#the platonic tag yo

[bloo-the-dragon]

Who’s to say we’re incapable of love? :3

[moonyswarmsweaters]

going to go ask my friend to go buy the same gay book together, read, and discuss

wish me luck!

[blacklampshade]

Plz Stop Posting Miguel Smut

Hey guys, hate to break it to you but Miguel is aro-ace.  The Migussy is out of bounds.  Totally true he had a wife, big agree there, but they were actually married for tax reasons. He does have a daughter which he loved very much, but they are not related by blood.  As a matter of fact, he thinks sex is “Very yucky”. I understand why you are compelled to write such things but, his body has been cultivated for the pursuit of the greater good, not the satisfaction of carnal desire (/desires) (Oh my god you guys have so many desires). That dumptruck was built solely as a vessel for justice. Soz I didn’t tell you all earlier but you guys seemed like you were having so much fun and I didn’t want to interrupt.

[ghostinthehole]

just besties doing besties thinggss

anyway they are best friends since both of them were in their previous stage

details under the cut

bonus: enra's unstickered hair because I love the way its painted

[onceupona-crossover]

Platonic Brimutt/Manjirian moodboard

Requested by:n/a

-Mod rapunzel

[chic-ultimate]

Do not let a man who ships stancy get in the way of byler I do not care if he plays half of them

[dreamofbecoming]

hmmm i’ve got an emotional confrontation ficlet (as if i ever write anything else) brewing in my brain about steve and dustin and boundaries and how it’s offensive and a little hurtful that dustin refuses to drop the robin thing, like it doesn’t matter what steve says or wants, dustin always knows best, and he doesn’t think steve’s capable of love and affection without sex

[thebadtimewolf]

hey

do yall know any genuine rose tyler stans that are actually upset about how s1 rose was treated as an equal AND a love interest but as soon as s2-s4 rose was treated more as a equal BECAUSE of her being pideonholed as only a 'i can do things too! see!' archetype of love interests that it took two other characters to be treated as an actual equal? like why did ten thru donna said that he needs an equal and that what the dr needs an equal??

rose was already an equal in season 1. its established bts that rose was an equal to ninth doctor? but now why didn't that sentiment continued on with ten? what happened?

like martha is treated like an actual equal because the dr in the past have always hated themselves, reflected back at them, but still shared the joy and comradarie during a joint adventure with said version of self. like even the time lord victorious two parter book - 8 was flirting and 10 flirted back but at the end of the day - both of em can carry themselves without the arrival of the other, leaving the eyerolling and mild disgust or disinterest aspect to ninth dr when he shared a room with them. like the dr not wanting to "date" martha even though he literally in text trying real hard to pull the wool in both ur qnd his own eyes is essentially him trying not to fuck himself.

donna is - in an almost wish-fufilled in what the dr missed from the master - considered an equal preestablished since season 3 guest appeared and fully in season 4. shes seen as a pea in the pod like the dr master rani and romana - keeping up with that specific lot of em without going thru the 'but im better than you' alien egoist rhetoric that the time lords fall to in times of upper handedness. she can manipulate she talk fast she tech-savvy yet people-grounded BUT she makes sure the respect isnt temporary and doesnt lord it over people because everyone is great and without that person, the whole system can fall apart.

because so far, it doesnt feel that way. like are yall not mad that tenth doctor gave rose up?

after seasons of build up and getting shot and everything? the funky alien eldritch being in a mask of an earth lookin boy that had a chance to man up and show feelings when the opportunity is very in your face given to him to do so in a space where he could do so and — he just gave her up? all that moping and whining and when given what he wanted, he just went: no. here. i need an equal and i have donna so im giving you what i TEN think you want as an equal in me and thats him. BUT NINEROSE ARE EQUALS SHE NEVER SAID SHE WANTED HIM HUMAN BUT RATHER HIMSELF AS HE IS.

its like fridging rose but worse. in s2-4 you made her in memory of someone else that ALWAYS treated her as an equal instead of actually continuing on with that with the next face. death wouldve been more forgiving and thats not a great thing to come to a conclusion to. The one that really treated you as both a love interest AND equal is dead, and now you're married to the discarded imitation of the one that only typecasted you as a love interest.

tentoo should be mad abt this too but this aint about him, this is about yall and the rose tyler connundrum.

i wouldve settled for her having the hand - settling for the hand if that hand turned into ninth doctor (like full on christopher eccleston doing donna impression everything) instead of what we got - which was dust. it made more sense that way. because then the dialogue narrative - the doctor's excuse - wouldve been more well recieved. Does it need saying would have more weight if Eccleston played a NineToo whispered i love you because you know it was well meant. Genuine. Its coming from someone that always treated you as an equal and also getting that i love you and not just - oh the human i love. i miss them not because i treated them on equal terms, its strictly because i only love them - no equality at all

like yeah chris wasnt going to return but hes a movie actor - hes used to green screen. he couldve sent a video message in a leather jacket and let it be done. like we couldve had nine saying i love you to rose on doomsday like do you get what im trying to say like. like tooth and claw if it was nine and rose both wouldve been like 'oh look at that a werewolf transformation!' And not what. we got. LIKE DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN

[saladbarselectionmenu]

Music Game!!

RULES: You can usually tell a lot about a person by the type of music they listen to. Put your playlist on shuffle and list the first 10 songs, and then tag 10 people. No skipping!

I was tagged by @averagebreadslice thank you for the tag ^u^ !

1) I Just Wanna Run - The Downtown Fiction

2) Megalovania - Toby Fox (yes the undertale version dont @ me LMAO)

3) I’m Always Walking As Somebody Else - American Murder Song

4) She’s Quite (Acoustic) - The home Team

5) 4AM - Derivakat

6) A Year Ago - Birds of Bellwoods

7) Constellations - The Oh Hellos

8) Get Jinxed - League of Legends, Djerve

9) Paper Rings - Taylor Swift 

10) Empire - Of Monsters And Men No specific playlist just my Spotify likes on random!  If I recommend anything on this list though it’s Constellations - it’s such a mood for The Commander! Very much one of those ‘‘I’m imagining so many animatics I'll never actually make’’ songs imo. Also going back through who’s been tagged is really funny bc it’s like ‘oh I know all these songs they’re great!’ and I think that’s kind of neat actually

Apologies if you’ve already been tagged (pm me if you want me to remove you too) ! I had a quick scroll through peoples blogs but I’m 1) unobservant af 2) not sure how long this has been going around @where-is-caithe @jorasdottir @little-leaf-man @commanders-sole-braincell @secondscion @gallusrostromegalus @commander-gloryforge @inkberrry @commander-winterberry @herald-of-aurene

[furoruisa]

So be honest, any of you actually saw all of S2?

[neverendingford]

.

[viennakarma]

Everything I Wanted I.

LESTAPPEN X READER (Part 1)

Summary: Your journey to become a Motorsport legend wasn't easy, especially when your path clashed with your greatest rivals, Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc.

Word count: 7.1k

Tags: Driver reader, mentions of crash, abusive parent, daddy issues, trust issues, character death (not reader), cursing, strong rivalry, misogyny in motorsport, invasive media, aggressive fans, reader suffers with cyberbullying and hate, smut, female reader, +18, unprotected sex, voyeurism, exhibtionism, edging, filthy, porn with plot, queer! everyone, polyamory lestappen, bit of dirty talking, pet names, not beta read

Relationships: Lestappen x Reader

Mentor!Kimi Raikkonen x Reader

Sebastian Vettel, Fernando Alonso, Lewis Hamilton x Platonic!Reader

Notes: this is full of motorsport categories inaccuracies, just go with the vibes please. There are a few inaccuracies regarding other drivers' lives, but they are just to fit the story. I know I said it was a oneshot, but the thing got out of hand, and I had to split it in half. Soon there will be a part 2! English is not my first language, so please ignore any mistake!

Find me on Twitter!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“They’re not friends, you understand? They’re rivals, and that’s all they’ll ever be.”

You stand, hugging your helmet firmly against your chest, your dad’s words louder than the ringing in your ear from the way he slapped the side of your head. You were 9 and it was your first time competing in a karting competition. You tried to befriend the other kids your age, but as soon as your dad called you away, fuming, you knew it was a mistake.

You followed your dad’s orders, and didn’t talk to any of the boys again. Max was already cold towards you, so he pretty much ignored your existence. But Charles was more talkative, and as you stopped answering him, he became taunting, annoying, but you didn’t fall behind, you used to clap back at him with the same intensity.

