#but i dont intend to elaborate it by now

[highlysusceptibletodisaster]

look i dont care bernard fell firt but tim fell harder

[galacticlamps]

I just wanted to apologize to my classic whotuals for all the dead boy detectives spamming, but it's also important to me that you guys know two things:

a) I've become aware that a lot of what appeals to me about dead boy detectives is, on a kind of conceptual/thematic level, the same stuff that I love about my favorite eras of dr who, and 6b in particular

And I tell you this not as an advertising tactic but as a genuine PSA for anyone following me because:

b) Being me & having realized this, I know I'm definitely gonna wind up posting some unnecessarily long-winded analysis/comparison, pop it in the main tags for the sake of organization on my own blog, and subsequently confuse a hell of a lot of people there who either have no idea what I'm talking about or simply don't view either piece of media in the same light as I do to begin with

So I just wanted to reassure everyone that at least you're not suffering alone, as I will soon be inflicting the reverse bait-and-switch upon others!

That's all! continue w ur scrolling <3

[arolesbianism]

Horrible realization that if I go through with recollecting all the oni logs then I'll have to actually find out how to get "a seed is planted" like for realsies this time. Maybe I should just cheat them all in actually. <3.

[duerede]

A thing about Astarion I don't see talked about very often is that my good time boy cannot executive function. If you ask him to elaborate on any plan he goes, uh i dont knoooooow stop asking. He has been winging it since before you were born and he doesn't intend change now. Wouldn't know a step 2 if he met one. Any plan he has is just to show up and see what happens.

[leclsrc]

like you should ✴︎ cl16

genre: just. Like. sexual tension…, reader is max’s gf, no explicit smut but heavy innuendos so just beware, everyone is Morally Bankrupt so turn away if u dont fancy that

word count: 11.3k  

If you don’t learn from history, it’ll stick around and find a way to repeat itself – even if the history is with your boyfriend’s rival, and its repetition happens behind his back.

auds here… hi hi hi!!! not proofread sry; i wanted to write something like this for a while haha, i had a bunch of reqs from january(!!!) that served as the basis for it. title from this it was this fic's inspo savior. full disclosure this is fiction n doesn’t at all reflect how i view max/charles :) love love love u all sorry for being mia so constantly & enjoy this jumble of sexual tension haha. happy june friends!!!

Monaco is always an affair in itself. Humid, music blaring, and full of celebrities, you pose for a few paddock pictures, exchanging no words with Max. He’s idle beside you, cap drawn over his dirty blond hair, hand on your waist, the other scrolling through emails and Instagram. Your dad’s somewhere here, too, if you remember right—he texted you about being with Christian, at a meeting somewhere about Checo or something. You can’t be arsed to remember. You flew in two hours ago after a days-long inner turmoil, trying to decide if you wanted to come at all.

Max didn’t sound too eager for you to arrive, either, but you theorize it’s because you’ve both been tired with work lately. He’s leagues above everyone else now, but the demand of work snatches what little quality time you could’ve spent with him. You suck it up, lacing your fingers together and hoping this is a dry spell—physical and emotional—that just needs to be waited out.

How’s the weather? You ask casually when you’re inside his room, burying your face into his shoulder. He presses an absentminded kiss to your head. “Should be fine.”

“Anything you’re worried about?” You make yourself busy rifling through his closet. It’s more of the same. Polos proudly showcasing the logo of the team that’s brought him to the top. He usually keeps three spare ones, but there’s an extra smaller one that you unfold and dangle in front of you. “Whose is this?”

He glances. Kelly’s. When you gesture for elaboration—Nelson Piquet’s daughter? Christian asked me to give her one. You don’t pay attention to it, folding it neatly and placing it inside again. He pipes up to answer your earlier question, voice light as it is solemn. It’s Charles’ home race.

“So?” It comes out sharper than you intend, considering Max is more a friend than his rival. You turn to try and soften your hostile phrasing. “I mean. It’s… you’ve been dominating the leaderboard.” No way you’ll show him you’re worried for Charles, too. “Their car is horseshit.” It is and it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to him for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” He’s getting up already.

“Wait—” You pause when he’s kissing your cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Make it dinner, then.”

“No,” you protest weakly. “I’m going to be with my dad.”

“Drinks.” He leaves no room for argument and leaves with the door shutting softly behind him. You exhale loud through your nostrils and shut the closet door, leaving to explore the paddock. It’s familiar grounds for you, not just because of Max but because of your dad, who began insisting you attend races again a few years ago. You should know Red Bull, he’d said then. The team I’m sponsoring. The team I give millions to.

Purely to appease him, you gave in and attended a race for the first time in a long stretch, just a few years ago. You’ve attended almost every race since then, and those have often blurred into one homogenous memory (sitting, watching, cheering, hugging, drinking), but the first race remains clear as the day your driver dropped you off at the entrance to the paddock, a VIP lanyard slung over your neck and sunglasses perched on your nose.

You stare at the just-closed door, his bag still abandoned on the bed, his dismissive tone, the polo you’ve just folded up. Max is hiding something—you just can’t put your finger on it.

—

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Monza 2019! The host goes, a reporter-esque smile greeting the crowds on the big screens. Monza is intimidating. You’re being guided around the ups and downs of the paddock by somebody whose name you’ve forgotten and remembered and forgotten again, short in stature with a posh English accent. Your dad is somewhere, in a meeting perhaps, which means your re-introduction to the world of racing is up to this man alone.

“Christian!” Someone says behind you, and oh right his name is Christian. Christian—Hormut, or something. You’ve blurred his last name from memory, too. Christian ends up having to excuse himself to attend to a pressing practice problem, and he leaves you with one of his drivers.

Max is his name. He’s funny, charming, and vulgar in the way all Europeans are (you’re not at all surprised when he tells you he’s Dutch), and handsome, moreso when the topic gets to racing and he starts talking quick and with passion. It’s something you admire.

“You don’t know what quali is?” He asks when he hands you a vodka soda.

You laugh. “My dad was always insanely busy with work as a kid, so I liked not knowing anything about it.” You always wanted to remove yourself from the racing and just be your dad’s daughter. “I’ve only been to a handful of races, and even then I was way younger.”

“You’ll like this one.”

You squint onto the paddock and recall the motif that’s been teeming around you all day long—red. Red, red, and more red. There are fans whose faces are painted red, bold and shiny against the unrelenting sunny weather. Internally, your curiosity is piqued. Red Bull, perhaps? “Are those your fans?” 

Max follows your gaze curiously. “Oh,” he says when he sees the crowd of red. He sips his beer. “No, that’s for Ferrari. They always attract a proper crowd in Monza.”

You hum, the name more than familiar to you. “Red sea.” You spot a few signs in Italian, a few fans taking pictures, and finally your interest wanes, eyes gravitating back to Max. “You nervous?

“Rarely am.” He smiles. “Will you be watching?”

“Probably,” you respond, momentarily searching the surrounding area for your dad. “I’ll be with my dad someplace.”

