#To have a chance to be not just on the guys level
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108, Canada. First of all, I would have died in my 20s when I got appendicitis, if I did at all.
Secondly, being as I am living off a disability pension now, I genuinely don't know if being part of a hunter-gatherer society in the year 108 would have been worse. I know the conventional wisdom is that of course the past wasn't better for anyone. But the year 108 seems a little early for the kind of sexism people are thinking of, and it's not like I am not systematically denied healthcare now. Covid wouldn't exist yet, and there is some chance I'd actually be part of a community where my skills were appreciated, despite whatever weird hangups or disabilities I have. The biggest question would be whether they'd be cool with me not wanting to fuck, or pair off, or have kids. Or whether I could survive and tolerate being forced to have kids.
I'd definitely be a lot colder for much of the year. Probably.
The thing about already having a very low quality of life is that short of dying there isn't much anywhere to go but up, and I don't think that early humans could end up "homeless" the way people can today, so I don't think that particular downgrade is on the table. I haven't done anything that's really an 'abandon this person and kick them out of the group' level offense. I write stories, I do lots of crafts, I can cook and repair things and I am good at visually identifying subtle differences. I don't think I'd be less hyper-competent in other time, but my skills would be FAR more valued.
The quality of life I have now is largely owed to my own resourcefulness in the face of completely lacking any support stricture or appropriate finances or the care that gets provided to the guy next to me. Like Yeah I wouldn't have my pension, but I also wouldn't be expected to have money to be allowed to build myself a shelter or go get myself food.
That all said, I also only ever got appendicitis because of a lead bullet and I don't think they had those then???? So maybe I'd be fine actually??
Like it would be DIFFERENT as fuck, but better or worse might be highly subjective when your pension is 1200 and your rent is 1000. We take for granted how much benefit we get just by existing in the modern world but we maybe also underestimate how many people are simply cut out of those benefits mattering to them. The aspects of modern convenience I am ALREADY cut out of due to poverty, disability and specifically Covid isn't trivial. I struggle to think of a modern amenity I rely on for basic quality of life that would not have an equivalent that might even be more accessible to me.
Some minor conveniences that I can actually make use of wouldn't be there sure, but so many of the things that destroyed my health or habitually set it back also just didn't exist them or wouldn't have happened.
I'm not saying I'd prefer it. I'd go nuts without the internet for a start. I want novels, and the internet and comics and modern music. I like some video games... But the version of me that never knew these things? Would their objective quality of life be worse?
The 1800's would be worse, the year 1000 would be worse... But the year 108? I genuinely don't know. Humans are resilient. I've been unfathomably resilient. Multiple chemical sensitivities probably wouldn't even be a thing I'd have to think about in a world where I had the diet of a hunter gatherer, it actually lines up pretty well with what I can even eat now. I'd have less cheese though, sad.
The decade you’re given is the decade to which you’re transported. Your geographic location doesn’t change; only the time period changes. “Equivalent QOL” means a qualify of life that approximates the life you have now and anticipate being able to have in the future.
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sturnmeovr · 2 days ago
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♡‧₊˚ Neighbor!Matt x Brat!Reader - text scenarios
♡ Text One - Matt gets too comfortable after hooking up with Brat the first few times, texting her phone and asking where she's at. Brat quickly shuts him down because who the fuck does he think he is?
♡ Text Two - Brat very rarely hangs out at the boys' apartment, mainly because of the company they keep. Chris has a friend over that is a bit too talkative for Brat's liking. Matt could read her like a book so, when he gives her his signature 'what the fuck' face from across the room, she's quick to pull out her phone and text him.
♡ Text Three - Matt, being the blue collar boy he is, is constantly fixing up Brat's apartment. The property manager isn't the best and Brat has a less updated apartment than the boys do, this gives Matt more opportunity to be in close proximity of Brat, which he absolutely loves.
♡ Text Four - Matt never orders out. He has a secret love for cooking, it's one of his main hobbies. When he realizes Brat has almost every meal doordashed to her apartment door, he starts to take mental notes of which places she orders from most, sometimes even sneaking down to take a look at the bag to see her full order. This just give him an excuse to talk to her. He'll text her quite often, asking what she'd like for dinner, on him, of course.
♡ Text Five - Brat hates it when Matt stay up all night, yelling at his stupid game. Her beauty sleep is very important to her, and she doesn't bite her tongue for anyone. A lot of the time, she ends up saying something she regrets, never truly facing the problem, she's rather ignore it.
♡ Text Six & Seven - Matt needs clarification after Brat goes out barhopping with her friends. They've been fucking each other senseless the last three weeks, neither of them believe in sleeping around with multiple people, but they have got to that level of comfortability to talk about it.
♡ Texts Eight & Nine - Matt just wants to hang out with Brat any chance he can get. They usually hook up on the weekends, too bad for the both of them - Brat gets her period. Matt doesn't care, he enjoys Brat's company more than anything since he not too social nowadays.
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♡‧₊˚ Decided to switch it up and add some descriptions with each text scenario to explain it a bit more. Maybe I can go more in depth with it??! Let me know what you guys think 🫶🏻 More for them coming soon, and dw I'm seeing everyone’s asks about my Au's, just taking them one by one! Definitely adding them to notes as I wrote!
Masterlist
© m00nl1ghts1vt - please do not copy my work
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goodlucktai · 3 days ago
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one of the rotten ones
rottmnt word count: 2k pairing: don & leo, don & OC title borrowed from anthems for a seventeen year old by yeule part of the archer au :) read on ao3
x
“I don’t think Gio likes me,” Donnie blurts. 
He’d feel self-conscious if he was pressed to admit it anywhere else, but he’s in the infirmary, and the only one around to hear him say so is his twin. 
They’re moving into hour two of Leo’s “faves” playlist and the fourth consecutive Taylor Swift song even though he swore he put it on shuffle. Leo is going through cabinets and shelves systematically, updating inventory on his phone, while Donnie infodumps about energy storage and projectile dynamics and the breaking strength of crossbow string. 
Donatello’s base knowledge of this particular ranged weapon is severely lacking, which is a significant personal problem for him now that he has a sibling with a preference for archery. He needs to be the world’s leading expert on the subject yesterday. He has half a dozen half-formed plans for things like sonar bolts for 3-D mapping, which may or may not have been inspired by the Jupiter Jim Pluto Vacation run.   
Only every glance at the project folder simply labeled ‘G-01’ causes an uncomfortable feeling to squirm to life in his stomach, not unlike the Krang tentacles that had attached themselves to his carapace on the day the world didn’t end. 
Donnie isn’t good at people. He doesn’t know how they tick, and there are no reliable lines of code or handy user manuals that he can fall back on when he’s mystified by human behavior. 
His siblings don’t have the same problem. Leo is perceptive to a degree that borders upon clairvoyance, Mikey is the single-most emotionally intelligent member of their family, Raph is more charming than he gets credit for, and April can talk her way through any closed door, police tape or VIP-only entrance. None of them fumble the way Donnie does when a social interaction goes off-script, like it’s a volleyball that got served his way without the ample warning he needs to be anything approaching passable at the sport. 
But he knows he’s not imagining it—the way Gio seems to brace himself when Donnie comes into the room, like he’s expecting a confrontation every time. Like the last thing Donatello could want with him is something good. 
Donnie can be a lot. They all can. They come by it honestly, equal parts chaotic lab experiments and their father’s sons. And not every structure is built to withstand hurricane winds. Not every person is equipped to deal with a Hamato level weather event. 
But he has never seen Gio flinch away from anyone else. 
So he did what he always did when confronted by something outside his formidable repertoire—he took it to Leo. 
There had never in Donnie’s life been a problem that couldn’t be made into their problem. It came with twin territory. 
And Donnie’s twin in particular is good at translating Donatello and translating other people for Donatello, and jumps on any chance to be helpful and feel wanted, and absolutely loves problems. It’s one of the most annoying and endearing things about him. If there is any trouble within a hundred miles, Leo will find it. He will worm his way into the center of it and then puzzle his way out from the inside. Most other clever and curious people were satisfied by the daily Wordle; Leo would chew through a wall unless he had something more hands-on to occupy his mind with. As polar-opposite as the two of them could be in, in that regard, they were one and the same. 
It’s somewhat reassuring to Donnie that Leo’s immediate reaction is plain incredulity. He looks baffled, like Donnie has just started throwing stuff around the room for no reason. 
(He knows better. In the medbay, of all places, that would be a death wish. Leo runs a tight ship here and only here.)
“Sorry, you don’t think Gio likes you?” Leo says slowly. “Our Gio? The guy who let you infodump about the mycelial networks of fungi to him for almost two hours, all because Mikey mentioned he was making mushroom stir-fry for dinner?” 
Donnie scoffs, but he can’t help but feel warmed by the reminder. Gio had settled right in, the way he always did once he was sure of his welcome, and watched Donnie talk like nothing more interesting existed on this side of the equator.
“His eyes didn’t even glaze over,” Leo goes on, doing what he always does and pressing the advantage. “That’s a new personal best in this family. Even April started looking for a window to climb out of at the thirty minute mark.”
“There was bound to be at least one other mutant turtle in the New York metropolitan area with an appreciation for botany,” Donnie says imperiously, tilting his chin up. 
But the worry is still there, firmly rooted, trying to flower. Leo must be able to tell because his frown deepens, playfulness evaporating by the second. He pauses the music and sets his phone down. The room rings in the sudden silence, but it’s not uncomfortable, because it’s a room Donnie exists in with his twin. 
“I just want him to like me,” Donnie says. It’s a childish want, it makes him feel half his age, but it’s true. 
He was never one of those human kids lingering near the playground, on the edge of the classroom, desperate to fit in. He was never on the outs because he never had the chance to be. But this is probably what that would have felt like. 
Giorgio is quiet by default, absorbing everything with dark brown eyes, always pausing to think before speaking in a low, flat register that is becoming as familiar to Donnie as Raph’s comforting rumbles and Mikey’s energetic shrieks and Leo’s sweet or sly laughter. 
He hasn’t been anything but kind since he got here. He saved Leo, brought him home from a place it should have been impossible to come home from, so Donatello would put up with any manner of assholery from that quarter in exchange—but it’s not that at all. 
