#and even if it was just to cheer up bull who probably still feels a bit guilty about it

[alwayscryingoverdannyb]

awww ;__; cassandra just told bull she's glad the chargers are staying with the inquisition. and when bull sighed that it cost us the qunari alliance, cassandra said she wouldn't trade them for any alliance ;_______;

[pucksandpower]

Ruin the Friendship

Max Verstappen x best friend!Reader

Summary: you and Max refuse to confess your feelings for each other in fear of ruining your friendship. Naturally, Max chooses to ruin every date with another man you go on instead

You can’t remember a time when Max Verstappen wasn’t your best friend.

The two of you grew up together, playing in the streets of Hasselt since before you could walk. Your parents joke that you learned to crawl just so you could keep up with him.

As you got older, your friendship only grew stronger. You were inseparable, there for each other through all the ups and downs of childhood and adolescence. When Max’s karting career took off, you were his biggest supporter, traveling all over Europe on weekends whenever you could to cheer him on at races.

After he moved to Monaco when he joined Red Bull, Max begged you to come with him. “I can’t do this without my best friend by my side,” he said. You didn’t hesitate — there was nowhere you would rather be than with Max.

Now you live together in his apartment in Monte Carlo. Mornings are spent on his balcony overlooking the glistening Mediterranean, drinking coffee and chatting about everything and nothing. Evenings are filled with video games, movies, and dreams of the future.

You know everything about each other, from favorite foods to secret fears. You trust Max more than anyone else in the world. He’s your person, the other half of your soul. Sometimes you think you love him as more than a friend, but you’d never risk what you have. If you lost Max, you’d lose yourself.

Today is like any other day. Max is sitting next to you on the couch, focused intently on crushing you in Mario Kart. You’re trying your best, but he’s just too good.

“Yes!” Max pumps his fist in the air as he wins yet again. “Too easy!”

You roll your eyes and shove him playfully. “Whatever, I let you win.”

He laughs. “Sure you did.” His smile makes your heart skip a beat.

You’re about to suggest another round when Max’s phone rings. He grabs it off the coffee table. “It’s Christian,” he says. “Probably wants to go over strategy for the race this weekend. I better take this.”

“No problem.” You stretch your arms over your head. “I’ll make us some lunch while you talk to him.”

Max answers the call as he makes his way out to the balcony. Through the glass door you see him pacing, one hand waving animatedly as he talks. You smile and head to the kitchen.

As you rummage through the fridge, you think about the race this weekend. You couldn’t be more proud of Max and everything he’s accomplished. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t worry every time he got into that car. Still, you know racing makes him happier than anything else in the world. And his happiness is what matters most to you.

You find the ingredients for Max’s favorite sandwich — nutella and banana. As you start spreading nutella on slices of bread, you hear Max call your name from the next room.

“Y/N! Come here, I need your opinion on something!”

You poke your head out of the kitchen. “Can it wait? I’m making lunch!”

“No, it’s urgent! Just come here!” He’s smiling like he has a secret.

You laugh, wiping your nutella-covered hands on a towel. “Alright, I’m coming!”

You make your way out to the balcony, wondering what Max wants your opinion on. With him, it could be anything.

“Ok, what’s up?” You ask.

Max grins and takes your hand, his eyes twinkling. “How would you feel about being my date to the FIA Gala this year?”

You stare at Max, stunned. “Your … your date? To the FIA Gala?”

He nods, still grinning. “Yeah! It’s next month in Baku. I could really use my best friend by my side for moral support on the big Red Carpet.”

Your mind is reeling. The FIA Gala is the biggest formal event of the Formula 1 season. All the top drivers and teams come dressed to the nines to celebrate the end of the championship. Rumors always swirl about who will bring the hottest date.

And Max wants you to be his.

“Are … are you sure?” You stammer. “Wouldn’t you rather bring a model or something?”

Max scoffs. “Please. You know I hate those stuffy events. But with you there cracking jokes and making fun of everybody with me, it might actually be fun for once!”

You can’t help but smile at the thought of being on Max’s arm. “Well, when you put it like that, how can I say no?”

“Yes!” Max pumps his fist. “This is going to be epic. I’ll have my team sort all the details. All you have to do is show up looking gorgeous.” He winks.

You blush slightly. “I think I can manage that.”

Over the next few weeks, Max’s stylist comes by the apartment for dress fittings. You settle on a couture emerald gown with a daring slit up the leg. The perfect blend of classy and sexy.

Max lets out a low whistle when you emerge from your suite the night of the gala. “You look incredible,” he says, staring at you in awe.

You smooth down the front of your dress self-consciously. “So do you.” Max cuts a sharp figure in his black tuxedo.

He offers you his arm. “Shall we?”

Your stomach flutters as you take it. You still can’t believe you’re Max’s date tonight. Part of you wishes it were real instead of just for show.

As predicted, jaws drop when you walk the red carpet on Max’s arm. Cameras flash furiously around you.

“They’re gonna think you’re my new girlfriend,” Max murmurs in your ear.

You laugh. “Let them think what they want.” But secretly, you wish the rumors were true.

The night flies by in a blur of champagne, dancing, and laughter. You and Max stay by each other’s side the whole time, laughing and judging everyone’s outfits. It’s the most fun you’ve had in ages.

On the ride back to the hotel, Max rests his head on your shoulder. “Thank you for coming with me tonight,” he says. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You kiss the top of his head. “That’s what best friends are for.”

But as you fall asleep that night, you can’t help but wonder if Max will ever see you as more than just his best friend.

***

Not long after coming back home, you’re getting ready for your first date since the FIA Gala. After seeing you all dressed up with Max, your friend Julian finally got the nerve to ask you out. You said yes, partly to stop constantly pining for Max.

You’re meeting Julian for dinner at a nice restaurant downtown. As you put the finishing touches on your makeup, Max lounges on your bed.

“I can’t believe you’re going on a date with Julian,” Max says, scowling. “That guy is so boring.”

You toss a pillow at him. “Stop it, he’s cute! I think it’ll be fun.”

Max catches the pillow and frowns. “What if I took you somewhere way better tonight instead?”

You pause your makeup application. “Wait, like a date?”

“What? No!” Max avoids your eyes. “Just as friends.”

You feel a twinge of disappointment. “Oh. Well, I already made plans with Julian.”

“Fine, go on your lame date,” Max grumbles. “But when Julian puts you to sleep talking about accounting, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You finish getting ready then head out to meet Julian. He greets you with a bouquet of flowers. “You look beautiful,” he says.

“Thanks!” You reply. The date starts off nicely. Julian is a perfect gentleman over dinner. But as the conversation wears on, you find yourself growing bored. Max was right, Julian is really dull.

Suddenly, you get a text from Max.

SOS come quick! Emergency at the apartment!

You frown, instantly worried. “Sorry Julian, I have to go. My roommate needs me.”

Julian looks disappointed but nods in understanding. “No problem. I’ll walk you out.”

You hurry home, anxious to make sure Max is okay. You burst through the apartment door. “Max! What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

Max looks up casually from the couch. “Oh hey Y/N. What’s up?”

“What’s up? You texted me that there was an emergency!”

“Oh yeah, we ran out of gummy bears,” he says, waving an empty bag. “I was hungry.”

Your jaw drops. “Are you serious, Max? I was on my date!”

Max grins. “Oops, my bad! But I saved you from dying of boredom with that guy. How about we order a pizza instead?”

You want to be mad at him for ruining your date. But looking at his smiling face, you can’t help but laugh. “You’re impossible,” you say, plopping down next to him.

Max just winks and hands you a controller. “Now come on, let’s see if you can actually beat me in Mario Kart this time.”

And just like that, you forget all about Julian and your ruined date. Nothing is nearly as fun as spending time with your best friend.

***

A few days later, you’re getting ready for another date, this time with a guy named Levi who you met online. He’s gorgeous with tattoos and an edgy style, totally your type.

When you tell Max about the date over breakfast, he nearly chokes on his eggs. “You can’t be serious. That dude looks like a complete tool.”

You roll your eyes as you grab your purse. “Don’t pretend you know anything about him. I think he’s hot and he seems cool.”

Max crosses his arms. “Well I don’t like it. How do you know this guy isn’t a total creep?”

“I appreciate your concern,” you say, “But I’m a big girl. I can handle myself on a date.”

Max opens his mouth to retort but you hold up a hand. “Nope, I don’t want to hear it! I’m running late as it is.” You give Max a quick hug. “Don’t wait up!”

You meet Levi at a trendy speakeasy bar downtown. He looks even hotter than his Tinder pics, with arm tattoos peeking out from under his leather jacket.

“Hey gorgeous,” he says with a crooked smile. He leans in for a lingering kiss on your cheek.

You blush. “Hi yourself.” Maybe Max was wrong about this guy.

You have a great time with Levi. The drinks are strong and the conversation is easy. After a few hours, Levi asks if you want to get out of there.

“I’d love to see your apartment,” you say with a flirtatious glance.

Levi grins. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

He pays the tab and you start walking to his place. As you turn a corner, you run straight into someone, nearly falling over.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorr-Max? What are you doing here?”

Max steadies you with his hands. “Y/N! Fancy running into you!”

You stare at Max in disbelief. “Did you follow me?”

Max avoids your gaze. “What? No, of course not. I was just in the neighborhood.”

You cross your arms. “I find that hard to believe.”

You stare at him in disbelief. Levi pipes up from behind you. “Uh, do you two know each other?”

“Unfortunately yes,” you reply tightly, not taking your eyes off Max.

Max finally meets your stare, his jaw clenched. “I was worried about you, okay? This guy looks like bad news.”

You scowl at him. “That’s not your call to make. I’m allowed to go on dates without you ruining them.”

Max’s shoulders slump. “I know, I’m sorry. I just care about you and want you to be safe.” He glances at Levi again uncertainly.

You soften a bit, seeing the genuine concern in Max’s eyes. You put a hand on his arm. “I appreciate you looking out for me, but I’ll be okay. See you at home later.”

You turn to Levi, who looks understandably confused. You loop your arm through his. “Shall we keep going?”

But as you walk away, the playful mood from earlier is gone. Levi tries to make conversation, but you’re preoccupied thinking about Max and the sad look on his face.

Levi invites you up to his apartment still, but your heart’s not in it anymore. You make an excuse and head home, feelings conflicted.

Max is on the couch when you storm in. “Hey! How was the date?”

You don’t answer, just grab a pillow and start smacking him with it.

“Ow!” Max holds up his hands, laughing. “What was that for?”

“You know exactly what it was for, you sneaky jerk! Sabotaging my date again.”

Max grins up at you impishly. “Maybe I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

You keep hitting him with the pillow, but end up collapsing on the couch next to him, both of you breathless with laughter.

“You’re the worst,” you say between giggles.

Max drapes his arm around your shoulders. “Yeah but admit it, you love me anyway.”

You sigh and nestle against him. “Unfortunately yes, I do.”

And you know that no matter how many dates Max sabotages, he’ll always be your number one.

***

After the last two disastrous dates, you decide to take a break from dating for a while. But your coworker Jess convinces you to give it one more shot with a guy named Liam she met at her gym. Reluctantly, you agree to meet up with him.

The day of the date arrives and you get ready halfheartedly, already anticipating Max’s attempts to sabotage it. Speaking of Max, you realize you haven’t seen him all day, which is odd.