Sometimes you eavesdropped on their conversations, initially it wasn’t intentional, but they were always complaining about you, calling you names, and you realized your dad was right, they would never see you as a friend or equal, only as a rival.

One day you’re walking by when you hear your name in their conversation.

“Nah, don’t worry about Y/N,” Max shrugged, his accent thick, as he pointed to the side of his temple “she’s a little slow, but maybe she’ll catch up.”

You stood there, his words echoing in your head, she’s a little slow, that was a kind way to call you stupid, which, compared to the way your father called you that many times, it was much sweeter. You shouldn’t have let that get to your head, specially said that way. But then again, you were 11, and you kept hearing those words again and again in your head. You never considered yourself dumb, your grades in school were average, and whenever you had time off of karting to study for your exams, your grades became even better, a little above average.

And despite knowing that, after going back home after the competition, you spent the whole Saturday at the local library, studying everything you could find on motorsports and Formula One. You lent books on strategy, history, and even mechanics. Every spare time you had, you spent reading those books, or lending others. You didn’t want to be slow as they had called you.

After that, you stopped talking to Max completely.

“This is a waste!” Your dad shouted, and you flinched, taking a discreet step back, away from him, trying to avoid him getting physical.

You had argued with him, which made him more furious. You tried to tell him it wasn’t your fault, you were just as good at racing as everyone else, maybe better, but no one was willing to give a girl a chance. It made him even angrier.

“You had one job! You get into F4 on your first try!”

You wanted to tell him it wasn’t your fault. That they weren’t willing to give a girl a chance, even if you were better than half of the boys who made it to F4. But your dad didn’t care about any of it, he wanted you to succeed or nothing. He used to always say that anything below first place is failure.

So he decided you, at 14, weren’t worth the money he spent on karting. And he simply left. Making peace with the fact that your dad never saw you as his kid, but more like an investment, was hard.

“You’re never going to be a Formula 1 champion.” Was the last thing he said to you, before dropping you at your mom’s to never come back.

Living with your mom ever since your dad gave you up was something else. She had lost everything after the divorce, thanks to a prenup she had naively signed without knowing anything about it. So when you moved in with her, you noticed how the house was smaller than your dad’s, you two slept in the single room that was there. Your mom worked two jobs living paycheck to paycheck, and you barely saw her. But she was kind, comforting.

You soon realized that she wouldn’t be able to provide for your karting career. So you lied, you told her your dad was still paying for the karting, and you found two part time jobs to pay for racing. You mom worked so much, she didn’t notice your absence in the afternoons, when you went to work in an auto repair shop. Sometimes, on the rare occasions she was off work in the afternoons, you lied and told her you were out with friends, or studying in the library or even doing extracurriculars. You had the best intentions, you used to tell yourself at night whenever you laid awake, you knew she would blame herself or even work herself to death to provide for you.

The entirety of the next year was a constant struggle, and you worked, and scrapped and lied your way through the entire karting competition. It was one of your last chances to get into F4, and you weren’t sure you could live another year that way, without a sponsor.

When the competition ended, you were second place overall. Your kart had problems during the race and you were sad that it affected your performance in a race you could’ve won.

You walked closer as you saw a few of the other boys gathering around some adults, you eyed them curiously. As soon as you noticed who they were, you swallowed. They were probably scouts, it was very common in finals of these competitions, you were used to it. You also were used to being ignored by all of them scouts. You had tried many times before to make connections and make yourself known, maybe even meeting a potential sponsor, but they always ignored you. They weren’t interested in a girl, they didn’t care about a woman in motorsports. Your only hope was that one day you would meet a female scout and she would see your potential.

But meanwhile, there were only men, and they didn’t give two fucks about you. So you didn’t even get close enough to join, you heard Charles and Max talking with them, and you just turned around, going back to your kart.

You pulled a few tools from your backpack, working to fix the difficulties you felt during the race.

“What are you doing?” A man approached you, crouching close to watch your work. You briefly looked up, the guy was wearing sunglasses and a cap, just a normal guy, looking like someone’s dad.

“I’m fixing my steering wheel, it was a bit stuck during the race so I had to double the force used to be able to make it work,” you explained, and he nodded.

“You finished second, right? Why are you here by yourself?” The man asked.

“The other kids don’t like me very much. And they’re talking to the scouts,” you shrugged, trying not to think about all the opportunities they would get and you wouldn’t.

“You should be there, no? Meeting scouts is important for your career.”

“They’re not very interested in a girl racer. Believe me, I know.” You muttered, finishing with the steering wheel, testing to see if it was working all right. You turned, fixing your left rear tyre. The tyre wasn’t responding very well to the braking, “besides, my kart won’t fix itself, right? Look, you see how this tyre is slower to respond to my braking? It messed up with my balance during the race. I could have won.”

“Shouldn’t you take your kart somewhere to get it fixed?” The man asked, helping you unscrew the tyre.

“Can’t afford it,” you said, “I’m saving to try and get into F4, so I can’t spare any money on this one.”

You weren’t usually this talkative with new people, mostly keeping to yourself. But maybe you were missing a grownup figure in your life since your dad had dipped and your mom was always busy. And that man sounded really interested in your stuff, so it felt natural explaining to him.

“So, no one sponsoring you?” He asked, which made you look at him again, hesitantly.

“No, uh, I had one but he dropped me last year” you said, leaving out that part that it was your dad.

“You know who I am?” The man asked and you looked at him, shaking your head.

“Someone’s dad? I mean, I haven’t been introduced to all the kids and their parents yet, but you’re kinda familiar, so-” As you were babbling and trying to explain, he took off the cap and sunglasses, and you immediately recognized him, “oh my god!”

“Shh, shh” he silenced you, putting the disguise back.

“You’re Kimi Raikkonen!” You whispered, and he nodded.

“I’ll be your new sponsor, eh? What do you say?”

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," he nodded.

"How do you know I'm good enough for a sponsorship?" You asked, genuinely curious.

"Well, are you good enough for a sponsorship?" He asked. He had been keeping an eye out at that very category, and you had caught his attention as seemingly smart and emotionally controlled with the kart.

"I'm the best of the bunch," you smiled at him and you won him over with that answer.

Kimi became your lifeline, in a way. His family was quick to embrace you in an affectionate way you would’ve never expected of them. They invited you for their little New Year’s party, and you eventually told everything about your life to Kimi. His wife Minttu had also taken you as one of her own and their kids liked you a lot.

Under Minttu’s suggestion, Kimi also enrolled you in language classes, so besides English, you spent the next years learning French and Spanish, and you also caught a little Finnish from being so close to them.

You kept pushing your way up from F4 to F3 and so on, but instead of climbing it steadily like the boys, you had to win two or three times more than them to prove you were worth taking the next step.

You were 16 when your paths crossed with the boys from your childhood again. They recognised you, but they never really talked to you, so they didn't this time around either.

Coming out of the bathroom you once again caught a conversation, and you stopped dead as soon as you heard your name.

“No, not really… I don’t see her like that at all- she’s- uh-” Charles was speaking, probably looking for the words in english, “-she’s more like one of the boys.”

You paused, your breath hitched.

“Yeah,” that was Max, “I don’t see her like that either. I guess she doesn’t care about the things girls her age do.”

You felt a lump in your throat, retreating back to the bathroom. You stood in front of the mirror, watching your face as the tears fell down on your cheeks. You were dressed in your regular racing day attire, cargo pants and a sweater. You didn’t wear makeup and your hair was all frizzy because of the helmet.

The next time you went to the Raikkonen residence, you pulled Minttu aside one moment.

“I want to be pretty. Will you help me?”

You two went through a long chat with Minttu reassuring you that you were pretty in your own way and you insisting you wanted to be pretty like other girls, more feminine and girly.

When you entered F2 after the winter break, you felt and looked like some better version of yourself. Minttu had helped you set a skincare routine that was already helping clear your face from teenage acne. She also took you to a hair salon, where you trimmed your hair and made a few highlights. She upgraded your wardrobe, and even if you tried to refuse saying it was too much, she said it was a Christmas gift and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Your path until reaching F1 was slow and steady, and you were a reserve driver for two years before finally getting a seat at McLaren. You knew Kimi probably had a hand in getting you a chance, but he denied every time you asked.

Kimi told you the raw truth before the season started. He and Minttu sat you down and talked about how the world and Formula 1 would expect more of you than of any other rookie. How they would stress your mistakes tenfold. How they would diminish your achievements with the same intensity. You weren’t afraid, really.