“You owe me a congratulations,” says Max as he gets up, his name being called from somewhere behind you. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you giggle. “I’ll save it.”

You’d spaced out mid-race and watched from a flatscreen TV inside instead, but lost the plot at some point, so you ask around for who the winner is. The winner ends up not being Max, you’re told by one of your dad’s assistants, Ben, when you emerge from his office after the flag is waved.

Everybody, however, is talking in a secondary racing jargon—they say things like P1 and front wing and strategist, failing to dumb things down for you. You piece things together and realize the winner is a Ferrari driver—but, if your memory serves you right, there are two drivers. You don’t know which one it is. Then again, you don’t know the drivers themselves, either.

You reunite with your dad and Christian Harper (you think) in the garage, where Ben hands you a pair of giant headphones that transmit scratchy, loud radio audio; you remove them and ask him a million questions instead. Nearby, the Ferrari garage is exploding with screams, but they don’t come close to the roars of the red crowd, which almost seems to breathe collectively, scream collectively, celebrate as one. You’re almost transfixed with how loud they are, how passionate they are, with their winner. Their golden guy. Your dad’s mouth is set in a straight line.

“Who won?” You ask, voice raised to try and become audible despite the cheering.

Ben points, squinting under his eyeglasses. You follow the direction of his finger to the finish line. There, parked beside the first place sign, is somebody standing atop his car. He’s wearing red. Showered in red. Surrounded by red. It’s tantalizing, the way his win has commanded the entire area. Your mouth is half-open, lips parted in soft shock.

You tap Ben again. “Yeah, who is he?”

“Leclerc,” he says, pinching his nosebridge. “Ferrari’s new guy. A friend of Max’s, but a rival, too.” He sighs lowly. “Your dad’s biggest problem.”

Christian Harris makes a quip about you having to go find and comfort Max, but you space out, still staring at the winner. Leclerc. You’ve got no face to his name, just the opaque visor of his helmet and the two proud fists in the air, inciting even louder cheers from the crowd. You focus harder, as if that would somehow reveal his face to you.

But he’s faceless, a winner of mystery for now—and for the rest of the evening as you’re ushered back to Red Bull alongside your dad. 

—

“Do you want to come to an afterparty?” Ben asks, tapping away on his phone. Emails and texts crowd his notifications. “We need to know if you’ll need a car tonight.” He follows you around, exasperated with your quick pace that even he can’t keep up with. “And if so, which car.”

“No, no car.” You respond, walking. “Which afterparty?”

“Any, really. There’s, uh… a Red Bull one, a few yacht ones, Max mentioned dropping by APM Monaco’s and—”

“No afterparty,” you say with tense finality once you hear the option. “All the drivers do is drink and get sleazy.”

“O-kay,” he taps. “I didn’t realize you had such a… vendetta against the drivers?”

You laugh a little, peering over the lens of your sunglasses to try and spot familiar faces. Actors, models, drivers’ relatives—the place is packed, and the weather is hot. “When did I say that?” You ask, looking around at hyper speed. 

“It was implied.” Ben pauses and eyes you, curious but already on the brink of suspicious. Your gaze is darting everywhere, clearly trying to find something to catch on. “What are you looking for?”

Caught red-handed, you slow down the speed at which your eyes scan over the paddock and settle them on your watch, pursing your lips. You clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, turning the questioning back to Ben. “I’m not looking for anyo—”

“Hey,” comes a voice from right behind you, a hand coming up to tap against your shoulder. You don’t have time to turn and identify the culprit because he moves to stand in front of you, effectively stopping you in your tracks with a teasing smirk. “Max did not tell me you would be here.” He crosses his arms. “Excited? I know I am. Home race and all.”

You swallow but your throat is dry. “I’m excited to cheer for my boyfriend.”

Charles smiles, satisfied that he managed to get on your nerves. With curiosity and anticipation, Ben keeps to himself and watches the exchange unfold, arms crossed. Charles presses on. “Are you coming to the party later?”

“I might,” you say, mind changed.

“Alright, see you.” With the sun weakening the tint of his sunglasses, and his hair raked back by his backwards cap, you have a clear view of the way his left eye drops into a smug wink. He smiles again, boyish, before he’s turning to leave you with Ben, who turns to you.

“You’re friends?”

The most decent answer leaves your lips dismissively. “Acquainted.”

—

You lose all sense of inhibition (and navigation) as soon as you step a heeled foot into the club, but it’s nothing you haven’t experienced before. Years of clubbing and fake IDs have prepared you for the tactics used to snake your way through the crowd of people, eventually finding yourself at the VIP area of the Monza afterparty, where one look at your face is enough to let the bouncer let you through wordlessly. 

“The team’s finest!” Christian greets jokingly with a smile. Why he’s here, you’ve no idea—you had an impression he had a family to go home to. “A drink?”

“I’ll explore for a bit,” you say warmly, smiling as he brings you in for a friendly hug. You peer at faces and over shoulders, taking shots off trays and flutes of champagne off tables to feel less stiff and out of place. You’re looking for Max.

But you catch somebody else’s eye, one who seems to beckon you over with a look. He’s laughing at something, decently tipsy, and—when you near him—he introduces himself as Charles. “Leclerc,” he adds, and suddenly everything clicks. The face you’ve finally matched to the name is handsome, chiseled and devilish and charming, with a warm smile that doesn’t match the dark in his eyes. He’s in the same kind of getup everyone is wearing—a tight black tee, blue jeans. But he makes it look insufferably attractive, unfortunately.

“You’re the winner,” you state, not lifting your tone to sound like a question. He is the winner. The champion of today’s race.

“Right I am.” He nods once, matter-of-factly. “You’re Red Bull’s princess, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” you say, blushing inwardly. Your face is warm and you feel flustered, but you play it cool, feigning a casual laugh. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He takes a gulp from his drink, dark and potent looking. “Max mentioned you earlier.”

“Oh.” You’d completely forgotten you were looking for him. “Is he here?”

“Around. Hey, listen,” he says, turning to collect the makings of a shot, “I’m the winner, and I make the rules. Take a shot with me.”

Your eyes close in a laugh, nodding along. You’re already tipsy, anyway—what’s another shot? You take a wedge of lemon in between two fingers and a pinch of salt, smearing it along your hand as you grip a shot glass of something. You’ll know once you taste it, you suppose; no time for questions.

“You got the last lemon slice!” complains Charles across you, and you laugh, shrugging as if to say deal with it. Your glasses clink, and you throw back the liquid; it’s ten times stronger than you anticipated and for a moment you lose control over your motor skills, squeezing the lemon wedge a tad too strong so it dribbles down your chin, through your throat and the last of it trickles through your cleavage. You manage to get some, licking the salt off before the taste becomes nauseating.

Your grimace is ever so obvious, as is Charles’ inability to take his eyes off you. Fuck, he thinks. You’re exactly his type. Pretty, eyes twinkling and half-lidded with the alcohol. Your lips are bitten, caught between your lips—it’s a habit, he guesses from how puffy they are. He might have to kiss you now.

