rub your suit sleeve under your nose, trying to get the crusted blood away.

"Well, Fitz really did a good job."

A small smile curls your lips as Jemma leaves a kiss on your cheek, breathing a sigh of relief.
"You're going to kill me one of these days, really. And anyway, you're going to stay on this crib until I'm sure you're okay, and we've got to find a solution to this," the biochemist taps you a couple of times against Fitz's jaw-dropping invention.
"We'll probably force you to stay there for life, considering the heart attacks you're giving us" Wanda giggles, wiping away tears she hadn't been able to hold back.

"I agree" Natasha leans over, leaving a kiss on your lips and being immediately followed by Daisy.
"Not bad for an agent without a degree, is it?"
"You're an idiot."

"Daisy Johnson, you know you're not just a stupid piece of paper to us. You don't-" "Jeem, I was joking. Chill."

You shake your head as Jemma continues to rail at a poor, helpless inhuman who nevertheless deserves every single word the biochemist is saying. Ah, they are so cute when they bicker. You love them.

Thanks for reading! I know it's been a long time but hey, at least it's a very long chapter come on. Comment, share and tell me what you think. If you want to support me, this is my ko-fi link☕️ and as always: have a great day!

Taglist: @wandanatsbaby @bioquaked @bioquakeweek @daisyjohnsonx @wandanatsgirl @chaekhan @station19 @resilientpendragon @so-no-kissing-then @thearchpitbullmx @ashadash0904 @kingshitonly @alwaysgoodnight @callistic @xjule @yuleni18 @simpforwandanat @alexxislexi @mrsdanversromanoff @coollemonsaresour @hushed-woodsman @razorscooteer @eponine-xx @maniacallinc @michelle170 @classyig @elenaguarnieri @scarletwidow @tati3001 @cristin-rjd @your-my-mission @mr-nicely @hi-i-1 @anniethurs @ktstwice @scarlet-raccoon @maria-403 @goldfishthegr8 @wandanatfan @looiegirl-blog

[firenati0n]

several sentence sunday <3 :)

hello :) hope you are well! I am sorry for the shit formatting and tagging issues, mobile is hell. i know I said no snips until Feb but I am a lying liar who lies. thank you for all the tags!!!!!!! @heybuddy-drabbles @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @eusuntgratie @cha-melodius @kiwiana-writes @ninzied @gay-flyboys @theprinceandagcd @happiness-of-the-pursuit @magicandarchery @nocoastposts @littlemisskittentoes @wordsofhoneydew

so! I am feeling Weird and Insane and Complex as a significant life chapter comes to a close in 9 hours with the end of my graduate degree and graduation. with this, I'm feeling a bizarre mix of emotions, grappling mostly with what it means to find validation and self-worth in yourself and your accomplishments vs. external methods. this bleeds into all aspects of my life, most of all writing. so I'm going to post a snip i wrote on the bus and say that i love it and that the Horrors That Persist can go on hold for a day while i tell myself I'm proud of both my academic and personal endeavors, including the words I spill onto docs in hope and agony. 🤍

here's a snippet from angel!Henry lawyer!Alex city of angels au:

He lives a life of servitude, of grace and kindness and guidance, existing as a guiding light and gentle touch on countless lives that never know he exists for them, in their shadows, a constant comfort and presence when the feeling becomes too much for humans. His job is to ease pain and suffering—emotions he experiences secondhand, castoffs from people who have squeezed them dry and dead for all they had to offer. He places his hands on those who need it most, absorbing as much as he is allowed.

But Henry yearns. The more he learns, the more he yearns, the more he desperately wishes to be able to feel indescribable emotion swirling in his body, imperceptible grief hidden beneath the surface, inconceivable joy radiating from his skin. To finally understand the meaning of life, the universe, and everything in between. To finally feel seen, and heard, and felt himself.

He’s been invisible for so long, he wonders if he’s just a specter destined to fade away.

xoxo roop. much love, as always! 🤍

+ no pressure tags below the cut :)

@zwiazdziarka @getmehighonmagic @dumbpeachjuice @orchidscript @inexplicablymine @magicandarchery @sherryvalli @anincompletelist @tintagel-or-cockleshells @priincebutt @cricketnationrise @ssmtskw @tailsbeth-writes @lizzie-bennetdarcy @myheartalivewrites @sparklepocalypse @onward--upward @matherines @celeritas2997 @gayrootvegetable @affectionatelyrs @tinyarmedtrex @14carrotghoul @rmd-writes @leaves-of-laurelin @whimsymanaged @indomitable-love @anchoredarchangel @indestructibleheart @candyspandemonium and open tag as always! Want to see :)

[bitchesgate3]

I'm pretty intrigued by the dynamic between Ketheric and Isobel because it reminds me so much of what I experienced being emotionally enmeshed with one of my parents for my entire childhood.

I think most people understand the weight of being parentified when a child must get a job to help contribute money to the family. But I don't think very many people understand what it's like growing up with a parent who over-relies on family members to be emotionally stable - and eventually having to take on the role as the go-to person to be that stability.

Of feeling suffocated by such an overly needy parent - who controls via their emotional needs and griefs - that makes you act in certain ways because surely you don't want to be the death of your parent.

I'm right at the end of Act 2, so the game may say otherwise, but I wonder how Isobel feels about everything happening.

"Your father loved you so much that he brought you back from the dead," sounds so kindly at first. But the sinister truth beyond the obsession is living knowing the fact that the only thing keeping the man alive is you. Once your mother's godforsaken task - now yours.

The game may play up that she resents this, but in my experience there is a love/hate growing up under this dynamic with a parent. You resent this parent for a reason you can't quite put your finger on as a kid, but its the resentment of being made to emotionally soothe them when they never soothe you: which was supposed to be their job. You, as the child, rely on them for survival. You have to look like everything is ok because your parent being upset is so catastrophic (that they will be too dysfunctional to meet your survival needs) that your own needs feel less important.

But on the flip side, you do become parentified in a role reversal. You can't help but love your parent and want the best for them. The emotional abuse is so subtle and imperceptible, that it just makes sense that you would never assert a boundary with your parent because of how much it would throw them into a depression. Being rejected by the one person who loves them.

I wonder how upset Isobel was when Ketheric began drifting from Selune to Shar. How, like a parent, she might have felt like he should have known better. How her own parent felt like a rotten, naive child in doing so. What if a hidden reason for Isobel holding firmly to Selune was to try to convince him. Not every action is tied to the enmeshed parent, but sometimes there are undermining doubts that maybe you're still not acting on your own behalf and still feel like you have to support a parent who should be living their own life - not sucking lifeforce from you.

I kind of feel for Isobel because she seems sweet, and even with the snark, there may be a genuine sensitivity within her that makes emotionally unstable people flock to her like an oasis in the desert (which is an experience I relate to). I even fear that with Aylin's PTSD, Isobel will just be put in that role again of emotional caretaker - being the only thing that grounds Aylin out of her rages. And that scares me.

From a note found in Isobel's room, I feel like she will fall into a depression now that she's been brought to life. Her father soon to be dead. And perhaps now, she will be stuck in a repeating cycle. Where she is always the beacon of hope for others out of necessity rather than living the life that should have always been hers and only hers.

If she dies, will the people around her desperately want to revive her as well? Because she shines so brightly they can't live without her light?