Once Gio’s initial guard goes up and then comes down, once they outlive that moment of consideration that verges upon scrutiny without ever crossing the line, the eldest turtle softens for any younger one like clockwork. He indulges whatever noise or nonsense they’ve brought with them like there is no better use of his time. 
It doesn’t seem like a lie. But Donnie is the least qualified person he knows to make that judgement call. 
There’s a lot at stake if he’s wrong, is all. 
Leo looks like Donnie has taken a melon baller to his insides just for fun. 
“I’d know if he didn’t like you,” Leo says with absolute certainty. And he probably would. And he would take it so personally. He wouldn’t let Gio know a single moment’s rest until the spotted turtle had a coming-to-Jesus moment and acknowledged his wrongdoings in canceled Youtuber apology video format. 
Since that isn’t the reality they live in—and Leo’s daily relentless pestering of Gio is harmless and little-sibling-shaped and decidedly not mean-spirited by any stretch of the imagination—some small part of the tight, unhappy feeling in Donnie’s heart has no choice but to accept that as the compelling argument it is. 
“He probably misses you, Tello,” Leo adds, something softening in his face that it hurts to look directly at. “His you, I mean. I know I would be a train wreck cosplaying as a person if I had to go someplace I’d never see you again. Can you imagine how screwed-up I’d be?”
Donnie’s whole soul shudders at the idea, at the nightmare that almost came true when the portal closed around the Technodrome and as good as severed Donnie clean down the middle. At the glimpse of a life he’d be forced to live with one leg, one lung, one arm, one eye, half a heart. 
“That’ll never happen,” he says, a little too loud. 
“You’re stuck with me,” Leo agrees. He means it, Donnie can tell—even after that almost-nightmare he put his family through, he means it. It’s one thing to take the nuclear option at the actual on-paper end of the world, it’s another to sit in a safe, warmly-lit room with his twin brother and try to conceive of an existence in which their dynamic duo was whittled down to a solo act. 
When they were little, Donnie once tried to explain how big the unobservable universe was. He told Leo that light from the big bang hadn’t reached Earth from all the way over there yet. It was a concept he struggled with as a child, that something could be so unknowable and immeasurable.
“That’s how big my ‘I love you’ is,” he said, all of seven years old and putting it into words the best way he knew how.
“I love you bigger than that,” Leo said promptly. 
“Ugh, you can’t,” Donnie said, frustrated at his twin for always trying to one-up him, for not understanding the huge thing Donnie was trying to compress and fit into his hands. “It’s not possible.”
“It is,” Leo said firmly, eyes gold to match Donnie’s, warm and shining in a way that was all his own. “I do.”
And then Leo went on to prove it. In a way Donnie never would have wanted him to—in an explosion that split the sky and left flash burns in their eyes, and the hollow pain of a surgical removal as the still-beating heart of their family was cut away, and the discordant electronic fuzz where a beloved voice had been rushing through last words, replaced by the sound of a radio without a signal, a device unpaired—but he proved it in a thousand other ways, too. 
He was even proving it now, this afternoon he spent leaning on a forearm crutch and ambling around to various shelves and cabinets to keep up with his stock of medical supplies that had been severely depleted in the weeks after the invasion. Leo had carried bandaids and lidocaine spray in a tiny tote bag since he was two feet tall. He couldn’t stop bad things from happening but he could try to make the bad things better. 
He’s looking at Donnie like he would right every wrong for him if he knew where to start. Like the unobservable universe was small enough to fit in his pocket compared to the lengths Leonardo would go for Donatello. 
Leo is the younger twin, but sometimes the only thing there is for Donnie to do is shuffle over and bonk their foreheads together and believe him. 
“If Gigi hated you, he wouldn’t be a Hamato,” Leo announces, muffled and silly and entirely correct. “It’s a required qualification. You must have missed that meeting with HR.” And then, because it’s important, he whispers, “I promise, okay?”
“Okay,” Donnie whispers back. 
At about that moment, TSwift’s I Think He Knows comes on, proving once and for all that there is actually no way Leo’s playlist is on shuffle. The weighted moment they’re holding on tight to transitions into a lighter one that gets flung haphazardly around as an immediate life-or-death struggle for the phone ensues. 
Stalemate is only reached when Splinter barges in to read them the riot act for daring to roughhouse while they had a non-zero number of broken bones between the two of them. Leo is bright-eyed with mischief and already fast-talking their way out of trouble the same effortless way April can rattle off her brothers’ favorite coffee orders, and Donnie’s worry has been soundly evicted, all its belongings in boxes in the yard. 
Sitting around has never been his style. He’s a turtle of discovery and invention. And now that he’s been reassured that the absolute worst-case scenario is not on the table—that it, in fact, was never on the table to begin with—curiosity rears its head and snaps up the dregs of anxiety like a hungry wolfhound who mistook it for an unattended rack of lamb. 
Hypothesis: Georgie isn’t being weird out of dislike of Donatello. Leo’s certain he’s not, so certain that he was willing to promise, point-blank and absolute, instead of being tricky and sly in the name of cheering Donnie up instead. Leo even offered a much more palatable alternative, but further evidentiary support is required. 
So after dinner a week later, as the whole family crowds comfortably around the banana split bar spilling across the entire kitchen island and argues over which toppings Gio and Casey should stack their bowls with first, Donnie blurts, “Can I see your crossbow?”
Giorgio really is one of the clowns in this circus. He proves it by putting his ice cream down, and picking the bow up from where it was relegated to the bench seat where everyone tosses their coats and shoes when they get home, and passing it right over. No normal person would put a loaded weapon in Donnie’s hands just because he asked nicely. 
As if in tacit agreement, both of Casey’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline and Raph makes incredulous scoffing noises. April says, “You did not just—” at the same time Splinter blusters, “Purple, you fire that thing off in this house even once and I am grounding you from everything you know and love, including Orange!” and Donnie screeches, over Mikey and Leo’s hysterical laughter, “I can be trusted with projectile weaponry!”
The crossbow has been carefully maintained, but it hasn’t been used in weeks that Donnie is aware of. They’ve all stuck pretty close to home since the invasion, and it’s not like Gio knows anyone but them—it’s not like they need firepower for grocery hauls or pizza runs, though, knowing their luck, that could change any given day. 
But Gio still cleans it regularly, and he’s become a familiar sight at the kitchen table; parts spread out on an oil-stained rag, meticulous and methodical with the one belonging he brought here with him from the future other than the clothes on his back and the colorful friendship bracelet on his right wrist. 
It’s important to him, clearly, but he’s letting Donnie handle it with an indulgent look on his face. Like there are no better hands to leave it in than his little brother’s. 
Because he’s at risk of having a whole emotion about that out loud, where his entire family is assembled to witness it, Donnie quickly turns his mind onto the much safer road of gadgetry.  
He has never actually held a crossbow before, has never built or used one, but he’s been doing a lot of research. He has a lot of ideas. He wants to print mechanical broadhead arrows with explosive tips, or tear gas canisters, or EMP charges. It’s a brand new world of creative chaos and that’s not even touching all the build customizations Donnie has in mind. His fingers are already itching to dismantle and reassemble the machine into something better, something that won’t ever fail, something his big brother will love. 
Only—huh. What feels like a low-level electric current thrums to quiet life like it was waiting to be noticed by the right pair of eyes, just enough of a static shock to get his attention and guide his hand to the rail. Glowing purple does the work of an allen wrench in seconds and a handful of screws clatter to the table. Donnie removes the scope in one sure motion, and moves on to snap the rail from the stock. 
Raph says, low and warning, “Donnie,” intimately familiar with gremlin gadget mode and all the kitchen appliances and shared toys destroyed in Donnie’s early years in the name of science. But he’s not breaking this time, he’s just looking. 
He flips the rail over in his hands and finds the source of that odd electricity-conductive feeling. Hidden on the underside is a small embossed logo that Donnie would recognize anywhere, because it’s his.
“A-ha!” he says, absurdly pleased with the discovery. “A Genius Built mod.” 
The rail was one of the first things he’d had in mind to upgrade, but it looks like he’d beaten himself to the punch. 
“With a custom rail, we can add whatever attachments we want to the stock, way beyond just an average scope or a rangefinder,” Donnie says eagerly, his mind darting ahead in three different directions at once. “The world is our oyster, Georgie!” 
He can’t help grinning. His logo on Gio’s prized possession is that last little bit of evidence he needed. He’s never been happier to be wrong, and will endure Leo’s smugness for an unheard of two entire business days before initiating retaliation. 
No version of Donatello would put that mark on anything unless he really cared about it. 
And Gio wouldn’t lift the rail from Donnie’s hands, and touch his thumb to that stylized “D” as if to prove to himself that it was real, an expression of painful wistful longing on his face, unless he really cared, too. 
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goldsbitch · 2 days ago
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Twelve grapes
chapter 2 - Red and Blue
Does he always talk so much?" Charles asks, wondering whether excessive talking is a requirement for Red Bull drivers. Max snaps right back. "Only when he's awake." Charles nods understandingly. "Must be hard for you," he mocks Daniel's tone.
or Charles spends the afternoon pinning over his ultimate rival.
warning: m/m kiss, 8k words
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Fake it til you make it. But, Charles has been faking it for so long now, he can hardly remember what it feels like to believe in himself. He pushes through. There is no other option.
It only dawns on him after the dreadfully long medical exam, when he’s finally out of the car and watching the replays of Alonso launching himself over his Sauber. It hits him when he sees all the other people, worried and then relieved that he survived just fine. Another tell-tale sign is all the phone calls and messages he keeps getting, from just about anyone he's ever met.
But, there isn't fear inside of him - he does not allow that emotion entrance, ever. He is convinced that if he had, it would be over for him in the world of motorsport. And who is he without that?
Anger piles up inside him, which is not an unfamiliar feeling, but the intensity is on another level.
It feels like the paddock is trying to suffocate him. There are people, cameras everywhere and he would give anything to leave - like right now. He walks and walks and walks. Circles, triangles, whichever will confuse anyone watching the most.