“Still need lemon?” You ask, leaning in. “I’ve got some on me.” It’s a joke but your tone suggests otherwise, eyes lingering on his parted lips for any sign of assent. Your breath smells of citrus and wildly expensive tequila. He could kiss you now. He would. He will. He has to.

You tip your head backwards, smiling and dancing lightly to the music, your hands wraped loose around his wrists, dragging him, coercing him closer. So he does, allows himself to give into it and smiles into the skin of your neck, licking over the remnants of lemon that remain. He kisses a lovebite onto the side of your throat, one dark enough that he knows—he just knows—at least one person will ask you about it tomorrow morning. 

When he parts, smiling, he asks, “Wanna smoke?” He produces a cart and waves it in between you, taking a hit and blowing grassy smoke into the air. You nod, encouraging him to take another and blow the smoke into your parted lips. All the while, he notices, your hand is rubbing over the lovebite, the soft, sore skin there.

He thinks of what you might say. The flustered explaining, the hand coming up to cover it or the sponge dabbing concealer over it. He thinks of you lying. Oh, just a guy. No, a Ferrari driver. And you’re all his, if just for tonight. And he’d be right. You were somewhat his—just for that night. The day next, Max took you to breakfast, didn’t notice the blotch of concealer, and all settled into a messy pattern of history.

—

The race is about to begin, preparations in the garage reaching their stunning crescendo. “Good luck,” you say as a sendoff, pressing a kiss to Max’s lips. He smiles appreciatively, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You wonder absently what’s been going so wrong, but you suppose it’s a two-person job. 

You watch him board the car, your dad coming up beside you. “I still can’t believe how lucky it is that you ended up with one of my drivers.”

“Dad,” you say, warningly. 

“Just saying, honey.” He smiles. “Can you imagine anything else?”

—

“I am sure I cannot be up here.” Charles’ voice is amused, deep and echoing in the empty space of your dad’s vast office. It’s dimly-lit because he’s not here—yacht dinners have become the new venues for business deals, leaving big offices like these ones woefully empty. And yours for the taking, you’d told Charles over text when he asked what you were up to tonight.

You hum teasingly, turning. “You won today, so consider this your prize. Provided generously by a friend.” The term embeds itself into the atmosphere of the empty office and you clear your throat, turning your back to him again and walking to the window. 

The awkward air between you had, for some time, dissipated, giving way to a series of texts and calls that, for the sake of clarity and concision, you don’t tell Max about. Plus, you’re not even dating Max, you tell yourself. It’s just a fling right now, no commitment, no crazy heavy labels. You met only, what, three races ago. And to be fair, you’re not even dating Charles—you’re just friends.

“It’s crazy to think this office can be folded up and shipped halfway across the world,” you say honestly, eyes zeroing in on the city. “I mean, all this.” 

“It is just four walls,” he simplifies, nearing you, staring at the way your hair falls over your back. He’s scared to explore around and touch things—touch you—so he settles on nervous looking. “I don’t understand how this is a prize. I’m in an opposing team’s high-level donor’s office with his daughter.”

“It’s not just four walls,” you say when you turn, ignoring his second statement. “It’s a couch.” You lay both hands on the leather sofa, pointing to the two matching loveseats beside it. “It’s… a desk.” You walk over to it and prop yourself up against it, your feet tiptoeing with the height of the surface. Charles, amused, watches your long-drawn out rebuttal and takes a seat on the couch.

“It’s a lamp. A carpet. A display of Seb’s old race suit.” You point at each. “It’s a drawer.” You pull it open. “…Filled with Red Bull porn.” An assortment of hats and tees meet your eyes, all displaying the same emblem. You tug out a team polo, the same one Christian and Max and Daniil wear—and you whirl around, unfolding it in the air so Charles sees what you’re holding.

An idea enters your head. “Try it on,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice. He shakes his head, laughing. Still insistent, you near him, leaning over where he sits and pressing the polo to his figure, aligning it to the best of your ability to his shoulder and chest so it looks like he’s wearing it. “Looks nice.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “Never happening.”

“Can’t a girl dream?” You inch yourself forward so your faces are flush of each other’s. When his gaze switches to your lips, smiling and bitten, it no longer leaves. You think of how he’d look all donned up in one of these polos, these suits. The dark of the suit. He could use a break from all that red. You could give that to him.

“Okay,” he says, but it’s soft and distracted. His hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, craving for a form of your touch.

“We’d better go,” you respond, your voice decimated to a whisper. “Before my dad comes.”

“Come on, then.”

Your lips just barely ghost over his before you heave yourself back up, smiling teasingly. “Alright. Let’s go, then.”

—

You watch the Monaco race like a hawk. Ben doesn’t ask why, but internally he rumbles with questions. Why are you so invested in this one race? He chalks it up to the prestige of Monaco as a whole, and settles for that. But still—you’re interested. You watch from the garage, almost with an unrelenting stare, unwavering. Surely you shouldn’t be worried, he thinks. Max has won before. 

And Max wins again, raising the totem like it’s a crucifix. The camera focuses on your wide, proud smile and shows it to the world—there, it seems to say, there she is, the one Max goes home to! Max wins the Monaco Grand Prix—but what will become of the native hero?

You watch Max win with a proud smile, and accompanied by a nasty feeling that lines the pit of your stomach, you find yourself wishing somebody else had taken his place.

—

You never did like dabbling in racing. Your dad often encouraged you to try karting, driving, even something like PR or marketing—he’d fund it all, he promised—but you grew to almost hate the career that robbed your dad of so much time. Perhaps if you thought about it, there was one upside, and it’s sitting down across you to eat lunch.

“What brings you to the paddock?” Seb smiles. “Rare occurrence.”

“It’s part of my bid to get you back to Red Bull in 2023.” You beam back, observing his Aston Martin-green getup. “I’ve got signs and speakers loaded up in my car.”

“You always were advocating for my return.”

“You’re my favorite,” you joke. But it’s an honest quip. “My favorite Aston driver, and back then, my favorite Ferrari driver.”

It’s a statement you regret as soon as it escapes, because it gives Seb leeway to start intense interrogation. He’s always known. He’s always been observing, picking up quirks and details until he forms his own crude recreation of the big picture.

“Not Leclerc, then?”

You chew slowly, eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

He says your name solemnly, and you pause. Sigh. “What?”

Sensing your irritation, he tries a different tactic. “How are you and Max?”

Seb’s ability to almost always see through you is unrivaled. He’d been one of your closest companions back when your dad would force you to attend races and hail Seb as one of the team’s greatest. Kind as he was, he was a stellar driver, which came with the fortunate gift (and unfortunate burden) of observing everything, and being right about almost all of his hypotheses.

It’s bullshit, and you know it. He doesn’t want to know about you and Max. He might as well could’ve asked how is the weather in Wales? It’s just that farfetched—a question so unlike what usually occupies your conversations with him.

