#Leverage season Four

[transpidergwen]

Omg an Office parody episode of Leverage love it!!!

[theinfinitedivides]

'if you were a geek you'd be really turned on by now' babe you didn't even have to say the word when can i come over

[heidiamalia]

-Faceless-

Leverage

[The Radio Job]

[piglii]

not that I’m posting about it a lot but I do see why people like Succession so much. I just spent the last half hour hiding my face behind my hands because I didn’t know if I could  physically handle watching what was happening on screen.

[gatherround]

WHYYYYY do they just start parker & hardison’s relationship in the break between seasons? HOW COULD THEY DO THIS TO ME? i wanted the pay off to all of that build up! i wanted the growth beyond “I have feelings for...pretzels” ! ! ! i wanted the ‘being assertive’ growth that they laid the groundwork for in the conversations with eliot! i wanted the kisses that nate/sophie got, but in a way that’s right for parker/hardison! like, all their kisses during cons so far have been these big sloppy makeouts -- what if their first dating kiss was this gentle, sweet, understated but lingering kiss?

like, it could have been a scene where parker is like “I have feelings for,” and hardison finishes her sentence “pretzels?” and she pauses, and exhales a moment before she can meet his eyes, and then looks directly into his and with her mouth twisting into a smile, almost proud of herself, says “...you.” (parker growth, check)

a moments pause, silence, and she gets up like ok, cool, confession done, and goes to walk away when he catches her arm -- she pauses and he gently pulls her close. he brings a hand to her face, and she leans her cheek in his palm as he cups the back of her neck. they linger here, looking at each other -- the way they have been lingering looking at each other for so long now, but also in a way they never have before, because they’ve never gotten to have a moment like this, a pause before they kiss. and then Hardison pulls her face to his, (hardison growth, check) and their kiss is soft, understated, lingering, more a series of small kisses than a big makeout

[commercial break]

when they pull away, her face still held in his hands, parkers eyes remain closed for just a moment. closed, because in this moment she is safe. she’s not immediately dashing off somewhere else, leaving him spluttering. she’s there, and he’s there, and he looks at her in his arms. this is also a moment they’ve never had before. (relationship growth, check)

and then she opens her eyes, and smiles, and says something like “wanna go rappel off the 7 wonders of the world together” or something equally parker. and this time when she dashes off, she takes him with her.

[disneydatass]

If those boys fuck over shiv I swear 2 gawd…

[idiopathicsmile]

you know what really grinds my gears?

okay, bear with me: so as you may know, harry houdini and arthur conan doyle were friends, at least for a while.

by the early 1920s, both arthur conan doyle and acd's wife jean, aka lady doyle, believed whole-heartedly in spiritualism, talking to ghosts and all of that. (sidenote: this was of course right on the heels of a devastating world war and a devastating pandemic, both of which had created a huge population of grieving people, so spiritualism was having a moment.)

lady doyle sincerely thought she had the ability to go into a trance state and pass along messages in writing from the dead. she offered to do this for houdini. houdini agreed.

lady doyle attempted to channel houdini's late mother. she basically drew a cross at the top of the paper and filled it with generic platitudes addressed to "harry." houdini's mom was jewish and didn't talk like that, so houdini knew the jig was up, even if lady doyle didn't. but not wanting to make the situation awkward, he kind of went along with it to their faces.

then acd decided to publish a glowing account of the seance, and since both he and houdini were super famous, it got a lot of attention, and letters started pouring in for houdini, asking if this was true. ultimately, houdini couldn't lie about it. so he essentially said, like, "yeah, i think lady doyle THINKS she can talk to ghosts but she absolutely can't." and it ruined his friendship with acd forever.

and then of course a lot of the people running seances weren't even well-intentioned like lady doyle, they were just simple charlatans taking advantage of traumatized people mourning loved ones. in houdini's youth, he and his wife had traveled the carnival circuit where he did an act pretending to commune with spirits, so he knew all the tricks of the trade AND he had lingering guilt over having done this, AND he was infuriated by this increasingly popular wave of con artists so he decided to assemble a team of anti-grifting grifters and together they went on the road exposing whichever spiritualists were preying on the locals.

houdini's best agent was a young woman named rose mackenberg, who donned disguises to visit the fraud de jour and then importantly sussed out what non-supernatural thing was actually happening, and then houdini would demonstrate the techniques onstage to packed audiences.

(if you want to know more, check out episode 175, "ghost racket crusade" of the podcast Criminal or read Tony Wolf's book The Real-Life Ghostbusting Adventures of Rose Mackenberg.)

but yeah, what really gets my goat is that all this happened and as far as i know, we still don't have like four seasons of a Leverage-style historical procedural about rose mackenberg and the rest of the crew having adventures in the 1920s as they unmask craven hucksters all over the united states. (what we do have, apparently, is one season of a show called "houdini and doyle" which is about the oddball friendship of two contrasting men solving sometimes-actually-supernatural mysteries, and whose premise does i think at the very least a real disservice to houdini's whole quest and also totally erases rose, who is arguably the most interesting part of this story to me.)

i am just steamed about this. steamed.

[valenshawke]

Sorry. Not sorry for the Arcane-spam.

[ziorite]

oh my god season four of leverage is fucking DIABOLICAL. how the fuck are you gonna open with the long way down job, and then hit with the van gogh job carnival job AND the grave danger job in just the first half ??? i swear to god i was shaking out of my skin all through the second half of the grave danger job. and where is aldis hodge’s oscar ??? the shaky voice the constant tears the frantic ripping at the inside of the coffin ?? i was literally holding my phone at arm’s length trying not to cry for him i swear.

i have to appreciate the directors here because i think they did a fantastic job focusing on harrison’s situation and really emphasizing the peril and dread the whole team was working through. the fevered search of the city, the awful moment when parker and sophie have to abandon their shovels and duck for cover, and harrison is left panicked and alone— that shit HURT y’all. it HURT. (i will say that the way the coffin was apparently uncovered off screen was a bit off— they only got a few shovels in before the guy started shooting, i thought, but oh well)

and obviously the hugging at the end. fuck kissing on screen hugging is where it’s at. eliot literally diving over gravestones to get to the coffin and pull hardison out and then clutching him like he’s trying to absorb the poor guy into his bloodstream ??? i will simply never be the same. and the perfect touch of beth riesgraf looking absolutely fucking devastated before turning away because she’s so so so wrecked about this but she’s not ready for that hug…. leverage writers need to square up because that was one fucked up episode and it also delivered on every characterization front ever. leverage is the gift that fucking giving y’all

[leclsrc]

has yet to pass ✴︎ cs55

centre image by tony belobrajdic

genre: exes to lovers, slow burn, fluff, humor, slight angst, yearning, some sexual tension

word count: 12.5k

Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sports’ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.

notes... internet translated spanish lol

auds here... requested, this fic is long! i hope you all like it apologies for the inactivity </3 exes to lovers we have a very love/hate relationship but this was a pleasure to write

You’re half sure your head is about to pop out from how annoyed you are.

At the office, mornings move slowly in the very corporate-desk-job kind of way, but today is notably slower. Your boss had called you in an hour earlier to discuss important matters, and this is your third hour waiting already. Either your boss is a dumbass, or you got the wrong email, which both essentially mean the same thing anyway.

The time on your Panthère tells you you’re curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as you’re about to get up to get a glass of water, the large wooden door swings open and your name is called through the crack in it. Suddenly the irritation dissipates into nerves, and because Jonathan didn’t specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.

“Morning,” you offer once the door’s been shut behind you. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he says politely. “We’ve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. It’s all proper boring.”

You nod, remaining fairly quiet and waiting for him to break the news to you. He clears his throat, places his hands on his hips and exhales.

“Right, so this is all related to GQ, actually. They’re doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. You’re our best right now, really—your article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, there’s, ah… there’s tennis, yeah, there’s footie, obviously, and—under usual circumstances, you’d get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.”

The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.

“Racing.” You repeat curtly.

“It’s gotten proper viral this year!” He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. “Every teenage girl’s got a crush or other on a driver. Anyway, we set you up with the racing category, and the segment comes out in around six months.”

“I’ve got a tiny bit of a qualm about th—”

“So it’s decided. GQ’s going to pick out the driver for you, and you’ll be introduced at a gala next week.”

“Wait—” you laugh uncomfortably. “I’m thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?” You clear your throat. “I mean, I’m spinning the story.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Don’t worry, though—a lot of the drivers will have great stories, I’m sure. You’ve got Lewis, you’ve got the Verstappen guy, you’ve got the Rosberg fellow…”

“Rosberg retired in 2016.”

“Oh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.”

—

The gala is a fundraiser to celebrate the season kicking off, you realize when you step outside the car and read the navy blue banner across the entrance to the carpet. It’s all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you there’s more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person you’re familiar with in the world of racing.

“Lewis,” you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), “kill me now.”

“On the off chance you’re serious—I’m actually willing to do so.” You slap his arm and he scowls.

“I’m supposed to meet the driver I’m writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasn’t texted me. Christ, I hope it’s you. At least I have years’ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.”

He only laughs, guiding the both of you to a champagne tower and offering you one. You down it in seconds, suffocated by nerves and the curiosity blooming inside you. “You don’t think it’s…?”

“I think they keep track of those things,” he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. “Conflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?” You nod. “So it’s not impossible, I suppose.”

Big help, you chirp sarcastically, eyes perusing the large room. There are tables populated by celebrities, by politicians, and of course, by drivers. You keep scanning, squinting to chisel your search further, but it’s cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder. 

“Hi. I’m Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,” says the man behind you with an excited smile. “Why don’t we…?”

He gestures to the expanse of the room and you nod, falling into step beside him. He introduces the article, the concept of shadowing the athlete to achieve a more immersive piece of work as a result, something novel and innovative.

He’s right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. “Okay. You’re one of the biggest names in sports journalism right now, so it means a lot for you to want to represent racing. Especially because both Neymar Jr. and Nadal expressed bids to get you to write their segments!”