“I’ve lived with my greatest hater more than half of my life, I can handle strangers” you had laughed to the couple.

Still, Kimi taught you everything about his Iceman persona, and told you to pick whatever you wanted from it. Minttu also convinced you to start therapy, which you accepted.

The hate started as soon as you were announced. Beyond the regular misogyny, they were calling you too old to be a rookie at 24, they were questioning your abilities even with numerous championships from other categories to back you up, even with the fact that your mentor was Kimi fucking Raikkonen. But you didn’t let any of that get under your skin.

Sebastian Vettel was quickly drawn to you, and he became your first friend in Formula 1. He had been close with Kimi from the time they were teammates, and he kinda adopted you.

The guys your age didn’t want to get too close to you. The very few times they talked or walked with you, it sparked romance rumors, and soon they pretty much ignored or avoided you. You knew their intentions weren't to be mean, they were probably just avoiding problems with the media and their girlfriends or wives, but it didn’t hurt any less every time they walked straight past you.

One of those times you were going to the group press conference and all three of the guys walked past you as you tried to chat with them. Your shoulders slumped, and you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“What was that?” You jumped at the sound of another voice. You looked behind you to see Fernando Alonso walking up to you. Up until that point, he had been polite to you.

“Oh,” you stumbled over your words, “being seen talking to me is bad press, apparently.”

“Una tontería,” he muttered, shaking his head, which made you laugh, surprised. He put a friendly hand over your shoulder and led you to the media session.

Simples as that, Fernando too became your friend.

You asked your PR manager, Amanda, to bend a few rules to make sure you would always be at the press conference with Seb and Nando or at least one of them. Most of the time, you did. But sometimes you were unlucky and had to sit stiffly through rounds of absurdly odd (and downright misogynistic) questions by yourself.

Soon you gave up on befriending the other drivers and being charming to the media. You realized the Iceman persona of Kimi looked like a good way to protect yourself from the clutches of the motorsport world. By the sixth race of the year, you gained the Lioness nickname. An agile hunter in your driving style and just as fierce in your answers.

“You’re always seen more comfortable with either Sebastian or Fernando, who are way older than you” some reporter said, “why is that?”

“I believe we’re closer in maturity age,” you said, face expressionless. You heard snickers around the room and you looked to Fernando who was visibly holding a laugh.

“So you’re saying the other drivers are immature?” The reporter pressed, but you didn’t want to talk anymore.

“No,” it’s all you answered, putting your mic down.

Everyone already thought you were arrogant, selfish, and superficial, and as you embraced your cold persona, you just fed into their assumptions. You couldn't care less, it was a good way to protect yourself, to be distant from the media who were constantly trying to drag you to the dirt. 

“You mentioned the other day that you believe you should’ve joined F1 around the time the guys your age did. Why do you think that didn’t happen?”

“Because of what’s between my legs, Brian” you deadpanned.

You had to prove yourself two or three times more than the boys every single step of the way, to get into F4, F3, F2 and now F1. You made it, you were there, between the 20 best of motorsport in the whole world… and still… Still you had to hear questions about how you managed to race with a period, questions about boyfriends, questions about hair care or skin care, or whatever. You wouldn’t mind any of that if those were common questions, if they were asked of every driver, but they were only asked of you.

“I would like to express that, from now on, I will only answer questions that would be asked of the male drivers too, about the sport, about the cars, about strategies and everything that revolves around racing,” you warned one day before the end of a media conference when someone asked if your PMS interfered in your racing.

You started to not give two fucks about the media. Every time someone asked you a misogynistic question you just stared at them and put your mic down. So those types of question died down a little bit.

“Do you think you would’ve already been world champion had you entered Formula 1 earlier, let’s say at age 19/20?”

“Yes.”

Most of the guys ignored or avoided you, but your path always clashed with Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen. They always hinted at not liking you in the slightest, and the media and the fans started catching up to it, throughout your rookie year. They would shamelessly shade you, and you never backed down, giving it as hard as you got.

You walked to a reporter, still using a towel to dry your face at the post race interview.

“Did you hear what Leclerc said about your move as you left the pits?” The man asked you.

“No, I didn’t. Do I look like I care about a man’s opinion?” You said, loud and clear.

You got as many fans as you got haters, especially as you messed with Leclerc’s and Verstappen’s loud fanbases. It wasn’t really on purpose, but one of them would usually jab at you in interviews, and when word got back to you, it would anger you to no end, and you would shade them back, and in an insane amount of back-and-forths until your rivalry was in articles, the news, twitter threads, and in the mind of every single reporter in a race week.

“Verstappen talked about your overtake at lap 49, he said it was a dirty move.”

“Like he did to me back in Silverstone?” Your eyes held a mischievous glint as you scoffed, “Funny, you didn’t see me whining about it back then.”

You had the best rookie year ever since Lewis Hamilton debuted. You almost reached the same overall numbers as him, getting six podiums and your first ever Formula 1 victory. You finished the driver’s championship in fifth place, over older drivers that were literal champions of the world.

The first time Lewis Hamilton really engaged in conversation with you was during the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony by the end of the season. You were proudly smiling, holding your Rookie of the Year trophy. He had been polite to you before, but he always looked unattainable, in a way. He was beyond the world of Formula 1.

“Congratulations!” He smiled at you, sitting by your side. Your heart thrumming in your chest, trying not to fangirl too much. Sometimes it was unbelievable sharing casual conversation with legends you grew up admiring from afar.

“Thank you, Lewis. Congratulations on the championship!” You said.

“I’m sorry for not realizing most of the boys were excluding you. I chatted about it with Seb, and he told me your only friends are him and Fernando.” Lewis whispered, looking genuine, “I guess I was so focused on the championship that I didn’t bother to check on you. I’m sorry, really.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you raised your trophy, “I made it, right?”

“Succeeding despite the adversities… I see traits of a champion in you, congratulations” Lewis got up, raising his flute in a toast for you, “see you around, Lioness!”

Soon the next season you realized you had a competitive car. More than the year before. As for the first few races of the season, you had a win and podiums, which put you as a contender for the driver’s championship. Unfortunately the other people competing closely with you were none other than Charles and Max. Your rivalry had died down a bit when they noticed that you only shaded them when they provoked you first. So as their jabs became few and far between, it meant your clap backs did too.

The season was as good as it could get, that is until Monza.

You had felt the problems braking specifically during qualifying and your team tried to fix it but there wasn’t much anyone could do due to parc fermé. So you spent part of the night before the race working with your strategist to find a way around your braking problems and the best way to preserve your tyres.

The data had shown it would take a bit more strength to brake, which would eat up at your tyres quicker than usual, but other than that, everything seemed normal.

You all were wrong.

As the race went on, your brakes got progressively worse, to the point that curves were taking your body strength so much you could feel your muscles sore.

“We are considering retiring the car,” Jace, your engineer said. You inhaled, trying to calm down.

You were barely holding your P5, when you saw a Red Bull approaching you. You weren’t in position to fight, so he overtook you turning in a chicane. But your brakes didn’t work as you tried to slow down behind Max’s car, you tried not going into him but your tyres locked as you tried to avoid his rear. You drove straight into his rear, making the two of you lose control of your car. You braced for impact against the wall but luckily the gravel slowed you enough that you just touched the barrier.

After checking with your engineer, you left the car and saw Max leaving his, both DNFs.

You knew of your fame of being a reckless driver, often known for risky maneuvers and overtakes, but you never dove into someone intentionally because you knew trying to take someone out would mean yourself getting taken out too. As a marshal took you back to the garage on a motorcycle, you were ready to swallow your pride and apologize to Max for accidentally taking him out.

But as soon as you stepped down from the motorcycle, Max was in your space. His face was red and his hair all sweaty and disheveled, when he fronted you, chest to chest. You knew there were dozens of cameras pointed to you, so you tried to diffuse the tension for once.

“Are you insane?! Why did you drive into me?!” He kept advancing and for each of his steps ahead, you took one back to try and explain. But he didn’t give you a second screaming all kinds of curses and blame, “you should’ve never made it to Formula 1!”

His words were like a slap to the face, and you stopped trying to apologize or explain. You put both hands to your back, inflating your chest to face him.

“You don’t get to fucking decide that! You dipshit! Who the fuck do you think you are?” You said to his face, that’s when someone from the RedBull garage ran closer and stood between you.