The start of his first F1 season feels like a bittersweet dream. Him coming in, having three amazing races and then finding the person source of misfortune for the following ones. DNF's, crashes and who knows what else. There is always the debrief afterwards, where he has to sit and watch his mediocre teammate smirk with unmasked joy. Charles believes he is not a violent person, but if he really had to punch someone, it would be without a doubt Marcus Ericsson.
The more he spirals, the clearer the face of his teammate becomes, until Charles finally snaps, finds an alley between the technical trucks and proceeds to start kicking one of the tires with everything he has.
The-stupid-blonde-asshole. Untalented-waste-of-a-seat. He can't rob him of his chance at Ferrari. He is so close.
"Uhm, hm."
The excessively loud pseudo-cough snaps the young driver back to reality. Only then he realizes just how tense his whole body is and how his foot hurts from the numerous kicks he granted to the truck in front of him. He can't calm himself immediately. But, he stops and turns around, to evaluate the damage he would need to clear by not making sure enough to avoid any witnesses. He quickly concluded the worst thing to happen would be for a fan or a team principal to stand there. When he locks eyes with the person standing few meters into the alley, he makes a mental note never to assume he can imagine the worst.
Standing there, with all his grace and beauty is none other than Max Verstappen. He spares him one look and then goes on to examine the kicked tire. Charles is about to drown in embarassment when he hears him speak.
"Not bad for a French guy," he remarks with a smirk and stands back up. Why anyone would think teasing someone mid-rage is a good idea is beyond Charles. He avoids looking at him as he bites his lips in frustration and adds blond people of all hair shades to his list of enemies. Max's hair counts as blond, therefore that makes them two people he wants to kick, along with Marcus. As if he could read his thoughts, he runs his hand through the messy, post race strands, which sends Charles into the loudest sigh he probably ever mustered.
"You know, I have a special wooden desk back home for when I need to punch things," the Dutch says matter-o-factly.
"I don't have an anger problem like you," he snarls through gritted teeth, failing at proving his point.
"Right. I also have a cheeky bottle of whiskey in my driver's room, if you wanna take the edge off." Yes, alcohol after an anger spree practically screams healthy, Charles wants to reply - but doesn't.
His heartbeat is somewhat coming back to down to post-race normal, he rests his hands on his waist and stares at the tire once again. He gulps, turns his look back at Max, who is still standing there, waiting. Never before he thought that Max would be the one offering him help to find his peace of mind. He must be tired or sick. "Come on, Charles," Max states, but does not move. There is something incredibly grounding about his certainty. A wave of calm hits Charles like a tsunami. Out of nowhere, it's like time stops and the world around fades into a grey hue. Charles counts his deep breaths. Stoic Max stares at him, as if he knows something more than him. It's the tone he uses that grounds him the most. Charles would normally snap back into getting mad at that fact that three words and Verstappen manages to change his mood - but he is so tired. Sudden realization of that steers his answer. "Ok," he says simply and tries not to read into the smile that creeps onto Max's face. Charles can't get the song Pale Blue Eyes out of his head.
//
Charles is happy that unlike him, Max still has all of his five braincells working and chooses the least visible way into Red Bull motorhome. It is probably a miracle that he manages to sneak him in, though it was way later after the race than Charles assumed. His anger walk must have been minutes long. He suppresses any guilt about his team, who are probably searching for him. He likes Sauber people, but tries not to think of the as his team. Because they hopefully won't be for long. It's the thought about the ongoing Ferrari talks that get his riled up again. Maybe walking into the den of the devil - Red Bull - was the biggest mistake he made that day. A visible reminder of how Max already had everything Charles wished for. Top team that's capable of fighting podiums. A place that screams "Max' home". He is not a visitor, he is someone who the teams counts on in their plans for the future. Not only is Charles still angry, he feels smaller than ever, as he drags behind him. The perfect metaphor for his career so far. Anger is slowly getting replaced by despair. Typical Charles' spiral.
He sinks in deep into the couch in Max's room. A small glass with honey colored liquid is in his hands immediately after. This is the moment Charles remembers he hates whiskey.
"So, you're on a bit of a run of bad races, huh?" Max opens and sips his drink, without even a hint of having an intention of toasting. Then again, Charles has nothing to toast to. Yet. Despair gets overshadowed by the hope the Ferrari contract might be a way out of this "run of bad races".
"Yeah. The car just does not have it. Or maybe I don't have it and it's actually good that other people crash into me, at least the fans get a good show."
"There is a difference between self-criticism and self-hatred, you know?" Max says in an uncharacterically calm tone. Charles can't think of any other reply apart from an eye roll.
"However, you had an impressive start. I was actually worried," Max continues, making Charles's heartbeat freeze. "For a moment," he adds maliciously after few seconds of silence, bringing Charles back to life. Max was worried and now he pities him. Oh, how nicely paved the way to hell is.
"I don't need you to feel sorry for me," he spits out, party regretting that he ever followed Max, partly happy he can be unreasonably mad at someone without much of a consequence. He's always playing the good PR boy. It's all calculated, he is not in his final destination yet. His goal is not simply to be in F1, his goal is to crush it. And he is sitting across from the one who is on his way to have it all. Max dared to smirk as he kept casually leaning against the motorhome wall.
"I would never degrade you by feeling sorry for you, mate," Max reacts, his tone hinting he shared Charles's disregard for drivers pitying each other.
"Good," Charles concludes and sips from the horribly bad drink.
"Was the crash bad? I saw some replays and I'm surprised you're sitting here. I'd expect you be to locked with the medics," Max changes his tone to a more casual one. Like they weren't talking about a several G crash involving multiple cars and a world champion flying over his head.
"I think this was my worst one yet," he admits. "The medics let me go after making sure they do every test on this planet on me."
"So, tell me. You pregnant?"
Charles laugh as the stupid joke. He blames his tired mind. It is noticable that Max is pleased with himself. Who would have though he'd be sitting here, in a Red Bull driver room, after a massive crash, cracking dumb jokes with Verstappen out of all people.
"How long is the car going to take to repaire?" the Dutch asks, waking Charles up a bit. Was that why he brought him here? To lure information out of him?
"I'm sure it's fine. I have other cats to whip," he remarks quickly, already planning on starting to being the one asking questions.
"Wha-you're whipping cats?" Max frowns, half confused, half concerned.
"Yeah, why would-"
"Whipping cats?!" It is Max now who would be called the "angry" one in the room.
Charles doesn't understand why he looks so baffled. "Yeah, j’ai d’autres chats à fouetter, it's the mechanics problem to do so."
There is pure confusion in the room, before it finally clicks. "Mate, I don't think that translates directly. I don't want to give out advice, but don't go around saying you're whipping cats for fun," Max mutters.
"Um, does it not?" Charles speaks while red runs into his face. It's all the languages in his head, one jumping over another. How is it that everyone else seems to not make these mistakes anymore.
Finally, Max lets out a small chuckle. "Happens to all of us," he contradicts what Charles didn't even have a chance to say.
To say the door opens silently and smoothly would be an understatement. Daniel Ricciardo slams in, like the owns the place. Charles does not understand many things, the Australian driver will probably be on the top of that list. He automatically stiffs up.
Daniel closes the door and pauses, taking in the scene with his "punch me" grin. "Well, well. What do we have here? Max Verstappen and… wait, don’t tell me." He snaps his fingers theatrically. "Charles Leclerc. Sauber’s crown jewel."
Charles’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.
Max observes without a reaction. Daniel does not wait a response. "Didn’t expect to find you here, mate. Shouldn’t you be back at Sauber, poring over data and figuring out how to make that car go faster than a lawnmower?" he sings his vowels in a tone so unpleasant to Charles's ears. Yes, Charles thinks. I should be. But I am not. Sue me.
Max shoots Daniel a warning look, but Daniel either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
He leans against the counter, his tone shifting, almost sympathetic. "It must be hard, though. Coming into F1, everyone expecting you to be the next big thing. Having all those hopes and dreams on your shoulders, only to realize... the car’s not good enough. That no matter how talented you are, sometimes you just can’t win."
Charles stiffens, his grip tightening on the glass. He feels his anger building up again and the urge to storm out growing inside. He closes his eyes with the hope that maybe once he opens them again, the Australian will be gone.
Daniel smiles, almost kindly. "But hey, chin up. Every legend has to start somewhere. Even if it’s at the back of the grid."
There’s a beat of silence. Charles swallows hard, trying to keep his emotions in check. Max, sensing the shift in mood, stands abruptly.
"Daniel," he says sharply. "Enough."
Daniel puts his hands up in defense. "Chill out mate, I'm just surprised he is here and I wanna cheer him up. But, Charles," he turns away from Max, "you're always welcome here. As a visitor, you know. Just to be clear," he says and ends it with his iconic, punch-worthy smile. To add another layer to Charles's pile of discomfort, he goes and puts his arm around Max, like the overly touchy friend he must be. Max does not seem to be phased by it. Charles tries not to think about how often that must happen. It's hard to control the cocktail of emotions, so adding a hint of jealousy to it is making his glass overflow. The older driver pinches the younger one's cheeks and Charles can't help but roll his eyes and shift his focus on the nearly empty glass of whiskey. One more minute of this and he is out.
To his luck, since Daniel seems to have run out of jokes to throw around, he spins on his heel and starts walking away. "I'll leave you guys to it then. Charlie, if you want, we are going out later in the evening, text me if you wanna join," he says and walks out. Charles finds it amusing to think he'd have Daniel's number saved. Once the door closes behind him, he can finally breathe again.
"Does he always talk so much?" Charles asks, wondering whether excessive talking is a requirement for Red Bull drivers.
Max snaps right back. "Only when he's awake."
Charles nods understandingly. "Must be hard for you," he mocks Daniel's tone.
Max nods back overly dramatically. "Yes. It is. Especially when the noise blocking headphones are just...not good enough."
Charles puts his head in his hand, exhaustion creeping in.
Max seems to not notice that and continues in their talk. "You really don't like him, do you?"
There is a smirk forming at Charles's lips. "And do you like him?"
Only he knows with what kind of undertone he is asking. The jealousy still present in the air. He hopes Max does not pick up on it. Or does he? It's a confusing day.