“They wh—”

“Right, here we are. Meet your shadow—or, subject—for the next six-ish months.” He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, “…Carlos Sainz Jr.!”

Yeah. This is fucking rich. 

Nick is talking but none of it falls right on your ears. Everywhere in your mind, alarm bells ring at full volume, alerting you to the danger present, almost. You plaster on a fake smile to acknowledge his presence, but his outstretched hand goes unnoticed. Clearly picking up on the tension, Nick gives a sheepish giggle and ducks out of the exchange, leaving the two of you woefully alone.

“Carlos,” you say politely. “What a nice surprise.”

There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. There’s oh, what a surprise!, didn’t expect to see you here, you look well. It’s limited because nobody ever thinks to run into their estranged ex of four years, and even then, any sane person would do well to avoid interaction at all costs. So you’re really the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to be situated with a stuffy public interaction, under the guise of professionalism, with your ex-boyfriend.

Your history is heavy in the air. The last time you saw each other, things had been a lot different, but now you’re two professionals. Really. You really are professional.

“I refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,” you say, on your third martini. Lewis faces you with poorly hidden concern, and beside him, roped into your lovelorn matters, so does Sebastian Vettel. “Ten metres. Actually, no. Make it twenty. How can I be arsed to write an all-over-him feature about a guy I absolutely hate and haven’t seen in four years?! I had it all sussed—get assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.”

“—She’s joking,” coughs Lewis.

“Oh, but now? Now, it’s get assigned to my ex, write like shit, never get recognized for a good piece, and die hungry and alone on the streets of London. You know, I should just call Jonathan and tell him I don’t want this. I’d rather go back to writing normal articles.” You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.

“Don’t.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm. “This is a test of character, don’t you think? More than that—it’s a test of how good you are as a writer.”

“True,” interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. “If you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I mean—you’re just proper talented. But it’s also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.”

“I’m perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,” you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about it—but your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.

You end up deciding when you’re kicking your heels off in your flat a few hours later, giving Jonathan a ring despite the late hour. It takes a while for the man to pick up, but he does eventually, with an excited tone colouring his voice—“How’s my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.”

“About that…” you start, walking over to your bookshelf and chewing your lip, trying to think of the right way to decline the offer. Your eyes land on one of the several awards you’ve garnered in your profession—in fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the front’s frosty surface. 

Four years ago. And you’ve proven it since, if the crowd of glass around it is anything to go by. Why let a petty ex destroy what could potentially be one of your biggest gigs yet? Your segue outside of sports journalism?

“Earth to—yeah, hello? About what?” Jonathan’s voice breaks you out of your thought train.

“… I just, uh,” you say, nodding, “I wanted to say I’m really excited.”

— 

Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula One’s most talented drivers… (add more info…) His smooth driving style and charm has led him to become one of the most popular figures in the sport, both on and off the paddock. He is also a huge, absolutely irritating, cannot for the life of him be humble!!!, SON OF A BITCH, PRICK, ASSHOLE—AND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR

“The team will be here in just a minute,” says the lady who’d ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear she’ll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesn’t seem to notice, setting a glass of water beside you and you stare idly at it while waiting for the rest of the room to enter. You’re expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattia—the boss—and Charles, his teammate. Jonathan’s already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.

This meeting is pointless. You’ve already exchanged the bare minimum pleasantries with Carlos, anyway, and you cannot for the life of you decipher why there needs to be a whole new corporate clash just for this. But here you are anyway, awaiting your ex-boyfriend’s arrival into the room and back into your sweet life.

He enters with everybody else, his hair half-damp and his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. You clear your throat and turn away, standing to shake hands with Mattia. He’s pleasant about it, expressing excitement for the final output and commending your earlier work as a writer. You offer the polite small talk back, discussing plans for the article and the release date.

“Over at GQ Sports, we’re really trying to make this concept as immersive as possible. That requires the writer to shadow the athlete at almost all times, maybe taking a couple days off if needed. That might mean she gets a paddock pass, and things like that.”

“That’s no problem,” Mattia says. “Anything for the article.”

You end up being introduced to Charles, too—Charles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and won’t stop letting his eyes frolic in between you and Carlos, like he can sense the history. You suspect Carlos brought him up to speed, anyway, but it’s still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. “Hey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.”

You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlos’ eyes linger on you a second too long, focusing on the tail-end of the meeting so you can, for lack of better word, get the fuck out of here.

Of course, though, you’re stopped in the middle of the parking lot by Carlos himself, whose apologetic face is the first thing you see when you turn around with a huff. You’d already known it was him—he was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to you—but it’s still a sour surprise.

“What?”

“Let’s”—he pauses to take a breath—“talk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that I’m 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, I’ll be willing to give you that.”

“I don’t care what you’re okay with,” you say blankly. “And I’ve got Google.”

“Right.” He stares. “Um. Okay, well, let’s—can we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?”

You consider the truce. As much as you’d like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, you’re also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around his—and your—colleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. “Okay.”

He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didn’t even consider.

“Forget anything ever happened,” he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

—

Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.

Despite Jonathan’s texted reminder from Friday morning (Stick to Sainz the whole time), you find yourself staying in your comfort zone, ergo following Lewis around nearly the entire weekend. Granted, you are itnroduced to a few more drivers—Mick, Esteban, Alex—but also Lando, one of Carlos’ closest friends on the paddock, who makes dirty jokes from the get go.

Still, even Lewis has to remind you you have another driver to actually cover, so you reluctantly detach from him on the race day and begin your search for—

“Carlos,” you utter, breathless from exhaustion when you finally locate him inside his room at the motorhome, which you swear you checked twenty minutes ago. Either he’s avoiding you or he’s truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?”

“I need a couple of words from you.” You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Like, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?”

“I have a playlist,” he says, humming. “I like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.” He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. You’ve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. “And I say a prayer, trust the car.”

“Trust the car?” You type the last few words onto your laptop, which you’d been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. “Any follow-ups to that, considering there’s been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?”

“I just do what I do best,” he replies, steadfast. “The rest is a gamble I’m willing to take.”

“Perfect.” You finish. “That was a great line. Thanks so much, really.” It’s your reporter voice, the one you use for just about everyone else on the paddock. He nods in response, and the room ebbs into silence again. It’s awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how you’re going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:

“Good luck, by the way.” Your voice falls soft. 

He looks up, momentarily surprised. “Thank you.”

You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.

Carlos ends up getting second place—you’re beside a zealous Ferrari engineer when it happens, walking along the pit lane. Compared to your stoic smile, their reaction looks like the pinnacle of human emotion. Your turmoil is all inward, a melting pot of emotion for the driver. Would it be weird, you think, to feel proud? To feel happy? When things have ended?

Much later, when you’re wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.

You’re aware there are photographers everywhere, with high-def cameras that rival your natural eyesight, even, but still you tug your phone out and snap a few shitty zoomed-in pictures of him in second place, smiling and sprayed with champagne. You think of the profile, of the words you’ll use to capture this moment, the season kickoff. But most of all you think of the way his eyes seem to search for something specific in the mass of people, or the way you wished for them to meet yours.

—

Sainz, a self-proclaimed music lover, loads a pre-race playlist that changes every few locations. He names some of his favorite artists and songs as sources of motivation.

You climb into the passenger seat of his Golf when you finally find him, after a half hour of asking around everywhere. First, it was “in the motorhome,” then it was “in a meeting,” then it was “hanging out with Charles”—none of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesn’t question your presence (he hasn’t much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.

“Favorite song?” You get straight to it, stressed over the article. Jonathan has been on your ass about missing a deadline and causing the third world war in the process, or something or other. You sigh when you settle into the seat.

“Not even a hello or a buenas noches,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. “What’s this for?”

“You already know,” you say, humming as you sift through notes. “Listen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?”

“What the—you are a serious stalker.” He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.

“It’s kind of my job, Carlos,” you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. “Just answer.”

“Sí, sí. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess… rock, indie, 80’s. You’d be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.”

“Tell me more,” you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead. 

“Music is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, I’m good with it. It doesn’t have to be by a favorite artist, or a famous one, or a Spanish one. Though I have been listening to Shakira a lot lately.” Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. “It’s just release. Lately, I’ve been listening to the same few ones on loop.”

“Care to share?” Music = release. Same songs looped.

He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. “This.”

Baby I’m Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what you’re writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. You’ve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now it’s on full blast. In Carlos’ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.

Back then—when nobody knew much of this song and it hadn’t yet become an indie anthem. It was just another cover by your favorite band in 2015. It became your song, the song for kitchen dances, the song for long car rides, the song for the red lights, the song for the morning routine.

But now it’s just a song.

“Carlos,” you say. It’s supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But you’re so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. “Come on.”

“Do you remember when you first showed me this song?” He responds instead, the volume still loud. You allow yourself to smile a little, leaning your head back and watching the cityscape of Bahrain whir past. In a foreign city, you think, you feel more at home than ever.

“Yeah,” you profess. “On my iPhone—what was it then? iPhone 5, or something.” You both laugh a little. The dam has broken, it seems, and topics of your past relationship seem to now be open to discussion. But it doesn’t feel alien, or weird, or uncomfortable. Carlos laughs, makes fun of your old lockscreen, and all is well.

A lot of memories have unwittingly attached themselves to this song. It’s the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, you’re already stunned with the myriad of them. There are the obvious ones: first finding the song, first dancing to it. But it trickles down into the smaller, more niche ones.

The time you got a busker in London to perform it for you both, and danced like idiots at ten-thirty in the evening, while some onlooking geriatric couple watched with mild entertainment. The time you got him a vinyl record of this EP, and left it in the cab before you were supposed to give it to him, leading to you crying on his sofa while he cuddled you and fed reassurance into your ear. The time he attempted to learn the chords to it and broke the string of your decorative guitar.

Like always, Carlos drives one-handed. He’s usually responsible, but if he’s cruising, or driving at a relatively slow pace, he likes to lean back and use his left. His right lays, unmanned, on the centre console of the Golf. You don’t notice it’s there until you finish writing a sample line on your notebook and you lower your left hand absentmindedly, brushing a finger against his in the process.