You watched as he was taken away from you and inside his garage. At the same time your PT found you and walked you back to McLaren.

Changing from your race suit, you tried to cool down before going to the media. You gulped down your water as you watched Charles leading the race, and getting closer to the championship than you.

“There was an altercation between you and Max Verstappen, can you comment on that?”

“He was visibly upset with the racing incident.” It was all you said, after chatting with your PR manager before stepping out to chat with the journalists.

“And what happened at that incident? Can you walk us through it?”

“Yes, uh, we’ve been feeling something wrong with our braking system since yesterday. The data showed us it would require me to be more forceful during braking, which seemed feasible. But the brakes were wearing off during the race and we were about to retire when I completely lost the brakes. I really tried to avoid him but my tyres locked and I ended up hitting Verstappen.”

“Are you sure this accident has nothing to do with the ongoing rivalry between the two of you?” You got offended by the reporter's words.

“Of course! I would never intentionally do something to put myself or other drivers at risk. I have all the data to back me up and anyone can check my onboard.”

The FIA investigated your altercation with Max, and you ended up getting an unsportsmanlike behavior penalty. Two points in your super license.

“What the fuck?! Why the fuck would I be punished for that! There are fourteen different angles from that argument and all of them show how Verstappen aggressively came on to me first!”

It got worse when you heard that only you had gotten a penalty and Max didn’t even get a reprimand.

Everyone close to you noticed how you were on edge next week. During media day your answers were short, dry, and every single journalist seemed to want to talk about the penalty.

“Yes, I do have opinions on my penalty. But no, I won’t talk about it, only the FIA’s opinion is relevant” Your words during the press conference were enough to express a little dissatisfaction and to put an end to those questions. Everyone was surprised at the fact you chose to be quiet about the whole ordeal, they were all expecting your complaints and harsh words.

When you went back to your driver’s room, you went straight to lay your head on your mom’s lap, feeling a bit down. You stayed quiet as she ran her hands through your hair softly untangling it. She knew you were upset and why, so none of you bother to voice anything, bashing in the comforting silence.

The best thing about Formula 1 was being able to retire your mom from working, now you didn’t have to worry about her burning out and she didn’t have to worry about bills or mortgage or debts. Now she had a new, bigger and better house, everything was paid for and you even gave her a credit card for hobbies or whatever she wanted. She sometimes went to the races, but she usually stayed at home, relaxing.

“I know things are hard right now,” you mom started, her voice soft, caring, “but I know you can do it, honey. You’ve faced pushback since the beginning of this dream, but you always came out on top.”

“Thank you for believing in me.”

“You will be a world champion, honey. I know it.” She smiled down at you.

You sat up as your mom removed her watch, handing it to you.

“I wanted to give it to you on your birthday, but I feel like this is the right moment,” she turned the watch, showing you the inscription that read strong woman, and you felt your eyes water, “this was my grandma’s. She gave it to my mom, who gave it to me, and now it’s yours.”

That week you got a victory, raising your P1 trophy for your mom, who was watching you with a hand on her heart, crying happy tears.

As the season progressed the championship became even tighter between the three of you. Mere points set the three of you apart, and with each week result, the P1, P2 and P3 shifted between you. It had become one of the most competitive seasons in the sport.

When the third to last race came in Qatar, you were P3 in the championship, and you needed at least P4 in that race to keep fighting for the championship. You didn’t care about anything other than getting a podium, focused on your racing mindset, no distractions. If you only got that win, it would mean getting back that P1 in the championship and you would go down in history.

You were P3 after your last pitstop of the race, you had a small window of time to take advantage of being with new mediums while everyone else was with old softs. You had to pull ahead and open at least ten seconds, so you could become first when Max went to the pits. You had the perfect opportunity for an undercut.

That was until you overtook Charles’ Ferrari for P2. You passed him easily, he hadn’t gone to the pits yet, so he had old tyres. But you frowned as Jace warned you about Leclerc trying to take the position back. He couldn’t fight against your new tyres, everyone knew that. You accelerated to open a distance, but as you went fast into turn 4, you only felt the hit to your side, making you lose control of the car.

It was barely a few seconds that you couldn’t wrap your head around, so shocked you couldn’t brake, only feeling your stomach churn as you braced for impact. The second hit came against the barriers even harder than the first, it shook your whole body, leaving you dizzy and out of breath.

You talked with Jace, telling him in a shaky voice that you were okay but out of breath, and you unlocked your seatbelts with trembling hands. After removing your steering wheel, you tried to get up but you were dizzy and your legs felt like jelly. A marshal helped you out of the car, but as soon as your feet were on the ground, you stumbled to your knees. The nausea got the best of you and you puked against your balaclava and inside the helmet. The marshals made a small shield around you, as one of them helped you remove the helmet and balaclava, still dry heaving. The marshal gave you a towel, and you cleaned the best you could as the ambulance was coming.

You looked behind you to your destroyed car.

And just like that, you had lost any chance at the championship.

You held your tears as you went through the medical procedures and examinations. The world had been muted in the background and you could only hear the noise of the crash, visualizing your ruined car, and your dreams being crushed once again.

But as you came back to the hospitality, you found your mom, and sobbed quietly against her chest.

“It’s ok, honey. It’s okay,” her voice was so soothing and the pain meds were working, so you cried yourself to sleep while she held you.

Later that day, you watched the replay of your crash. Leclerc had gone way too close to you, but in turn 4 he hit the curbs and lost control, hitting your car right in the middle, full force. Your car had spun out a lot then hit the barriers. It was lucky that you had come out of the crash relatively unharmed, it was ugly and could’ve been a lot worse, from the way you spun and the G force your car hit the barrier with.

“You’re still watching that?” Your mom’s voice sounded in the middle of the night.

“He shouldn’t have tried to fight for the position back, he didn’t even have enough tyres for that! And he was way too close, look!”

Your mom closed your laptop, putting it on the coffee table. She took your hands in hers and smiled gently.

“I’m sorry about the championship. But I’m glad you’re okay, that was one of the scariest couple of seconds of my entire life,” she whispered, teary eyed.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, ashamed that it didn’t cross your mind how worried she might have been.

“It’s okay, honey. There’s always next year, I’m sure you will be world champion. And will be there cheering for you.”

The next week in Jeddah, you felt like the world was out to get you when they put you in the press conference with both Max and Charles, as well as Lewis and Sebastian.

“Y/N, how are you feeling after last week’s crash? It looked pretty bad.” Someone asked.

“I am doing ok, thank you,” that’s all you said into the mic.

“Unfortunately, the crash ultimately took you out of the championship, what do you say about that?”

You were so tired of that question, so tired of your PR manager talking in your head about not blaming Charles publicly, despiste your desire to scream to whoever may hear that the monegasque just wanted to take you out of the competition, so he could fight only Verstappen for the championship. You just wanted the season to be over, in all honesty.

“There’s always next year, right?” You echoed your mom's words, that were also your rehearsed answer. You looked to the side, feeling Sebastian’s hand softly on your forearm, a silent show of support.

You left as soon as it was over. You knew Charles had been trying to talk to you. You supposed it was to apologize, but you weren’t having it. You were still so angry at him that you worried you’d punch him as soon as he was in your face. So you just avoided him like the plague. You didn’t want to see him, and you couldn’t afford another punishment if you acted on your anger.

“Charles has been looking for you,” Sebastian said, walking up to you as you were finishing braiding your hair for the race.

“I have been avoiding him,” you said, not looking at Seb, still focusing on your braids.

“He just wants to apologize.”

“And I want to punch him in the face, so what? We can’t always get what we want” You clenched your jaw, using an elastic band to finish.

“Y/N…” Sebastian sounded tired.

“Don’t Y/N me. I just want this season to be over, ok? The championship was in my reach, and now it’s not. And it wasn’t even my own fault. So no, I won’t see him.”

Sebastian didn’t say anything as he walked to you and pulled you in an affectionate hug that made you want to cry again.

During the driver’s parade, Fernando acted almost as a guard dog, not letting anyone close to you. You talked with him and Lewis about the crash, explaining how it felt to you.

When the season ended, you got a third place trophy during the Prize Giving Ceremony. You remembered your dad’s words throughout the entire night. Coming down from the stage, and you met with Minttu and Kimi, they congratulated you, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of failure. You looked at Charles on the stage with his P2 trophy.

“Anything other than the first is failure, right?” You sighed, eyes glued to the stage, where Max got the trophy of Champion of the World.