You find a note on the kitchen counter:

Had to fly to Milton Keynes last minute for work. Will be gone all weekend. Have fun on your date.

<3 Max

You’re surprised but also a bit disappointed. While his meddling is annoying, you’re so used to Max being a constant presence in your dating life. It will feel weird doing this without him.

You push that thought aside as you head out to meet Liam at a burger place. When you arrive, you’re pleasantly surprised. Liam is handsome, charming, and easy to talk to.

After lunch, you go on a walk through a nearby park. You’re having such a nice time, you don’t even think about Max. At the end of the date, Liam asks to see you again.

“I’d love to,” you say with a smile. Liam leans in for a sweet goodbye kiss.

As you turn to go, you hear a familiar voice yelling your name. “Y/N! There you are!”

You whirl around to see Max jogging towards you, slightly out of breath.

“Max? What are you doing here? I thought you had that work thing.”

Max shrugs nonchalantly. “Oh, it got canceled last minute.”

Liam looks between you two, confused. “Wait, is this the dude you live with?”

Before you can respond, Max strides up and vigorously shakes Liam’s hand. “Max Verstappen, nice to meet you! I’m Y/N’s … boyfriend.”

Your eyes nearly bug out of your head. “My WHAT?”

“Yeah babe, your boyfriend,” Max says, draping an arm around you. “Sorry I couldn’t make our date today, got held up at work. But who’s this guy you’re with?”

Liam stares wide-eyed at Max’s arm around you. “Uh, I should get going. See you around, Y/N.” He scurries off.

You shove Max away from you, fuming. “What the hell was that? Why did you pretend to be my boyfriend?”

Max shoves his hands in his pockets sheepishly. “I just couldn’t stand the idea of you dating that dude.”

“So you LIED? You scared him off forever!” You poke Max’s chest angrily.

He grabs your hand. “I’m sorry! I don’t know why I did that. I was jealous and I wasn’t thinking straight.”

You search his face and see real remorse in his eyes. Your anger starts to fade.

“Jealous? Why would you be jealous, Max?” Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

He takes a shaky breath. “Because the truth is, I’m in love with you. As more than a friend. I have been for a long time. Seeing you with those other guys made me realize I couldn’t stand not being with you myself.”

You stand frozen, stunned into silence. Max rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Please say something.”

You finally find your voice again. “Took you long enough, idiot.”

And you grab his shirt and kiss him deeply. Max grins against your lips, wrapping you in his arms.

“No more sabotaging my dates,” you murmur.

“Deal,” Max whispers. “As long as I can be your one and only from now on.”

You answer by kissing him again under the setting sun. At long last, you finally have your dream guy.

***

The next morning, you wake up in Max’s arms, still unable to believe the incredible turn your relationship has taken. Last night after the park, you came home and talked for hours, admitting your true feelings while cuddled up on the couch. You kissed and kissed until you both finally fell asleep tangled together.

Now in the light of day, your worries start to creep in. What if this ruins your friendship? What if you’re not meant to be more than best friends?

You untangle yourself from Max’s embrace and go to make coffee. He finds you a few minutes later on the balcony overlooking the sea.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Max says, wrapping his arms around you from behind. He kisses your shoulder.

You turn in his arms to face him. “Can we talk about this?”

He frowns slightly. “Talk about what?”

You gesture between the two of you. “This new aspect of our relationship. I’m just worried it will mess things up. Maybe we should take a step back and think things through?”

Max’s face falls. “You’re having second thoughts?”

“No, not second thoughts exactly. I care about you so much Max, as my best friend. I don’t want to ruin that.”

Max caresses your cheek. “You could never ruin our friendship. It means everything to me too. But we both deserve to be happy, and I know we can make each other happy in this new way as well. I’m willing to take that chance if you are.”

You search his earnest eyes. He’s right — your connection runs so much deeper than just friendship. And you trust Max. If anyone is worth taking this risk for, it’s him.

You take his hand and intertwine your fingers. “You’re right. I want to make this work.”

Relief washes over Max’s face. He leans in and kisses you softly. “I promise you won’t regret it. I’ll be the best boyfriend ever!”

You laugh. “Well in that case, take me on our first official date tonight!”

“It would be my pleasure.” Max strokes your hair. “Thank you for taking a chance on me. On us. I know we’re meant to be, schatje. I’ve loved you all my life.”

“I’ve loved you all my life too,” you whisper. And you know that no matter what happens, your bond with Max will never break.

The future has yet to be written, but you’re ready to face it hand-in-hand with the man who has always had your heart.

[ludwigplayingthetrombone]

Post war/coma comic about Gai struggling with his recovery

Since tumblr hates long form comics, I have to split this into 2 bc its 36 images. This is the first part, part 2 i'll either do as a reblog or a separate post right after this, stay tuned! Links to support me in pinned post <3

tw: s*icidal thoughts, injury, a little blood

Bisuke: Gai's Back!

Gai: GRAAH!

Kks: Im home Gai: Welcome back Kks: [wheels rolling] Hey,

Kks: Ga-!? Gai: Im fine. The tile is cool on my face. Kks: Wanna go lay down in bed? Gai: I am so /sick/ of lying down. Kks: Ok. What do you want for supper?

Gai: You're not going to comment? Kks: I already know what happened. You overdid it again. I should be able to keep up with chores, kakashi. Kks: You can. Just don' bull through it all in one go. Do you want to end up in the hospital again? Gai: Please don't. Kks: I know sitting still is hard for you, and "too much" is in your DNA, but you have to take this slow so you don't exacerbate your injuries, Gai. You went from hyper-aware to pretending your body limits dont exist. Gai: Like you haven't done the same.

Gai: You've proved your point. Kks: It's not about that. And you've dragged me to bed and out of bed repeatedly when I needed it. You were burning alive from the inside. Tsunade told you your immune system is out of whack. You need to take it easy. /I/ know you're capable, but are you trying to prove to /yourself/ you are? Gai: You want me to admit my embarrassment? Kks: If something serioud happens, You'll be even more embarrassed then

Gai: How could you possibly know how I FEEL?! How could you EVER KNOW HOW I FEEL?! Kks: I DON'T! But I've /been/ the one ouking and sobbing on your bathroom floor because I couldn't take living anymore! And I don't want that for YOU!

Kks: I'm sorry, Gai. Gai: I'm sorry

Kks: I can't stand knowing you're in pain, and I can't get you help. If there was a way, I'd do anything. Gai: You do so much to help me already.... And I yelled at you Kks: I've screamed at you so much, that was pretty tame. I wish I was like you with things like this. Not great with what to say...... But I can listen.

Gai: I hate feeling so weak. I'm tired all the time, in constant pain, I can't even walk-..... I can tell tenten and the boys worry despite my efforts to appear positive. Kks: They're just not sure how to react. They know you hate being babied, but don't want to push you into hurting yourself. You hate being told you can't do something. They love you. You get stronger everyday, everyone is cheering you on.

Gai: I know it's irrational, but... I feel like you gave up the Hokage position to take care of me. Kks: Haa!? I'm grateful if anything. I'd be retired too if I could. That'd be amazing. I'm dreading just helping Tsunade but as long as you're by my side, I'll be fine. We're still equals, rivals, friends, partners

Gai: Even if I can't- Kks: /Always/ wil be, dickhead. Gai: You worry about me hurting myself? Kks: I know you think about it

Kks: We're the same in that regard Gai: I would never act on this, please believe me, these thoughts are rare........... Kks: It's ok, Gai. Gai: Sometimes I think i should have just died. I feel so out of place on the streets I used to feel so at home at. I never asked to live. I didn't plan to. I just don't know how to-...

Kks: I understand that. Though, dying didn't feel any better. Gai: I know I didn't fully pass like you did. I didn't see papa. Just for a moment, I wish I could have seen him.

Kks: As much as I'm sure he wants to see you again, It's too soon. Dai'd slap the shit out of you for wanting to waste your youth just to see him. Gai: [chuckle] probably. Kks: I have those thoughts less and less now, but they're still there. "why am I the one who survives?" "Burden" "Gai will come to his senses eventually"

Gai: FALSE!! None of my grief is with you! I love living here with you! My love for you only burns hotter each day! You're so lovely inside and out! Kks: Maa What did I do to deserve such praise from teh mouth of the hottest man in Konoha?? Gai: YOU STILL THINK I'M HOT?! Kks: YOU-! [CACKLE]

Kks: Your bad taste is the only reason I had a chance before someone snatched you up. Gai: The worst. Kks: Thought we'd irritate eachother, but it's been pretty smooth. Even though you still get played by the dogs. Gai: You really wanna throw those stones?

Gai: They play you just as easily. don't lie. Kks: My point is, whatever you need from me, you have it. No questions asked. Even if you yell and scream, i can take it. You held me together when I was unraveling, and I'll never forget it. Didn't trust anyone else to see me like that. Broken

Gai: I never saw you as that. Kks: I'll never see you as that

[leclsrc]

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music, 

word count: 12.9k  

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught. 

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is  light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee— 

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again. 

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too. 

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.��

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan. 

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused. 

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder. 

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.” 

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him. 

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?” 

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs. 

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t. 

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low. 

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw. 

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper. 

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them. 

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah? 

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”  

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.” 

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

 “Ouais.” 

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling. 

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has. 

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock. 

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love. 

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours. 

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore. 

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip. 

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.” 

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him. 

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.” 

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

—

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt. 

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday. 

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances. 

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace. 

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling. 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.” 

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth. 

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion. 

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.” 

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother. 

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers. 

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?” 

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well. 

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?! 

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

[mariclerc]

hey!... can you write a Charles × horner reader.. where the reader has a crush on since they met.... but Charles doesn't like her very much cuz he thinks she's a nepo baby... but the reader still tries to win his heart.... but one day after a bad race he lashed out on her.... breaking her heart.... later he realizes he also has fellings for her...then ask the reader for forgiveness and a second chance (pls make it a happy ending)... thank you ❤️❤️❤️

Thank you for this request! It took me a little while to try to develop it, I hope you like it!! 💗💗

Second chance spark | cl16

Summary: where Charles thinks you're a nepo baby just because of your last name. Warnings: a little angst, horner!reader, christian being an asshole and fluffy fluff.

a/n: let me know if you want a part two!!

Part 2

The paddock of the Spanish Grand Prix is in big move, thousands of people moving from one place to another and there you find yourself, outside of the Red Bull hospitality talking to several of the girls on the team. This is what your life has become, practically, since being the daughter of Christian Horner you can walk around the hospitality and the paddock as many times as you like during the year.

Most people believe that you only walk around the paddock because it is a case of "nepotism", but in reality you are working very hard to be an engineer and earn a place in motorsport and that's why you find yourself doing internships at Red Bull. Also, your relationship with your father is not the best, so it is always a constant argument, but, even if you try not to give it so much importance, it always hurts.

“Oh god girls, look who's coming!” You say excitedly, Charles was walking through the paddock, to you he always looked like an angel, you blush slightly.

Mara, one of the Red Bull pr girls spoke. “Leclerc? Are you trying to charm the competition's sponsors I see.” she jokes and you blush a little.

You rolled your eyes. “Don't be ridiculous, he probably doesn't even know I'm here.” You say and a silence is present between the three of you. “I'm going to say hi.” You say determined.