Your instinct is to jerk away, but Carlos is calm, humming to the song and reading road signs. So you let it rest there, in part to show yourself you’re capable of relaxing, but—and it feels like a heavy thing to admit—also because you like the feeling.

So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like he’s trying to hold it back from inviting yours to wrap around it. You let yours brush over them a little bit, pulling away. Then he coughs, and lifts his hand to make a right turn, so you resume writing, eyes downcast. 

—

You’d spent the Saudi weekend less with Lewis (in a bid to follow his advice) and socialized a bit more with Lando and Charles, who both proved to be pleasant company. They played table tennis with you and even shared a good chunk of grid gossip.

“Pierre and Yuki have soooo done it,” whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.

“Shut up!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But really? They’ve shagged?”

“Oh.” He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. “I meant they’ve done marijuana.”

“Damn it, Charles,” bemoans Lando. “You’re a sodding buzzkill. We’ve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex would’ve been.”

The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports component—Carlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope he’ll be, and find him packing shit up inside.

“Good work out there,” you say, and when he looks up he finds himself meeting your eyes in the mirror. He fumbles with the zip of his suit and you walk a little closer.

He huffs out a polite thanks, tugging on the zipper harder. The cloth’s eaten it, a problem that’s been plaguing his race suits as of late—a problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if he’d just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem you’re familiar with as well, from his Toro Rosso days of ranting to you about zippers and sewing.

You lean against the wall and maintain safe distance. “I’m going to ask you about the race later.”

“Alright. What specifically?” He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance. 

“Whatever you can give,” you reply, nonchalant. “Maybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of like—yeah, you’re on the podium, but it’s not P1.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasn’t fully undone the zipper yet. “Um, sure. I’ll meet you outside afterward.”

“Thanks. And—” You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. “—Be patient with the zip.”

He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. “Right. Bueno.” He turns and throws his hands up, looks like he’s surrendering almost. “Help me out?”

You’re incredulous—it’s a highly compromising position.

But he’s not really smiling, and he seems to be seriously asking you to please help zip him up, so you nod. Nod once then twice, walking slowly over to him and placing two fingers on the zipper. You don’t notice how shaky your grip is until you see the way your hand trembles.

Slowly, you tug. Upward, then downward, then upward again, to loosen the stubborn thing. Your eyes move until they meet his, and you realize how close together you are. From here you can see the faint pink indents on his face from the balaclava, and you wonder almost how it’d feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.

“Just give me a second,” you say, but you’re not even paying attention to the zipper.

Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what if—what if you leaned closer, right now? Closed the gap, shut your eyes, let your finger trace over the shape left behind by his balaclava, zip forgotten?

“Take your time.” His voice is deep, gentle. 

His eyes pierce yours, the tension growing in between you until you can barely breathe.

You pull and finally, it gives, unzipping the whole way. You blink, breaking eye contact and stepping backwards so fast you almost trip. “I’ll be outside.” The door is shut, the noise damning behind you as you finish an entire cup of water in what you genuinely think to be record time. 

—

“Fine. Fifty euros.”

“Fifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.” 

“If you’re in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.” 

“Deal.” The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. “Let’s talk terms.”

Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. “She and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.”

“They’re exes, innit?” Lando laughs. “You’re wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes don’t date.”

“Unless they’re soulmates,” he reasons.

“Psh, what do you know about soulmates?” The younger raises a condescending brow. “You dated a girl and then her best friend.”

“Back off,” insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, he’d said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. “We shall see.”

“You will definitely be paying me up,” Charles says proudly. “Just you wait.”

—

“Care to listen to me?” You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.

“Always,” says Lewis, immediately facing you. He’s always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. He’s known you forever, and he’s the only person here who really knows the extent of your history with Carlos, all the layers, all the fights, all of it.

You sigh and lean against the backrest, deflated. “Carlos and I… I don’t know if this is going to work.”

“The article?”

“Being with him.” You pause to reword it. “Around him.”

“I see. Hasn’t it been, what—four years now, though?”

“Yeah, but…” But why does it feel like you both want those four years gone? The car ride with the song, the eye contact, zip situation after Saudi. You lick over your lips and sit a little straighter.

“Lew, it’s just—and you should know this—when you break up with someone, you’re forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.” You sigh. “All the… just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you can’t, then fine, it’s still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I haven’t forgotten anything, and now he’s back in my life.”

Lewis stares, with eyes that convey solemnity and a little sadness. He seems to understand, watching you intently, the way your eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“So now I see him, and it feels like he’s like”—you inhale—“this sounds… bad, but like… I’m… like he’s a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I don’t know. Like, I have to pretend I know nothing about him, like every little fun fact is a new thing for the profile… but I know everything.” And what a heavy burden it is.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 

“No, don’t be. I’m pretty sure this is all one-sided.” You take a long sip. “That’s the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.”

“Just think,” he muses out loud. “When this is all over and you’re accepting your Pulitzer, you won’t even be thinking of him one bit.”

“Right,” you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He’s the only thing on your mind. “Right.”

You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and life’s driving forces.

—

Like every other sport, Formula One drivers have their share of bad competition days. Sainz recalls a time his car failed and caused him to DNF—racing vernacular for “Did Not Finish,” a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.

A double kill vibrates through Carlos.

It’s a consecutive hit that’s both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile you’re busy writing. In Australia he’d been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. He’d congratulated Charles and everything, even offered a few words for the article. The last you saw of him was with a beer, brows knitted together.

Tonight you’re in Imola. He’d been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.

No hard feelings, he’d said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. It’s a normal response to a shit day. You spend the post-race buzz with Lewis and Sebastian this time, but you manage to congratulate Lando on the podium finish when you catch sight of him.

“Maaate!” He cries gleefully when he sees you. “Where’s the muppet?”

“Mourning,” you drone. “Reasonably so, I guess.”

“Tough crowd,” he says, kissing his teeth. “But, yeah. Hey—shots on me!”

“Tempting offer.” You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. “But I think I’ll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.”

“All good. Have fun being a loser,” he says, watching you leave.  

The hotel, it turns out, is not nearly as fun as the party. Which is common sense.

You spend time writing and rewriting a few paragraphs of the article, stuck on the title of it and honestly wishing you were with Cuervo and vodka right now. You suppose you don’t need one just yet—they usually come to you late, anyways. Jonathan sends you three follow-up emails regarding a draft, so you send him the latest version and read over the file, reciting favorite lines under your breath.

In the middle of reading on the Bahrain P2 and a little segment on Sainz’s favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.

It’s a surprise—you don’t spend much time with people on the paddock, and only few of them know your room number, which leads you to narrow down the person on the other side to a select group. There’s Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who you’d grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.

It could’ve been any of them, but it’s not. It’s somebody else.

“I’m sorry.” His voice threatens to break. “I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”

“Carlos?” You blink. 

You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesn’t pay much attention to your hideous pajama situation (old hoodie, souvenir L.A. pajama pants). You end up on your balcony, both of you facing the frigid nighttime air. It freezes your cheeks, casts your hair backwards. Your eyes slide to his stoic figure, the way even his hair is blown back by the wind.

He’s quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. “Sorry, again.”

“S’okay.”

You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. “Wanna?”

“Awful habit.” But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. “I need this, though.”

“I don’t do it regularly,” you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. “Some situations call for them.”

“This definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?” You nod. “I’m sorry.” The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why. 

Like it’s the most difficult thing in the world, you breathe a few times before you respond in a hushed tone. With your words comes a huff of smoke. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You gave it your all, took a risk, it went to shit. But you gave it your all is what matters in the end. You put heart into it, which is something not everyone does in sports these days.”

“I feel… complimented.” You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. “I meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.”

“Does it?” Smoke again, another whiff of it.

“They only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.” He lets the words fizzle. “But here you are praising a driver who finished like shit twice in a row. More people should be like you, paying thanks to the underdogs.”

It’s not the underdogs, you think. It’s just because of you. 

“More like the shit drivers,” you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and it’s a dead issue.

Later, before he leaves, when the room’s much darker and less bathed in moonlight, you whisper goodbye to him through a small crack in the door. He smiles a bit, and you catch it even with the lack of lighting.

“Thank you.” He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.

—

Sainz has off-grid hobbies, one of the most notable of which is cooking. He claims to have a good hold over the kitchen, and cooks several of his favorite dishes on the rare weekend off. Blah blaaahhhh, cooks well. Usually wears funky apron. WRITE THIS PROFILE ALREADY STOP EATING PASTA YOU DIPSHIT

Lando had invited you all to an Airbnb owned by a friend in Umbria, a two-ish hour drive from Imola.

With two free days, you’d followed a small group of drivers—Carlos included—to soak in the rest of Tuscany. Charles and Lando, however, left as soon as you arrived, to check out the last few hours of the farmer’s market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and they’d gone biking together.

This effectively left you and Carlos alone, which was not an unusual occurrence, but still proved to be a bit tense. With the kitchen free and the fridge stocked, Carlos suggested he cook for you both. Despite your best efforts, you ended up at the island writing and taste testing sauce, chicken, anything he slid over to you on a saucer with a tiny fork beside it.

“You’re going to give me cholesterol problems,” you quip. “This pasta is too good.”

“Cacio e pepe.” He twirls some onto a fork, straight off the pan, and shoves it into his mouth, a low mmmm leaving him once he gets to chewing. You laugh, a stifled sound through the noodles in your mouth at the exaggerated show of delicious food.

“Any favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?” You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). “Like, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.”

“This,” he says, pointing to the pan. “This is fuel.”

“Amen.” Loves cacio e pepe.

“And it’s good with chicken.” He points to the oven, where he’s been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. “Oh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.”

Cooks w/ music. “Why do you need to mention that?”

“Ladies love a chef,” he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. “And I love ladies.”

“Okay, slag.”