“What crap is that?” Kimi said, suddenly.

“My dad used to say that when I was a kid.”

“Well he was an asshole,” Kimi said matter-of-factly, “and he never made it to F1. He didn’t even make it to F4, he has no reason or power to get in your head. You were just a kid. You understand?”

“Yes, Kimi," you swallowed, feeling some kind of wheight being lifted from your shoulders. Kimi had done many great things for your life with very few words, and his succint way of being was great to pull you back to the present whenever you anxiety got the best of you.

You ended up getting the Personality of the Year award too, which was such a surprise that it worked wonders to lift your spirits and to end the season with a sweet note.

Even being in a better mood, you didn’t stay at the party too late, saying your farewell to your friends as you dropped Kimi and his wife at the hotel. You were removing your makeup after a shower when there was a knock on your hotel room door. Thinking it was an emergency, you rushed only to be faced with Charles Leclerc.

“What are you doing here?” You looked around the hall, confused.

“Can I talk to you?” Charles was still dressed in his formal attire, black tie. He fiddled with his fingers as you let him in, afraid someone might see him at your door.

“What?” You crossed your arms as you closed the door.

“I’m really sorry about the crash in Qatar,” he waited for your answer with bated breath.

“Can we have this conversation when next season starts?” You proposed. You knew you weren’t ready for that talk yet, too much anger was still clouding your judgment for a level-headed talk.

“It wasn’t my intention to take you out-” He started but you cut him off.

“Look, you’ve never liked me, I’m aware, and you cost me an entire championship, so I don’t know if I believe you.”

“It really wasn’t intentional, the accident cost me the championship as well,” you could see in his eyes that his patience was wearing thin. But so did yours.

“No it didn’t. You still had a chance even after that DNF, you just didn’t win anyway,” your anger simmered again, making you raise your voice.

“Fuck you! You treat me like this because you always felt like you were better than everyone-”

“I treat you like this?! Be fucking for real, Charles! You hate me so much you took my chance at the championship away!”

“If you had more wins during the season maybe this wouldn’t be a problem right now!”

“Unbelievable! Because you are so much better than me, all you got was second place!”

“Shut up.”

“You’ve always hated me for absolutely no reason-”

“Shut up.”

“And now you think you can barge into my room and tell me you think I’m a shitty driver? I’m not standing for-”

“Shut up!” He shouted, which was so surprising you actually stopped talking.

The both of you were breathing heavily, in one second you were sure you could strangle him, in the next, his lips were against yours and his hand gripping your hair. The kiss was nasty, all teeth and lips and tongue, his hands going down your body, pressing you into him, and your fingers tugging at his suit, ripping the buttons. You broke the kiss, gasping for air, but Charles’ lips found your neck and he bit into your pulse point.

“Fuck you, Charles” you said, breathless, opening his trousers and he ripped your little sleep top with his bare hands.

It was so hot as you stumbled backwards and he followed you, tossing your top behind him, you took off his shirt and undershirt and he helped you kick out your shorts.

Charles pressed you against the wall, kissing you aggressively again, and you moaned as he placed his thigh between your legs, and you ground against him, turned on, dampening his trousers with the wet of your panties. You pressed your hand against his bulge, and he groaned, pressing into you even harder, humping like horny teenagers.

You didn’t even bother to get him naked, with his trousers half undone, you just pulled his cock out, heavy in your hands. You watched his pained expression as you spit on your hand so you could masturbate him.

“Fuck it,” you moaned, knowing grinding on him was not nearly enough.

You pulled your panties to the side, and lined his cock up into you. It was so tight as he slid into you, that your eyes rolled in pleasure, and he raised one of your legs against his waist to make room for his hips. He pulled back and snapped his hips into you again, his cock stretching you so good you were shaking. You put one arm around his shoulders holding on him and the other hand you held his ass under his loose trousers, your nails biting into his flesh as you pushed him even deeper.

“Fuck, ah-” he moaned in your ear, “so hot- putain-”

The loud, wet sounds of his hips pistoning into you were obscene. You angrily bit him, his shoulders, his chest, his jaw and he went even harder, your back hitting the wall behind you, and you pulled his hair, sweat starting to form all over your body.

“Fuck, Charles!” Your moans got even louder, and Charles stuck two fingers into your mouth, muffling your sounds as he fucked you.

He was hitting the perfect spot inside you, and it was enough for you to know you would come that way. You slapped his cheek, taking out some of your anger and he groaned, going harder. He pulled his fingers from your mouth and held your neck, pressing your torso against the wall and choking you a little bit.

“I can’t hold much longer” he warned you between gritted teeth, relentlessly fucking you.

You pinched your own nipples and it didn’t take long for you to come, your cunt clenching so hard around him, it was enough to send him over the edge too.

Shaking, the two of you slid to the floor, breathlessly lying down, half naked and sweaty.

None of you said a word.

When he was ready to go again, he put you on your knees, your torso against the mattress, and he pounded into your cunt mercilessly from behind.

The third and last time was lazy, slow missionary and he held your wrists above your head with one hand, pressed your clit with the other, sucked a few hickeys around your tits and his cock pressed over and over your g-spot.

When you woke up the next morning, Charles was still asleep by your side. You went into the bathroom and showered, hoping he would catch the hint and leave. But as you came out showered and dressed, he was still out cold. So you quietly packed your bag and left for the airport.

[katebishopsbow]

MISSING PIECE • F1 GRID

pairing: f1 grid x driver!reader (platonic)

summary: you have always taken pride in your ability to handle the press, until a journalist mentioned a sensitive topic that you had tried desperately to avoid – your estranged father. you struggled to give a response, and your fellow drivers showed no hesitation to jump in and defend you.

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, daddy issues, mentions of abusive parent, found family

word count: 3k

(image is not mine)

─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

Formula 1 journalists have always been known to be brutal – asking questions that teetered on the brink of privacy violation and unnecessarily hostile probing with the excuse of “providing insightful coverage” on the highly competitive sport.

That was why media training existed – to prepare drivers for the harshest, most demanding questions thrown at them and rewire their brains such that instead of lashing out, they would be able to gracefully divert the focus to something else while also preserving their pristine image.

You had always excelled at handling the media, and your ability to constantly remain level-headed even when they asked the most ridiculous of questions was something you took pride in – until a journalist purposefully asked about a subject you had desperately tried to avoid ever since your F1 career started.

The relationship you and your father had was rather difficult to explain. The two of you became distant since the day your parents divorced and you decided to walk away from his constant emotional unavailability and manipulation he so skillfully disguised as paternal love. He didn’t bother asking you to stay – well, he never bothered doing anything when it came to you. He called occasionally, only when he needed something from you and your mother, and sent birthday cards out of obligation a month late because god forbid he remembered your birthday if your mother hadn’t reminded him.

Then the calls became less frequent, and then they stopped altogether, and his empty promises of visiting became blatant lies that you no longer believed in. Your father gradually turned into a stranger, a missing piece, a clouded memory left behind in the childhood days of your life.

It was a hard subject for you to talk about, something you would much rather keep away from the limelight and scrutiny of the world. Unfortunately for you, secrets weren’t really a thing in F1, and the obvious absence of one of your parents on the grid and in all your victory celebrations had been noticed by the public’s watchful eyes.

So your secret was no longer a secret. All the drivers on the grid were aware of it, and a few closest to you had known the full truth of your strained relationship with your father, but they all avoided mentioning it as they knew it was a family matter you wanted to remain private. Most journalists were also respectful enough to avoid asking insensitive questions when interviewing you, phrasing their words like “How will you celebrate the win with your family?” instead of using the term “parents”, and you were more than appreciative of that.

So when the voice of a certain reporter who was known to be ruthless with his questioning echoed through the press conference, directing the uncomfortable and out-of-the-blue question toward you, you suddenly found yourself at a loss for words.

“Rumors have been circulating the Internet recently about you and your father. There are accusations against you claiming that you were ‘selfish’ and ‘ungrateful’ for cutting off ties with your parent, that a callous and unforgiving person such as yourself does not deserve a seat or to be the inspiration for young minds. What are your comments on such claims, and have you ever experienced regret for turning your back on your family – your very own flesh and blood?”

The sudden silence in the room was suffocating, and the only sound you could hear was the heartbeat that was drumming loudly in your ears as the colour drained from your face. The discussion revolving around your relationship with your father wasn’t anything you were unfamiliar with, but to hear it being brought up so directly in front of the press and all your fellow drivers, and all the demeaning names that people had called you – it had felt so demoralizing.