He doesn’t want to know about Max. He wants to know about you—your feelings, your turmoil, your decisions. He wants to know what’s going on with you and Max’s rival-friend-then-rival-again-then-friend. “We’re okay.”

“All good?”

“Amazing, actually.” You smile, tight-lipped.

“I met with him last night.” Yeah, you heard, you say—a party with a few notable figures. “Yeah. Him and Charles.” Jesus, Seb always finds a way to get the topic right where he needs it to be. You prepare yourself for some serious advice-giving.

He inhales, exhales. “Charles asks about you. Are you two close at all?”

No, you tell him. We know each other and that’s all.

“Well”—he says, shrugging—“I just. I don’t want you to betray anyone, not even yourself.”

It’s despicable. All you need are two couches and you’re in free Formula One therapy. They should do this to the Ferrari fans, you think. “Do you hear yourself, Seb?” Your mouth is set into a straight line.

“I’m just saying that there’s a difference—there is always a difference—between what you think you want and what you really want. Now, I can’t tell you either. Neither can your dad, or Max, or anybody. It’s all in you. You’ll know you have what you want when it’s right there.” He jabs a gentle finger onto your open palm, laid on the table. “In your hands.”

“I have what I want,” you say. 

“Do you feel it?”

Seb is met with silence.

—

“Dad?” You call, voice loud to try and capture his attention. Outside, the Monaco festivities carry on. “Simon’s just brought the car around. Are we still on for dinner, or—?” You freeze when you fully enter the office, seeing your dad on the couch pouring a bottle of Scotch. Your blood runs cold almost, and your stomach could’ve dropped right beside your sandals right then.

“Hi, honey. I was just having a drink with Mr. P6.”

Charles smiles charmingly from his seat. “Hi. You’re his daughter, yes?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, so you shut it and nod instead. “Good race,” you say dryly, hiding your disdain under a façade of politeness as you move closer to your dad. Then, in a lower tone to him only, will you be long?

“We were just finishing,” he says with a professional smile. “Was telling Charles here that luck just wasn’t on his side today.”

“Sure,” you say, clipped. “We should go if we want to make dinner. Max wants me to visit the afterparty later, so.” You make sure to look at Charles after you say it, so you don’t miss his sudden eyebrow raise and clenched jaw. He downs the Scotch and, with a smile as warm as it is fake, excuses himself for the evening.

“Well, you two should get acquainted. Who knows what his future in Formula One holds? Once that contract’s over, it’s a bidding war.” He claps Charles on the back. “One I might like to win, eh?”

Your dad makes a signal for you to shake his hand, which you do. Like always, the touches between you, however small and indetectible, are electric; you try your best not to look at him when his hand wraps securely around yours, giving it a brief shake. You feel he’s burned you. Everything burns. “We’ve met before,” you say with a polite smile.

“Lovely to see you,” he says bluntly, acting like you haven’t had him lick salt off your neck before.

“You too.” You reply. He’s departing now, collecting his phone and keys.

He turns and smiles. “Hope I meet you again soon.”

“Nice fella, isn’t he?” Your dad asks when it’s just the both of you.

“Yeah. Nice.”

—

The APM Monaco party is the only one you end up attending. Max drives you both there and gets valet to take care of his Ferrari, leading you both inside. It’s not long before you split into separate directions—you’re looking for a friend, and Max is looking for his team, who have showed up to get drunk, too. You heard Kelly was around, if that mattered. Lets leave @ 2, you suggest. Good? You both discussed it en route, and neither of you wanted to stay late. A thumbs up and heart emoji greets you back.

It’s the same text you stare at at 2:45, antsily waiting for Max at the basement parking. The lobby parking—the main entrance to the place—is swarming with people; influencers, residents, YouTubers, anyone and everyone trying to gain access and catch sight of the lucratively famous drivers.

Thumbs up. Heart. Received 1:08. 

See you at parking? Sent 1:55.

Video FaceTime Call. Missed 2:02.

WHERE ARE YOU? Sent 2:15.

Voicemail, voicemail, and more voicemail. The exit swings open and you’re 100% expecting it to be Max, profusely apologizing for forgetting your mutually-set curfew. Instead you’re faced with, as your father called him, Mr. P6.

He is, of course, smiling. Charming as ever. “I heard from my assistant that you wouldn’t be showing up to any parties. Then I hear Max wanted you to come and cheer for him,” says Charles, his usually jubilant voice low and only a little teasing. His accent is stronger here. It’s less of the English-French-Something he usually uses when speaking English and thick, more natural. “You are one good girlfriend.”

You look up from your phone and the unanswered texts—Maxie where are u? Are u bringing the car? Answer me—and narrow your eyes, mouth coming up into a frown. “What is your problem?”

“Problem?” He laughs. “I don’t have any.” He’s leaning against his car, content to watch you. Another car passes by without pausing to pick you up, leaving through the basement exit instantly. Not Max.

“Okay, then get back inside. You have a whole crowd of fans to appease.”

“I prefer it here.” He looks around the stale garage. “So peaceful.”

“It smells like gas and sweat,” you shoot back with a grimace.

He presses. “You should be happier. Your boyfriend got first place at a prestigious race.” For a moment, you pulse with empathy—you recall the beaten down look on his face when his car and his team failed him again and again and again. But you blink and swallow it.

“Yeah,” you say pointedly. “He always wins. Can you imagine if he got sixth place?”

A flash of something—something hurt, something shocked—surges in his green eyes. But like you, he blinks and it’s gone, replaced with a smile. 

“Can you imagine if he didn’t go home at night?” He teases coolly.

“Right, right,” you say, letting him win that round. “And what’s all of Twitter saying about how all your flings look ‘exactly like Max’s girlfriend’?” You raise two delicate air quotes.

He gaze hardens, then flits down to your phone, open to the unanswered exchange. You quickly shut it off but it’s incentive enough for a continued conversation. “He’s okay?”

“Getting the car.” And like divine timing,  a text from one of Max’s strategists dings in your inbox—a picture of your boyfriend, passed out on the floor of someone’s (you presume his) car. Should be fine by morning we’re about 5 min from his flat. But you don’t have a key to that flat, you realize, because Max suggested you both stay at a hotel for some “much needed relaxation” (you are anything, anything but). 

Can you leave the key? You type, then stare. Max’s girlfriend for almost four years and you have no key. To his home. Embarrassed, you try rephrasing the text but nothing works. You’ll just sleep at the hotel, you think.

You delete the text and press a hand over your face. Fuck’s sake. You’re going to have to ring your driver—thus alerting your dad—at three in the morning for a car because your boyfriend is piss drunk.

“I’ll bring you home.” You look up, almost forgetting Charles was there. He pats the front of his car. “Hotel or Max’s flat?”

“Hot—hotel,” you say, breath catching from stress and embarrassment. “Hotel. Sorry.” You’re embarrassed. You’d gotten that dig on him for being P6 less than two minutes ago, but now you’re climbing into his car, meek and with small, unassuming movements. You almost want to apologize, but that might worsen the awkwardness of it, so you purse your lips and stay relatively quiet.