“Fuck off!” He begins shimmying all across the kitchen island, cranking open the oven mid-dance to check on the chicken, then continuing to clean the counter. Still he dances, and not very well, either—he always claimed singing was a stronger suit of his, so you allow the fool to be a fool.

Back when you two were still together, Carlos already had a preference for 70’s disco in the kitchen, saying it brought out the dancer in him. Nothing seems to have changed in that department, and you smile with mild embarrassment and amusement watching him dance across the kitchen, using the kitchen towel as a prop and swinging it around.

Loves dancing to The Communards while baking rosemary chicken. “Let me taste the chicken, by the way,” you ask when you finish typing, hopping off the stool and walking to the oven. He continues dancing, hips cocking poorly from side to side to the old song. He retrieves a fork and cuts a piece of chicken, reviewing its doneness briefly before turning with a piece of it stabbed into the utensil.

“Open,” he says. “It’s hot.”

It’s too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You don’t even realize it until you’re chewing, and by then he’s back to dancing to the song that’s now reaching its end. “It, uh,” you stutter, a bit nervous, “it’s really good.”

“Of course, I cooked it,” he says smugly. You grab a lime from the fruit bowl and throw it, hitting him in the back of the head in retaliation. He turns slowly, still dancing, lips stretched into a challenging smile.

Lando and Charles walk in ten minutes later to Carlos and you, yelping and chasing each other around the wide counter, chicken left atop it and forgotten in favor of the tag game. Charles, toting bags of fruit, faces Lando with a victorious expression. Pay up, he mouths, cocky.

—

It’s much too hot in Miami, but you appreciate the heavy beach culture and the even heavier nightlife.

You work on the profile until your fingers hurt from typing, sending Jonathan another draft for approval. Charles joins you on a cocktail taste test at the open bar until your tongue tastes like gin and your head is a bit spinny. Both Ferrari drivers end up having a shitload of pictures of you sleeping on the leather couch, enough that Lewis ends up getting ahold of them, too.

It’s a 2-3, in the end, with P1 going to Max. The latter throws a party at some place along the beach strip, invites you in one of the only conversations you’ve ever shared with the guy so far. He seems a bit unfriendly, but when you walk into the exclusive club later that night, you find him doing a handstand in front of a beer keg, so that’s that.

FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. It’s crowded everywhere, and you’re pretty sure Lewis isn’t here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.

It’s Carlos who finds you in the middle of the dance floor, nursing yet another drink to aid your lack of social skills. His voice is rough in your ear and it smells like a Jägerbomb, a low laugh escaping it right after. “All alone?”

“Unfortunately,” you tease, turning to face him. “Man, I thought guys were confident in Florida.”

“Cuidado,” he warns, smiling. “This dress is pretty difficult to resist.” His tongue’s definitely been loosened by shots, his eyes half-lidded and looking you up and down. You laugh, raising one eyebrow at the sudden flirty tone, but welcoming it nonetheless, depositing your now empty glass on whatever cocktail table is nearest. Who said you were sober? 

“Nobody’s inviting me, so why don’t you and I dance instead?”

He licks over his lips—he never seems to keep his tongue in his mouth—and winks, nodding.

And here in Miami, through the strobing purple lights of this ridiculously expensive club, you wrap your arms around his neck and dance to whatever Calvin Harris song is blaring through the bass.

His hands are all over you, loosening your stiff stature; they wring into the fabric of your obejctively too-short dress, raking it up a bit. You lean back and he leans forward, following you, drawn into you, your noses pressed together and your eyes meeting. Your breath heightens, holds, your fingers moving to his long hair and holding him close to you.

His hand moves over your ass, pulling you in. He smiles, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and you giggle, almost causing your lips to touch. Your mind is haywire from the alcohol, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easy—

And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. You’d almost fucking kissed. However you’re going to tell this to Lewis, you don’t even know.

And you’re not entirely sure, you think as you rinse whiskey and bile off the tip of your heel in the bathroom, how it sounds like to write Sainz and I almost made out in public on the GQ profile.

—

Nick emails you directly to ask if Carlos can do some test shoots in Miami for the profile cover.

You convince him to agree, even if he thinks he’s no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. There’s a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.

“Hi. Is this for GQ?” You ask the photographer. “Test shots?”

“Oh, hi.” He stands and shakes your hand. “I’m Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?”

“Bueno,” Carlos says behind you with a smile.

You sit on a chair a few metres behind Luke while he works, watching the shots pop up on his screen every time the shutter clicks. As it turns out, Carlos is a brilliant liar, because every single shot—even one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his tee—looks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.

It’s a bit awkward to admit you can’t help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when he’s in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlos’ natural skill for modeling, the ordeal’s over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.

“Oh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&B’s wedding anniversary in September.” Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.

“R&B. The… music genre?” You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.

“Silly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.”

“Oh, I get it.” You smile. “Well, we’re sorry for keeping you.”

“You”—he stops both you and Carlos, pacing in front—“you two wouldn’t… mind, would you?”

“Mind… mind what, now?” Your eyes flit toward Carlos’ and you both laugh nervously.

“Being my mannequins for the bridal shoot!”

Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and you’re against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky poses—a piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos can’t stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look. 

Luke plays some music to get you both looser, and directs you into a few mocking dance poses. Then he directs you in a partners-in-crime pose, which you love the outcome of. Okay, last one, newlyweds, he says. Carlos, why don’t you get behind her and wrap your arms around her waist?

You clear your throat, letting him do so anyway, his hands big around your frame. “Careful,” you whisper when he’s right behind you. Luke raises an inquisitive brow behind the camera, watches your chemistry unfold through the viewfinder. Your breath hitches a little, but you swallow the nerves.

Look into his eyes, Luke says. So you do, meet them, force yourself not to look away for once and just stare. It’d been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now it’s different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking. 

It’s like that for a minute, just staring, like all the things you want to say can communicate themselves through eye contact alone. Another twenty seconds pass before Luke coughs, breaking the moment.

“I said we were good like a minute ago, guys,” he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.

—

Lewis advises you to avert your pent up “romantic” tension to another boy. It’s difficult, but you challenge yourself to find somebody anyway, maybe outside of racing, to use your extra paddock pass (courtesy of Mattia) on. The guys in your DMs are all skeevy, or you’ve unfortunately ghosted them, so they’re all out.

After some searching, you end up using your extra pass in Spain, and for James, a Sky Sports sound editor for streamed football games. He’s British and a huge Tottenham fan who you met during drinks with a few reporters the month prior. Not bad, but not necessarily your type; at this point, though, you’ll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above it—a gentleman, kind, funny in the quaint English way. He could be taller, but you find him charming enough.

Noise flows through the paddock, chatter and cheering and interviews. “This is so cool,” says James animatedly. “I feel like a regular Schumacher.”

You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. “I’m going to get something real quick, okay? Stay put…” You point at a lone chair. “Over there.”

“Alright,” he says with a smile. “I can’t roam arou—?”

“No!” You say, a tad too quickly. “I mean, sorry. Don’t. Just. I’ll be back really quickly.” Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlos’ room, the owner himself walks into the area, squirting water into his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together when he sees you standing beside a stranger.

“Hi,” Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on James’ timid figure. “You are?”

“Her date,” James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. “James. Huge fan of you. Of the team.”

“Sure.” He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting James’ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.

It’s awkward, is what it is—awkward and stuffy and Carlos won’t look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. “You, uh… how long have you guys been…?” He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.

“Not—not long, really.” James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. “A month?”

“A month?” Carlos repeats, arms crossed.

“We haven’t even, like, had se—”

“That’s—” you cut in, sharp and apologetic, “wow, that’s plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? I’ll have a beer.”

“It’s one-thirty,” he says.

“Yeah,” you respond. “A beer.”

He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlos’ intense expression.

His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hair—but he doesn’t say anything. Why should he, anyway, he thinks to himself, staring at you. You wore your hair in a ponytail today, so he sees more of your pretty face. Oh and so does James. Pendejo.

“Are you okay?” You ask, even if he knows you know what’s up.

“Totally. Muy bien.” He shrugs, drinking water again. “Should I not be?”

“Never said that,” you say, raising both eyebrows. 

“Okay. Well enjoy the beer.”

So he’s jealous. Fine, sue him. He’s jealous of the British gangly guy you thought was good enough to invite onto the paddock. Barely even made a lasting impression. He gives a small, phony smile and walks back, meeting Charles along the way.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, mate,” says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Maybe the ghost of James?” He flicks the guy’s forehead, laughing.

P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, “Congratulations, hombre!” in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.

—

“Alright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and we’re going to play some fun trivia games.” Charles’ eyes read from the signboard behind the camera, his amusement wholly unscripted as he looks from you to Andrea and back to Carlos.

You honestly don’t know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewis’ gentle persuasion or your boss’ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness that’s been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, or—and it’s probably this—the fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you “clearly have a thing with Sainz, and I don’t wanna be a homewrecker.” Whatever it is, you’re apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment. 

Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and you’ve all been given a general guide to what the questions entail—math, music, general knowledge, and one scripted Ferrari question at the end. The structure is fairly basic; each team member gets to answer one at a time, both contributing to overall points—and no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.

Charles is a little shit, so he’s made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. And—who are you kidding, really—Carlos is also a little shit, so he’s game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.

“I got it,” you say snappily when he hasn’t stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. “I got it.”

“Oh, did you got it?” He asks sassily. “Okay. When did Ferra—”

“We’re starting in three,” says the cameraman in Spanish, Italian, then finally English.

He holds three fingers up and you hug your tiny dry erase board closer to your torso, readying your camera smile. The video—and the game—start off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly. 

“Stay calm and collected,” Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. “Our team motto.” He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing. 

“I think it’s, ah, always—always cheat, mate,” Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger. 

“You are soooo—tch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,” retorts your teammate, laughing. The force of his laughter shakes the stool he sits on and you bite back a smile, remaining relatively quiet like you’ve been since the start of the video.