What happened between you and your dad was entirely private, people outside of your family who had never gone through what you had experienced should never have the right to make comments on your decision to leave. They didn’t know what it was like to have a father who was never there, who constantly let you down with his lies and broken promises, who subjected all his volatile temper and toxic outbursts to his daughter and wife.

You had enough of his bullshit and were simply sick of pretending to be the perfect little family, so you left with your mother and told yourself that you would never look back. It would be a lie if you said that you didn’t miss the presence of your dad every now and then – the palpable emptiness he left behind had and would continue to haunt you – but you also never once regretted your decision.

“I – I don’t think… these accusations… umm –” The composure you had always displayed in front of the media was long gone, and you struggled to find the right words to say in response to such an uncomfortable question. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixated on you while that journalist watched you with an inspective expression on his face, just waiting for the moment when you break – wanting you to lose control so that he could have the reaction he needed to write his article.

And all of a sudden, you were back in your childhood home, standing in the living room with your head hung low, fighting back tears as your father unleashed his wrath at you over the smallest, most trivial things. “What’re you crying for, huh? You want me to give you something to cry about?” he would say to you, his voice harsh and venomous as he screamed out insults that scarred your fragile little heart.

Then you were back in your grade school classroom, standing in front of the whole class and staying completely silent after your teacher assigned you the speech topic “My dad is my hero”. Your classmates looked at you as if you had grown a second head, confused by the way you were struggling to speak about a topic they could so easily blabber on for hours. You just couldn’t bring yourself to say anything – your dad was never your hero, he was a distant stranger who struck fear within you whenever he was around.

Then you were back in the bedroom at your new home, reading the birthday card that your dad had sent to you a month late. Written in the top left corner of the page was a scribble of your name, completely misspelled. You closed the card with tears brimming in your eyes, knowing that your existence was slowly beginning to fade from your father’s memories. You tried to remember what his voice sounded like, his calloused hands, his boisterous laughter on the rare days when he wasn’t screaming profanities at you and your mother, and then you realized that he was beginning to fade from yours, and it had felt so, so painful.

Blinking away the hectic memories, you were quickly dragged back to the reality of the press conference. Everyone was still waiting for your response, and the reporter continued to wait for you to crumble under pressure, but all you wanted to do was to run out of the room and hide from people’s blazing eyes, to not have the world criticize you on how you dealt with your family trauma.

“I think that is an absolutely unprofessional question to ask if I am being honest.” Max’s stern voice finally broke the silence, and you were still attempting to process the situation when he continued to chastise the overstepping journalist with an irritated scowl, “The focus of the press conference is to discuss the races and the drivers’ performances on the track, not to delve into people’s personal matter and bring up their family situations which clearly do not have any relevance to the sport.”

The Dutch driver had always been brutally honest, never afraid to speak his mind and call out the press for their bullshit, and this was no exception. Having a complicated relationship with his father himself, he knew the hardships of being in your situation and struggling with toxic family dynamics, and he experienced first-hand how the media loved exploiting such issues for the sake of a story. More importantly, you were his friend, and he would do anything to defend you.

You exchanged thankful glances with the driver next to you, feeling the warmth that blossomed over your heart when Max placed his hand over your trembling ones beneath the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze in a way that meant “Don’t worry. I got your back”.

Upon hearing what Max had to say, the reporter was quick to defend himself. “I was merely hoping to get some insights on whether or not the recent rumors had affected her performance on the track. That’s all,” he attempted to reason, trying to rationalize his intrusive question but was interrupted by another driver who frankly also had enough.

“I think everybody in this room is well aware that is not your intention,” Charles spoke up from his seat, staring at the lying journalist with a tight-lipped smile that was far from friendly. Being one of your closest friends on the grid, Charles was also no stranger to your father’s abusive tendencies and knew how tough it was for you to open up to him about such horrible memories. To see the press tried to take advantage of your vulnerability and blatantly lie about their ill intention sickened him, and he was not going to just sit and watch it happen.

The McLaren driver sitting beside him nodded as he let out a light chuckle, “Yeah I mean – I’m literally an idiot at reading the room but even I can tell that getting racing insights was not your only intention, mate.” The audacity some of these journalists and reporters had was astounding, thinking they could get away with asking disrespectful questions just because of their job titles. When it came to snapping back at their baleful antics, Lando did it once on camera with his iconic “Who are you?” and he would certainly do it again.

Carlos couldn’t help but smirk at Lando's cleverness – masking his reproval at the journalist with a self-deprecating joke. When his attention landed on the audience seated before him, he allowed himself to enjoy the caught-off-guard look on the journalist's now reddened face. “Serves him right for asking stupid questions,” Carlos muttered in a hushed voice just loud enough for himself to hear before turning his head to catch your eyes, shooting you a quick smile as a sign of support. You returned the kind gesture, thankful that your friends were standing by your side when you needed help.

As the journalist busied himself with trying to recollect his composure, an awkward silence hung upon the room once again. That was when Daniel perked up from his seat, the usual cheerful smile on his face as he proceeded to do what he did best – easing the tense atmosphere and diffusing the tension with a touch of humour. “Well, I can totally affirm that Lando can be an idiot sometimes,” he joked while grinning mischievously at the papaya driver, and the mood in the room visibly lightened as a few reporters laughed at his playful words.

“But on a more serious note though, I do believe it’s important to remember that drivers are also human beings, and we all have our own struggles and difficulties both on and off track. It’s crucial to respect drivers’ boundaries and not exploit their personal struggles, and our sole focus should always be on the sport and racing,” Daniel voiced out respectfully, emphasizing the one thing that people always seemed to forget – that drivers deserved privacy and owed nobody any explanations on their personal lives, even if they lived under the spotlight.

Oscar and Pierre who were seated at the further end of the table also nodded at Daniel’s resonating words, expressing their agreement on the importance of maintaining a respectful and uplifting environment for all drivers. “What are your thoughts, y/n?” A female reporter in the crowd raised the question, subtly giving you an encouraging smile as she steered the attention back to you, offering you the chance to speak your truth and address the situation directly.

The fear and dread within you slowly dissipated, replacing them was the heartwarming gratitude at your fellow drivers who showed no hesitation in defending you in the face of intrusive questioning. It was then that you realized you were never alone in this journey, that the other drivers on the grid were not only your competitors but your family who understood what you had gone through and would unconditionally have your back.

It was their reassuring glances, their wholehearted support, and their willingness to stand up for you that enveloped you with the strength and courage needed to finally speak up for yourself. “I would like to start off by thanking all the drivers here with me, and thank you to the journalist for that rather personal question,” you spoke clearly at your microphone, your voice emboldened by the newly found determination as you watched the journalist shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“While I do appreciate the public’s concern regarding my family issues, I would prefer to keep my personal life private. The decision to distance myself from my father to prioritize my well-being and emotional health is not something I regret doing, and it is not fair for people outside my family who don’t understand the complexities of our relationship to make assumptions on the matter.”

Taking a deep breath to gather your thoughts, you made the closing remarks to your statement, “Which is why I kindly ask for your understanding and space moving forward, to respect the privacy of not only me but everybody on the grid and allow us to deal with our personal matter privately, and ultimately create a respectful community within Formula 1.”

You looked around the room when you had finally finished speaking, meeting the eyes of your fellow drivers and the rows of reporters sitting before you. Your hands were still shaking from the nerves that pulsated through you, but a firm squeeze of Max’s hand pulled you back to the present before you could begin spiraling. “It’s okay. You’re okay,” he said with a gentle smile.

The media training sessions had come in handy once again, and you managed to address the situation in a graceful manner without revealing more details than you were comfortable sharing while also highlighting the importance of personal boundaries in the world of motorsports. “Thank you, y/n,” the previous female reporter nodded at you with a proud smile, glad that you put those unprofessional reporters who had no sense of boundaries back in their place.

Among the sea of cameras and eager reporters who could so easily expose the vulnerabilities of the drivers with a simple flick of their pens, some suddenly found themselves becoming the subject of such exposure, called out for their prying questions and insatiable need to twist people’s words for a click-worthy story.

It was evident that what you and the other drivers said had struck something within them as they silently began reflecting on their roles and responsibilities as reporters, and perhaps remembering the reason why they had chosen journalism in the first place – to report the factual truth to the public, or to fabricate things in exchange for views and attention?