He doesn’t gloat, like you expect him to, like you maybe would if you were in his position. He does, however, sport a insufferably self-satisfied smirk, like he knows he won tonight somehow even if he didn’t even snag fifth. You grumble quietly from the leather passenger seat, opting to admire the lit-up nightlife of Monaco, alive as ever even as the night wears on.

“Is Max home safe?” He asks, stifling an even bigger smile.

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” You scroll through your many notifications, and find no text from your drunk boyfriend. You look up, finding you’ve turned away from the city centre and into the darker, less populated area. “Where are we?”

“A shortcut.” He revs faster.

“Yeah. Okay. Like, where, specifically?” Your eyes analyze your unfamiliar surroundings. You’re not familiar with Monte Carlo at all to begin with, so the lack of buildings is setting off every internal alarm bell.

“Well,” he chuckles, sensing your apprehension, “it’s a shortcut. Cuts six minutes out of the drive to your hotel.”

“I thought everything was close together here,” you quip, relaxing a little. 

“Not to a native. I know places.”

“Sure.” Your voice wavers. “Charles, I’m going to jump out of the car window if you’re shitting me, I sw—”

Charles throws his head back to laugh, like he can’t even believe you just suggested that. As if deep in thought, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and laughs a little, with exasperation almost. This girl, he seems to think. You stare, transfixed with all the little flexes his face makes.

You break contact when his eyes flicker to your figure, looking at the console first then the window, as if caught stealing a cookie from the jar. “Sue me for being concerned,” you add, for an extra layer of defense.

“You are like your dad.”

Your face warps into one of disdain. “Never say that to me again.”

“Just in the way that”—he waves his hand around to get his point across, laughing as he focuses on the road ahead—“you two are always serious, always working. I mean, you never attended races, even before.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I like to think you and I know more about each other than we let on.”

He’s right, but you won’t say it. You two have a connection so unlike what two acquaintances, friends, share. It’s undeniable and thick and impossible to uproot, an easy and intense dynamic at the same time. You know so much about him. You know how to make him laugh, hurt his feelings, get his eyes to flutter all pretty. But he knows those things about you, too.

“You only attend races for Max, yes?” He adds.

The utterance of Max’s name gives you mild whiplash—it reminds you you’re on the way to your hotel, to check if your boyfriend’s okay, and not on some drunken joyride with his friend-rival. You clear your throat and try to segue out of the topic. “I just—I take work seriously. I take everything seriously.”

“You shouldn’t.” His eyes flit over to you again, up and down, the low cut of your dress, the way your crossed arms are effortlessly pushing your tits togeth—

“You should loosen up,” he says with a cough, looking back up.

“Thanks for the tip, Leclerc.” You smile phonily, eyes still out the window. “I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

“Okay.” He says lowly. Then, as if to set a challenge—“Put it to good use now.”

“Now?” How? You almost add, parting your lips to let the question slip past. You stop yourself before you can, though, letting your still hazy mind run through your own fabricated answers. How do I loosen up? Then, to yourself again, for you?

It’s dark outside, and even windier when you roll down the window of his car. He drives fast, steadily but scarily fast—with the kind of control he’s built over a career around a car. You peek out, facing the dark hilly terrain, spotting the city lights in the far distance. Your hair flies over your face when you turn, finding more empty road. Everyone’s in the city. In the thick of the partying.

You dip out of the window more, letting yourself feel the breeze—it whips at your face, cold and smelling of the coast. In the car, you maneuver your legs to keep yourself upright properly, and more of your leg shows as a result, the material riding up on your thighs.

Charles maintains composure, his pace slowing so your hair brushes against your face more gently. Still, a soft, high-pitched yelp of excitement and nerves escapes your bitten lips. He wishes he could watch—he wants nothing more—but he has to focus on the road. He does allow himself fleeting, hot glances at you—your legs, your lithe hands on the window’s base keeping yourself upright, the way your dress hugs your waist. He might die.

“Careful,” he says, raising his voice firmly. He is genuinely concerned for you when he spots one of your hands lifting to rake the hem of your already short dress further down. It’s cold, you’re thinking, but you let your flimsy grip tell him the same story.

Still focusing on his next turn, he drives one-handed, reaching his other one over to help you out. Out of his immediate sight, you shut your eyes and allow yourself to shiver from the feeling of his hand, warm and calloused and big, on your knee, inching higher and higher upward and eventually wrapping loosely around your leg just above your knee, holding you steady.

A shaky breath leaves you, and you’ll say it was because of the wind, but you’ll know you’re wrong. Your hand moves down, to meet his, to let your fingertips skate over the expanse of his hand until your fingers are wound tightly around his. It’s dark. It’s intimate. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Your mind is buzzing, red hot and clouded, when you begin to lead him upward, higher, until your interlocked hands are just under the hem of your dress, dangerously close to where you need him most. An invitation. 

But when you crack your eyes open again you see you’re near the city, abandoning the safety and darkness of the shortcut, and the illusion is shattered.

“Get back in,” you hear, and when you feel the tension of his hand pulling yours, you let him tug you back inside. Your hair settles by your face, and you almost reach up to comb it neat before realizing your hand’s still caught in his. Slowly, your gaze meets his—his eyes bore into you, dark as the night outside. They don’t flicker when you hastily pull your hand from his grip, sighing shakily.

The next turn brings you back into the city, structures gaining a semblance of familiarity. The window, still open, is chilly against you, your cheeks cold with it, your shoulders inflicted by a mild wash of goosebumps. “Have fun?”

You clear your throat. “Not much,” you lie through your teeth, chewing on your lip. 

“We are near the hotel.” The hotel, the party, the grand prix, Max. Reminders of what you’re supposed to be paying attention to ripple through your head as the car snakes through the city. It’s one of his other cars, so it’s not distinct enough that people are peeking inside; still, he rolls up the window for your sake.

He drops you off at the basement parking, not at the lobby. Privacy reasons, he says. He’s sick of parking outside. You bite back a quip about his nasty parking and stay still, heart beating quick.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “For driving me.”

“You’re welcome.” A hand rests on your thigh and you don't feel the resolve to jerk it, instead relishing in its warmth there. “Get there safe.”

“Safe? It’s one elevator ride,” you say tersely, rolling your eyes. He squeezes, his touch feather light, and your breath hitches. You need—

“I hope Max is okay.”

You blink and then move your thigh so his hand slides off; he doesn’t put up a fight, and you don’t encourage him to. “So do I.” It’s right as you’re closing the door when Charles says see you? You meet his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, and shut the door fully.

—

“Yeah,” you say after a period of silence. “I feel it.”

Across you, hair raked back by a headband, Seb maintains lack of conviction. You’re not telling him the truth.

“How’s it feel then?”

“Just… good. Like thrilling.” Like danger, in a good way, peaceful and calm and patient and not complicated. You know what you want. You want the ring-clad hand wound around yours, on your thigh, stubble against your jaw. You want that. You know you want that.

But do you have it?