"Yeah. He's a good friend," he murmurs back, blue eyes now locked with the messy green ones. "Do you want a refill-"
Charles can't cope anymore. No more whiskey.
"Max, why are you being, so..." he interrupts him and immediately pauses, searching for the right word to define what ever he had been so doing. And since he can't find anything better suited, he inevitably ends up with: "...nice."
Out of all the things he would describe Verstappen, this was probably the last of them. Truth be told, the only reason he followed Max to his motorhome in the first place was the immortal curiosity Charles was born with. Anything that involves Max seems to draw him in. All of the arguments - which there hadn't been many these last few months - all the snarky comments and exchanges, frowned upon looks and lines shared through media...Charles knew, deep down his biggest weakness was just how much he wanted to be accepted by Max. The allure of Verstappen - Charles imagines that's how everyone feels about the Red Bull driver.
"I don't bother spending my time on thinking why I do, or say, things," he proclaims nonchalantly, providing Charles with something that feels like the key to the enigma of it all. Well, of course, that would explain hell of a lot things about this man. He stares at him, as he keeps his casual lean on the table and fiddles with his glass. There is something about that statement that Charles finds hard to believe. But he decides to keep that question for the future.
It's only now that Charles realizes he is not calm, in fact, he is the opposite of that emotion. Tense, on edge. Like before jumping off a cliff. He wasn't like that before Daniel interrupted them, only once he left them alone again. The contrast of just how much he hated Daniel's presence and if fact appreciated the lack of it starts to hit. Charles had been in different driver's room before. But, never in Max's and it was never kind of like this. Suddenly, he is hyper aware of his every move, how small this rooms feels, contrasting its actual size. The couch underneath him is too hard and the icy glass is starting to hurt his fingers. He gulps. Max has never looked so tall before.
"You're weirdly quiet. Getting calmer now?" Max asks and interrupts the thought spiral Charles fell into.
"Yeah, all calm now," he lies and almost burn holes into Max with his stare. He wants to stay in this moment forever. There is nothing pleasant waiting for him out there.
Charles winces after taking a last sip of whiskey. "You don’t even like it," Max notes, watching him. "No," Charles admits. "I hate it. It tastes like someone melted a campfire and put it in a glass." Max laughs, genuinely this time. "Then why did you take it?" "I don’t know. Peer pressure?" "Next time, just ask for a soda. You can still be mad with a Coke in hand."
Charles just nods, without needing to respond. Max takes a deep breath in and a pause, before he speaks again.
"When are you leaving Spa? Do you have time this evening?"
Charles's response would have been very different hadn't been for Daniel's invitation. "I'm not going out with you and Daniel," he says firmly.
Max rolls his lips. "So, you do have time."
There is a tingle somewhere deep inside him. An urge, curiosity and the inability to say no to Max. "I'm leaving at midnight," he replies and it sounds more like a question.
Max grants him one of the most obnoxious smiles this century has seen. "We'll just have to make sure you're back on time. Go to the hotel and pack your things in advance. Oh, and don't wear white sneakers."
//
Charles is totally normal about it. It's a perfectly acceptable reaction to pack in a time a pit stop crew would be impressed by. Cancelling a gaming session with one of the engineers he had scheduled for the evening was also a perfectly ok thing to do. The pacing around the room and nail biting until his finger tops bleed is maybe little over the top, but he is alone in the room. He's allowed to freak out.
He and Max are mere acquaintances. The definition of friends not really applying to them. It would be totally ok for him to hang out with his usual suspects, but this was new. Was Max luring him into a trap? Was he going to have him strip naked and then have his Dutch friends jump over from the bushes and laugh at him?
Charles is someone who freaks out ahead of things. He considers that to be an advantage for racing, panicking on flights rather than in the cockpit.
He unpacks and then repacks his suitcase, just so that he has something to do. Curses himself for only bringing one pair of dark blue sneakers (and white ones, of course).
He has been like this for the last hour. Waiting on Max to text him he can finally go downstairs - because he is not going to let him know that he is pacing nervously. He is not going to sit in the hotel lobby, like some loser that has nothing better to do than to wait at him.
Charles blames the headache on the crash.
The sky gets progressively darker when he start giving up on Max ever texting him. Charles is a stupid, stupid boy, for believing he was talking seriously about making plans with him.
This hotel room ceiling isn't the most interesting piece of art work, but Charles would be able to repaint it by memory by the amount of time he spends laying on the unmade bed and staring at it. There is a little crack in the left corner, slight elevation between the hallway and the bedroom and a knock on the door.
A knock on the door. His mind goes immediately to the handsome Dutch driver (not that the image of him ever left since they departed, really), but he quickly gets himself up and adjusts his expectations to reality. It's probably someone from Sauber checking on him. Or his manager with some updates, he also rarely texts before coming over.
Deep breath and he opens the door. His face is calm, but if someone took Charles's pulse, they'd probably send him straight back to the medical centre. Max is standing there, looking calm and composed as ever. Back in his casual non-team wear. If it were up to Charles, he'd finally take him shopping for some flattering clothes. This is not doing him justice at all. Thank God his face is protected from the effects of that ugly stripy t-shirt.
"Hey, man. You good to go?"
Most people would send a text—or, at worst, ask reception to make a call. The fact he must have asked for his room number (and the more alarming fact he managed to get it from them) and then came all the way up, is concerning.
Max's brows furrow. "Have you lost the ability to speak in the last two hours?"
Charles slaps himself mentally. "Funny. Hello to you too."
A totally concerned-free smile spreads on Max's cheek and he walks past him to his room. "Let's grab your bag and get going, we're on a schedule."
Before he has time to blink, he is standing in a hotel elevator and Max Verstappen is carrying his bag.
//
There is the usual crowd of people mingling around the hotel - crew members, reporters, some overly excited fans. Charles tries to hide as Max leads them through shortcuts, this place obviously being his playground. Charles manages to relax himself a bit when he realizes nobody probably managed to get a picture of them walking together. Another miracle of the day. 
The sports car, older model, but obviously worked on, growls to life as Max turns the key. The engine’s rumble reverberating through Charles’s chest. He sits stiffly in the passenger seat, his fingers unconsciously gripping the edge of the seat.
There is an old school smell of a cheap gas station car scent that punches through his nose. Max seems to be extremely comfortable in the car, as if he’s had it for years. 
Without much of a conversation, they depart. The car smoothly jolts forward, tires screeching slightly as Max accelerates out of the hotel parking lot. Talk about subtle. Charles is sure the sounds of this vehicle must have had half of the heads turn. The streets of Spa blur past them, the small town lights quickly giving way to the empty countryside roads. They drive on roads between fields, sometimes pass a small lump of forest. Max is treating the road as an old partner, smooth sailing - but definitely on the edgy side of things. If Charles hadn’t known Max as a Formula 1 driver, he’s think he was some small town tuning guy. 
"You drive like this on the track too?" Charles mutters after minutes of silence, trying to sound casual.
Max grins, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "No, I’m much faster on the track,“ he says as he hits the top of the hill a little too fast and sends them nearly flying before they land back on the road. He laughs and it is in that moment when Charles realizes that THE Max Verstappen is just another car guy. 
The countryside passes them by and Charles has to admit there is some sort of magic to it. It’s different than the roads around Monaco, more rustic and northern. Less glam and more roughness. Had he grown up here, he’d probably spend his teenage years cruising through. 
„Did you used to drive here a lot when you were young?“ He asks, head lots in his own thoughts. 
Max does not reply immediately, but then he goes onto explaining that yes, he has driven through every road this place is surrounded by. As early as when he was fourteen. Charles rolls his eyes and makes few comments on the incompetence of the local police. 
//
„Is there a specific place we’re going to?“ Charles asks after what feels like thirty minutes of driving, glancing nervously at the dense trees closing in around them. He is not checking the time, his trust lies with Max on that.
"You’ll see," Max replies, his tone maddeningly cryptic and sends the car into another turn in a way that would have then crash had there been any car in the opposite lane. Charles is not bothered by Max's driving, he knows he is more than capable of judging the situation. Had the driver been anyone else, he'd be out of the car after the first turn. His faith lies in the fact Max probably does not want both of them dead.
"Great," Charles mutters. "This is how horror movies start, you know."
Max chuckles, flicking the headlights to high beam as they zip down a narrow country road. "Relax, Leclerc. If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it on the track. More fun."
Charles throws him a glare. "Very comforting. Thanks."
Max doesn’t respond immediately, his focus sharp as he takes a turn far faster than Charles would.
"You’re tense," Max remarks, barely hiding the amusement in his voice.
"Oui, I wonder why," Charles shoots back with lips turned upwards. It's a different kind of adrenaline, to completely give in and follow his lead.
Max glances at him briefly, his smirk widening. "You don’t trust me?"
"I trust you to try and scare the shit out of me, yes," Charles remarks.
"Good. Keeps things exciting."
Charles tries not to wonders what exactly "things" means in this scenario. He notices that he left all of the worries and stress of today back at the hotel. It feels like they'd been on the road for days, in the good way. Time works in funny ways.
//
The road grows narrower, the trees taller and denser. They block nearly all of the remaining sunlight. Charles realizes he hasn’t seen another car, or even a house, for several minutes.
"Seriously, Max. Is there a destination we're going to?" His tone is sharper now, just a hint of panic in it.
"You ask too many questions," Max replies smoothly, his hands steady on the wheel.
"Forgive me for being curious when you’re driving me into the middle of nowhere," Charles says, his voice rising slightly, tone set on teasing mode. He hasn't noticed, but he is scrunched in the seat, leaning on the door and completely comfortable, despite the potential death threat of this all.
Max chuckles again, clearly enjoying himself. "Are you always this dramatiqué?" he mocks his accent.
Charles turns to him, exasperated. "Dramatic? You’ve practically kidnapped me. It is what it is, I have to face the situation. I am ready to cooperate. Should I start preparing a ransom note? "
Max tilts his head thoughtfully, his smile teasing. "Who would pay for you, Leclerc?"
"Funny," Charles deadpans, though his heart skips at the flirtatious edge to Max’s tone.