Lila rise up an eyebrow. “Careful y/n. You don't want to spook the red prince.”

“Oh, please. Like he'd give me the time of the day.” you scoff.

You excuse yourself and stride confidently towards Charles. He notices your approach and his expression becomes guarded.

You've liked Charles since he debuted in the F4 European series, you always thought he was someone quite nice and talented... Besides of being cute, of course, but nothing ever happened between you, you were simply acquaintances. But now since you are always in the paddock you see him every single day and those feelings that you thought were already buried, were reborn with much more strength.

“Hello y/n. Didn't expect to see you here!” he smiles shyly.

“Well, I just came to say hi, a little greeting doesn't go amiss, don't you think?” you say shyly with a soft voice. “Are you nervous about the race?” you asked shyly.

“Yeah, uh, a little bit... But let's see how it goes.” he says trying to avoid your gaze.

“Well, you have a good shot, maybe you can achieve a podium finish.” You say and he looks at you surprised.

“You actually follow the races?” he asks.

You feign offense. “Of course I do, I'm trying to be an engineer! I may not be out there on the track like you and the boys, but I appreciate a good driver when I see one.” you smile brightly.

Charles looks at you for a long moment, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“Just make sure you're cheering for the right team on race day in the future.” he says teasingly.

“We'll see about that, Leclerc.” you two share a comfortable silence for a moment. You take a deep breath. “Well, I'll leave you alone, I have to go. But good luck in the race, yeah?” You say with a small smile.

“Sure, see you later! And thanks!” he smiles too.

You smiled back and turned to leave, a triumphant glint in your eyes. Charles watches you go, a genuine smile gracing his features. His heart is probably beginning to soften to let you into it.

***

“Is seriously? You talked to him and he didn't think you were a little innocent girl?” Christian said sitting in his chair in the office.

You were at the Red Bull factory in Milton Keynes, you had gone to see some engineers and work with them since you are doing your engineer internship at Red Bull and they have been very generous to you, teaching you everything they know, what you didn't realize was that your father was going to need you to have a talk. Such talks never end well, let's put it that way.

“Well, no... But I think he was being nice.” you say quietly. “I just wanted to wish him good luck, that's all... Just a little greeting... it's not a big deal.”

“You know? It's amazing that you're so stupid and dumb.” He says getting up from his chair. “And also by talking to the enemy, you don't really learn, don't you?” he asked sharply.

He never misses the opportunity to speak badly about you on any occasion, he simply doesn't care about your feelings, he is only interested in the job, winning and that's it. As if that were more important than your well-being as his daughter.

You take a deep breath. “Then let me finish my internship in another team.” you said and he looked at you. “I think it would be better for both you and me. Don't you think?” you said in a whisper.

“What? You really want to finish your silly and stupid internship at Ferrari, right? To be after a man who doesn't give you attention, is it serious?” he says sarcastically, that wasn't your idea but since he puts it on the table it doesn't sound too bad... “How ungrateful you are, to waste the fact that I gave you the opportunity to do the internship here.”

“And it was the only thing you did.” you murmured. “Because, as far as I remember, you haven't done anything else.”

“What did you say, huh? You little bitch.” He said, raising his voice towards you.

“What you fucking heard! Do you think it's not difficult to be under your shadow every day? How tiring it is to have everyone tell you that you are a child of nepotism just because all you did was get me the internship here! And you know that I had to sacrifice many things to get here.” you said in screams, taking everything out of you, all the years of abuse and so on. “And don't come pretending to be a saint because we both know you're not.”

You leave his office and everyone looks at you, but you don't care, you couldn't allow your father to call you names and spoke to you in a not very nice way. Your tears blur your vision as you leave the factory and you run to your car, you feel as if you no longer have a weight on your shoulders, but at the same time you are afraid of what may happen later between the two of you.

***

A couple of weeks later, the Austrian Grand Prix is a blur of disappointment, specially for Charles, since he finished a distant third, strategy blunders costing him a shot at the win against Max. The Red Bull Hospitality is abuzz with post-race celebration, a stark contrast to the muted atmosphere in the Ferrari hospitality across the way.

You stand awkwardly near the doorway, your presence a silent question in the room. Charles sits alone, staring into the bottom of an empty beer glass, his face an iron mask of frustration. A knot of worry tightens in your stomach, that's not the Charles you know, always so cheerful and lively despite everything. It's another version of him, darker and more mysterious.

“Charles?” you asked softly.

He looks up, surprise flickering across his features before hardening back into a grimace.

“What are you doing here?” he said sharply.

“I...I just wanted to see if you were alright.” You say shyly.

His harsh tone stings, cutting through the fragile connection the two of you would built.

“Look y/n, I appreciate the concern, but I need to be alone.” he said sharply.

“But-” hurt creeps into your voice.

He interrupts with his voice rising. “No buts! Don't you get it? This is my job, my life! And today, I failed.”

Tears are pricking at your eyes. “I know it hurts, Charles, but you can't let it consume you.”

He stands abruptly, knocking his chair over with a clatter. “Easy for you to say! You don't have the pressure, the expectations hanging over your head like a damn guillotine! You have everything on a silver platter whenever and however you want!” he say furiously.

His words are a punch to the gut. The simmering tension between you and your father explodes in your mind.

“You think I don't know the pressure? Do you have any idea what it's like living under my father's shadow? To be constantly judged, to have every decision questioned?” you say with a shaking voice.

Charles stares at you, his anger momentarily eclipsed by surprise.

“I may not be a driver, but I understand this world, Charles... I understand the pressure.” You say as tears form in your eyes.

Your vulnerability hangs heavy in the air. Shame washes over Charles, realizing the depth of his lashing out.

“Y/n, I...” he said with a soft voice.

He reaches out, but you flinches back, a wall of hurt suddenly separating the both of you.

You take a shaky breath. “I think I should go.” you sigh tiredly. “Nice talk.”

You turn towards the door, your heart heavy with a mixture of disappointment and a newfound understanding of the burdens that the both of you share. You run out there with tears running down your cheeks, nothing could have been worse after what happened with your father, but now you lost a person you cared about despite everything.

***

The Italian Grand Prix is in full swing after the summer break. Mechanics scurry around the gleaming red Ferrari, the air thick with pre-race tension. Charles, however, finds himself distracted. He steals constant glances towards the Red Bull garage across the pit lane, searching for a familiar face.

He spots you, standing by Christian, your interaction is tense, your father screams at you while you just only nod at his words while holding a few tears in your shy eyes. A pang of fury shoots through Charles, followed by a wave of regret. His outburst in Austria hangs heavy in the air, a barrier he needs to break. He, despite everything, is moderately informed about what happened between you and your father thanks to Max, and it hurts him not to have approached you much sooner.

The pit lane opens to finally start the grand prix, snapping Charles back to reality. He throws on his helmet, a steely resolve replacing his earlier anxiety.

***

Charles finishes a strong second, the podium it's a little bit bittersweet. He emerges from the car, the cheers of the tifosi a distant echo. All he can think about is you.

He finds you in the Red Bull hospitality, a hesitant knock on the door of your office, announcing his arrival. The room falls silent as he enters.

You stand by the window, your back towards him. Your posture is stiff, but Charles can sense the tremor in your shoulders.

“Y/n?” he say quietly.

You turn slowly, your eyes guarded. The hurt in your gaze is a mirror to his own regret.

“Charles...” you say softly.

There's an awkward silence, the air thick with unspoken words. Charles takes a deep breath.

“I can't apologize enough for Austria. I... I was a complete idiot.” he says.

“Words don't erase the hurt, Charles.” you say in a low voice.

He takes a step closer. “I know. But I wanted you to know... these past few weeks, all I could think about was your words. About the pressure, about being judged... You opened my eyes to a side of you I never knew existed.” He reaches out, hesitantly offering his hand. “And in doing so, I realized... how much I care about you.”

You stare at his hand, then back at his face. A flicker of vulnerability crosses your features before you speak.

“You can't just say things like that, Charles. Not after everything.”

“I know, but I have to try. Because the alternative... the alternative is losing you completely.” says sincerely. He sees a flicker of emotion in your eyes, a flicker that speaks of hope.

“This won't be easy, Charles. My father... Things haven't been so smooth lately between him and I.”

“I know. But maybe, just maybe, we can face it together... Like you said, we both understand this world, the pressure. Maybe we can be each other's support system, not just through wins and losses, but through everything else.” he say softly.

A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips. You look at him, a question in your eyes.

“So, what are you saying?” you asked him.

Charles takes a chance, the weight of his feelings pulling him forward. He steps closer, your faces inches apart.

“I'm saying that... give me another chance, please. A chance to prove that I can be the man you deserve.” he whispers. “Please, if you want, I beg you on my knees... I'll do anything, but please give me a chance.”

The air crackles with unspoken emotions. You lean in, closing the distance between the both of you. At first, the kiss is hesitant and at the same time soft and slow, then deepens, a promise unspoken but understood.

Pulling away, Charles searches your soft eyes.

“Is that a yes?” he smiled while blushing.

You smile softly, a genuine smile that reaches your eyes.

“Maybe... How about we can do something casual between us, not business related, just to get to know each other better?” you say shyly.

A grin spreads across Charles' face, relief washing over him like a victory lap. “It's a deal darling.” you giggled.

He leans in for another kiss, the roar of the engines and the crowd outside a distant echo of the race that's just begun – the race for your hearts.

***

The air crackles with a different kind of tension now. You and Charles break apart from your long awaited kiss, foreheads resting against each other. Relief, hope, and a spark of defiance dance in your eyes.

“We should probably get going before someone sees us, don't you think?” you whisper shyly.

Charles nods, a playful smile tugging at his lips. He reaches for the door, ready to usher you out, but it swings open before he can touch it.

Standing in the doorway is Christian, his face a thundercloud. The celebratory atmosphere in the room evaporates, replaced with a chilling silence.

“Y/n! My office. Now.” he says with a strong and demanding voice.

You flinch, your body tensing and shaking at your father's tone, but Charles steps forward, his stance protective.

“Actually, she's not going anywhere Horner.” Charles says calmly.

Christian's gaze snaps to him, fury replacing the icy anger. “And who are you to tell me what to do in my own hospitality suite, Leclerc?” he scoffs.

“Someone who cares about her, a concept you seem to have forgotten.” Charles says with a hard and firm voice.

The room collectively gasps. You reaches out a hand to touch Charles' arm, a silent plea for caution. But Charles shakes you off gently, his green eyes boring into Christian's.

“You judge her, belittle her, just because of your own insecurities. You push her away with every harsh word and raised eyebrow.” Charles says defending you, maybe you and him weren't that close, but probably Max told him about what happened between you and Christian.

Christian lunges forward, his hand raised in a threatening gesture. But Charles doesn't back down, he catches Christian's wrist mid-air, his grip surprisingly strong.

“Don't. Even. Think. About. Touching. Her.” Charles says in a low, dangerous voice. “And if you do, you'll deal with me, is that clear?”

Christian throws Charles a withering look before turning and storming out of the room. The silence that follows is deafening. No one had ever spoken to your father that way, not even Max or Jos, but the fact that Charles was the first to do it was something... Shocking, especially for you.