The press conference proceeded to continue, but the shift in the atmosphere was apparent when journalists asked their questions with more sensitivity and introspection, mentioning topics that genuinely mattered instead of blindly chasing exclusive headlines. When the conference finally ended, you and all the drivers collectively exuded a breath of relief, feeling a weight being lifted off your shoulders now that the far-from-enjoyable media day was over.

As you exited the room and were away from the cameras and people, you turned around and gave your friends an appreciative smile. “Thank you all… for standing up for me.” You must have sounded like you were close to tears because Daniel began cooing at you teasingly as if he were comforting a crying child, “Aww… don’t worry about it, kiddo.”

Charles leaned forward to ruffle your hair almost like what an older brother would, and he said to you tenderly, “We’re a team, and we’ll always have your back.” You were not going to cry initially, but now you weren’t so sure. At that moment, you had felt so loved, so supported, and it made you want to hide under the covers and bawl your eyes out from the rush of emotions that crashed over you.

Your friends, understanding the depths of your emotions, gathered around to offer you their words of encouragement and gentle pats on your back. “I love you guys, really…” you whispered quietly, looking at them with such sincerity and gratitude. How lucky were you to be able to have these people as your competitors, your friends, your found family?

“Who wants to go and eat because I’m actually starving,” Lando exclaimed as he began walking in the direction of the restaurants, and a few of the drivers tailed behind him as they joined in on the rant about how hungry they were. You watched them with an overwhelming sense of fondness, and when Max reached out his hand for you to take, you gladly accepted it.

Listening to the light-hearted banter and laughs that filled the air with your best friend right next to you, you knew that this was exactly where you belonged. Not in the tiny living room with your father screaming at you, not in the classroom with the kids who didn’t understand what you had been through, not in the bedroom where you cried over your fading memories with your father, but right here – with your favourite people who would always be there to fight your battles with you.

[kinopio-writes]

Hello dearie!!

How are you? I hope you're doing well!

I saw that your asks were open,and your content is really cool and silly,So I decided to leave you a nice ask to enjoy!

Could I have a headcanon platonic! Alastor,Vox and Husk finding a random child next to their dead mother, except that they don't really understand that she's dead and think she's sleeping,so they pity the child and take them in?

The child is really polite and nice,pretty calm,too. Sure,they do child stuff,like running around,being excited,etc,but they still are more calm than others.

They always talk about their mother,how she's the only one left,and how they love her.

Would the characters say the truth? Would they lie?

I just love hurt/comfort and platonic relationships so :3

Anyways,I hope that's not too much,and that you enjoy writing this!

Have a really nice day,don't forget to drink and take breaks!

Stay proud!

-Nina <33

A/N: Thank you for the reminders, heh. Btw, I’m going to have to change the reasons as to why they took you in because I just don’t see characters like Alastor and Vox taking you in because of pity. Sorry about that. The rest is untouched. You’ll still get a bit of that hurt/comfort (mostly from Husk, lol. Both Alastor and Vox are non-existent, but Alastor is somehow better than Vox).

Warnings: Mentions of death

———

Alastor, Husk, and Vox adopting a deceased mom’s child

Alastor

• Alastor paid no mind to the dead corpse

• it didn’t really look that appetizing anyway

• “How unfortunate.” You heard a weird voice from behind you as a hand was placed on your shoulder. “A child mourning in the demise of its mother. Tragic, really. You have my condolences.”

• “What are you talking about, mister?” You stared up at the mysterious man, watching his eyes flick from your left to right eye while his grin only grew as the seconds went by

• “I think you’ve just found yourself the perfect dwelling,” he abruptly said, letting go of your shoulder to fix his bowtie as he sprung back to life. “Why don’t you come with me?”

• “But what about my mother?”

• “She is in good hands, I can assure you.” He offered his hand to you. “Come along, now. Children shouldn’t dwell long in places like these.”

• and so he took you in to be a patron at his hotel

• I mean, what’s more easier to redeem than a child? (assuming you’re a sinner. I don’t know if it’s canon anymore that only hellborns can reproduce. Look at Cannibal Town’s people)

• he intended to leave you in the rest of the residents’ care while they could only guess what his actual motivation was for taking you in

• but it seemed you ended up favoring him more than the rest

• you’d follow him around like a duckling—a lost puppy—you’re attached to him like a leech

• and you’re so well-behaved, too

• up until he leaves your sight

• he actually leaves the hotel a lot more often now because of that

• he finds you wrecking chaos in the hotel entertaining as hell

• and the fact that the others beg him to come back to calm you down

• I don’t think you would ever know what happened to your mother

• even when you talk about her a lot

• those rambles never really prompt him to say anything

• well, it’s not as if he knew what happened to her

• but, hey, at least he listens!

• maybe it’s because he feels a little nostalgic hearing the way you talk about her…

———

Husk

• Husk was fucking spooked when he found you lying beside your dead mother

• not because of the corpse, but because of the way you were staring at him

• with eyes dull and wide open, just like your mother

• while Husk wouldn’t have given two shits if it was a grown-ass adult, you were a child

• so he took you in

• “But what about my mother?”

• “Shi—I, uh—your momma will tag along soon. Now c’mon. She wouldn’t want you out here alone.”

• since Husk is constantly around the hotel, there were never really instances where you wreaked havoc

• you just silently watch him tend the bar and sometimes talk about your mother

• your talks about how much you love her make him feel pretty guilty for some reason

• but he’d probably tell you when you’re older enough

• only if you were asking him about her though

• he wouldn’t want to have to sit you down and tell you something that sensitive of a topic when you didn’t even ask

• “Why don’t I have a mother?” you would suddenly ask when you turned 18

• today was your birthday. Charlie insisted on having a little party for you just like every year. But you didn’t want one; you wanted to be with Husk for the day

• the man in question sighed

• he knew you were building up the courage to ask all day

• “I’m gonna give it to you straight, kid, I don’t know what exactly happened to her. All I know is that she’s in a better place.”

• “Oh…”

• “Do you…wanna talk about it?” He continued, voice a little unsure, “Not as a bartender…but as a dad.”

• you smiled, grateful. “I think I’ve already said plenty when I was younger. But thanks, Dad.”

• he smiled back

• you two would then sit in silence together, basking in each other’s presence

———

Vox

• so, uh, I’m going to have to completely skip the taking you in part with Vox because I genuinely cannot see him adopting a random child (unless he could gain something, but, like, you’re just a kid)

• so you’ll just get the aftermath of it (hope that’s okay)

• based on the way he handled Val’s tantrum, I think it’s safe to assume that he’s somewhat good with children

• but he’s a pretty busy guy

• he doesn’t have the time to take care of a random child, so he’d make sure to keep an eye on you on his cameras

• but despite that, your existence in the tower warrants his

• as you’re too chaotic whenever he isn’t around

• but only around the other expendable employees

• you’re relatively well-behaved when Velvette and Valentino are with you

• but he doesn’t exactly trust them to take care of you

• they aren’t exactly good with children

• so he tried doing video calls

• you will definitely grow up as an iPad kid

• he’d hear you talk about your mom during those calls

• he’d let you go on and on, but it’s not guaranteed that he’ll listen

• I don’t think he would ever tell you what happened to her (he doesn’t know, anyway)

• he won’t lie, he’d just work around your question

• skillfully

• like, extremely so

• even if you ask him directly, he still manages to dodge the question somehow

• I don’t know what else to say, he’s gonna be a pretty distant father—

[islandofsages]

hey, I could ask the royal boys (Leona, Kalim and Malleus) with the male reader who is already the king of his country, like the boys thought he was a prince like them, but then on any given day he lets out a complaint how difficult it is to govern the kingdom and study for exams at the same time, sometimes he just wanted to be the prince and not the king.

characters: leona, kalim and malleus x king!male reader

tags: platonic, canon compliant, fluff, imagines + scenario format

warnings: a little bit of negativity towards reader in leona's part, a bit of swearing in kalim's

author's notes: loving all the male reader requests rn. i think i strayed a bit from the prompt but i hope you like it anyway <3

Leona Kingscholar

Though being a prince himself, he’s not as “diplomatic” with the other princes at that school - except for you probably. No don’t ask him what happened, he’s ready to accept it as it is

At least because of your (assumed) status, he finds it easier to communicate with you; at least you’re not one of the top five most powerful mages in the world or the most optimistic person in Twisted Wonderland

Hangouts with him still consist more of silent chilling though; both of you just need to get away from it all for a while

He doesn’t question the days that you’re gone - sometimes people just end up needing you to do this and that. He tries not to dwell on it too much, lest his inferiority complex gets the best of him

Until one day, you come back after one day of absence, which is normal enough until-

“*sigh* I swear, being king is less appealing as my retainers make it sound, especially since I also have to go to school all the while.”