He leans over to examine the dashboard. "At least we have enough fuel to last us long."
Max looks in the same direction and bites his lip.
"What?" Charles asks, double checking if he hadn't read it wrong.
"Yeah, that thing has been stuck like this for years."
Charles lets out a loud breath. "Putain, Max."
//
Max finally parks the car as they reach something resembling a gate and a fence (he, of course, does not park like a normal person, but drifts the car in - Charles is not even surprised at this point).
"We're here," he announces and kills the engine.
Charles examines the creepy surroundings and sighs.
"What's up with you now?" the cheery Dutchman asks him.
"I'm trying to pick which God to pray to."
He hits his arm playfully. "Come on, enough with the drama, you're gonna like this," he says convincingly and gets out of the car. Charles has no intention of not following him, his blood flowing in the opposite direction than usual. Or at least that's how it feels.
He walks few steps behind him and takes in the scenery. The damp grass, leaves and small stick crunch below their feet. A distinctive humid forest smell is something he hadn't felt in forever and it's surprisingly refreshing to take a deep breath. He tucks his hands into the sleeves of his jacket, trying to fight the chilly air. Max appears to be unaffected by any of it and walks with intention. He passes the small cottage, which looks like it needed a renovation twenty years ago. Charles was expecting that to be the their final destination, so when Max walks by it, he nearly trips on wet leafs, trying to follow his direction. He hopes it went unnoticed.
It all starts to make a bit more sense when they pass the first two cars, parked in a place where normal people would plant a tree. He starts to realize this must be some sort lair of the Verstappen family or their close friends. The further deep they go into the forest / garden, the more car parts, tires and general junk they pass. Charles has many questions, but the anticipation of what is that Max actually wants to show him stops words in his throat.
Right on cue, Max starts speaking on his own, gradually slowing his steps. "My dad and I would come here in between races and we'd fix old cars together. It's a good place to test parts and repair karts. But it's become so messy over the years," he comments as he has to kick a random door frame blocking their way. "One day I'll come over for few weeks and clean it all up. He's never going to do that on his own."
The intimacy of this information is something Charles wasn't ready. He keeps his silence, sensing Max does not need a reaction anyway.
"But, there is a plus side to this being currently a shit hole," he stops and turns around to face Charles, who mimics his move. Even in this dim low light, Max's eyes shine like something out of this planet. "We can fuck some shit up," he grins like a little kid he was just few years and hands Charles an obscurely massive hammer that he picked up somewhere along the way.
Charles gives him a questioning look, before slowly accepting this strange object. Max's grin does not leave his face.
Charles stares at the hammer in his hands, its weight unfamiliar but oddly grounding. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
Max gestures ahead, and Charles’s eyes follow to where an old, rusted Volvo car sits under a drooping tree. The windshield is cracked, the paint flaking off like dead skin.
"Whatever you want," Max says casually, leaning against a nearby pile of tires. "But I’d start with the windshield."
Charles’s jaw drops slightly. "You want me to, what? Smash it?"
Max nods, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself. "It’s therapeutic. Trust me."
"Max, this is ridiculous."
They stare at each other and Charles feels guilty all of a sudden, for dismissing his idea so bluntly. He sighs as he faces second instance of peer pressure from the other driver within the span of few hours. He wonders which choice exactly he made this morning that steered his day in such a different direction. Had someone told him he'd be smashing cars with Verstappen in the evening, he'd laugh in their face.
"Just try it. One hit. I won’t tell anyone."
Charles hesitates, his grip tightening around the hammer’s handle. The thought of swinging it, of letting loose, feels... disturbing. But then again, everything about this day has been weird. Maybe that’s the point. Max babbles along, as he always does once he starts, something about getting all the emotions out.
Charles ignores the rest of his speech and tries to imagine this is just like any other sport, be it tennis, golf or anything that involved swinging. He takes a deep breath, picks up the inexplicably heavy hammer and swings it against the windshield. The material is surprisingly sturdy and the hammer bounces back, driving the force into Charles's body, as if to mock him. This pisses him off, he can't have Max laughing at him and calling him a "pussy". He tightens his lips, adjusts his stance and swings once again.
Finally, a crack appears at the point of impact, the quiet sound of breaking multiplied by the silence of the forrest. This is followed by a muffled cheer behind him. Charles is still surprised at how much force he needs to use to actually make any damage on the old plastic laced glass and it rilles him up. He is not going to walk away from here being beaten by a windshield older than him. He swings again.
And again, again and again. Each impact comes with bigger force until the glass start to crumble apart. He does not feel cold anymore, the old fire he barely tamed this afternoon fully back up.
Marcus. Alonso. Stupid lawyers making things too complicated. The reporters. Sauber. Ferarri. Ferrari. Ferrari.
The pieces are not only crumbling, but now they're falling in every directions - and Charles feels alive. Ferrari. He moves a bit to smash every little part that still survived in the corner. Ferrari. The structure of the windshield is completely falling apart. Ferrari. He smashes the big pieces that are pathetically lying on the ground, mushing them down into nothing. He lefts out a heavy breath. Ferrari.
I will be a Ferrari driver next season.
Only when he lets go, no more damage left to be done on his victim, he realizes he said those words out loud. He is met with a curious stare of Max Verstappen. Charles slipped up when he wasn't suppose to. It's been brewing in him for weeks now. Only his managers know. He figures not even Sauber knows.
"Nothing is final yet. It could still fall to shit," he clarifies, staring at Max with anticipation.
Max shifts his weight from one leg to another and blinks few times. "Nice. I hope it works out for you."
Charles is careful now, coming down his high, facing the consequences. "Please, don't tell anyone," he almost pleas, worried that this info getting out might somehow sabotage the whole mission.
The mood changes. Surely, he must feel it too. This is no longer "two bros smashing shit together". Oh God, please, does he notice the way the air stopped moving? Is his mouth also dry? His skin fired up with unholy electricity? Max as unreadable as ever. It's making Charles's brain spin. He would give everything, almost anything, for a quick glimpse into the brain of the enigmatic guy standing in front of him.
He isn't a teenager anymore, but Charles knows the boy is not fully a grown up yet. His features are a mixture of the hard lines and angles of and adult athlete, but all of that is still combined with youthful - Charles would dare to say naive - softness. It must be something in the damp air. Maybe he is suffering from fresh air reverse-toxic shock. His lungs so used to the painful unnatural environment of a racetrack, that it only takes few minutes in the forest to make him feel dizzy. He has to draw his gaze away for a moment. Deep down he knows he's going to appear as a creep, eyeing his rival, with an open mouth. If he could, he'd choke on the words Max's says and drown in his eyes for hours. But, that is not normal. Max is just few centrimeters taller than him, but it feels like he is towering over him. Charles's main concern should be that he had just revealed a precious information to the competition. He has to actively remind himself what the objective is - and that it does not have anything to do with just how long Max's eye lashes are.
"You know I wouldn't tell anyone," Max says, momentarily kicking Charles out of his haze.
He stands still, frozen and barely reacts to the smile Max sends his way. Once again, it's like Max is drinking a third brew of the same tea Charles is having - the smirking boy unaffected by the bitterness.
He takes two steps closer to Charles. "My turn now," he whispers and reaches for the hammer Charles forgot he was holding. Max passes him by and the Monegasque stays still for a moment, trying to memorize the feeling of Max's fingers lightly brushing his own.
//
The trip back is like a negative photo, contrasting the brightly colored banter they shared when they were driving in the opposite way. The car is quiet, so quiet in fact Charles's in praying for Max's stereo to work. It does and now their drive is accompanied by some bad radio station, speaking in a language he does not understand. Like a third passanger in the car, laughing Charles directly into his face. You don't even understand the radio. How can you believe you'll ever understand what you feel right now.
Darkness has fallen some time ago and it's the first time Charles actually whips out his phone, to check the time and his messages, but mainly to distract himself and avoid looking at Max. Because suddenly, the Dutch boy is too close. He doesn't know why, but it's like Max has found a way how to make it physically impossible to be in his presence - yet this car, with Max in the driver's seat, is also the only place on the planet where Charles wants to be. There is comfort and excitement. Comforting excitement. Charles must be going crazy, he thinks and ignores all messages on his phone and reverts back to watching the dark countryside.
"Text your team that you'll arrive directly to the airport," he hears a pragmatic order from the driver's seat. Charles dares to look at him, but his eyes are glued on the road. He obeys without a comment. The realizations only hits him at that moment. Max has probably ditched way more people than he himself did, in order to go on this ride into nothingness. There are probably people waiting at him at several bars, his motorhome and few volunteers lined up to follow him to his hotel room. And yet, there he is, sitting next to him, driving on nameless roads.
"Did you have good time with me?" he asks, like the anxious boy he is. It's not a brave question, it's full of unspoken uncertainty and a worry, that Max had hoped for him to be a more entertaining company. Is that why he doesn't speak as much as he did on the way here?
Charles knows the way to doom is to push Max Verstappen. That boy won't do a single thing he does not believe in, unless the contract under he is makes it impossible. He hopes he is not pushing right now.
"You know this is the first time you've looked at me since we left the cabin?" the Dutch proclaims, ignoring his original question. And he is right, Charles is hyperaware of that.
Charles lets out a short laugh, the kind that’s more exhale than sound. "You’re impossible, you know that?"
Max’s lips roll into a grin as his eyes flick back to the road. "I’ve heard that before. But I think you like it."
"Don’t flatter yourself." Charles rolls his eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it. 
"Too late," Max fires back smoothly, his grin widening. "Besides, you’re the one who agreed to smash my old car. What does that say about you?"
Charles straightens up, almost offended. "I did not-"
He is quickly interrupted by the Dutch. "You did not what - you didn't smash my car? Is that what you're saying?" He is clearly amused with himself and to prove that he playfully smashes the steering wheel.
Charles is silent, inhaling so much air to calm himself down he might actually explode. Impossible, this man was sent from hell to torment him.
"And didn’t that feel good?" Max continues smoothly, his voice dripping with chilli honey. Sweet, but punching.
Charles doesn’t answer, which only makes Max’s eyes widen.
"Aha! You did like it," Max says triumphantly.