The remainder of the game passes with Carlos and Charles neck and neck, you and Andrea working overtime to make sure your teams don’t lose the bet. Eventually it boils down to one question, which Carlos is in charge of answering. Behind the camera, the producer raises a signboard and reads it out: We all know C². What is eight squared?

What a relief, you think. They’ve basically handed the win to you and Carlos on a silver platter. You wait, bumbling in your seat and raising an L sign toward Charles, who sticks his tongue out in response. Excitedly, you watch Carlos cheer for himself and finish writing, turning the board inch by inch until you all see the answer he has written on it.

Everyone stares. Then: “Team Charles wins!”

“Que?!” Carlos blinks, scandalized and a bit amused. He stares at the question then at his answer then, as if dreading the laser eyes, at you. Your eyes narrow, disappointed.

“Carlos. What is eight squared?”

“Eight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, and—it’s right here.” A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.

16

“Eres un tonto,” you quip, remembering bits of teasing you’d used on him years before. “Carlos, it’s 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.”

“Ay, puta—” He shuts his eyes and laughs. “Lo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.”

Across you, Charles is coaxing a much more begrudged Andrea into a childish victory dance, pulling his arms up and down to convey the joy of winning. You sigh exasperatedly, but smile . For what it was worth, you had a great game anyway. The noise grows, and you watch the producers pack up, the cameraman parting from the camera for a moment to converse with one of them.

Left alone with you for a bit, Carlos lets his voice slip into a quieter one. “Sorry again. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

“That, you know”—he points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holds—“it’s supposed to be 64.”

 “Oh.” You laugh, a light sound. “Whaaat?! It’s not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was all fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you had fun,” he says softly, smiling.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you can’t—and refuse to—name.

—

You get two days off, and Charles had suggested you all go to Paris before you go to Cannes, where the Ferrari team is apparently expected for a meeting before Monaco. You’re the one who’d said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded you’d never been before.

You’d read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But you’d never been to Paris; work placed you mostly in London, sometimes South America, other times Italy. But Paris was never a destination. So Carlos allowed the greenlight and you flew, with Lando, Pierre, and Esteban tagging along for shits and giggles.

���I’ve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,” you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesn’t tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.

“Well, you’re here now.” He wedges the hotel balcony door open and walks toward the railing. You follow suit, arms crossed over your torso, eyes stuck on the view. “How is it?”

“It’s as beautiful as I imagined it to be,” you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. Cliché as it is, you feel like you’ve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like it’s going to evaporate into thin air. 

Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. “I know.”

“Oh, do you?” You laugh. “Are you in the business of admiring beautiful things?” You tease, looking up at the stars.

Sensing his eyes on you, you slowly avert your gaze until your eyes meet. The light reflects in his eyes, and they meet yours blindingly, beautiful, luring you closer. The joking tone of your words is caught in your throat, desert dry, your lips parted to spout words you’ve now forgotten, lost track of.

Your silhouettes dance against the lights of the city below, two figures admiring the other. His eyes flicker down to your lips, linger there a second too long. You stumble closer, your foot touching his.  “…Paris.” The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. “It’s always reminded me of you.”

 “Not Spain?” He asks, leveling your volume. You’re closer, so close you feel his breath fan soft against your own face. His voice is deep, accented so thickly, the way it is when he talks with you because he falls into a familiar rhythm of knowing you’ll decipher whatever he has to say.

You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. “I… love it so much, is why. Always have.”

Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they would’ve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They would’ve seen the way Carlos leaned in, his eyes on yours and then on your lips, the way you nodded in silent, warm invitation. Come closer, you seem to say. Don’t stray any further.

A lock of your hair touches his jaw, from how close you two are. So close. Everything smells like him, like the musky woody perfume he wears, the detergent he uses. All of that, and everything underneath. The scent of him. Just him. 

You hold your breath when you both lean in, eyes fluttering shut and waiting, waiting for his lips to meet yours.

The door shakes with several knocks, Lando’s voice seeping from the other side of it. “Mate, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” He says boredly, letting his fist collide with it a few more times for good measure.

Instantly, you and Carlos separate, both of you clearing your throats, rushed flimsy excuses escaping your mouths at the same time. You’re warm all over, the excitement, the nerves, tapering off into nothing as you walk back inside the room, busying yourselves with anything. Oh, I need to check if Jonathan’s emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.

Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. “Mate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and y—oh.” He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. “Hey, dude. You’re here?”

“Yeah, to, uh—to get Carlos to OK some edits,” you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isn’t too shaky. “I needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.”

“Oh. Right, obviously.” His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn’t relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. “Well, if you’re not busy, we’re having dinner?”

“I’m good,” you decline, a touch too quickly. “It’s getting late.”

“Alright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,” Lando teases, and everything feels a bit more normal. You just flip him off, and Carlos retrieves his coat, eyes still not meeting yours when you all exit at the same time. Lando makes up for the hole in the conversation, droning on and on about the restaurant they’re going to, and how good it seems to be.

The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Lando’s words to come across as unfazed, even if you’re so totally not. Once you’re alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You don’t know if it’s from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.

—

LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J

“Huh. Do you have any regrets?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. You’re on the beach in Cannes, taking time off before the meeting and people-watching. Charles had joined you for a good half hour before leaving to sleep in the hotel instead, leaving you two to bask in the now setting sun.

“Everyone does, no?” He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. “But yes, I have some specific ones.”

“Like?” You ask weakly.

“I was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you could’ve done right, years too late. There’s a proverb I heard once that goes—camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means to—to stay alert. Don’t let things pass you by.”

“And do you think you followed that advice?”

His eyes meet yours. “Do you?”

—

It’s quiet when Carlos walks inside your flat, and already his heart begins to drain, filling with guilt.

He steps over the creaky floorboard, notices your car keys on the table, your jacket haphazardly slung over the rack, your Chanel bag half-open on the dinner table beside an empty wine glass and a sweaty bottle of Cheval Blanc. The bedroom door’s half-open, light bleeding into the dark rest-of-the-place, and when he gently pushes the door to get in, the sight he faces is crushing.

“…Estás bien?”

You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but it’s unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know the thing was earlier.” His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one you’d hoped he would watch you receive tonight.

“I said I’m fine,” you say. “Just”—you sniffle—“it’s fine, Carlos, just get out.”

You’re standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows you’re incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he suggests in a low voice. “On me. Right? To celebrate.”

“Leave me alone, Carlos.”

“I wanted to go,” he insists. “I had a meeting that ended late, and—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” you assert, turning. You’ve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. “Just go.”

“I know how much this mattered to you.”

“And yet you didn’t go.” You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. “Carlos, just…” Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness. 

“Cut me some slack.” Carlos argues softly.

“No, I just… I don’t even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, it’s like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, I—I cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if I’ve gotten calls, promotions that you don’t even ever… ever ask about, just everything. I don’t think… I don’t feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. You’ve never shown it, not lately especially.”

“You should’ve told me,” he says, hurt.

“This kind of thing, it…” you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. “It doesn’t need to be said.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He steps closer but you’re quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.

“No,” you protest, “just go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.”

“Cariño—”

“Go,” you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Go, Carlos.”

So he does.

He passes by, again, your handbag, with the sleek travel-sized bottle of Santal 33 you keep with you always peeking out, and the Cheval Blanc he’d bought you a few months prior, and the jacket you’d bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily. 

He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.

And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he would’ve seen you tearfully emerge from the elevator, into the lobby, then out into the rain, still in your black dress, and let yourself get soaked waiting for him to come back, refusing to believe he’d even let himself leave you so broken.

—

You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.

He’s won two games in a row at this point, and you’re almost 100% sure he has a plus four card in his hand, so you play a bit more deliberately, eyeing him with a challenging glint in your eyes. You’re a bit watered down by your earlier conversation, but you feign nonchalance anyway.

Blue 2. Blue 5. Green 5. Then finally, he slaps it onto the deck—a plus four card. “Oh, come on, Carlos,” you say, almost actually irritated.

“I’ll kiss it better,” he says. Suddenly overwhelmed, you push yourself off the counter and storm out.

He follows you, stumbling into the empty balcony and softly shutting the door, voice still colored with laughter. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so upset about the—”

You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesn’t matter to you.

What does matter is everything from the years past crashing on your shoulders like debris, like rain, finally giving under the weight of being so close to him again. Everything. The tangled fog of your relationship, the start, the middle, the terrible end neither of you wanted. You pulsed with want, with yearning, with sadness.

So you ask yourself why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he have come back? More importantly—why did he let you go so easily?

The truth is, you’ve drowned yourself in work so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel, to be felt. And if Carlos is doing this, all this, all the touching and the tension and the debris and the rain that crash on you like a bruising, torrential storm, for his own pleasure, like this is all a game, then you’ve yearned for nothing.

“This isn’t about the game, Carlos!” It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.

He stops—stops walking, stops smiling. Just stops and stares, brows knitted with concern. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the skyline, arms crossed. The view blurs with tears, lights meshing together prettily.

He stutters your name out in a feeble response. It’s mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.

You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. “Good for you,” you say shakily, “you can—you can fool around, kiss me like it’s nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how we’ve ended up here again, back, together.” You inhale, but it’s no use; you’re crying even as you speak. “And I’ll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But… I’m so—”

The wanting shows, in moments like this. Wanting love, wanting comfort, wanting warmth, an escape from work and stress and life. You know how it feels, to be loved. You’d been familiar with it, at some point. You want it again, the ache, the kiss, the pain of it all. More than that, you want him. For just a moment. But all this wanting is so exhausting.

You want this profile to be over. You want to pull him close and tell him how proud you are, but also how hurt you are. You want Spain. You miss Paris. Everything, everything, every memory, every single painful loving thing bursts inside you.

“—tired.” You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. “I’m—I’m tired, and lonely, and being around you makes it worse. Being around you hurts me. It hurts you. This profile was a bad idea, and I should’ve trashed this the moment I learned I’d be covering you. Because I knew then it would’ve turned to shit, and I was right.”