—

Max’s agenda in Barcelona starts on the eve of quali day. He arrives at your hotel and is greeted with music—it flows from the bathroom, where, upon his inspection, he finds you, swiping a dark line of eyeliner on in the mirror. You meet his eyes briefly, but you say nothing before continuing, humming softly to the Drake song that plays from your phone. He can tell instantly: you’re pissed.

“I’m leaving,” is all you say, dismissive and standoffish. You provide no follow-up.

Still, he tries to apologize. “The meeting ran late.” Silence. “Your dad discussed budgetary stuff.” Silence. “I’m optimistic for pole tomorrow.” And again, silence. “Come on, babe. I’m sorry. Really.”

“Okay.” You pause. “What was Kelly doing there?”

His mouth opens and then closes. “Wh—”

“Ben told me.” You wave a wand of mascara around.

“She was listening.”

“What’s her business?”

“Listening,” he emphasizes.

“Bullshit.” You’re on—he guesses—eyeshadow now. “Every time the topic gets to her, you get all skittish. As fuck. You think I don’t notice?”

“Babe,” he says, defensive, “it’s only because I couldn’t even stomach the idea of being with someone else.” And it’s cheesy and corny, but it must work, because your eyes flicker with something. Love, perhaps—clarity. Realization that you’re being irrational (are you?)

“I think I’m just,” you croak. “Just. Missing you. We never spend time together anymore—and after the stunt you pulled in Monte Carlo—” You press two delicate fingers on either side of your nosebridge to emulate your disappointment. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? You were in someone’s car, blacked out. And no apology. Nothing. Just invited me to lunch the next day with your dad.” A topic you hate and a man you detest spending time with.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He comes in to hug you from behind and thanks the gods that you let him, your hands encircling his wrists. “I was being stupid. Won’t happen again.”

You just nod along, still annoyed but enough that it’s beginning to melt off. Max is sated. But even then, he should’ve known that the flicker of something in your eyes wasn’t love or clarity, the flicker he catches again in the mirror when he presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s neither. It’s guilt.

—

Quali is relatively uneventful—Max gets pole, and Charles gets something something. A good place, front row you think, but you fail to remember. Ben told you the standings, but you weren’t focused; you’ve been spacey, distracted, mind irreversibly stuck on something else during the session. Max can tell, and offers to take you out to dinner, but you decline so he leaves you by yourself nursing a Tylenol. The night is almost over, and you’re collecting your car keys and slinging your bag over your shoulder—but the evening is punctuated by a familiar English accent.

“Come on,” goads Lando, voice petulant and whiny as he tugs on your wrists. “Max said he’d be busy so he needs a proxy. He sucks at the game, anyway, you’re not filling big shoes or anything.”

The tradition (you use the term loosely) of drivers’ poker, started by Lando’s desire to master the game, is apparently so important it demands your attendance. You’ve had your run-ins with poker before, so you feel assured, but none with a volatile group of competitive guys like this one, so it’s on the fence.

“Where?” You suppose, though, that your mind could use a little clearing. A game, a win of sorts.

“My hotel room. I’ve just”—he types rapidly on his phone and presents your text exchange with him—“sent you the number.”

“Who’s playing?” You walk to your car and he follows, still insistent.

“The yoozsh,” he says, shortening usual the way a prepubescent boy might. “Alex, me, Charles, Carlos, Lance. We play a good game. The stakes can get pretty high. And I’ve won a couple times, so beware.”

You laugh a little, raising your brows skeptically. “Sure.”

“I’m dead serious, mate.” He says solemnly as he waves goodbye, standing idly and watching you start your car through the half-rolled window. “See ya. I am going to kick your ass.”

—

“Is this the part where you kick my ass?” You laugh, everyone peering at Lando’s shit hand that he’s presented to the table. “Out!” The game’s since been decimated to just you, Charles, a pool of money, and a thick atmosphere of slow, deliberate silence.

The rest of the players watch you and Charles, conveniently seated across each other, entranced by the easy back and forth that swings between the both of you. You peer down at your cards, then half-lidded, back up at him. His eyes bore into you, challenging, amused.

Tense, you hear faintly. Lando’s unsolicited commentary. In between you both is a scattered pile of creased bills of varying currencies, chips, a condom thrown in by Lance, and a few spare coins. It’s a huge pool despite how random it is, and even if it doesn’t cost much to anybody in the room considering how much you all earn, the prestige of calling yourself a winner still takes precedence.

Underneath the table, your foot brushes against his, the tip of your heel to the side of his sneaker. You poke your tongue into your cheek to conceal a smile, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“You seem nervous,” he says, trying his best to elicit a reaction out of you.

“Could say the same to you,” you quip, tracing the hem of his jeans with your foot. His breath hitches and you take it as a win, smiling to yourself.

“I’ve had a four game winning streak.” He fans his cards out. “Nothing to lose.”

“Oh?” Your legs continue to intertwine out of sight of everybody else, the friction of your bare calf to the denim of his jeans a warm addition to your already intense match. “Say bye to five.” Lando deals the final cards and the tension hangs heavy, palpable in the air as you both calculate your next moves. Carlos eyes the two of you, sensing something else is at stake here. The air is just too heavy.

“We’ll see,” he whistles, revealing his cards. The group seems to hold one collective, bated breath, waiting for you to take your turn. You do so with a self-satisfied smile, your foot still intertwined with his calf as you begin laying your cards down on the table. You slowly reveal a stunning winning hand, and Lando is the first to get up and cheer loudly. 

Charles shrugs and hands you your victory with a handshake, pushing the pool of winnings in your direction. “Congratulations.”

“When you’re with a winner,” you tease lowly, just in Charles’ earshot, “you are a winner.”

He snorts. “Whatever you say.”

You both miss Carlos and Alex exchanging a glance first with you and Charles, smiling teasingly at each other—and the way his eyes go from yours, to your lips, and back to your eyes—then with each other, eyes half-wide and half-puzzled.

—

The race is intense, and Max suffers damage in the middle of it. It’s a rare occasion, but it costs him place after place until he’s vying not for P1, but P4. He doesn’t win today. You watch Charles cross the checkered flag yourself, watch the footage of him throwing his fists up in the air.

You’re there to watch the Red Bull engineers grumble, mutter dissent, wish themselves luck for the next weekend. You’re there when your dad says Charles is the team’s biggest liability. Imagine if we had him, he’d said. You imagine Charles in a Red Bull suit, but the image is cut short by your boyfriend’s arrival to the garage.

The video feedback on your father’s TV, of Charles spraying champagne all over everywhere, his green eyes meeting the camera with a brilliant charm, is abruptly cut off and you turn to find Max entering. His demeanor is stormy.

“P6,” you say immediately, sensing the pending grumbling. “Not so ba—”

“It’s a shitshow,” he retorts, disgruntled. But he’s at the top of the standings, leagues above the rest; he has nothing to worry about. Driving-wise, at least. “Fucking shitshow.”

“Max,” you comfort. “You did well. The damage was out of your control.”