Charles huffs, crossing his arms. "I never said that."
"You didn’t have to." Max’s tone is smug, his confidence infuriatingly unshakable. "Admit it. You enjoyed smashing something for once instead of, I don’t know, smiling politely and saying merci."
Charles snorts. "You think I’m polite?"
"Painfully," Max replies, his tone still teasing but just sharp enough to make Charles sit up straighter. "Like you’re afraid to let people know what you’re really thinking."
"And what are you thinking, Mr. Painfully Blunt?" he says more like a joke and does not expect and answer.
To prove Charles wrong, once again, Max turns slowly to face him. He makes sure each word he says has enough time to ripe. "That it's obvious I had a good time with you, Leclerc."
It's the same as trying to ignore a deafening sound. Even if you block your ears, it still pierces through. It creeps up into your chest in waves invisible to the naked human eye. A loud beat that makes your chest alive and your throat stuck - because whatever you might say, it won't be heard over the noise anyway. It does not need addressing, but it's impossible to disregard.
If I slip up, even for a moment, it might ruin everything we’ve both worked so hard to pretend doesn’t matter.
To completely counter anything he is trying to suppress, Max casually puts him hand on Charles's thigh - on Charles's thigh. The part of the human body between the knee and the hip. It's a true test to stay normal about it.
"Don't get lost in your head again, Charles," he says ever-so-casually and removes his hand to put it back on the steering wheel.
If they were to crash and die right now, Charles probably wouldn't mind. He's about to have a heart attack anyway.
//
It was getting more than clear they were reaching the final destination, even if only by the decreasing amount of trees growing next to the road. City lights and signs pointing to the airport giving away that this trip is about to end.
If Charles started this afternoon angry, he is ending it confused - about himself, about what kind of person Max Verstappen actually is and how is he suppose to go about his life after this. It's not a new information to him that he likes guys. But it is the first time he has to face having a tiny, minor, minuscule crush on another driver.
As they near the airport so much he can see the small plane he is about to board with the closest of his team, Charles speaks again.
"Maybe drop me of one street away...Just so that people don't have questions."
It's a pragmatic suggestion and he hopes Max does not read anything into it.
"Fair," is the response he gets and is somewhat satisfied with.
This time, Charles braces himself for another "drift park", but is met with a casual and very precise parking on Max's part.
They sit in silence for a moment. Charles wants to do something, but he can't put a name on it.
"Well, it's been fun. Thanks," he says almost coldly and pulls the thirty years old door handle.
Nothing.
Next to him, there is a chuckling noise. Charles tries again, but the only effect this has in the increase of volume on Max's laugh.
Fine, two can play this game, he figures and turns to him with a raised brow.
Charles meets his gaze for a long moment, the weight of the playful challenge hanging between them. "You know," he says finally, his voice low, "I could just climb out through the window."
Max snorts, leaning back and pressing the unlock button with a flourish. "Be my guest. The the dramatic diva you are.“
"You use that word a lot, you know?"
Max keeps his act on. "I think it's time to leave now," he teases and does absolutely nothing in order to open the car.
Charles leans back, also not intending on moving. There is warmth in his chest and it's spreading all over his body. The smile he has on his face is one he can't prevent.
"Is it now," he questions, and tries to open the door once again, this time without even looking at the handle. None of them expecting any other result.
After few shared looks, Max clicks some random button on his side of the car to unlock the doors. The soft click feels like a challenge. 
Charles lingers, his hand resting on the handle but not pulling it. "You know, for someone who claims not to care, you sure put a lot of effort into keeping me around."
Max raises an eyebrow, his grin turning slightly lopsided. "You noticed?"
"I’m not blind," Charles replies, leaning back into the seat, a flicker of playfulness in his expression.
Max looks at him for a moment, something sparkly in his gaze before he nods toward the door. "You better go before I change my mind."
He tries opening the door once again and this time it really does.
Charles moves back and exists the car, pit in his stomach growing. He has to wait few seconds for Max to get and open the trunk with his keys. Illuminated only with the back lights, red mixing with yellow, he moves automatically, never letting Charles go off his sight. He hands him his bag and receives a little "Such a gentleman," comment from Charles. And then they keep standing there, as if Medusa herself turned them into a stone.
Charles feels possessed. Like he’s not in control of his movements anymore. He lost that ability somewhere in the woods. 
He is pretty sure he’s shaking from the panic that drives him.  His body is floating two meters above the ground. 
Max’s eyes burn into him, as if it was all a dare. 
The boy is standing too close for his own good. 
Charles is pretty sure there is acid running through his veins.  He knows, he is absolutely certain, he will regret whatever he is about to do. 
There will be no going back. 
Should I touch him, it will the perfect way to ruin this newly found friendship.
Max does not move or walk away. 
Fuck it, he thinks and slams his lips again Max’s.  Knock the wind out of me, Max Verstappen. 
It is quick as a lighting, but bright as such. He reaches over to the back of Max’s head and holds him still, but giving him enough freedom to pull away. I’m begging you, please don’t. 
It’s cathartic to know what his plump lips feel like against his own. He holds his lower lip between his own and moves, once or twice. He knows his time is running out. For a moment, he allows himself to drown in this real life fantasy. Max’s lips are soft and addictive. It’s like running a marathon is the time you would do a sprint. 
He fights the urge to continue and moves back. Knowing this one moment, lasting only few seconds will be locked in his fantasies forever. 
He pulls away and tries to avoid looking at Max’s face, knowing well enough that whatever he finds there, won’t be pleasant. 
„I’m sorry,“ he murmurs and almost runs away to the airport. 
Festival of shame is about to begin, but the insides of his body still burn with excitement and desire. He kissed Max Verstappen and he didn’t pull away immediately. 
Their first and only kiss. 
It was a mistake, one that Charles will have to apologize many times. 
But he’ll be happy to die for. Feeling this alive should be illegal.
He does not look back. His bravery ran out the moment he put their lips together. 
Oh, God.  I’m stupid, I’m stupid, stupid, stupid.
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artinventor · 3 days ago
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Ok let’s break it down shall we:
In season 4-5 I could already see the shipping potential with the concept of an angel pulling a faithless man out of hell, and said angel who is a robotic soldier suddenly starts to feel emotion after interacting more and more with said man.
Insane foundation already but I did think of how castiel seemed to already have a fascination with humanity after I saw his chat with uriel at the park where he tells dean that not only does he think all humans are works of art but that he already has doubts in heaven and in his absent father. Dean IS the one to inspire him to ultimately rebel and discover free will but I could excuse it as mainly a personal journey that you could certainly just say is a budding friendship. Setting aside the fact that they would constantly look at each other for long moments in a really charged way (for castiel I could say he’s a cosmic being that is unfamiliar with social norms or human emotion so staring intensely can be a byproduct of that but I don’t have an excuse for dean’s reactions to it, you can tell he wants to be threatened but my guy looked enraptured, if not ignited by it)
It wasn’t until season 6 and the episode The Man Who Would Be King that the “oh they’re so gay” hit me.
You’re telling me that this angel has been around for eons, witnessed the creation of everything on earth and observed it’s many big events, but did not start to feel emotion or act out until he met dean?? And he champions dean’s mission of free will even when he doesn’t fully understand it himself when the other angels ask him. I can say this is still apart of his personal journey but at this point I cannot deny that dean is the one that really spearheaded it forward. He starts a whole war in heaven so that he can maintain dean’s mission and so that his sacrifice (his brother) was not for nothing. The fact that cas’ bad decisions were all based on the fact that he just didn’t want Dean to be involved because he was finally retired and at peace so he had no one else to turn to except crowley. He really cares about dean’s happiness THAT much, that is a mighty intense feeling to have for someone to me.
Then they emphasize the fact that dean is the one who feels the most betrayed by cas after struggling to even accept it in the first place. There’s a lot of intensity within the dialogue in the scene they confront him about it, and they’re sure to give me a close up on only dean to make sure I know how he feels about it. The eye contact in that scene really goes crazy because there was so much there on a deeper level, It was like you could see how they both realized the betrayal was breaking the trust between them but they were still wanting to hang on to that connection because it was something they both cherished, the way dean looked back before leaving? Insane.
That episode was the main hit for me, but it was largely mainly on castiel’s end. The main hit from dean’s end for me was when I saw the purgatory flashbacks in season 8.
In season 7 it seemed to me that dean was very effected by cas’ death and handled it in the classic dean winchester way of internalizing it all, but we get lines here and there about how bothered he is by it whenever his concerning behavior is somewhat addressed. Before Cas even had a chance to redeem himself after what he did, Dean seems to have already forgiven him, defending him once cas re-gains his lost memory and says he deserved to die. This showed me that the connection they had meant as much to dean as it did to cas.
And he really shows how much it means to him with how he fights tooth and nail to get cas out of purgatory. Cas literally disappeared once they got there, making it look like he abandoned dean, and then actively ran away from dean because he thought he belonged there. Yet dean was so insane that he hunted down cas’ location, caught up with him and dragged him to that portal. He literally had a way out that he chose to ignore until he found castiel, and was willing to die to get him out. Dean very desperately wants cas to be around when he gets out, he did not like how it felt when he previously wasn’t. Again, that is a mighty intense feeling to have for someone to me. Especially with how his memory literally changed what happened because he couldn’t handle that cas was left behind??
I do think a big part of this storyline is showing how dean thinks everything and everyone is his responsibility because of the way he was raised by his father as a hunter and protector. But we’ve seen this in dean since the beginning, while not fully addressed until now, it’s not new, so the fact that they used castiel to further show this side of him is very insane. Leaving Cas in purgatory would effect nobody on the outside except Dean, Dean made it his personal mission to get that angel out even after everything he had done, and that level of intensity was another major hit on the Destiel train for me. That and the gay ass reaction dean had when cas walked out of the bathroom when he got back from purgatory???
anyway, I’m only on episode 8 of season 8 rn so that’s all I’ve seen so far.
y’all I am so sorry for years I assumed that gay ship in supernatural was just a delusion that people overanalyzed and claimed queerbait for no reason cuz I’ve seen that happen a million times but now that I’m actually watching the show they really were gay as fuck LMAOOOO
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stoic--rose · 2 days ago
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over the last two weeks or so ive played through earthbound two and a half times, and mother 1 three times. replaying both back to back repeatedly has made me realize a lot of things
1.) mother 1 is a LOT more open in what it lets you do, where it lets you go, and when. once you open up the train tracks, you're free to go do the rest of the game in pretty much any order you want. hell, you can make it all the way to R7038xx without ever getting a single melody, which i find to be pretty interesting. not only that, but you dont even need to get most of the party members. strictly speaking, the only one you truly need to get is Loid, and that's just to get rid of the rock on the train tracks. and even then, with the use of an exploit i found out about only a few days ago, you can get rid of him and go fight giygas by yourself, which is pretty funny.