You let out a shaky breath, your gaze flickering between the slammed door and Charles. “I... Charles.” you say in a shaky whisper.

He whispers back. “Don't apologize, you did nothing wrong sweetie.” he takes your hand in his. “He's such a jerk.” He pulls you towards the door, a newfound determination in his eyes. “We're leaving, now. We can deal with your father later, together, okay?” he says.

You hesitate for a moment, then you nodded in agreement, as you walk out of the Red Bull hospitality, heads turn and whispers follow. But you don't care anymore, you have each other, and that's all that matters.

You two step out into the cool evening air, the roar of the Italian crowd a distant hum. Your hands are intertwined, a silent promise against the warm setting sun.

You two may have a long road ahead, filled with challenges and disapproval, but you'll face it together, a united front against the storm.

“Thank you... For what you did in there.” You say softly, he smiles and brings your hand to his lips to place a kiss on the back of your hand.

“It's nothing ma belle, I know I may not know the whole story since the begging, but I'm willing to help you.” he says the same in a whisper.

“I just want to know... Who told you about it?” you asked softly.

“Max told me.” He says and you laugh.

“I thought so! It doesn't bother me that he did it anyway.” you say and let out a giggle while you shake your head. “I think it's something you deserved to know.”

He smiles at you tenderly. “How about we forget this mess with your father with a good pizza, huh?” he says softly.

“And where would we go?” you shyly asked him.

“We can go to my hotel room... Unless you don't want to, I know it would be awkward but... I don't know, ugh.” He said and started babbling, you smiled seeing him like that, it seemed like the cutest thing of all, seeing him nervous about doing something simple with you.

You smiled and placed a soft kiss on his jaw. “I would love to eat pizza with you in your hotel room Charlie.” you say softly. “So it's a date?”

“It's a date.” He says softly as he kisses the tip of your nose and you giggle. “A date between Ferrari's golden boy and the red bull girl.” he says in a whisper while letting out a giggle.

You smiled tenderly. “You couldn't have said it better.” You whispered back.

To think that a couple of months ago you had not imagined that situation, to see Charles against your father and defending you like a true gentleman, but here you two were. Maybe at the beginning not everything was rosy or he simply didn't tolerate you at all due to false "nepotism" status around you, but you both understand how difficult and complicated this world is, maybe with different perspectives, but you two are there to support each other in the ups and downs.

[ferrstappen]

max, the wag (for the third time) l Max Verstappen x reader

a/n: i was in the middle of writing this when news of Danny coming back to the grid!!! omg I'm so happy of seeing RIC and listening to his radios and everything, it wasn't the same without him <3

also, about requests. Please keep sending them, I've LOVED all the reqs I've gotten but right now im getting ready for my bar exam in a couple of weeks so my time is super super limited, but I promise I'll get to most of them (bc imsorry there are some reqs that I really can't connect with) after the exam, it's one of the things I'm looking forward to <3 but for now this kind of mediocre story telling will have to do...

ANYWAY, HOPE YOU LIKE THIS INSTALLMENT! you can find part 1 and 2 on the master list <3

summary: the continuation of your favorite paddock couple.

Max arrived to the track by himself.

If he was being honest, it wasn’t on his plans to walk alone with the photographers, Red Bull marketing team snatching him for stuff right after he swapped his credential. Even from far away he was able to hear chants of fans and more media than usual. 

But you weren’t right there next to him. 

He knew it wasn’t your fault, Silverstone not being a track where he was usually welcomed with opened arms and he was aware of you not wanting to be too in the eye of photographers who didn’t make questions to you, but there still were different WAGs and outfits or whatever accounts tracking your every step, especially with the new wave of partners and sudden break ups and polemics. 

Still, the selfish part of him wanted you to enter the track with him, even if it was a few steps ahead or behind him, holding your hand and smiling as you complained about the amount of credentials you had to carry: the usual green VIP Paddock, Red Bull something. You’d think after all these years they’d know me, you’d say and he’d laugh.

On the other hand, you finished getting ready and called the front desk to get a taxi to get there, feeling a bit guilty of letting Max go on his own, especially when there were more eyes on the track with Brad Pitt being there and a lot of important people who’d want to talk with him all day. 

Texting Max to let him know you were already by the guests entrance waiting when you noticed some intense flashes getting near. You’d been around a time or two to know this wasn’t usual, maybe in Miami but not when you were on the abandoned back entrance, not very glamorous and low key. 

But you saw her…

Shakira, are you visiting Lewis?

Who are you cheering today?

Shakira, third Grand Prix of the year! 

Did you talk to Lewis before? Is he nervous?

Your eyes followed her, mouth opening when you followed her small frame, exuding class and sympathy, even Alexandra who was also making her entrance stopped to get a closer look of the Colombian bombshell. 

Of course, they didn’t ask her to show and get accredited, she just walked by with a radiant smile leaving paparazzi behind as she kept talking with the friend she came with. 

But wasn’t that a Haas credential?

It didn’t matter, it wasn’t important, because right then your brain made the connections and started dialing Max while nervously biting your polished nails. 

“Baby, everything okay? Are you already inside?” Max answered, but his words were quiet and rushed. 

“Yes, but you’re never going to believe…”

“I’m sorry we have a meeting, please don’t go to the paddock, go straight to the driver’s lounge, okay? Love you” 

He hung up and you wanted to pull your hair out, knowing he is the one and only person you wanted to share this information with, and you were also certain he was the only person who would truly appreciate the gossip and speculation about his fellow driver’s love life. 

Max was able to leave the meeting almost forty minutes later, getting outside for some air until he remembered your call and that you probably were bored to death on the lounge. He was turning around to go there when…

When he saw the one and only Shakira in all of her glory. 

He wasn’t starstruck or anything, being immune to celebrities and the imaginary pedestal where most people placed them, but this wasn’t about that, it was about the way she was supposedly hiding under a cap walking towards the Mercedes garage.

He covered his mouth and hastily made his way to you. 

You didn’t greet each other with the usual peck on the lips and short hug; his slightly widened blue eyes told you exactly what you needed to know as he opened the door to his small room. 

“Please tell me that you saw her!” You said as soon as he closed the door. 

“Yes, just now she was walking to Mercedes,” Max was whisper shouting as if someone would hear him and it was the highest of secrets. 

“Did you see Lewis?” You asked Max but he said no. “What if you try to ask Brad Pitt if he saw her and like if they’re friends… with Shakira?” This time both you and your boyfriend laughed at the idea.

"I did see Sainz trying to go unnoticed with a tall brunette,do you think she is the new girlfriend?" Max asked and you nodded.

"I'm pretty sure he cheated on Isa with her, and I am almost certain she was in the Paddock Club in Monaco during qualifying," Max whistled at the new information.

Now he kissed you, lips fitting perfectly against each other, but your eyes suddenly opened and separated from him. What? Why? What happened? Max was disconcerted. 

“Please don’t laugh at me because this is a serious idea…” You told Max who had your entire attention. “What if we write to Deuxmoi?”

“Deux what?”

“They have all the inside scoops  and sightings, even your name’s popped up once or twice,” Max’s eyebrows rose at the information. “We should write that Shakira was seen on the British Grand Prix and I am one hundred percent sure someone will have more information!” You proposed and Max chuckled.

“Schatz, I can just ask Lewis why she’s here,” Max told you before embracing you, his arms circled around your waist.

You rolled your eyes before resting your head on his chest, but suddenly it hit you, swiftly lifting your head and facing Max. 

“Then why haven’t you asked him yet?!”

[humansofnewyork]

“We’re unpacking it, little by little. She held us all together. Always made sure there was food on the table, always washed our clothes, always took care of me when I was sick.  But she was fierce when we were kids. She’d get angry with me, zero to a hundred, in a second. I could never understand why. I know she had a tough upbringing: Guatemala, small town, no father. And I’ve had my own share of demons. It’s been a twenty-year struggle with alcohol. I would come over here completely blacked out, blasting music, acting like a dirtbag. There are neighbors in this building who still won’t talk to me. I also said some hurtful things to my dad. He wanted nothing to do with me in his final years. But I’m seven months sober now, so God willing we’re done with all that. Little by little I’m trying to be the man of the household. I’m suppressing old feelings and just trying to help her be comfortable. I’m not a good cook. But I kill it for breakfast. So on Saturdays I make breakfast: eggs, beans, bread, soup. She’s a very good soup eater. I try to get everyone seated at the table, and involve my daughters in the conversation. Afterwards I line up some good entertainment. She likes the television. When it’s warm I’ll take her to the park. A few months ago I brought her to a soccer game at the Red Bull Arena. It was Colombia vs Guatemala, too perfect. My father was Colombian, so we’re all half-and-half. I maxed out my credit card and bought the whole family tickets. It was unbelievable. A year ago I wouldn’t have even been able to enjoy it. I’d have been drinking beers nonstop. I’d probably have blacked out by halftime. But I was completely sober, watching the field, watching my family enjoy the game. My mom was loving it. She was cheering like crazy. Wearing her Guatemalan jersey.  Guatemalan flags everywhere, and lots of quetzals, the national bird. She was in heaven. I honestly think it was one of the best days of her life. Of course I’m seeing how happy she is, and I’m like damn. I only wish my dad was here to see all this.”

[shieldofiron]

Vibe Check Part 7

True Bromance

The Frat Boy Au

Read Previous on Ao3 or tumblr.

Carver is the type to get flushed when he drinks too much. He’s as pink cheeked as a choir boy as he dismounts from the mechanical bull with a little bow.

Billy’s showing is just shameful, and he can admit defeat easily in the face of such talent. He whoops and cheers along with Carver’s crowd of admirers, reaching out for the Theta handshake when Carver makes his way over.

“Shit, you weren’t kidding,” Billy slurs, throwing an arm over Carver’s shoulders when they finish shaking. “Your not-boyfriend’s a lucky guy.”

Carver snorts, “Don’t I know it.”

It takes a little work to get through the appreciative throng and back towards the bar. The whole place smells like spilled beer and sawdust and Billy’s feeling good. Better than good. And yeah, part of that is that he feels the alcohol, his arm heavy and his feet slow.

“How are we gonna get back to the house?” Carver asks when Billy stumbles and sags against him.

“I can call someone.”

“Who? Harrington?”

Billy must be making a face because Carver snaps his mouth shut, depositing Billy onto a barstool with a grunt.

“As if he would. He’s too busy with his new,” Billy hiccups, “girlfriend.”

“I’m not sure she’s his girlfriend,” Carver says.

Billy’s brain is working slower than normal and what Carver says just… doesn’t compute.

“Please. If she isn't yet, she will be. Stevie’s so… smart and kind and… bitchy,” Billy covers his face, “fuck. I’m sorry. I just never get to talk about this. It probably doesn't make any sense.”

Carver pats him awkwardly on the arm.

He’s not crying yet, but he feels like he could be. The more time he knows Steve the harder it gets when Steve gets girlfriends. And it’s completely unfair of Billy to hold onto it.

“Sometimes I just want to yell at him. Like a fuckin’... Riverdale character.” Billy mumbles.

Unfortunately for him, the Cottonmouth is the kind of bar where they play soulful Orville Peck and not pounding club classics and so Carver actually hears him.

Carver sits up, “Which character?”

Billy peeks between his fingers, “Cheryl Blossom.”