He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. He’d tell you everything if the words clicked just right. But they never do; they tangle like cotton balls in his throat before he can kneel and name everything he remembers, everything he loved about the two of you. Cariño. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.

You wipe a hand over your face. “Let’s just let this go already. You know, we really were good for a while. This… this is maybe just one of those things where we made it in another life, but not this one.”

At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.

It’s just as empty as you’d left it, dim and lit only by the warm light above the kitchen counter. Your forgotten Uno game lies on the same spot, beside the two empty wine glasses. You stare for a second. Life had been different when he’d lay down his cards just minutes ago.

A coat is tugged from in between couch cushions, your heels from by the door hastily pulled on. Every movement feels heavy, like sandbags are tied to your limbs, your tongue, your eyelids. You turn, one last time, to see the moment suspended in time—and you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like you’re drowning in them, dark and solemn. 

“Wait,” he says, and even with just one syllable he’s managed to stop your world from turning again. “You’re right. Everything you said. When I’m around you, I hurt. I’m reminded of how awful I was then. It’s painful to be together.”

Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.

“But you didn’t trash the feature. And I still enjoy your company. You could be covering Rafael Nadal or whoever right now. I could be in a jet to Japan. But you and I are here, are we not?”

Only you. It’s only you.

“I’ve missed you.” It rips through him. “I want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.”

“It’s useless,” you protest, tearily. “This won’t work. I’ll get mad, you’ll get fed up, I’ll get bored, you’ll put work before us.”

“Okay.” He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. “I’ll make it work.”

“Carlos,” you weep, “I don’t know why you don’t get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are… are good. So don’t waste the moments like this. Let’s not waste the moments on this.”

“You’re not a waste,” he says—and you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.

A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. You’ve waited, yearned for so long, and finally you’re in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. You’d do it again, but you don’t have to.

You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Everything.

I love you, you say weakly. I love you, that’s enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.

—

“Yours really is the best selling one!” Nick pulls you in for a hug. “We have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainz’s is selling like crazy. Your writing is just—” He kisses his fingers. “You are amazing.”

“You flatter me,” you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You don’t need another Jonathan-esque freakout in the middle of the room.

The GQ party, six months later, almost a mirror of the fundraiser just a few months ago. Only this time, you’re not tacked onto Lewis, and you’re not buzzing with nerves (as much). You had run into Lewis when you entered, and Charles too, and Lando when he spotted you, but none of them are your plus ones to this event.

Your profile is the talk of the journalism scene. Nobody can shut up about it, and it thrills you, excites you, to be witnessing your work be recognized beside Carlos himself. He brings you a glass of champagne and presses a kiss to your cheekbone, smiling against it.

Neither of you notice Lando and Charles behind you, watching like hawks. The elder cackles, presents his hand like a sacrifice and turns to the Brit. “Aha.What did I tell you, chat?”

“Five hundred euros,” moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. “You’re an intuitive prick.”

“Those two are soulmates.” They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. “The kind that’ll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.”

Lando shrugs. “Hey, honestly, for once, I’m glad I lost a bet.”

“I look great on the cover,” Carlos says, both of you staring at the screen’s display of it. 

“Shut up,” you smile, interlocking your fingers. “Well, my writing looks great inside.”

“Really does,” he says. “I’m so, so proud of you, cariño.”

“Proud of me?” You tease, staring up at him. “You made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.” You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.

Carlos Sainz—on racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.

[bamf-jaskier]

Cavill is not a martyr

I have been seeing so many posts and comments along the lines of “Henry Cavill left the Witcher because they were inaccurate to the books and he had enough of all the changes”

And this thought process, especially if you mention the recent DeMayo writer’s interview, is just a flawed thought process.

Just a quick blurb on DeMayo, as I said here his comments are probably a cry for attention from a fanbase he knows how to rile up and I would take what he says with a grain of truth salt. And Cavill has already filmed season 3 and I can assure you that a random writer he probably has already met making these comments didn’t send Cavill over the edge and have him march into the office an rage quit. Recasting and deciding on a new actor and getting out of contract is a lengthy process that has likely been going on for months. If anything it’s more likely DeMayo knew about Cavill leaving and then made his comments than the other way around.

So Henry Cavill announced he was leaving the Witcher just a few days after announcing he was returning to Superman.

In fact, he was quoted as saying this about his recent cameo as Superman in the new Black Adam movie:

"It was a very powerful moment for me. I wasn't sure how I would feel… whether it would be something very emotionally connective because I put the Man of Steel suit back on," Cavill said. "I chose that one in particular because of the nostalgia attached to the suit. It was important for me to be standing there and enjoying that moment. That is one of the top moments in my career. It feels great to have the opportunity to wear it again."

"The character means so much to me. It's been five years now. I never gave up hope," Cavill said of the half-decade he spent waiting for news about playing Superman again. "It's amazing to be here now talking about it again. There is such a bright future ahead for the character. I'm so excited to tell a story with an enormously joyful Superman."

And that 5 year mark is important. Because it is no coincidence that on September in 2018 it was reported that Cavill will no longer be playing Superman in the DCEU just days after it was announced he would be taking on the role of Geralt in The Witcher.

In fact, it was stated:

the Witcher commitment came after the Warners impasse, suggesting a change in the studio’s strategy.

Meaning he signed onto the Witcher because he stopped being Superman. So what we are seeing right now with Cavill announcing he is returning as Superman and then announcing he is leaving The Witcher is an exact reverse of the situation in 2018.

Cavill loves playing Superman and not only is it a project he is passionate about, but he also nets in a massive paycheck.

Even back in 2018 when Cavill left the role of Superman there was talk that he left because of contract disputes:

Cavill's original contract was for four movies, so a contract extension would naturally need to be arranged before Warner Bros. could move ahead with another standalone Superman movie. According to Revenge of the Fans, Cavill's team wanted to leverage a better deal out of the contract extension - including more movies, more money, and possibly even a producer role. From Warner Bros.' perspective, however, there isn't exactly a burning need to get another Superman movie made.

Then in August of 2022 reports began to come out from comi-con that Henry Cavill was looking to return to the role of Superman but wanted more money for the role.

And considering Cavill was paid a truly insane amount for 2013′s Man of Steel -- an estimated $14 million and a $20 million for 2017′s Justice League I have to wonder what wildly high amount he will be paid to return as Superman now in 2022 when he is a bigger star than ever before.

And his Witcher paycheck does not compare to that Superman money -- with him making 500k an episode in season 1 and $1 million an episode in season 2. Even if he was just making as much money as Justice League, and he is likely making much more to return, that is still well over double the amount of money to play Superman vs playing Geralt.

And at the end of the day, The Witcher is a show with very specific scheduling requirements and set locations. Blood Origin and Season 2 lost actors because of the scheduling conflicts. And that is not at all unusual for the industry.

And for set locations The Witcher is mostly filmed in Mafan Film Studio in Hungary as well as various locations around the country as well as Arborfield Film Studios in the UK and other locations there such as North Yorkshire & The Lake District. And with fewer COVID restrictions the production team is likely to want to go around Europe again for S4 and S5.

Meanwhile it’s hard to know where the new DCEU movies will be filmed but Man of Steel was filmed around Vancouver, British Columbia and Illinois in the US. Justice League was filmed around Scotland and London. Black Adam was filmed in Atlanta Georgia in the US. 

All this to say filming DCEU movies and The Witcher are two very time intensive processes that require film locations that could be on opposite sides of the world. And in addition Cavill is starring in the new Highlander Reboot and in the Enola Holmes movies. Being a TV actor takes a lot of time for not as much money and acclaim. Cavill is seemingly going back to just being a film actor instead of a tv actor which considering his busy schedule makes a lot of sense.

So it’s pretty clear why he would leave The Witcher to return to Superman and his other films roles:

1) Far higher paycheck to play Superman

2) He loves both the characters but Superman is very meaningful for his career and he has stated he has always wanted to return to the role

3) Scheduling conflicts and very different filming locations and the prestige of film vs tv

Trying to spread the narrative of “Cavill is a martyr in the battle against the inaccuracies of the tv show” is based on nothing but your own confirmation bias. And it honestly says a lot about the type of person you are that you jump to find a symbol to represent the victimization of your hatred of the show.

You can dislike the show but the tinhatting and conspiracy theories I have seen flying around are quite frankly embarrassing and this is a needed reality check.

At the end of the day Henry Cavill is a high-level movie star who makes choices based on his career and what he wants to do. Your parasocial relationship with the man is entirely in your own head and I recommend trying to get out. 

[aknolan]

Looking back at season 1 and how the Leverage team starts doing good things is very funny it's like. Episode 1 they just work together on a case that really has nothing to do with helping people. In fact, for everyone except Nate the reason for staying has nothing to do with helping people.

Episode 2, Nate decides to help a military veteran and everyone nearly bails because it gets dangerous. And from then on... they're all 100% on board with helping people and in fact are more likely to get mad at Nate for trying to bail than the other way around.

I mean just look at the stork job and the wedding job, both involve at least one member of the team being much stronger on the "we gotta help them" than Nate is!

The premise of it may have been four thieves and an honest man, but it really took no time at all for the four thieves to start going "Nate we have to help this person" all the time. In fact, the first instance of that is episode 3, where Eliot goes against Nate's call to give up on the con because dammit he is helping these people.

[heidiamalia]

-Faceless-

Leverage

[The Gold Job]

[lol-jackles]

hey! so, I want your opinion on soulless!sam, because I think jared did a great job playing this other version of sam

Soulless!Sam was a great character. I loved that in the beginning of season 6, he wasn't just acting as a SoullessSam, he was acting as SoullessSam faking being the real Sam for Dean, and there were many times where he almost but not quite convincing pull it off.   Speaking as someone with a theater background, I was impressed with how Jared pulled it off as I wouldn't know how to approach that role. Often actors play the fake character fully as if they are the real character until the ta!da reveal.

First, what is a soul? In the SPN-verse, the soul is the person’s self.   We’ve seen the souls of Dean, Sam, and Bobby in Heaven and Hell and they appear to be no different from themselves on Earth. What makes up the self is the conscious, subconscious, and emotion, which I like to call the trinity.