2.) mother 1+2 is like, wicked impressive. nevermind the fact that they crammed earthbound onto the gba, they also packaged it with mother 1 as well, and they're both the full games. it ain't no rayman advance kinda deal either where it's a super botched port, like it's a perfectly valid way to play both games, and some people even prefer the gba version of mother 1 since it makes a couple of quality of life improvements. not to mention, they rebuilt both games from the ground up, it's not like they could emulate snes on gba. (i mean, you can emulate NES apparently, since there's that nes classic line of games for the gba, but... this is cooler.) the sound department could... definitely use some work, and the colors look pretty washed out, but there are patches to fix the colors, and if you're playing the game on a real gameboy, i think the sound is the last thing you'd be concerned about. also, apparently some people took the time to apply the earthbound script to the mother 2 half of mother 1+2, and even reprogrammed the text system to have the original fonts and make it non-monospace, which is SUPER impressive. for my second playthrough of earthbound i played it with the new fantran patch, and it's pretty damn slick.
3.) man, fuck the sword of kings. i realized very recently that i'd never fully committed to the sword of kings grind, and decided that this would finally be the time i claim my birth right as a mother fan and do it. and like, it SUCKS. i mean, to begin, yes it's annoying that it's a 1/128 chance, but it goes deeper than that. the fact that it's only dropped by an enemy that you can potentially never see again, and it's the ONLY item poo can equip as a weapon is pretty fucked up. not to mention, the other enemies that they put in the starman base just absolutely suck, i hate the nuclear power robots so much. they made the grind WAY more painful than it already would have been otherwise. at the very least, i find it to be very gracious that jeff's spy command has the secondary effect of letting you steal whatever item an enemy would have dropped mid battle, just so it doesn't get overwritten by another enemy drop, which by the way YES that can happen, and YES i had it happen to me. it sucks ass. and the worst part is, the sword of kings isn't even that good!! and neither is poo on a gameplay level! you get the guy way later than any other party member, he has all these little catches like not being able to eat american food or equip anything but the kingly items, he gets taken away from you almost immediately after you get him, he just feels really weird. starstorm is pretty cool, but you only get the omega version right before the final area, and you can only use it on the handful of encounters you get there since you can't really use it in the final boss. (i mean technically you can use it in the first phase, if you want to get a biblical reflected beatdown when it hits both pokey and giygas) idk, the guy just isn't all that useful, and it's unfortunate since i really like him on a design level.
i have more words i want to say but honestly i might save them for an entry on my website instead since im very close to the tumblr word limit rn
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shinakazami1 · 5 months ago
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Late night Rhys thoughts but -
He never idolises Jack, at least not fully. He cared about the guy, was inspired, a fan, wanted to be him. But he called him out on being a maniac. He kept on calling out the man's behaviour. He could be scared of him, but at no point did he make him into what he wasn't. Only what he was made to believe.
Jack is great at crafting his image. Charismatic, probably unconsciously awkward, but he knows that brings him strength. After all, he needs to be in some way relatable. He can read a person so well, and if you follow him, its because he speaks to goals Rhys wants to go to. But he learns to respect the guy, to some extend at least. He knows the kid is smart, he knows he can give him snark remarks and get something he rarely got - just as snarky comeback.
They both see each other's flaws and try to use them. To different amount of success.
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leonw4nter · 2 months ago
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Hi everyone!! Due to me being really busy with school and there being barely any time for me to write, I'm going in another indefinite hiatus because I'm not sure how long I'll be gone since everything is so fast-paced and confusing. It sucks that I have like, several ideas on what I wanna write but my time just refuses to let me focus on something other than academics which SUCKS, especially since... one of my fic ideas happened to me IRL and I have no one to scream about it to. Anyway, that's all and I hope you guys are going to be all fine and dandy while I'm gone :3 also fuck trump :3
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lonesilverw0lf · 2 days ago
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Chess student: The cult has become locked itself in this building, we need to clear them out.
Football student: We know where they are, so let’s just bum rush them and take ‘em out.
CS: Don’t be rash. We have to do this methodically so we ensure they’re gone for good.
FS: We have them cornered, just get in there and get it done.
CS: We don’t know how many of them are left, what kind of traps they have, escape routes, or what. We can’t take any chances that they’ve set a trap themselves or that they can escape.
FS: They just got in there after two days of running. They’ve been caught with their pants down! We need to bust down the walls before they have a chance to rest and regroup!
CS: Or walk right into a trap? This is the real deal, we can’t make any half baked decisions.
FS: You’re not the active type, even back in school. You don’t have any idea on what actually goes down in the split seconds, nor any say on what it takes. You’ll let a perfectly good opportunity waltz by as you try to come up with some half clever scheme!
CS: You’ve never thought ahead once in your life. You always rush headlong into things and end up in a bigger mess than what was originally there. Or even create a mess because you didn’t know left from right!
FS: At least I choose to do something instead of sit back like a coward!
CS: I’ve seen better intelligence in a monkey than anything you try to pull!
???: Guys!
FS and CS: WHAT?!
Art Student: You two need to find something to make up, your arguments almost broke my concentration several times. Guh. My farsighted isn’t great, but I did manage to get as much information on the inside as I could. *hands over a stack of papers with sketches of the building and the insides*
CS: That’s great! The more intelligence we have the better we can plan ahead.
FS: Just point out where the boss man is so I can get in there and knock his head in.
AS: At least tell me you can tell what it’s supposed to be? I’m an abstract expressionist not a realist.
FS: Looks clear enough for me.
CS, flipping through the drawings: Ok, so a dozen and so cultists, a couple of horses, a loft, I guess that’s a weapons rack, so far so expected. Hey, what’s the story with this one?
AS: Which one? Sorry my headache hasn’t given me my sight yet so everything’s kinda blurry still.
CS: The one guy with more details than the rest.
AS: Dunno yet. I can only draw what I see using my Sight. I don’t know what it is I’m looking at until I see what I drew.
FS: That sounds stupid.
AS: They say that it’ll get better with time. Right now I’m too low level for that. Huh, that one guy is a lot more detailed than the rest. Weird.
CS: I didn’t get all the details on your Ability. Why is this so important?
AS: My mentor said something about things that I’m more familiar with tend to come out clearer. People I know, places I frequent, they stick out a lot more. Even if the place has changed significantly like a fire or battle happened, or if a person is wearing a disguise or something.
FS: So who would be so familiar to you in this random group of cultists?
Realization dawns on the assembled trio.
FS: Ok CS, your plan is good. We surround the building and- huh?
AS: I just blinked. Where did CS go?
CS, punching a hole into the wall of the building like the Kool Aid man: YIPPE KAI YAY MOTHER FUCKERS!! WHERE YOU AT BLORBO?!
MC, who infiltrated the Cult to feed the local militia information: How the hell do you guys keep finding me?!
The standard 'entire class gets isekai'd to a fantasy world and the outcast MC is basically discarded' anime setting, where the MC, now assumed dead, decides to instead help the class of Heroes in the shadows, making sure they live up to what the people need.
However, the entire class knows that he's alive and are hellbent on dragging that son of a bitch back into the spotlight and to give him the recognition he deserves.
(And maybe because he was basically the entire class's Little Guy™.)
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hauntingblue · 2 months ago
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Rewatching act 2.... yeah ISHA WATCH OUT FOR THE CYCLE ISHA!!!!! NOOOOO
#ambessa setting up the logs on a fireplace while literally adding fuel to the fire with cailtyn... subtelty#silco spent his whole life trying to rile the undercity together STUPID JOKE THAT IT IS you have the chance to pull it off#isha is the true revolutionary after all... jinx get up to her level#was jinx scared of having hallucinations when the girl she released was gonna touch her shoulder??? and then she didn't#what i find really funny is that warwick knows how to use elevators and that funicular to the prison#also there is a lot of blood when he appears in the prison.... it was surprising#vander recognizing jinx with the name of powder after she complained about it eariler its just crazy crazy crazy#people commenting that its unrealistic how caitlyn bests vi when they meet in episode 6 as if there wasn't a montage about how she lost her#edge because of alcohol and living like shit.... she's not like jinx lmao....#rewatching so recently is so weird i imagine it is as close as being dr manhattan as i can get it is literally happening all at once#also the people of piltover are so dumb... lets let the government implement martial law and put this 20 something with 0 political#experience on charge with the army of this outsider agent. alright. i can tell you guys dont vote in this oligarchy you know fuck all#well i guess in that case it isnt the people of piltovers fault... just the important families that contribute in this oligarchy...#putting count fagula in charge.... salo is speciallt dumb but we all knew that#katie leung needs awards btw.... and interviews#“do not test this or you will yearn for caitlyn's dungeons” be careful singed my friend vi fell for that and look at her... her dungeons...#vander reaching for isha not jinx.... OR VI.... she just stopped him#“hes gonna kill you” and vi fighting vander to protect jinx.... yeah#and then she trusts jinx and the beast turns into vander... he serves as a recognizing tool for their true selves...#their mom being so worried about how to name vi and then names the second one POWDER kahdksjsk never not funny... also the barber of zaun#when vi joins with jayce she unlocks this loser flop aspect of her mother's inheritance.... two losers joining to maximize their joint flop#also vander kinda giving up this promise to protect the girls instead of bettering zaun... how it puts him in a standstill bc it's either or#like damn there is nothing as undoing as a daughter for reals. she didnt experience that bc she died so now vander has to and here we are#episide 6 starts with the end of the episode when viktor drops that metal piece..... hello..... is this anything#“do you think this place could work” underground utopia.... DYNASTIES AND DYSTOPIA FEAR IS NEVER AN OPTION SO DYING'S NOT A REAL PROBLEM#didnt ambessa suspect anything when they spent loke a full minite staring at each other 😭😭 she's lost her edge...#just like when she clocked sevika but not jinx... when there's a strong butch in the area her radar gets jammed up#and caitlyn leaving her weapon behind... ambessa thought she was gonna fistfight warwick or something#the metal thing falling when viktor dies repeats THREE TIMES WHAT DOES THAT MEAN#watching arcane season 2
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solitaireships · 25 days ago
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My biggest piece of advice to people is to put down the ai chatbots and start writing. Does it take more time and effort to do that? Yes, but it’s 100% worth it. It helps you build a skill and it’s something that you can do entirely for yourself instead of having to depend on someone else. You can write in whatever style you prefer (entirely dialogue, more heavy on description, etc). Please just try writing more
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godsfavoritescientist · 10 months ago
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well hold on, if we define a character flaw as any limitation a character deals with, regardless of whether it's something Morally Wrong With Them or not, then Ford's paranoia counts as a character flaw since it does in fact negatively impact him and the people around him. Let me use better wording here: I will die on the hill that Ford's paranoia is not a moral failing.