Carver whistles, “That’s bad.” He pauses for a moment, glancing at the bar. “What would you say?”

“I’d say… Do you really not know?” Billy says after a pause of his own. “Or is this all just some kind of game for you. Do you not know what you do to me? Or do you?”

Carver toys idly with the bowl of nasty peanuts on the bar in front of them. “My… boyfriend. Who isn’t a boyfriend… he’s in the closet.”

Billy shrugs, “And you aren’t?”

“I mean… not really. I’m part of the LGBTQIA plus club. Argyle wants me to speak at this greek inclusivity event, which like feels… I’m just a white gay. But, whatever,” Carver says.

“Shit. Where have I been?”

“With your head up Harrington’s ass,” Carver smirks.

Billy scowls at him, and Carver scowls right back, an expression that looks oddly adorable with his pink cheeks.

“Anyway. My not boyfriend used to be um, bullied in high school. Theta is the first place he’s been accepted.” Carver flicks the edge of the peanut cup with a forlorn little sigh. “So I can’t even be Cheryl Blossom about it. I have to be Betty fucking Cooper.”

“Ugh.”

“I know.”

“But you’re out. He could still be accepted and gay,” Billy frowns.

“That’s my advice to you,” Carver scrunches his nose up.

“Can I get you anything,” The bartender breaks Billy’s concentration.

“Tequila!” Billy cries.

“Don’t listen to him. We’ll close my tab, under Carver, C-A-R-V,” Carver smacks Billy’s hand away from where he’s unsuccessfully trying to cover Jason’s mouth. “Actually if you have bottled water we’ll take two.”

The bartender seems all too happy to leave them and fetch it.

Billy pouts a little, “No tequila.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a huge bummer, I know.”

“Is that why your boyfri- wait. He’s in Theta?” Billy gasps audibly. Like this really is an episode of Riverdale.

Carver shakes his head, “N-no, he’s just in a frat.”

“No, you said Theta. Oh my God! You should just both be out! It would be less weird if I wasn’t the only gay guy in the frat.”

“He won’t,” Carver hisses.

“And then we can all go out and-”

“We can’t,” Carver says desperately.

“Why not?” Billy whines.

“Because I’m the bully!” Carver yells.

Billy blinks at him. The bartender blinks at him. The mustachioed bear with a hat that says Pride & Poppers blinks at him.

“I used to call him all sorts of sh-sh-stuff when I hated myself. And now he just wants to be free of that and me and I don’t really blame him.”

“But you’re all still together?” Billy frowns.

“Yeah.”

“When did that start?”

Carver sucks in a breath, “Last year.”

“That sucks, man.”

Carver just shakes his head an infinitesimal amount, looking down at his lap.

“So you all just hook up but he doesn’t… he…”

“Hates me. Yeah.” Carver says with finality.

“That’s pretty messed up. I’m sorry.”

Carver looks down and then up, sniffling a little. “Who do we call to go home?”

Billy wants to say something but he doesn’t even know what. Move on? As if Billy wasn’t the king of hanging onto unrequited love way past the point of what’s healthy. He hadn’t even danced with a twink tonight, too upset to deal with it.

“Carver, I didn’t mean that was messed up like… like you’re messed up. Have you apologized to him?”

“Like… all the time.”

“You deserve to be happy. You both do. This sounds… bad. Toxic and shit.”

Carver laughs, a dry, angry little huff. “When are we gonna get into your big bad secret, Cheryl?”

“I’m an open book, Betty,” Billy throws his hands out, nearly falling off the stool, clinging to the bar to regain his balance.

“Why aren’t you out to Theta?” Carver nods to the bartender as he brings back the water and Carver’s card. Billy’s not so drunk that he doesn’t notice the scribbled number and ‘Text me’ at the bottom.

“That reason goes by the name of one Steven Alessandro Harrington,” Billy sighs. “And my dad, a little bit.”

“Not accepting?” Carver raises a brow.

“Try abusive as fuck,” Billy shakes his head. “He’s still like… in my head. I want to come out but… then I met Steve. And I don’t want Steve to get weird. I think it might actually break me.”

“You think he’d be weird about it? Really?”

Billy boops Carver on his tiny little nose, “I don’t want to find out.”

“We really are two peas in a pod, huh?” Carver shakes his head, tapping his water bottle against the one Billy’s limply holding.

“Why don’t we call your not boyfriend for a ride. I’d love to tell him that hate sex with you for a year is fucked up and he’s an asshole.” Billy grins.

“As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I’m unfortunately in love with him. So please don’t. I’m working on it.” Carver slouches. “Lets go home.”

Billy yanks his phone out, even though it takes a few tries, “Fine. Have it your way. I’ll call us a ride.”

Luckily the number is saved in his favorites as ‘Daddy.’

Billy dials, grinning when it doesn’t even get to two rings.

“Where’d you get off to, dickhole.”

“Eden,” He slurs. “We need you.”

[quitealotofsodapop]

Pigsy's a grown hog demon with a physically-demanding job, boy can probably lift 300 on a bad day. So a pregnant monkey demon (who hasn't really been training the last few hundred years) really feels like *nothing* to him.

Pigsy sees Wukong (his glamour and cloud "glitching" due to his symptoms) during the DBK vs MK fight and just;

...books it out of there towards the truck. No time to ask questions! This is an active battlezone!

Sandy is on it too, he flips the truck right-side up so Pigsy can store their new passenger inside for safety reasons.

Pigsy was willing to beat the crap out of Red Son when the team busted on into the fight. If some poor bystander had gotten hurt, Pigsy would have directed all his rage upon the Demon Bull Family so much that MK would have to call him off.

And as the gang cheer their win and walk back to the truck, they finally notice the blue-screened look on the "bystander's" face.

MK: "Wow! Monkey King! You made it! But I thought you said your powers weren't working so good?" Wukong, still very confused: "They aren't." Pigsy: "MONKEY KING?!" *panics, realising just who he's carrying like a bag of potatoes* Tang: *fanboy-spluttering* ヽ( ★ω★)ノ Mei: "He's fluffier than I expected! Super adorbs tho!" :3 Sandy: "That's because he's pregnant." The LMK gang: "The Monkey King is pregnant!?" MK: "Now you guys know why he couldn't come with me!" Pigsy, feeling awkward: "Sorry there Mr uh... King?" Wukong, already comfy: "Nah, you're good. Haven't been picked up by someone in over 500 years, so this is nice."

Eventually it disolves into the gang bringing Wukong back to the noodle shop for post-battle celebration noodles (same as regular Pigsy's noodles but with the sweet taste of victory)! Even with the king weakly protesting the treatment.

Wukong is still worried that his Egg may decide to draw it's energy from others around him...

But it doesn't;

The Egg recognises the gang as "Troop". Like the smaller monkeys on the island, and the pilgrims many years before. Troop don't get their dao eaten to a fatal extreme. Wukong breathes a cautious sigh of relief.

Wukong does however scarf down like eleven bowls of noodles to satisfy his and the Egg's cravings. Also the warm home-cooked meal is super appriciated. Wukong starts crying emotionally when he sees that Pigsy made him a bowl without the king asking.

[ghoststann]

butterflies // pierre gasly

Something flutters in your stomach when Pierre’s hand falls to your waist.

It was your birthday party. You decided to spend the night drinking and dancing with your closest friends. Pierre, who is more family now considering how long you have known each other, is one of them.

Did you always feel this way when you were around him? Maybe you were too young to recognize it before, or too afraid to name it. Tonight, you’re too drunk to care.

The way he grips the back of your dress makes your breath hitch. He pulls you so close to him that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. His eyes fall to your lips.

He is going to kiss you

A part of you hope he would. Another part is begging you to run away. Childhood friend love stories sounds lovely when you don’t dwell on how it can end in heartbreak. Anything can go wrong. If it did, you’ll never walk the streets of the Riviera the same way again.

You wonder if you said that out loud because before you know it, Pierre pulls away like he’s been burned. He dashes off with a half-assed excuse. You let out a shaky sigh and stumble your way to the bar.

The butterflies in your stomach climbs up your throat and turns to ashes in your mouth.

Pierre invited you and Charles for lunch. He told you he had something to tell you. He laughs as he greets you with a hug that lifts you of your feet. You squeal out in surprise, trying to squash the all too familiar feeling. He brings forward a shy girl, who he introduced as his girlfriend. The butterflies is replaced by something ugly and it claws at your heart.

Kika is sweet, and young. So much younger than you. You like Kika, despite what Charles might think. Somehow, the little bugger  knew about your feelings for your shared best friend. Although, you admit that you would probably liker her more if she wasn’t with the man you’re in love with.

They were taking it slow and didn’t plan on going public yet. When their relationship lasted longer than any of his previous ones. You had lost hope, finally deciding to start moving on.

Realizations are made and you ponder on how much your life is entangled with Pierre’s. It’s impossible to completely cut him from your life. Not like you wanted to do that.

You just needed time to move on and not feel your heart break every time you see him. So you spent less time tagging along with Pierre and more time on your own. You went on dates and caught up with your other friends. Which is why you were surprised when you found out they broke up.

Hope bubbled in your chest then and it’s boiling over now.

Maybe you haven’t stopped. Maybe you were only pretending.

Pierre begged you to come. He even had Charles trying to convince you to attend the next race. Everyday he called to check if you already booked your flight.

I need you there, he texted

 It hasn’t been easy for him last year, and this year as well. Red Bull demoted him after he failed to deliver the results they wanted. You watched as he beat himself up for not being able to keep his seat. Somehow, he is even more eager, if that was possible. Eager to prove himself and to prove them wrong 

He speeds through the finish line to claim his first victory in F1. You were glad you came because you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if you missed it. The world is a blur but Pierre is in perfect focus. As you watch him sit on the podium he worked so hard for you can’t help but tear up. The cheering of the crowd becomes background noise.

When he steps down the podium, he makes a beeline towards you and crashes you into a hug you gladly return. You break apart but still hold on to each other.

“I did it!” He says, crying and smiling ear to ear

“Yes you did it!” You reply, holding his face as tears gather at your lashes. He takes one of your hand and kisses your palm. What he does next surprises you. He takes your hand and intertwine it with his.  A simple gesture, but it knocks the breath out of your lungs.

Champagne is flowing and here you are thinking about his hands. You can feel your beating so hard in your chest. The grip he has on your hand is unrelenting. Only letting go to hug the people congratulating him, then he takes your hand again. Like he can’t bare to be away from you for longer than a second.

When you’re not greeting the people you pass by you’re staring at your intertwined hands as he drags you through the crowd.

Just let go, you think, how hard can it be.

As if it worked the first fifty fucking times you’ve tried. You tried to let go the day after your birthday. When he pulled away before your lips even had the chance to touch. When you looked for him in other people and no one could compare. When he introduced Kika, all smiles and blushing cheeks.

You shake your head and think this is the last time. You stare at him. Your best friend. Your first love. He is buzzing with adrenaline and his jaw must hurt with how long he’s been smiling.

First you’ll let go of his hand and then the hope that is fluttering in your stomach. With the greatest effort, you loosen your grip with the intention of pulling away. Pierre, oh Pierre, has never made anything easier for you. He holds on to your hand so tight you thought it might break.

The butterflies in your stomach come alive again and renders you speechless.

