#😭😭😭😭😭 i need cele and podium again 😭😭😭😭

[collecting--stardust]

Yup if it's not obvious I'm having a brainrot over last year's Catalan GP

[blorbocedes]

charlos for @vegasgrandprix as tumblr deleted my post for violating community guidelines 😭

Prompt: charlos… perhaps h/c. As long as Charles is baby girl I’d be please

i am so stupid for the longest time I was trying to figure out what h/c is... hair condition, hand cock, hard consent before realizing it was hurt/comfort 😭😭 babygirl + service top for u

"Congratulations, Carlos, you deserve it." Charles had miserably squeaked out, holding on to his duty of sportsmanlike conduct after finishing their post-race summary video. Another race, another Ferrari strategy fuck up; this time Carlos making it on the podium because he had ignored the call to box; and Charles ever the prodigal son got royally fucked over -- what should've been an easy 1-2 became a 3-4.

He was happy about his own result, of course, but for the team as a whole this was becoming a worrying trend. You shouldn't have to be fighting your own team, while going against the Redbulls ahead and Mercedes behind. Carlos was also well aware of his role as Ferrari's second driver; it is to complement and support the first. It seemed the young il-predestinato was having to deal with the tragedy of destiny not announcing before it came. Charles would never know what waiting 7 years for his first win would feel like, and Carlos would never know what the entire weight of Ferrari's hopes and expectations to bring home the crown feels. In a way, they only really had each other. Both middle children, but Charles grew up with brothers; Carlos carried his father's name as the only son; he knew a thing or two about large shoes to fill. Being a second driver meant taking care of Charles fell into his list of duties too.

Charles opened the door when Carlos knocked. He wore misery like a painting, the dejected little mouse.

"Carlos, now is not a good time. I thought you would be out cele--" Charles started saying, wide-eyed and shiny like he'd been crying, but Carlos had already stepped in, closing the door neatly behind him and pulling Charles in for a hug. He has learned that often times, what Charles says and what he needs are not the same.

"You should have been up there with me. You drove brilliantly." Carlos tells him, and he can feel Charles reacting to his words -- makes no escape to leave his embrace.

"No—this is not right, you had a good race, you should be enjoying it, not here." Charles says, while sinking further into Carlos' arms, who rubs circles on his back. Charles, Charles and his need to be a martyr, to say and do and be everything right and still come up short with no fault of his own. There is no question why he is so beloved, from fans to the engineers at Maranello, with shoulders ready to carry the weight of the world.

"Shhh." Carlos shushed him, and Charles did. They were practically the same height, but Charles felt small in his hands; like he could throw him easily if he wanted to. He should come up with a label, "this side up. fragile, handle with care" although Charles wouldn't appreciate the comparison.

"It's not fair." Charles admitted quietly, so quiet that if he had not tucked his chin on his shoulder, by Carlos' ear it would've been eaten up by the air. These the words he could never admit to the world, but here, to Carlos he could. He wrapped his arms around Carlos too, and if anyone made a move they would break apart a million miles away -- instead of this warm contact, heartbeat to heartbeat.

"It's not," Carlos agreed. He told Charles what he tells himself when the inevitable blues catch up to him, finding him unaware. "But you are a Ferrari driver. You are driving your best. And you will race again next week."

He can feel Charles nod against him.

And later, when they're sitting down in the small motorhome -- still in each other's arms and Charles starts rutting against him, Carlos lets him.