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front-facing-pokemon · 10 months ago
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arolesbianism · 5 months ago
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I caved and made them real. Obverse me losing more and more motivation to draw as I made each of these back to back lol
#keese draws#oc art#oc#pmd#pokemon#pokemon mystery dungeon#pmd oc#these guys are inspired by my usual pokerogue team#oh also imagine a question mark after every he/him I have the trans woman beam pointed at all of them#these are just initial concepts for the actual characters themselves now that I’ve developed the world a lil bit#but yeah these 4 were childhood friends who wanted to be in an exploration team together but had to split up for years#tart and quart both had to move away and cart ended up leaving his hometown to try and become a real adventure a few months later#cart and bart remained in contact for a few years before cart got caught up in some crime circles#he was incredibly trusting when he was younger so he got taken advantage of and ended up digging himself a deeper hole in an attempt to be#manipulative back and eventually he got scared enough that he tried to reach out to a guild and acted as a spy for them in turn for them#eventually helping to clear his name and allowing him membership#there were parts of the deal that were unfair and kind of shady but he was desperate enough to pretend he didn’t notice#after he joined he started immediately putting out listings for new team members and he fully planned on being super picky#but when two of his childhood friends applied he was over the moon about it#and immediately accepted both of them#now quart also applied because he had recently ran away from his old life and was desperate to have a new one#and he missed his old friends deeply so when he saw one of them actually managed to start building the team they all wanted to make he was#quick to apply even if he was rusty as hell on normal non contest combat#cart didn’t recognize him at first and mostly only let him have a trial run because he thought it was funny that an eevee of all things was#applying for a high level exploration team and he fully planned on telling quart off immediately afterwards#this ofc made quart very upset and angry but he didn’t try to clairify who he was because he just assumed that time had made cart into an#asshole which isn’t wrong per say but quart didn’t realize cart didn’t recognize him#it was a rough trial expedition but cart found himself actually quite impressed with quart’s slight of paw skills and his impressive biting#speed so he decided to give quart a real chance instead of a mocking one#eventually quart laughs for the first time around him and that makes cart realize who he is and that makes him feel horrible
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moe-broey · 1 month ago
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As I've been writing down dialogue going through Book 1. I feel like. There's almost a reoccurring bit, when it comes to Moe.
I'm way too tired to elaborate too much or at all eloquently, but like. It goes like this. Moe's seething frustration at the Situation is just CONSTANTLY increasing. Boiling under the surface. But bc it's in a new location, new people, new social rule set, ect ect, it is ALSO figuring out Okay. What is my personality, here. What am I meant to do? And how do I ensure I don't get thrown out?
Book 1 Moe is just. Horrible combination of off its meds and fake ass bitch protection mode, with the temper and bluntness of an autistic guy who hasn't had to mask in years. It's mostly observing and trying its best to take in as much information as it can, but beyond that. The Seething Struggler (... polite style???)
But the BIT. That just Keeps Happening.
Moe's Anger is Increasing. It is about to go ALL IN to start biting anyone and everyone (it is ESPECIALLY mad about everyone's attitudes towards Veronica. It doesn't care that she's committing various atrocities she's 13 and I'm going to fucking kill you. No I won't tell you why. Actually I already told you why were you not listening?)
But then. Completely unintentionally. Just, extremely bad (good?) (good bad?) timing. Alfonse will say something like the "I suppose we don't know much about your world. And how rude of us not to ask until now! 😊" lines, with that surprisingly warm smile, that throws Moe off completely. Just. Entirely redirected. Moe was This Close to threatening to defect just to see what happens, unsure if it should be throwing rocks at Alfonse (literal prince) or Anna (the boss here, clearly) (... Sharena is curiously exempt from Moe's ire.) -- and then it gets hit with the Alfonse being so nicies super genuine style beam. And NEITHER of them have even an inkling of the big storm coming, when it comes to. Gestures broadly at everything to come.
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victimized-martyr · 2 years ago
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Do you think Kenny actually likes cartman? I’m not so sure since the reading of his will in s9e4 (https://youtu.be/QGx92r8NLIM)
I feel like nobody likes him but Kyle is the only one who thinks he can possibly get better at all.
I agree on some level with that last statement. Due to Kyle's morals and complicated attachment to Cartman, he would be the only one willing to nurture the potential Cartman has, though I'd say Cartman isn't universally hated as one would assume. I think Kenny and Cartman's friendship deepened off screen since s9. It shows itself strongly in the covid specials and post-covid (not post covid the special, I mean like.. after the actual irl covid and.. ARGH mattrey u make my life so difficult)     
      Kenny was the one to approach Cartman about the fragility of the broship and inspires Cartman to be the one to make sure the gang stays together. That's a level of openness and vulnerability that frankly, I haven't seen him share with Stan or Kyle. Quite the opposite in fact-- When Kenny finally admits he's immortal, Stan and Kyle dismiss him in their own way. Neither have made the move to sympathize with him since, especially at the level Cartman does in the covid episodes. Now, Cartman's "sympathetic" method of coddling Kenny wasn't the best thing to do I'd say, the show was clear  Stan, Kyle and Cartman weren’t handling the broship fallout well, but Cartman definitely proved himself as the “best friend” the show has claimed he’s been in prioritizing Kenny during Covid. We even get a verbal reminder from Cartman and Kyle in Post-Covid that despite it being the literal worst future for everyone, Cartman and Kenny’s friendship thrived. With the opposite lives they lead, it's astounding they remained best friends for forty years.
That level of loyalty is kicking Stan and Kyle in the dirt and laughing rn. Look at Dikinbaus! Cartman and Kenny had a blast “planning the business” (ie living it up as owners and mutually taking advantage of Butters to just pal around) and Cartman once again concedes to Kenny when he lets him work from home. It’s a gag first and foremost, but still, I think it works as part of character analysis lolol. I’m analyzing this a lot from Cartman’s perspective, or at least his actions, but I don’t rlly have much to go by on Kenny’s end and I hope y’all can see why lol. excluding the Mysterion arc and the s22 Halloween episode, he’s a passive character. things rly just are happening to this dude. 
Cartman's attachment to Kenny has grown exponentially since the early seasons ("I hate yew guys/ specially kinny/ ah hate em the most/") whereas we've heard directly from Kenny what he thought of Cartman at the time s9 was written but we don't really know what he thinks of Cartman presently. Now, mattrey have written Kenny's quietness and frequent disappearances as part of the charm of his character--the mysteriousness with a pinch of hidden sadness, maybe a dash of loneliness--and not like, a serious writing pitfall of not knowing what to do with one of your main characters, not giving them the chance to let the audience see their motivations. So the uncertainty surrounding Kenny's true opinions, in this case of his friendship with Cartman, isn't by accident. I'd say it's fair to assume Kenny now views Cartman as a best friend, given how much Cartman has done for him.
I’d also say it’s fair to assume the pity for Cartman hasn’t changed.
#asks#south park#eric cartman#kenny mccormick#kennman#sure this could be seen as kennman why not lol#now Kyle believes cartman can change and maybe kenny can see it too but kenny definitely isn’t proactive enough to put in the effort to#see it thru#Kenny’s friendship with Cartman has grown to become the least tumultuous of the m4#so Kenny doesn’t need to feel compelled to search for the food in cartman. he already sees in in their friendship#on a writing level it’s just… off to have Cartman and Kenny go thru so much only for Kenny to still have the same opinions of Cartman in s9#they’ve taken on this weird new role where Cartman takes it upon himself to console kenny in addition to stringing hm along in his schemes#ohh but as much as i’ve said that kyle sees good in cartman and wants to be the one to help see that goodness come to fruition#it’s also try that as of s20 Kyle’s been disillusioned#he told heidi ‘Cartman will never change’ and I think that was a wake up call for himself as much as it was for heidi#when cartman gave up the pangolin all kyle said was ‘i don’t believe it’#when cartman said he converted kyle refused to give cartman a chance even at the end of the special#s7 kyle would’ve clung to the promise of cartman changing with rosy eyes full of hope#that hope for cartman ain’t dead but dormant rn. the heiman arc rly burnt him out#Cartman get off ur ass and win Kyle back pls he’s so done w/ u rn my guy he will Nope himself out of stories now so he won’t deal w/ u#(kyle’s absence in streaming wars was rly felt)#wait in streaming wars kyle had a ‘he can change 🥺’ moment when he went ‘🥺’ for cartman when talkin abt the surgery#he was on everyone’s case abt the surgery he was on top of managing cartman’s boat building quality#but yeah cartman ended up taking the money for himself and. now we’re fuckin back to square one :))#although i’d say in streaming wars cartman didn’t withhold the deets on the surgery on purpose. he didn’t know what was going on#when he went to talk to the guys and he was genuine.#A​NAYWAYS FUCK OK STOP TALKING EPSERANZA GOD
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