[goodlucktai]

If you’re still taking prompts… disaster twins being disasters?

x

Casey can remember being this excited maybe once or twice before in his entire life, but that’s it. He doesn’t realize he’s bouncing in his seat until Michelangelo flops over him, arms folded around Casey’s shoulders and chin propped up on top of his head, grin present in the bright tone of his voice. 

“We might be hyping this up too much,” the youngest Hamato—second-youngest, now, Casey reminds himself somewhat shyly—says good-naturedly. “It’s just a spar, CJ.” 

“I know,” Casey says quickly, clamping his hands on his knees. He feels like a little kid again, being warned that if he can’t sit still he can’t stay in the dojo to watch training. That’s not anywhere near what Mikey said, but he’s not risking it! He refuses to miss this! “But it’s just—I haven’t seen sensei spar with anyone but Commander O’Neil in ages.”

He doesn’t say that Uncle Raph was killed when Casey was so young that he barely got to keep any memories of him. He definitely doesn’t say that when Uncle Tello died, sensei destroyed a string of Krang corps single-handedly, stumbled home half-dead, and then didn’t come out of the silent lab for three days. When he did finally emerge, some intrinsic, important part of him was gone for good. 

By then, Master Michelangelo was too brittle for physical combat, pouring all of himself into the mystic arts instead. April was the only one left who was unafraid to drag Master Leonardo onto the mats, to bring some life back into him. And it was fun to watch, but it wasn’t those high-energy spars he could remember being awed by when he was a child, when all four of the turtles were together and the apocalypse seemed like something they might survive after all. 

“I bet I whooped his butt, too,” April interjects loudly from the cozy-looking beanbag chair she dragged into the dojo. Leo shoots her a mock-offended look, hand over his heart, the whole nine yards. 

He’s wearing a pair of bright pink cordless headphones, and his warm-up stretches have a lot more energetic bopping around than perhaps strictly necessary. Raph is smiling crookedly as he guides Leo through the forms, watching carefully for any sign of lingering tenderness or soreness and finding none. He’s probably as relieved as all the rest of their mismatched little clan that Leo has healed to this point—casts and leg brace finally discarded, energy ratcheted up to eleven. 

Across the mat, Donnie is pretending to be buried in his phone, but he’s watching Leo as raptly as Raphael. If he thought for a second that Leo was nursing some hidden-away hurt, he would find a way to divert the match without anyone the wiser. And it would be something needlessly showy and stupid, too—Casey has the sudden vision of a lair-wide blackout. He pats the penlight clipped to his belt to make sure it’s there, just in case. 

But Leo is in fine form, and Splinter steps onto the middle of the mat with a judicious air. 

“Now I want a clean match, boys,” he orders, arms folded. “No shenanigans!” 

“Aw, not even one?” Mikey pipes up. 

The Hamato patriarch considers this carefully, then says, “I will allow ONE shenanigan!”

“Alright Michael!” Leo cheers. “Use those favorite son privileges for good!” He barely dodges the half-hearted strike from Splinter’s tail. 

Then Raphael is placing his hands on Leo’s shoulders and giving him a friendly jostle, in the manner of ruffling a puppy’s ears to get it all riled up (a life-affirming maneuver that Casey only recently discovered for himself one early morning coffee run with Cass when they crossed paths with a nice lady and her wriggly baby pit bull) and Splinter is stepping back off the mat and Donnie is sliding his phone away. 

“Let me know if you need me to go easy on you, little brother,” Donnie says magnanimously. 

“You hatched four minutes before me,” Leo replies. His tone suggests this is an argument they’ve had at least one billion times. 

“No one likes a sore loser, Nardo.”

April makes a coughing, cackling sound, and then shouts, “Someone get ready to do the heimlich! My man’s gonna choke on that hypocrisy!” 

“APRIL, you were adopted and you can be replaced!” Donnie shouts back over everyone’s laughter. Casey feels like he’s sitting in the sun, surrounded on all sides by warmth and light. He was raised on the scraps of a ruined world, the scraps of love and joy that his family had left to offer him. They gave him everything they could, but he knew they were digging into the bottom of the well. Here, those things are a renewable resource. All the good just stretches and stretches and stretches forever. 

Master Leonardo was not a bitter person. But he was very rarely a happy one. Uncle Tello and Rapha were gone and Master Michelangelo was aging rapidly before his eyes, three times as quickly as he should have. April and mom and all the faces that Casey saw everyday were weary and worn thin, constantly braced for the next horrible thing to come. 

It heals something in Casey’s chest that he didn’t know was hurting to see them like this instead. A festering, years-old wound finally draining, finally given clean air and room to heal. April’s still heckling and Mikey is still draped over Casey, sturdy and boyish and the brightest thing for miles. Raphael is leaning against the wall, grinning, as eager to watch the show as everyone else. Splinter looks unrelentingly fond and also like he’s expecting this to be a trainwreck. 

In the second before Splinter calls the beginning of the match, Donnie’s eyes narrow suspiciously and he says, “Wait, what are you listening to?”

A shit-eating grin stretches across Leo’s face, and in lieu of answering out loud, he lifts a hand and dramatically finger-spells K-A-R-M-A. 

“Oooooooh,” Mikey and Raph and April all chorus delightedly. 

“Oh, goddammit,” Donnie bites out, visibly preparing to fight for his life. 

Then Splinter’s hands come down and the twins burst into movement. There are no weapons in their hands, it’s nowhere near as showy as their fight with the Krang had been, but it’s amazing in its own way. 

They’re fast, much faster than the masters of Casey’s timeline because they’re so little in comparison, lean and lithe and all gremlin energy. The two of them move like they know each other as well as their own selves, the blocks and blows meeting as if they were choreographed well in advance, and every step is so quick and so clean that Casey can barely follow it. Five minutes in, Leo’s eyes glow white and then Donnie’s do, and Donnie barks out a surprised laugh. 

Mikey yells, “No inside jokes that’s not fair!” 

“It’s a nice break from that song. I've heard him humming it in the back of my brain all day,” Raph says ruefully, then quickly holds his hands up when Leo’s head whips around in his direction. “No offense! I like it! Just not—not 16 times in a row, big guy.”

Splinter steps in the instant Leo winces, having landed too heavily on his bad leg after a showy flip. 

“Alright, silly melons, that’s enough. Match goes to neither of you because you play too much.” 

Whatever complaint the twins might have made is entirely forgotten as they turn to face their dad blankly. Donnie says, “I’m sorry, did you just call us silly melons?” 

“Melons are green, yes? And stupidly expensive at all times for no reason.” He pulls a paperback book out of the inner fold of his robe and thumbs through it. “Children like nicknames. The experts have said so.”

Looking torn between helpless confusion and hysterical laughter, Raph says, “What are you reading, pops?”

“Melons cost like $8 in Chinatown when they're in season, where the heck have you been shopping?” Mikey interjects loudly, shooting over the back of the couch like spending too much of the grocery fund on overpriced produce is the first and final straw. 

“Seriously, Splints, what are you reading?” April asks, trying to get the book from him. 

“Silly melons??” Donnie and Leo demand again. Training for the day is entirely derailed, though that might have been Splinter’s ploy in the first place. 

Master Leonardo wasn’t a bitter person. Despite the weight of the world on his shoulders and all the losses he carried around in his heart, Casey’s memories of him are good and warm and only bittersweet because of those final moments, and because of how much Casey misses him every day. Still—even if he was careful not to let it show—Casey knows that Master Leonardo didn’t have a lot of opportunities for joy. 

That’s the thing that’s taken the most getting used to here, Casey thinks, watching everyone. That’s the difference his family makes. This Leo doesn’t have to reach very far for a reason to smile. 

He glances over his shoulder and his smile widens to include Casey, and Casey hurries off the sidelines to join the rest of them. 

[zettychez]

I need to prove a point ma'am @loquarocoeur

Who is my Favorite Drive?

I feel like I don't have a specific favorite driver. I have a select group of drivers that I cheer for but at the moment the driver that I want to win so much would be between Oscar P Leclerc and Charles Leclerc.

Do you have other favorite drivers?

I started out loving Max Verstappen because he was winning so much in 2023 and Charles Leclerc because of the lore he had with Max. I got attached to Oscar because it was his rookie year and it was my first year watching F1 and who was this child with floppy hair and didn't give two shits. I love old man Fernando because he truly is that uncle who is trying to keep up with times with his TikTok account.

Who is your least Favorite Driver?

I am a hater to the core and can admit I am not the biggest fan of Lando Norris but even I can say that man is getting done dirty by his team to an extent.

Do you pull for drivers or do you like teams as well?

Hmmm nahh I pull for drivers. I can't even say I ride or die for some of these drivers because lets be honest they have said some questionable things and have shook hands with questionable people.*cough* Mclaren.

At the end of the day these teams are corporations that really only care about money no matter how they get it.

If you like teams what teams do you pull for?

I'm gonna be honest redbull rubs me the wrong way.

How long have you been into F1?

I would have to say since Zandervoot 2023 last year.

What got you into F1?

I was flipping through netflix because I was so bored and found DTS. Because I will always go looking to see if there is any good fanfic I went into Ao3. From Ao3 I actually wanted to watch a race because I have never actually been interested in a sport because and wanted to give it a shot. Funnily enough I actually got super into it and would find myself getting up super early to watch the races and actually keep up with the news. I actually never finished DTS after season 4.

Then I found tumblr and here we are.

Do you enjoy fic/rpf?

I don't write it but I love to read it. I really love to read how everyone interprets what they see or feel about a specific situation in a sport.

How do you view new fans?

This is my first season in f1 that I actually started so I still consider myself a new fan. However I do enjoy the enthusiasm new fans and myself bring to the sport. I love discovering new perspective to the sport and even when there are opposing views I love the community F1 brings in a way. I find it distasteful to discourage new fans because some people want to gatekeep F1 which really sucks.

If you could take over as a team principal for any team, who would it be and why?

I would probably want to take over Red Bull because I would want to fire Helmet Marko, that man just gives the creeps and the comments he has made are just flabbergasting to me.

Are your friends and family into F1?

Hmmmm one of my sisters thinks the drivers are very attractive and will listen to me talk just for the sake of it. My dad to this day says that every race is bought and it doesn't matter who I support because as he said it's already bought. I managed to get my 14 year old niece into F1 and she is a carlos sainz supporter. Beggars can't be choosers. I am slowly getting my other 8 month old nieces indoctrinated, I mean get her into liking F1. My fiends actually don't really care about F1 but when I talk about it they will listen because I tend to yap without regard.

Are you open to talking to other fans/making friend?

I am yes, I love talking to other F1 fans and just yapping about the sport or even about certain ships in the sport. At the moment I will always yap about lestappen to other mutuals. I sometimes forget I have messages in my inbox and or I don't exactly know tumblr etiquet like how much yapping is enough or too much? I am still navigating how to make friends on tumblr and still be respectful to their privacy and time and not overwhelm people at time.

I will tag @souvenir116

Darcy you were the first mutual I actually talked to and who I still love yapping with when we have time.