But he’s pissed, and in the thick of his emotion, he pays your sentiments no mind. To him. it’s all the same regurgitated bullshit. Eventually, though he calms down, finds you in the motorhome and wraps you in a loose hug. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You smile. “Love you, too.”

He leaves early for a meeting—so many meetings, these days—and promises to meet you for dinner, requesting you text him. You watch him leave, slip into his car and drive off, and then call yourself a car to the hotel. You figure it’s high time you spend quality time with Max, what with all the instances you’ve been fighting or ignoring each other.

You leave at six, taking the elevator to the basement to get to your own car, parked there. You’re optimistic. A dinner. A date. Finally, some time with him. This is what you want. The coil in your belly, though, and the congratulatory text left unsent, tell you a different story. It’s one you choose to ignore.

The elevator has a bar slotted across the back wall that you lean on, typing updates to Ben and Max. The drive shouldn’t be long, you hope. You can’t navigate the new city fast enough. The door dings open and you make a move to exit, but you’re stopped by a figure across you.

Charles, in his Armani tee, arms crossed and eyes flashing with recognition when the doors reveal you. He’s still fussed up from the race, probably forced to stick around for promo pictures and interviews. His hair’s damp still. You notice the imprint of his balaclava is only just starting to soften and fade.

Your words tangle in your throat. “Congratulations,” is all you can muster when you see him. You don’t inch close. He, too, remains stagnant, standing perfectly still. Not even a smile. Like the tension between you forms a barrier as physical as it is emotional. “You drove great.” Your hand tightens around your phone, where you’ve just texted Max that you’re leaving the hotel.

“We should really stop meeting in parking garages.” He says lowly, with a small smile. 

You step forward twice. “I was just leaving anyw—”

“Wait.” For a second, his voice breaks and he sounds—desperate, almost. “Remember Monaco? Last week. You told me you liked winners.” Somehow you find yourself allowing him to near you, stepping backwards for every step he takes closer, even if you realize you’re hogging the elevator, and that people might be waiting to arrive to this floor. “You told me… imagine if he got sixth.”

He steps into the elevator with you, and the doors automatically close behind him; it remains still, but he presses the stop button for good measure. He’s right in front of you, tired eyes and stubble and tall, broad, big. He sees right through you. He knows you. Your buttons, your quirks, everything.

“It was a joke,” you say, attempting to establish composure as you pocket your phone. You fail. You always fail. It’s him. Still, you try, hard enough that he thinks you don’t want him to come even closer, to cage you against the back wall of the tiny basement elevator. “I apologized.”

“Nevermind that.” A hand on the bar of the elevator, just by your waist. His grip is tight. He needs to channel all this want somewhere. “What do winners get?”

“Charles.” Your voice comes out shaky.

“Just this once,” he says. He needs it so bad. You’re so pretty today, eyes looking right up at him, lips bitten the way they always are. He’s taller, he’s bigger, he’s got the upper hand physically—what, with the way you’re crowded up against the wall, nearly having to go on your tiptoes if you want to maintain distance. Your eyes flutter. Just this once. Four years. Just this once. Break a rule. But this isn’t a rule, you remind yourself woefully—it’s all the rules. “I care for you, you know.”

Your silence grants elaboration.

“You’re too serious. But everyone around you is, too.” Closer. “Max, your dad, your coworkers. You just need someone who can calm you down. Help you get peace of mind. No complications, you know.” Closer, even closer. “Someone who’s patient. Calm.”

You stare up at him, your hands unmoving until they’re slowly coming up to press against his abdomen, the hard surface there. You could push him away. You should, in fact, push and forget and walk away and apologize for the delay. But they remain planted there, eyes still meeting his. They’re so green, green and staring right into you, his parted lips just a little chapped, his stubble uneven and getting longer. You want to feel it rubbing your chin raw. Your inner thighs. 

He steps closer and now you’re on your tiptoes, legs spreading a little to accommodate him. His hands are still on the bar. Yours, on his abdomen. You miss the way he squeezes the bar, so strong and with so, so much pent up feelings you’d think he bent it out of shape. He wants so badly for you to be his. And more than that—if that were even possible—for him to be yours. 

Lightly, you bunch up the material of his tee, cotton wound in-between your fingers. Push him, you tell yourself. Push him away. Let go. You’ve had your resolve tested before. But you know better. You know that it’s never come to this. Again, he steps forward, and this time a hand leaves the bar and rests, gentle as it is firm, on your waist, just below it—his thumb presses against your hip. Your breath hitches.

Push him.

He comes closer and you’re fully pressed against the wall, half-seated on the bar, half held up by him—your skirt’s ridden up, legs spread and dangling on either side of his figure. Silence. Your breathing. Your eyes, big and anticipatory, staring into his, dark and desperate. 

Push him.

“It can be—”

You adjust your grip around his tee, ready to loosen it and let go and—and for a second you feel the solid plane of his abs—

“—my prize.”

Push him. You tighten your grip, and pull him in to slot your mouths together. 

His lips are warm, and soft, and he has another hand on your jaw now, but it’s so big it’s at your neck too. You part your lips to let his tongue slip in, and the kiss is nothing if not desperate. He’s wanted this for so long, to feel you like this, have your lips pressed against his. And you’d be dishonest if you said you disagreed. You don’t want to part for air. You feel like this could satiate you enough, just the movement of his lips, the scent of his cologne.

He needs to be closer to you—so he places two hands on your waist and naturally, it lets your legs wrap around him. You can feel how hard he is, and the reminder is dizzying. He wants you. But there is no upper hand here. If he lets his hands wander, he’d feel the damp of your panties and realize you’re just as bad as he is.

But for now it’s a kiss, messy and hot—passionate and just one big breath of finally. Your hands go from his abdomen to his face, cupping him on either side. It’s romantic, fuck—but you’ve craved this for so long, you cherish every second. His stubble rubs your chin raw. You trace patterns on his face, find indents of moles with your eyes closed. The kisses are searing. 

Even if you both want it, and even if this creaky elevator grants you a semblance of the privacy, you both know this won’t be leading to sex. Just this—just this. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Your hands on his jaw, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. His, on your waist, your throat, your hips. Your gasps mingling with his. 

The kiss takes and takes and takes, and it’s long, but you take and give four years’ worth of want and tension and frustration. You part, forehead pressed against his, and the absence leaves you empty—you inch forward and kiss him again, let it consume you, before you part again.

His eyes won’t stop staring. In the way they always look at you. With want. With something. A glint.

“First and last,” you say, lifted against the wall of the elevator, your hands around his face. Your thumbs roam over his face. He sets you down, breath heavy, and still his hands are on your waist and yours on his face. It was your cue to leave. But you can’t. Not yet.

Your thumbs go over his eyebrows, his eyelashes so his eyes flutter; the mark of his balaclava, the indent there; his nose, his cheeks, wiping the sweat there, then lower, finally to his lips. One thumb rests softly in the centre. Just seconds ago those lips had been pressed to yours, bringing a type of clarity you never knew existed. Everything, for just those moments, made perfect sense.