When we see soulless people on the show, they give into their worse impulses because there were no trinity to hold them in check. Some feel free once unshackled of their soul, some shackle themselves to prevent hurting others, some make the cold calculation for the "greater good", and others rely on people they admire for guidance. When Sam, Donatello, and Jack lost their souls, they cycle through those four reactions.

SoullessSam felt he became a better hunter when unshackled by a soul, but he also let Dean get turned into a vampire and killed Robin to take way the monster's leverage. Skill and rationality does not necessarily make for a great hunter. It has to be a balance between knowledge and the heart in order to make the best possible decision under the circumstances. Sam is all about the heart and always listening because he wants to help. SoullessSam has no heart and only listens to figure out how to mathematically come to the best scenario, though without taking in the value of an individual life.

SoullessSam's worst impulse was to tell the truth without softening the blow because he no longer feels the love (or guilt or shame) towards Dean or others. But without emotion, Soulless Sam can't make decisions for himself because all arguments are equal; emotions are the tie breakers. Dean recognizes this when he saw how blindly SoullessSam followed their grandfather's order.  Then Sam left their grandfather to follow Dean even when he knew that Dean's endgoal for him was not in his best interest.

I was sympathetic for SoullessSam because he lived and experienced life, he's a fully sentient being and none of us could really blame him for trying to protect himself from being resouled, as he knew it would mean his death. In the end, Soulless Sam wasn’t evil, he just didn’t care.

.

Though SoullessSam said he did not love Dean, he still fell right back to the codependency pattern due to a lifetime of being brothers. It was basic Sam actually guiding Soulless Sam, not Dean. Sam has always taken responsibility for his actions (as those of others). Soulless Sam had access to all of Sam's memories, including his "it doesn't matter what you are, it only matters what you do" creed. It would have made sense for SoullessSam to adopt the creed that seems to be the heart of Sam's motivation and used it as his guide. And it can be reasonably argued that Soulless Sam is proof of Sam's inherently goodness. With Sam's memories and skills, SoullessSam could have done whatever he wanted and leave a trail of destructions. Instead he returned to the family business of hunting things and saving lives, despite the flawed execution of it.  

[poguesmaybank]

Leverage Episode Battle

The Long Way Down Job: Season Four, Episode One. The fate of a missing climber on an Alaskan mountain is the key to taking down a corrupt financier. When the team returns to Boston, they make a shocking discovery: their office is bugged, and someone is watching them.

The San Lorenzo Job: Season Three, Episode Sixteen. After Moreau escapes to San Lorenzo, the Leverage team follows him and must pose as election consultants for an honest and hard working politician in order to overthrow the current president of the country, who bought the presidency with the help of Moreau, triggering a final showdown between Moreau and the team as Nate vows to make sure that Moreau is taken down once and for all.

[myocsfanfictions]

South Side Story

Shameless Fanfiction Season 1

Desna Hills has come living in the Southside of Chicago four years before. Taken in by Kev and V, Desna is close friends with the Gallaghers. Let's see how this Southside story unfolds.

Warning: this chapter contains smut

MASTERLIST

<< Previous - Next >>

Chapter 3

“God, you look amazing from here!” Lip exclaimed as she was over his lap, moving up and down in his cock, her hands on his shoulder to have a better leverage, her hair to a side and her eyes closed. From her mouth were exiting such sounds that she was almost ashamed of herself.

“Fuck, you feel fantastic!” Lip said as he helped her with her movements, his hands on her hips guiding her to meet his thrust perfectly.

“Fuck!” She moaned as he took one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking and licking on it, “Lip, God!” Desna cried moving on of her hands to hold against the metal of the van. They were going so hard at it that she was sure that from outside people could have seen the veichle moving.

“Shit, fuck,” Desna cursed, “I think I’m there, Lip, fuck! I’m almost there!” She liked that she could make noises, she felt him respond to her moans with deep thrust, he liked to listen to the sound she made.

“Wait for me, shit…” he cursed pushing her on her back, so that he could ram into her as he pleased. He brought her legs higher, reaching a deeper spot that made her course again. His hips where moving so fast that she could not take her whimpers inside anymore.

“Fuck, Lip I can’t” she moaned touching her own breasts to relieve some pleasure.

“God you want to kill me,” he groan before he layed on her, careful not to crush he, but in a position where he could give short and strong thrusts.

“Shit, I love this!” Desna said, her hands gripping his back as his hips kept hitting inside of her her perfectly.

“Me too” he whispered in her hear, “Fuck this is amazing, shit.”

“Lip,” she moaned moving one of her hands so that she could make the boy look at her, “Kiss me, please,” she almost begged and he did as she asked without complaining. His pace was becoming more erratic and they moaned in each other mouth, louder and louder until Desna’s vision blanked as she hit her climax and soon she felt his hot liquid inside her walls. She tried to control her laboured breath as he rode out his high until he came to a stop.

“Oh shit!” He exclaimed with a chuckle as he moved to kiss her neck, still not pulling out, “Fuck that was fucking hot.”

Desna giggled as he kept kissing her, enjoying those sensations she was feeling. Her hand in his hair, inviting him to keep going.

“Mm, this is so nice,” she moaned as he started to suck at her neck.

“I know, I can’t help it today,” he said caressing her breast, moving his fingers on one of her nipples. She moaned again.

“You’re getting hard again,” she said with closed eyes and a chuckle.

“Are you complaining?” He asked moving his hips, making both of them let out a groan of pleasure.

“Shit, no” she said as he looked at her with a smirk. Her fingers on the back of his head made him lean forward so that they could kiss again. Her body adjusted, making him go even deeper,

“Fuck…” she moaned, and he chuckled again.

“Ah I didn’t tell you my idea,” he said getting back at kissing her neck.

“Sorry I stopped listening when I decided to get on top” Desna apologized.

“I stopped talking when you got on top,” that made her laugh, as he started again to give slow thrust, “I’ve talked to Ian,” he said as Desna closed her eyes.

“That good,” she answered, with closed eyes.

“And he agreed on my idea,” he kept talking, as his hips picked up the pace.

“Shit this is distracting,” she admitted as he moved.

“The idea…” he started panting, “Is to get Karen to give Ian a blowjob.”

“What a fucking idea- fuck, Lip” he had just hit a good spot in the worst timing.

“And he agreed,” he moaned, his hips snapped against hers, “Fuck, Lip!” She cried.

“And I want you to come with us,” at his words she opened her eyes in disbelief.

“Are you fucking insane- shit, fuck” she tried to complain, but he got himself into a position where his hips moved at a crazy speed.

“Wait, wait,” he said as he focused on his thrusts “God this feels fucking amazing!”

“Shit, Lip!” Desna was a moaning mess, feeling her orgasm approaching once again, “Fuck, I’m so close, Lip, so fucking close,” she cried opening her legs a bit more so that he could sink in deeper.

“Shit…” he coursed, as she started to plead him.

“Lip, don’t stop!” He thrusted making her moan again and again, “Fuck right there,” his hips moved, “Right there!” another thrust.

“You are so beautiful, fuck!” He said getting back against her so to change the angle and speed of his thrusts.

“Fuck, Lip!” She cried as she climaxed again, soon followed by him, who emptied himself inside of her, before rolling to her side.

“Shit, I love this,” he said trying to control his breaths. They stood like that for a moment as they both came down from their high. Desna was slowly trying to get the control of her body back, before turning to Lip that had a hand over his forehead and a smirk on his lips.

“I’m not coming watching fucking Karen Jackson give Ian a blowjob,” she protested making him scoff, “It would be gross and awkward.”

“You won’t see anything, I promise,” he said turning to her, a hand moving to her waist so to make her body face him, “She will be under the table, you won’t see anything!”

“This is the most disgusting thing you’ve ever said, I swear” she said, even if she didn’t fight the movement that he was making her do.

“Please, you have to come,” he said almost pleading.

“Why?” She asked. But her question made him look away, even if is finger still caressed the skin of her hips.

“I need you to see that Karen is not a threat,” his words took her by surprise, but she let him time to find the right words to keep going, “What we have, I like it” he said, “but yesterday, with all the jealousy… I need you to know that I… care…” she smiled.

“Because she is doing it and not me?” At her question his eyes shot up.

“I would have never ask you to… you know…” she moved closer so their bodies were pressed against of each other.

“You want me to see that you’re not jealous of her doing that?” She asked looking him in the eyes. He observed her for a moment before kissing her lips again. His hand went to the back of her head to not make her move away, and she couldn’t help but to smile against his lips. So he was not jealous of Karen, but he didn’t want Desna to do it.

“Does Ian know? About your plan?” She asked, “Because I will accept only if he agrees,” Desna wanted to do this for Lip, but not if it grossed Ian out.

“I told him that we’ve talked about this situation,” he explained, “And he said that he can do it.”

“This will be so strange Lip, truly,” she admitted.

“Is it a yes?” He asked, rubbing his nose against hers.

“Alright,” she said before he pecked her lips, “But it’s disgusting!” Lip giggled before pulling her in for another kiss.

The day at school went well, it was not that fast since nor Lip or Ian had come to school. But anyways she would receive Lip’s messages none the same.

“That Steve guy came back this morning…” Lip’s message said.

Fiona, V and Desna had met Steve Wilton the night before, when a guy stole Fiona’s purse and Steve tried to help. He failed miserably, but at least he tired. And then he punched the guy at the entrance because he didn’t let them back in. So since he got cut by glasses Fiona brought him home, where V cured his injouries. The four of them where talking when the Gallgher’s siblings all gather down. As he saw her Lip went next to Desna asking her if everything was fine.

“Yeah, it’s alright,” she had said with a smile as he set next to her. Just before Debbie ran to sit on her legs.

“Come here, love” Desna said as she adjusted the little girl to sit more comfortable.