[acacia-may]

You asked me, now I asked you, 2, 9 and 22 💘

Thank you so much for the ask, friend, and for playing this writing ask game! I'd be thrilled to answer your ask and share some excerpts with you. 🥰

2. An excerpt of my writing that makes me laugh

I'll admit that I am always so nervous whenever I try to write anything humorous. I feel like I have an odd and often dry sense of humor so I really worry my jokes aren't going to land in my writing. That said, I really love dramatic irony used for comedic effect. For instance this joke from one of my Fairy Tail fics, "The Jam Problem," always makes me laugh:

“There’s nothing wrong with being smitten with Rita and wanting to go on a date, Yuri,” chimed in Mavis with a reassuring smile. “I’d like to go on a date too someday.” She paused and a somewhat dreamy sigh she had not been intending accidentally tumbled out of her mouth as she added, “With Zeref.”   Yuri’s brow furrowed at her, and he turned back to a somewhat concerned Precht and Warrod. “Are we ever going to do something about Mavis’s ‘Zeref Problem’?”  “I think it’s just a phase,” reassured Warrod with a thoughtful nod.  “She’ll probably grow out of it before anything bad happens," Precht agreed.

I also really love situational comedy, cheeky bantering, and snarky one-liners (which might be one of the reasons I love writing Charmy so much). Here's one of my favorite Charmy jokes from my Black Clover fic "Pancakes For Dinner"

“For you, Miss Charmy, I would do anything,” Rill said with a bright beaming smile before taking off to, Charmy was certain, conspicuously watch Finral. “Awww…” teased Vanessa draping her arm around Charmy’s shoulders causing her cheeks to flush a little. “He’s so cute!” “You say that, la,” sighed Charmy. “But he’s never painted a life-sized portrait of you as a ‘food goddess’…”

9. An excerpt of my writing with characters I love

Here's a snippet from one of my favorite fics from my Early Black Bulls series, "A Bird In The Rain" (which I apologize is only on AO3 but I'll still link it). The friendship between young Yami, Gordon, Finral, and Vanessa is one of my favorites in the whole series, and I don't think it's talked about nearly enough.

“I’m back,” declared Finral appearing in a portal beside Yami as the rain began to pour. “Great, now hurry up and get us out of here before we get soaked,” he huffed, but Finral wasn’t even looking at him. Yami’s brow furrowed, and he glared at him in irritation. With eyes that wide and that tint of pink in his cheeks, he knew exactly what—or rather who—Finral was staring at. “You wanna pick your jaw off the ground and get us out of here?” he quipped, but Finral didn’t respond. Yami rolled his eyes. “Damn it, Finral, will you stop staring at the poor girl already?” “She’s so…” Finral almost gasped quietly, but his voice trailed. Yami blustered but finally whipped towards Vanessa to see what all the fuss was about. If he was being honest, even he was rendered a little bit speechless. Vanessa had both arms flung out widely at her sides as if catching the rain that gushed down from the storm clouds above. Though she was getting completely soaked, she had tilted her head all the way back towards the sky, wearing the widest, brightest smile Yami had ever seen in his entire life. Now, he knew of course that Vanessa was a generally cheerful person who smiled more than most, and he had seen her excited over the most random and everyday things before—but he had never seen her this happy. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he had ever seen anyone this happy. There was something almost mesmerizing, almost beautiful, about her joy, and even Yami had to admit it was breathtaking. Vanessa must have sensed that they were all staring at her because she turned towards them and her face turned bright red. She sheepishly shuffled her feet. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I’ve never been caught in the rain before…” Her voice trailed, and something panged in Yami’s chest—a cross between a deep, almost aching sadness and a vindictive desire to rough up the Queen of Witches. “Were you waiting on me?” Vanessa added quickly, almost guiltily. “Uh…um…” Finral choked as his face flushed, but he seemed too awestruck for words—not that Yami could really blame him as he himself was having some trouble formulating a response. Not even Gordon was mumbling. Vanessa’s blush deepened. “And now you’re all soaked…”

22. An excerpt of my writing that is so blissfully self-indulgent

Thank you so much for this!! Please enjoy some Uncle Langris and Dad Finral from my "Birthday Buddies" fic 🥺💖

“Langris?” a voice whispered. His eyes fluttered open. How long had he been asleep? he wondered. “Langris?”  “What?” he mumbled. Groggily, he turned towards his brother who was positively beaming at him with tears of joy in his eyes. “Do you want to meet your nephew?”  This question shook Langris awake as he focused intently on the small bundle in Finral’s arms. Langris’ face softened, and he nodded as Finral handed him the baby and explained with the pride and excitement of new father, “This is Kalon.”  “Hi Kalon,” whispered Langris, trying and failing to keep a serious face as he stared down at his nephew. He looked so small wrapped in his quilt, but he wriggled and squirmed before nestling into Langris’ arms and smiling in his sleep—his button nose wrinkling and his arms stretching out from the blanket as his tiny fingers extended as if he was reaching out for him. Langris held out his own finger to the baby—letting him wrap his little hand around it. “He looks like you,” he whispered, and Finral nodded but smiled with pride, happy tears glistening in his eyes again. “So I’ve been told…” 

I just love when my boys get along with each other, okay? 💚💙

[mad4turtles]

~worth it~

(a ROTTMNT one-shot)

Part 2 of this <3

Enjoy :3

---

Donnie hadn't lied when he'd promised to stay outside.

Leo had wanted some one-on-one surrogate uncle/nephew time with Hueso, the first time since starting rehab nearly two months ago. Persisting injuries and recovery aside, who was Donnie to deny his twin that much?

That's why he'd bargained with Raph for them to take this pizza run alone; Raph would hover, and Mikey would pace a crater in the pavement waiting for Leo to come out or pull his fingers by the knuckle. Donnie wears his worry beneath enough layers to make a certain Scottish ogre jealous—it's still there, a persistent itch he'll never scratch, but tempers it with the belief in his brother's ability and stubbornness.

Also, it's Run of the Mill. The worst thing that's ever happened is when some upstart rookies tried to rob the place not too long after Shredder's defeat. Word had spread about the brother's victory by then, and when the crooks turned their way, all it took was a look from Raph, almost bored, that asked 'Are you sure?'. The way they'd casually packed up their shit and left with a “have a good day” over their shoulders had Donnie in tears.

So he's not worried. And if anything were to happen, Hueso's no pushover and the soft spot he has for their family might as well be the size of Manhattan it's so obvious. Leo will be fine.

Then he feels a tug at his chest. And then his scanner picks up an anomaly. 

His family are more or less aware of Donnie's less-than-healthy coping habits; if he loves something enough, it'll have a tracker or multiple. Mikey had—sorry, Dr Delicate Touch had gone into detail about how invasive that is on people, but it's saved their asses more than once, so he hasn't removed them. One of the benefits is that he can track his brothers' vitals no matter where they are. Obsessive, perhaps invasive, but it's a comfort he's come to rely on more than ever after the Krang. 

He doesn't need a tracker to pull him in Leo's orbit, but he brings up the holo-screen anyway.

An irregular heartbeat. Leo is having a panic attack. 

Shit.

(Later, he'll wonder how his mystic tech had been slower than him in picking up on Leo's well-being. He won't wonder long, though.)

He all but storms into the restaurant, scanning the tables and paying no heed to the few stares he garners—they should be used to this by now unless they're tourists—swallowing the worry that's been a toiling beast in his stomach since they left the lair. 

He's fine, his rational mind supplies helpfully. Panic attacks can happen at random, safe space or not, you just need to find him and—

He sees Leo before he sees the bull yokai standing over him. Gone is the cheer that fuelled his unsteady steps all the way here in his excitement to be out and about. Down is the carefree wall he'd built to hide every wince and weary sigh as he assured his family over and over--“I've got this.”

Instead, Leo is on the floor, his bad leg twitching, barely propped up on his elbows, flinching—

The beast in Donnie's chest stirs.

Then he sees the bull yokai, built like a tank, snorting in Leo's face hard enough to send his mask tails flying, his expression a snarl of twisted satisfaction as he growls something low enough that Donnie can't hear over the crowds or the ringing in his ears—

Leo goes white, eyes unseeing, and Donnie—

Donnie sees red.

“Hey.”

He marches over, breezing past the bull guy and beelining for his twin, stammering as he reaches for Donnie. He fights for control as he helps Leo to his feet, holding his good wrist tighter than he intends. Hueso's place is used to their brand of disruption and destruction, but this was supposed to be a good day, a calm day for Leo after weeks of bed rest, nightmares and recovery. Donnie is pissed, but he can't ruin this even more, not here, not for Leo, in the few places he still feels safe—

“Better listen to your 'bro', here. It's probably the first good idea he's had.”

And then the bull guy talks. And he keeps talking, like he has something to gain, something to prove by assaulting and humiliating an injured teenager half his size in public out of the blue, while his friends watch and snicker (for a moment), while others stare and whisper. While Leo, one of the few bright lights in Donnie's life, his other half and simultaneously the worst and greatest person Donnie has ever known, wilts like a dying flower behind him, thinking he's not worth defending—

“That's how little pests like him get—” 

And Donnie doesn't see red anymore. As the beast rears its head with a roar, Donnie sees black.

He rips a table off its hinges and throws it at the bull's face. He slams a chair against his curled-up body, again and again and again until it shatters. He turns the leg into a staff (he'd left the original at home, foolishly hopeful), presses it against the quivering bastard's jugular and threatens him with a very real death.

You haven't seen what we've seen, he doesn't say for all that he wants to, so the world can hear. You never saw the Krang. You haven't seen their remnants still lingering in alleyways, in stray animals that used to be someone's family pet, a body that used to be someone's friend, child, sibling, or parent. You didn't have to watch your twin nearly kill himself trying to fix a stupid but honest mistake.

Donnie thinks as he curls an arm around Leo's shoulders, glaring over his shoulder when he hears the bull try to protest, and wonders if he'd felt even an iota of what Leo did in that hell dimension. Face to face with a monster that wants you dead. 

~0o0~

They leave Run of the Mill with their stack of pizza and garlic knots on the house—the soft spot has grown to the size of Tokyo—and Donnie's body still buzzes with lingering fury. Wordlessly, he reaches for one of Leo's katanas with his free hand and slashes the air. He'd be pleased at the portal he'd made on the first try, but he was too busy pulling Leo through to care.

Miraculously, Donnie doesn't portal them to Tahiti, instead landing them soundly in the kitchen. Leo half-carelessly tosses their dinner on the table and reaches for Donnie's shoulder. The only thing that saves him from losing his fingers is that Donnie's jaw is too busy grinding to open at all.

“Donnie,” Leo breathes, staring at him with the same wide eyes he's had since he'd watched Donnie pick up the table and throw it like an empty plastic bottle at someone's face. “What the hell was that?! I get it, that guy was an asshole, and he totally deserved it, but dude, you—you ripped the table off the floor! Hueso's gonna have to pay for that and the food he—bro, you can't do that to Tio's place! We promised Raph we'd be good, and now we've made a whole freaking scene over nothing—!”

“I am almost too angry for words right now, Nardo,” Donnie forces out, cutting Leo off, “but I will try because god help me, brother, Sign will not do this justice. You need to hear, you need to listen, and I need you to shut your mouth for two freaking seconds or I will actually scream.”

Leo's jaw clicks shut. Donnie takes that as his cue. He takes a breath for all the good it does.