I’m sorry, being what now?

He knew you were royalty, that much he got from everyone whispering about you back when you enrolled and since you made little mention of your background, he just assumed you were a prince like him

You let out a tired chuckle then and comment on how you forgot that you never told him you’re an actual king of a nation

He has mixed feelings over this - he thought he finally met someone a little bit like him, yet you’re just another one of them and you never bothered telling him who you are?

But don’t worry, he gets over his feelings of betrayal after a while; it’s not like the reveal changed who you are as a person. You’re still the same guy who he’s been hanging out with and he knows his brain is trying to defend itself

You apologize for not telling him sooner and despite your complaints, you try not to sound ungrateful, especially considering his issues

At some point, even Leona himself starts to forget about that fact

It doesn’t matter if you carry a whole nation on your shoulders because - and he will never say this out loud - he knows you’re capable and if you start to crumble, he’ll be there for you.

Kalim Al-Asim

Though he’s not one to really care about someone’s social status, he’s happy to have more royal friends

Doesn’t stop him from spoiling you. Haven’t you heard? Any friends of Kalim are also friends of his many, many fortunes

He invites you over to Scarabia for parties every so often and either you are surrounded by people or everyone leaves you alone out of intimidation

But hey, if the latter happens, Kalim is more than happy to help you make some friends (unless you’re uncomfortable with it of course but he’ll still try to help)

One time, at one of his many parties, you two were simply laughing over something and it reminded you of something-

“That makes me think of the time this creature took a shit on my throne back at home - it took a few days for the stench to fade!”

Oh, of course, your throne! Everyone totally has a literal throne back home! Until Kalim realizes that is, in fact, untrue

As if he wasn’t already excited at the prospect of a new friend, he gets more excited at the fact that you have your own throne and is, he concludes, a monarch

You brush him off, light pink decorating your cheeks, saying that it’s not really that special - and you mean it

You tell him of the experience and you couldn’t help slip in a few complaints; it isn’t easy to juggle both school and royal responsibilities at the same time

He only listens in and tries his best to understand; he is no king, and though he is a housewarden and a prince, your struggles differ from his by a long mile

From that day on, he makes sure to check in on you and if you’re feeling less than, he’ll drop everything and do anything to relieve you of your stress

When he drops by your nation and your palace, he brings in a whole parade. It’s so Kalim that you can only laugh

You knew that story about a creature shitting on your throne was gonna be a good story at parties.

Malleus Draconia

Your presence is an absolute delight to him; it didn’t occur to him to ask what kind of royalty you are but it didn’t matter either way

He finds himself more comfortable talking about his heritage around you, knowing that you can somewhat relate to being of nobility

If you’re not part of his club, sometimes you tag along on his gargoyle crusades for the hell of it - seeing him so passionate about something brings a smile to your face

On one of your many escapades, he points out a gargoyle and begins to ramble about its features

Hearing it suddenly makes you remember-

“Ah gosh, I just remembered I should be back home right now, some of my people will be coming over to construct some gargoyles around my castle.”

He doesn’t question it at first but then the phrase “my people” registered in his mind. Wait, what do you mean your people?

You start to apologize for not telling him and also the fact that you have to leave that very moment

After you came back after the whole ordeal, you sit him down somewhere and tell him about your position

As mentioned, it doesn’t matter to him what responsibilities you have, as long as you can be his friend

You breathe out a sigh of relief and invite him to continue where you two left off last time

Nothing changes much between you two, except for the fact that you share more of your kingly experiences

He definitely drops by your place at least once - he could never miss out a chance on seeing some new gargoyles

And as he looks on at those beautiful waterspouts, you can’t help but be grateful that they can serve as a source of happiness for someone too.

[natimiles]

Caring (Satan x reader)

Summary: It doesn’t take him more than a glance your way to know something is wrong.

Words: 950

Tags: can be platonic or romantic; cuddles; hurt/comfort for reader; no specified pronouns.

Sometimes you forget how perceptive he can be. But what would you expect? Satan was a walking encyclopedia who loved reading detective stories. So it doesn’t take him more than a glance your way to know something is wrong.

He doesn’t say anything, not during dinner. He will wait; he doesn’t want to cause a ruckus. His brothers — especially Mammon — would probably make things worse if they realize you’re not quite yourself tonight. It pains him to admit that Lucifer probably noticed too, but is keeping quiet for the same reason as he is.

When dinner is over, you excuse yourself and make a beeline for your bedroom. Satan doesn’t linger in the dining room either, opting to go to his room to change into his pajamas before heading to the library. He knows he can find more help there. 

The blonde finally finds what he needs and makes his way to your bedroom, thankful that his brothers are back in their own rooms; the last thing he wanted was for someone to see him and decide to tag along. Since the kitchen is already empty, he makes a quick stop there. He sets two mugs of hot, soothing tea on a tray and continues on his way to you.

Satan calls for your name when reaches your door, unsure if you’re still awake.

He waits for a while, straightening his posture and moving closer to the door to ensure he can hear you. He debates whether to call you again, knock on the door, or simply attempt to barge in — he never once considers leaving you alone. Then he hears your soft steps crossing the room on the other side. Not long after, he hears the soft click of the door being unlocked, and he finally gets to see your face again.

The first thing he notices is that you’re still in your uniform, and he tries hard not to frown, not wanting to give you the wrong impression.

“Hey, Satan,” your voice is weak, and you try to smile, but he sees how it doesn’t reach your eyes. You scan the tray in his hands and then his face. “Wanna come in?”

“I do, thanks.” He walks inside and sets the tray on the table. “I brought tea, as you can see.”

“That’s lovely of you.” There it is again, the weird smile you’re giving today. He must be giving you a funny look because you furrow your eyebrows. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re weird today,” he says bluntly. Your eyes widen, and he realizes he probably sounded rude, waving his hands. “No, no! Wait, let me rephrase that, please… Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, and something is different from your usual self, but I cannot pinpoint what it is.”

Casting down your gaze, you turn to make your way to the bed, flopping down onto it, and staring at your ceiling. You should’ve known your favorite demon would never let anything slide.

He follows every movement of you with his eyes.

“I’m just feeling down, and… a little anxious, I guess?” you shrug. “Just one of those days where everything that could go wrong, goes wrong.” You laugh with no humor.

“I see.” He puts his hand on his chin, thoughtfully. “Well, I have soothing tea, safe for humans, don’t worry. If you want to talk about it, drink in silence, not drink it at all, cuddle, or just stay silent together, I’m here.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him. He’s still standing beside the table, as if waiting for you to decide what you want before coming to your side. Your heart clenches at how adorable and considerate he can be, and it’s like you finally remember how perceptive, smart, and caring he is; how much he loves you.

“I would like that tea,” you say with a nod. “And some cuddles.”

“Good choice,” he smiles, sounding almost proud of you. “Why don’t you change into your pajamas or something more comfortable? I can get it for you.”

Nodding once more, you accept his offer. And in no time, Satan gave you your pajamas, threw your uniform into the laundry basket, and was now handing you the steaming mug of tea. You can’t believe that it’s still hot, but then you think he probably put a spell on it to keep it hot enough while drinking.

He settles down beside you, leaning his back against the headboard, and starts chatting about the most random topics he can pull off. When he notices you’ve finished your tea, he shows you his last weapon. You raise your eyebrows, only now noticing he brought your favorite book with him.

“You remembered…”

“Of course I did,” he raises an eyebrow, sounding almost offended and indicating how obvious it is that he retains every little piece of information about you. “Would you like me to read it for you?”

“I’d like it very much,” you reply with a soft smile. This time, he notices how your eyes are starting to shine again.

“Very well, then why don’t you settle down here?” He pats his thigh.

Putting your empty mug aside on the nightstand, you lie down, using his lap as a pillow and pulling your blankets to cover you. He smiles down at you and gives you a kiss on the forehead. He opens the book and starts reading, his fingertips absentmindedly playing with your hair.

Satan knows that it’s probably not enough to completely heal you of this unpleasant feeling you were experiencing, but it’s a start. He’ll make sure to always be there for you in the future.

Taglist: @sh0jun @chevcore @judejazza

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