And then they had started to talk about theirselves, Veronica’s job, the Gallaghers’ names and then even Kev arrived. After that Desna, Kev and V had gotten back home, but for what Lip had texted her, that guy seemed to have had sex with Fiona, before Tony brought their father Frank Gallagher home. Ass drunk like always.

“Round two?” Desna texted back at Lip.

“Gross! That’s my sister” he complained, making her shook her head, “But probably”

“Said the guy who wants me there when his brother is going to get sucked off” she dialed and sent.

“Yeah, same guy” he said too overly confident, “Same guy that fucked you this morning”

She blushed lowering her phone, afraid that someone could see.

“I’m at school you prick!!” she texted.

“Sexting” his message said, “We still hadn’t try it, what are you wearing?”

“The outfit you’ll see at Karen’s” she dialed back, “At what time there?”

“Around 4 pm” he said, “Maybe I’ll see what you are wearing in my room after.”

“I’ve got class, perv” she said before putting her phone away. But for some reason she could not take away the stupid smile she had on her face.

4 pm arrived even too soon, as she walked her way towards the Jacksons’ house. On a couple of occasions Desna had even thought about getting back, she felt so gross in doing what they were about to do.

“Here she is,” she heard Lip say as he waved her hand, to get her attention.

“Hey,” she said mostly towards Ian, who seemed really nervous.

“Hi, Des” the boy tried to give her a smile.

“Okay, let’s go” Lip said again overly too confident.

“Do you think it is a good idea?” She asked as they walked.

“Absolutely!” Lip exclaimed but she glared at him.

“Yes I can see that,” Desna said, “But I was talking to Ian.”

“He thinks it’s great!” Lip exclaimed, still trying to convince himself that Ian wasn’t gay.

“I’m very nervous,” Ian admitted, making Desna looking at Lip with an ‘I told you so’ kinda look. But Lip put his arms around Ian as they walked.

“Relax, okay?” But Ian shook his head “No, no you’re gonna like it,” he was trying to reassure him.

“Yeah, if he was into girls,” Desna muttered gaining a look from Lip, not quite sure of what she had just mumbled.

“What am I even going to say?” Asked Ian nervously, but Lip seemed to have the answer.

“Just keep talking about science.”

Desna frowned, what the hell was he saying?

“I don’t know anything about science” Ian complained, but Lip had a solution even for that.

“Okay, then just read the Table elements,” looking towards Desna that was looking at him with a face that was screaming ‘Dude, what the fuck’.

They made it to the front door of the white wooden house and Desna could not feel more out of place. She was about to watch one of her best friends getting a blowjob, from the other girl who the guy she was fucking daily fucked in that bitch house.

“Fuck this is going to end bad,” she muttered as Lip knocked.

“This is going to be just fine,” he said putting his hand on the small of her back to guide her forward.

“What are you trying to prove?” She whispered to him.

“You know” Lip answered.

“I know you’re crazy” then the sound of the door open made them turn. Just that the door was not open, was only ajar and the figure of a woman went closer to look who had just knocked at her door.

“Miss Jackson,” Lip said politely with a smile. A smile that the woman did as well.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, “Karen is thrilled with you she got an A on her physics midterm!”

“Such a great student,” Desna said before she could stop herself, but the sarcasm in her voice was not grasped by the woman, who smiled at her.

“She is, isn’t she?” She smiled again before turning to call for Karen to say that her little helper was there.

“Polite,” Lip whispered with a forced smile.

“I’m always polite,” Desna answered, meeting his eyes, “In fact, I’m politely restraining myself from punch you in the face.” He didn’t have time to answer because the woman turned back at them, still not opening the door.

“This is my brother Ian” Lip said to the woman before turning towards Desna, “And this is my… my…”

“I’m Desna Hills, Miss Jackson,” she said trying to smile as natural as she could.

The woman smiled again, before looking at their feet “I’m out of plastic bags,” she said, “Why don’t you leave your shoes out here where they can breathe.”

Ian and Desna shared a look as Lip nodded his head.

The woman opened the door as they took off their shoes and let them in. It was a room with white and flower patterned fornitures. Very different from how Kev and V decided to arrange their house. They seemed ready to film a sextape, while these people seemed ready to go to church.

“Hello, guys!” Karen appeared. Short, blond hair already tight in a low ponytail and a fake innocent look in the eyes. Her mother seemed a sweet person, even if one of the strangest people Desna have ever meet, and she was sure that the woman knew nothing about the reputation of her daughter in school.

“Darla, right?” Karen said pointing at her, whose lips got thiner in a forced smile.

“Name’s Desna,” she said trying to keep her cool as much as possible.

Karen laughed, “Oh right, I always forget it.”

As he could sense Desna thought of killing the girl, Lip touched again her back as he spoke to Karen.

“Should we start with…” he moved his head to Ian.

“Of course,” Karen said, that fake smile was part of her being by now.

“This is not a good idea,” Desna muttered, stopping Lip by the arm, as Karen and Ian move towards the table.

“It’s alright” he said looking at her, who shook her head.

“I don’t even know why I agreed to this thing!” She complained as Lip guided her towards the table, where he moved the chair from next him so that she could sit there, opening her notebook, pretending to study.

Lip started to explain some random things of science and physics as they observed Sheila going into the kitchen where she was cooking something.

“So are we going to do it together?” Karen asked Lip, giving a glance to Desna, whose head shot up, as well as Ian’s.

“No!” Desna and Ian said together, as Lip tried to tell them to keep their voice down.

“No, Des is here just so that the group thing made sense,” Lip explained in low voice making sure that Sheila didn’t hear him.

“Oh, since I know you two are fucking, I assumed…” Karen was saying, that fake innocent tone was sending Desna out of her mind.

“Yeah, I’m fucking, Lip,” she said, “Only him, not every living soul.”

“Oh,” Karen said glaring at her, “Doris, I thought you as someone more polite.”

“Desna!” She whisper yelled, before Lip started calling her name.

“Des,” he finally made her look at his direction, “Stop, alright?” He then turned to Karen, “Come on,” he said gesturing her to take care of Ian.

“Alright,” she said, giving another glare in Desna’s direction, before starting to get under the table.

“I have to go take something upstairs,” she said so that her mother could hear, but she then disappeared.

“Ian,” said Lip, “Maybe you should repeat the Table elements,” his poor brother nervously opened the book and started reading. Just then Desna let go of her pen in frustration, but soon she felt Lip pulling her chair so that she could be closer to him.

“We said no jealousy,” he whispered to her, searching for her eyes.

“I’m going for no killing,” Desna answered, making sure that Sheila was still cooking, “I can’t stand her Lip, she is so rude,” she complained.

“You don’t have to stand her,” he said shaking his head, “But you don’t have to be jealous,” Desna smiled at him, putting a hand on his thigh, and she was surprised when he took her hand in one of his, as he turned to pretend to read his notes. Then she noticed poor Ian telling the elements out loud, and she really tried her best to focus her attention somewhere else, she didn’t even want to turn.

That poor boy, what if he was not confused at all. Could that be considered some kind of violence? Was she a witness? Was she an accomplice?

If that was the case, she liked Lip, but she had told him many times that was a stupid idea. She didn’t want any part in it.

“You kids want some homemade lime chicken chimichangas?” Sheila’s voice came from behind her and she observed Lip as nonchalancly declined as if Karen was not giving a blowjob to Ian.

“I think you’re twisted, sometime,” she whispered from next to him, who chuckled.

“Does it make you more or less into me?” He asked still looking down at his notes, but Desna’s eyes went wide.

“I’m not into you,” she said as if she has been found guilty of some crime. At that he chuckled again.

“You’re not?” He said with his smartass face as he turned to look to her, slightly leaning forward, “My bad.”

He then turned away, and she found herself at short of words. What did he mean by that?

“Why you…” but before she could say anything, a man, a big man, much bigger than Lip and Ian went down from the stairs. Karen Jackson’s fucking father was in the house. Desna felt like she was about to passed out.

“Hey fellas,” he said as he noticed the three of them, frowning, “Where’s Karen?”

Lip of course was ready to answer that she went to search where Isaac Newton was born, and the fact that the man believed him gave a great picture of Karen Jackson, that was still working on Ian. Desna could not believe it. She turned to Lip, that observed Ian before turning to her with a smirk.

“Get that smirk out of your face,” she said keeping her voice so low that she could barely hear herself.

“Come on, this is funny,” he said and Desna’s eyes widen once again.

“Try to do it next time!” She dared him, who leaned closer with an amused look.

“We could do it next time,” he suggested making her look at him in disbelief.

“I’m not going down on you, with your family around,” she protested, but his smirk got larger.

“Maybe I am going to go down on you, with my family around,” that made her blush, instantly feeling a rush of blood in her veins. Suddenly though out of nowhere an apple fell from the counter, rolling down in the living room, and for some reason they all freezed.

“All right, I’m late,” the man shout, “Karen, honey, I guess I’ll see you in the morning,” then he bent down to grab the apple, but in the process of doing so, he noticed his daughter under the table.

“What is she hiding for?” He asked looking at the three of them, and Desna felt all of her limbs go rigid. Especially when he lifted the tablecloth up.

“Sweet Jesus!” The man exclaimed in disbelief, as his eyes went from Karen to the boys.

They were dead.

It happened all so fast, the man shouted and the three of them jumped up to flee the house. Lip pushed Desna towards Ian, as he ran the other way. The man got crazy, he overturned the table, before running after Lip that was trying to leave the room from the front door.

“Lip!” Desna exclaimed as she saw, Lip running up the stairs with Karen’s father close behind.

“Let’s go, Des!” Ian said grabbing her by the arm, before bringing her outside from the back door.

“Jesus Christ, he is going to kill him!” Desna screamed as they ran in the backyard.

“Run, don��t stop!” Ian exclaimed as they kept going towards the road. As they arrive at the front of the house, they heard a loud noise and as she looked she saw Lip, trying to get up from the ground.

“Did you fucking jump!?” She exclaimed as Ian ran to take their shoes and then they all ran away still hearing Mr. Jackson’s shouts from behind them.

What a fucking day!