“What that guy said and did,” he says, “was so out of line it was on freaking Mars. He belittled you in front of dozens of people, pushed you, threatened you, triggered you, and you—”

Donnie's voice breaks despite his efforts, and something breaks in Leo's eyes, too. So Donnie doesn't bother to wipe the tear that drips down his cheek, instead prodding Leo's chest hard with a finger and leaning in (not over) close.

“—and you believed him,” Donnie hisses. “I did what I did because you wouldn't because you believed those bullshit lies. You still believe them, no matter how much we tell you otherwise. I get it, okay, I know it's the trauma and the survivor's guilt and the blame game we're all playing like it's a goddamn Olympic sport and we're going for gold, but—I swear to god, Hamato Leonardo, if you ever tell me to my freaking face that you're not worth it, I'll—I'll—!”

Leo doesn't let him finish. He throws himself at Donnie, squeezing his waist. Donnie doesn't hesitate and snaps his arms around Leo's shoulders, breathing harshly into the blood hood. There's a damp patch growing on Donnie's bare shoulder, but it's Leo, so he doesn't care. He shuts his eyes.

His body still tingles with remnant rage and overstimulation, a flood of emotions he's careful to settle before they rear their irrational, ugly heads. The invasion changed that, among too many things for Donnie to handle.

Maybe that one asshole had been the boiling point, the push that sent him over the edge. And after surviving the free-fall, he's finally cooling down, able to breathe, settling down in the arms of his twin in the middle of their kitchen.

Donnie sways them a little side to side the way he does sometimes with Mikey. Leo churrs. Donnie chirps back.

“Sorry, Donbon,” Leo mutters against him. “I'm... I'm trying. I really am.”

“'s okay, Nardo,” Donnie mutters back. “I know you are. I just... today was supposed to be a good day. And you know how I am about interrupted or changed plans.”

“Oof, yeah.” Leo snickers, pulling back a little. His eyes are shiny and red around the edges, but he's grinning. “Add that with a smug, 'grossly misinformed' douchebag, it's no freaking wonder you went to town on him. Gotta say, as scary as you were, it was pretty dope watching you finally lift that table.”

Donnie can't help but preen under the praise. “Yeah, that was pretty cool, wasn't it?”

Leo lets go of him with a giddy laugh that's only a little wet. “Ohoho yeah, but then you with the freaking chair?! In my head, I was like, 'Here comes Tello with a steel chair—'!” He mimes swinging the chair, over-the-top sound effects topped with an exaggerated slow-mo that has Donnie cackling. “And it's a freaking knock-out! Dynamite Don takes the championship, one and oh, folks! The crowd goes wild, Bull Bitch goes cryin' home to mommy, bloody nose and pissed pants and all—!”

Donnie snorts, “Honestly, I was going for a more 'Higurashi' vibe with the whole chair thing than the wrestling route, but that works too—”

“I was just about to say that, I freaking knew it, the second you grabbed the chair—holy shit, that anime was wild, why did we watch that as kids?”

“I still have nightmares of the nail-ripping scene.”

“Hurgk—don't remind me.”

They share a snicker before sorting out the take-out boxes and pizza. Nothing has gone cold during their little heart-to-heart/breakdown. Donnie huffs. “Thank the author for small mercies.”

Right as he's fired off the text to let Raph and Mikey know that dinner is ready, Leo shuffles over. “Hey.”

“Hm?” 

Leo rocks forward, pressing his head against Donnie's shoulder. He can't see his face, but Donnie feels and hears his smile. 

“I meant what I said. You were pretty cool back there. Scary, admittedly, and we'll have to talk about your murderous tendencies, buddy, but... you were badass. Thanks for stickin' up for me.”

The dormant beast of rage takes a backseat as a surge of warmth burns in his chest like the first sunrise after the end of the apocalypse. He loves his utter disaster of a younger twin, like an embarrassing amount. But much like Donnie doesn't need a scanner to fall into his orbit, Leo doesn't need to lift his head to see the stupid grin on his face as he bumps his head against Leo's briefly. 

“Anytime,” Donnie says.

Later, with the whole clan gathered in the living room, plates and containers balanced on pillows and knees and scattered across the floor, Raph asks, “So, how'd it go at Hueso's?”

Leo and Donnie share a look. 

Then Leo grins like a shark and says to the room at large, “Donnie pulled a John Cena and made a bull yokai his bitch with a chair.”

Raph chokes on his pizza. April and Mikey scream-laugh while Splinter coughs up his sake. Draxum and Cass look proud. Casey Jr looks haunted, and Donnie laughs until he cries. 

Leo's laugh is the loudest in the room, and maybe it is a good day after all.

---

Thanks for reading! Feel free to send me prompts or requests :3

[twotimeracewinnerlandonorris]

actually, since we've brought up the espn sob stories and i'm still seeing "lando is the shittiest teammate on the grid" takes in the year of 2023, when lando has been nothing but kind and supportive of the rookie who is already challenging him more than daniel ever has, let's talk about what the daniel teammate experience is really like.

-lando is labeled a shit teammate because he says he doesn't feel sympathy for daniel's situation. in the same interview, he explains how he would also face criticism if he underperformed to that extent. on one of the occasions with the "no sympathy" comment, he even mentioned how if he had performed that poorly relative to ricciardo during their first year as teammates, he probably wouldn't even still be in f1. basically, he explained how f1 works: you perform, or you're out (unless daddy horner saves you). yet, here he is, lando norris, the shittiest teammate on the grid.

-then we get to ricciardo's ESPN sob stories (oop. i meant journalism. very respectable journalism) that is full of so much bullshit, the sources of it (his Hollywood management corporation) had to wipe their mouths with toilet tissue after spewing this bullshit.

-"lando isn't actually talented, they just design the car around him, and according to the almighty ricciardone, it's undrivable so he would flop if he switched teams." A) why is lando's loyalty always attacked by daniel and his team? sorry the old man is reminiscing on his career and having regrets now, but nobody made him leave red bull. that's a choice he made all on his own because he had a younger, faster teammate (he and his fans also spun that as red bull sabotaging him, yet now he's begging to go back, funny he exposes his lies himself). B) James Key, thank fuck he's gone, even mentioned designing the 2022 car with daniel's feedback specifically in mind to make him more comfortable. yet he regressed further. lando has never once, with any mclaren, said "yes, this is 100% what i want in a car." hell, he just got p2 and spent much of the weekend complaining about how shit the car's balance was, lando is just talented enough to drive around that stuff. has nothing to do with the car being designed around him.

-then there was the (again, if he doesn't care not to weaponize something against lando that lando has spoken about impacting his mental health (and is even celebrated and cheered on for it), why the fuck do we have to treat daniel with special care and not bring up his MULTIPLE failures because "pOOR BABY WABY DANNY'S MENTAL HEALTH") whole "I've never thrown away a win like lando has." Yet …. to get that win, he needed the two top drivers to crash out and his teammate to be told he isn't allowed to fight for his maiden win. similarly, lando was there to fight and defend daniel. yet, regularly how it worked with the chronic victim, he's nowhere in sight when it's time to return the favor and actually help his teammate. i can say this with 100% confidence: had carlos been with the team in 2021, both he and lando would be GP winners right now. lando led the majority of that race — no team orders, no teammate around for help at all — yet in the end, it was a team strategy decision that costed him. nothing to do with his driving abilities at all (like the reason daniel lost his seat for).

fuck daniel ricciardo. i can say that with 100% confidence too. thrilled to see him fail again, hopefully maybe then the racist old jerks at Red Bull will give yuki the recognition he deserves but i doubt it.

i love u 🧡

[crazycartoonnerd123]

WILLOW'S ARC IN FOR THE FUTURE

MAJOR SPOILERS FROM FOR THE FUTURE

I want to start off by saying that this episode was absolutely fantastic. It was overall amazing and I have little to no criticism for this episode. But something I especially loved about this episode was that it had a specific focus on Willow, which honestly, I wasn’t expecting. I love Willow so much. She's probably my favorite character and I loved that they gave her this time to kinda rap up her arc. I loved that they took a dive into Willow's hidden anxiety for the situation and her trauma from years of bulling. It's discussed in this episode how Willow is considered the reliable friend. She makes sure that her loved ones and peers are protected and safe. That's how she was able to make a connection with her Palismen. She's considered the strong friend both physically and emotionally. She will do anything in her power to make sure that her friends are protected and emotionally okay (-ish none of them are 100% mentally okay). She does that even if the consequence is that she has to ignore her feelings. Plus, let's not forget in "Understanding Willow" that her motto was "out of sight, out of mind" which means she has a history of ignoring and bottling up her feelings. When Camilia asks Willow how she's handling everything, she simply replied with "I'm fine" which never means you are fine. Camilia continues by telling her its okay to be scared, but Willow is persistent and still continues to ignore her feelings. And to the audience, it is so obvious that she was not handling that well. It's obvious that she's upset and anxious because as she walks away, she leaves a trail of vines.

And then we start to get the true cracks in the glass. When the group is searching for Eda and King, Willow sees one of her dads in puppet form, and we get a really heartbreaking scene where Willow is trying to get her dad's attention and Hunter had to pull her away so she wouldn't get hurt. It probably broke her heart because that's the first time she's seen one of her dads in months, and she's not even able to talk to him or hug him because he's a puppet.

Then the next crack comes when their at Hexside and she sees the Christmas picture with her dads in it. She begins to cry but shakes it off.

She finds the picture of Hunter and Flapjack and gifts it to Hunter to attempt to cheer him up. Gus tells Hunter that they were all going to miss Flapjack but they knew Hunter loved him the most. Then Willow proceeds to tell Hunter that they didn't care who he was because he was one of them now and to never forget that. This causes Hunter to get very emotional and Luz asks if he's okay and Hunter replied with I don't know. This caused Willow to think that she made things worst, making her very upset. And she starts growing vines, which is foreshadowing a breakdown.

She excuses herself and runs into Bosha, which is probably the worst person she could have encountered at this point. Bosha calls her captain half a witch and talks about the pressures of being a leader, which does not help Willow in the slightest amount. She then says she wants to offer Willow some advice, and that is when Willow snaps. She tells Bosha that all she had only ever been petty and mean to her and that she couldn't give her good advice. Bosha said she was going to tell her to watch her back, and puts her to sleep with sleeping nettles.

When Hunter and Gus find Willow, she's completely broken, but she's still trying to act like she's okay. She keeps repeating to herself that she can do. She's so overwhelmed and stressed that she can't even control her own powers. She's trying so hard to keep her self calm and reassuring herself that she can do this, but it's to no avail.

She keeps repeating to herself that she can do it until she's so consumed in self dobt and blame that she just lets her vines consume her. Hunter, seeing just how much pain she has been hiding AND seeing that Willow could be in danger, is able to free himself to save Willow. When he does this, he reassures her that she did nothing wrong. He that she and the rest of their friends mean the world to him and to never belittle herself again and ends with saying that she's been holding in a lot. Gus also chimes in by saying that reliable people need people relie on too. After that, she finally allows herself to break down and admits that she misses her Dads.

They are able to escape and Willow is able to control her powers again. She's a lot happier for the rest of the episode except for a brief moment before she tells Hunter he means a lot to her.

She looks really sad here. And I think it's because she's finally okay with not being the "strong one" all the time. She knows it's okay to be vulnerable and open for support. And that makes me really happy for her and her character. This episode made me even more of a Willow kin. Her arc in this episode was just perfect and heartbreaking.