“You lie.” He repeats.

You tiptoe to kiss him again and he can’t seem to get enough, his eyebrows furrowed—so much he almost looks angry, anguished—when you kiss. “First and last,” you say breathlessly when you pull away.

He shakes his head. “You’re going to come right back to me,” he says, with so much finality and conviction it’s almost a fact. “You always will, you always do.” His eyes are shut even when you don’t kiss, relishing in your proximity. 

And when you part, he watches you leave, with something between desperation and anguish. You don’t realize, he thinks, just how deep he is in his attraction. His connection to you. It consumes him, burns him alive, and it’s leaving him for someone else.

You ring the elevator open again, wiping your lips. He lets it close, leaning against the wall himself. And you both realize, with a heavy breath as you climb into your car and he disembarks the elevator: there is no way either of you will resist it anymore. That was the first, yes. But to say it was the last would be stark, stark lying.

—

You’re still licking syrup off the corner of your lip when you walk out of the hotel breakfast buffet, letting Max explain the fundamentals of a race to you. He’d apologized earlier, for not meeting you at the Monza afterparty last night—he’d gotten caught in something or other. But he’s kind, and inserts a few jokes here and there to get a laugh out of you, your eyes crinkling under the heavy lens of your sunglasses, sandals clicking against the outdoor garden cement floor. 

He’s talking, and then trails off. Oh, he says, this is a mate of mine. You look up to make small talk and smile politely, but your face falls faster than you can pick it up. Tall and in sunglasses, too, is Charles Leclerc. You thought they were colleagues, not friends—this is chaos. You reach out to shake his hand, your free hand coming up to press against the splotch of concealer. Just in case.

The handshake is stiff and it reminds you of tequila and lemon, salt and teeth and kitten licks down your throat and right to the crest of your cleavage. But you blink and shake once, up and down. Firm.

“Nice to meet you.” He says, smiling. Then, to Max: “Girlfriend?”

“Hope so,” jokes Max, eyeing you. You laugh.

Charles smiles to himself, smug. He eyes you through his sunglasses with something caught in longing and want. “I hope so, too.”

—

Dinner is short and, despite your best efforts to make it a good one, boring. The food is good and sufficiently expensive, the way all European restaurants are. But nothing flows, ebbs. You talk of the same things: Red Bull, Red Bull, and if you have time, Red Bull. You ask about work, but it’s nothing you haven’t already heard. Max doesn’t ask about work, so the conversation descends into a limbo of silence and sips of rosé. “I’m pretty sure the next race is going to be great.”

“Charles drove great today,” says Max. “Didn’t he?”

You pause, then nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, objectively so.”

“I was going to congratulate him… lost him on the paddock though.” He sips, drawing it out. “You seen him?”

“No,” you say, pithy. “Haven’t.”

“Okay.” He waves his hand upward to signal the bill. “I’ll drop you off and head out for the night. Helmut stuff.” 

You’re torn between feeling suspicious and recalling the events of the elevator, so you nod tersely instead and make the necessary small talk from the table to the car. His hand on your waist, the same place Charles’ was just hours ago. It sends you into a cloudy mental spiral. Just thinking about it—about the way he’d gasped your name in between kisses, like he’d die if you didn’t kiss him again.

“I’m sorry,” Max says when he pulls up at the hotel entrance. “For all the work stuff. And for inviting you to lunch with my dad.” A weak laugh escapes you and you find his hand to squeeze it. It’s okay, you convey, and hope it’s enough that he lets the topic quell for now.

Your silence is permissive, so he continues. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Leans over and presses a sure kiss to your cheek. “As soon as I can.”

You nod and climb out, praying he didn’t see you shudder. The trek to the elevator, eyes skittish and searching for a sign of Charles, is tiring, and you find reprieve only when you’re pushing the door to the penthouse suite open, toeing your sandals off and dropping your bag just by the entryway. You freeze when you hear a glass clink from the living area. You’d gotten this suite for you and Max, and definitely nobody else.

Brandishing a bunch of keys in-between your fingers, you tiptoe into the area and find, to your confusion and shock, your dad. He’s seated on the couch toying with a glass of whiskey, eyes lighting up when he sees you, even if you look like a psycho with claws.

“Hi, honey.”

“Dad.” You drop your keys on the coffee table as you near him, and exchange a kiss and hug. “Wh—did you get a key from…?”

“Ben.” He smiles. “I thought I would surprise you.”

“Yeah, you more scared me.” You quip, laughing. Then you recall a detail and follow-up on it. “Max—um, he said you had a meeting?”

“Meeting? None scheduled tonight,” he says, frowning and opening his Calendar app. Nothing.

A dry quiet creeps up into the room and settles.

You pour yourself a glass and seat yourself beside him, drinking. You share a conversation for the duration of two glasses and then he’s leaving. The kiss he stamps on your forehead, you notice, is more meaningful, conveys a deeper message, lasts longer. He knows what you know now.

The usual sleepiness that comes with alcohol doesn’t arrive and you fall into an uneasy sleep; it doesn’t help that Max calls in past two, saying he’s crashing at the hotel room he bought for his dad instead of your hotel. You listen to the slurred voicemail, eyes shut and nose buried in the pillow. Eventually you lull yourself to sleep, awaiting the promise of morning and clarity.

—

Morning brings a day off. A break. But your mind does not cease to be cloudy, instead becoming even more muddled with questions and pivots and forks in the road. It helps, you suppose, that Max isn’t home. It might’ve worsened everything. You wrestle your way through a glass of water and a cup of tea, try out yoga, and even attempt going back to sleep. But it’s no use; you’re antsy.

So instead of suppressing the thoughts, you theorize, it’s better to lean into them. Succumb to them, the tempt and guilt of them. It might help you navigate the confusion of everything. So you do—you think of your years-long history with Charles, your relationship with Max. The hiding, the suppression, the pretending. Fleeting touches.

You think of how well Charles knows you, inside and out, of how good he kissed you even if he hadn’t ever kissed you before. His hands, the way he said your name, the hitch in his breath when your hands dared to venture just a little lower. The want, the pure want—the want so unadulterated even one kiss was enough. Images of close calls fill your head. All the times you were high, giggly and leaning into him, on the edge of flirty in some dark corner of a club. Your connection has always been, and will always be, completely and absolutely undeniable. No matter how hard you try.

Guilt fills you at the same time. And with the guilt—confusion. Where is Max? He wasn’t at a meeting last night, and you suspect you know exactly where he is. Who he’s with. Can you really be angry, though? Is it a feedback loop of the same thing, the same morally grey actions? Is this all your relationship has been reduced to? Questions, questions, and more questions flood the corners of your head.

Thoughts are put to a standstill when the door shakes with two knocks. 

You rake your hair back and climb out of bed, into the main room, still in your lace pajamas. It might be the complimentary hotel breakfast or Max arriving, you guess. Maybe your dad—he’s apparently in the business of keying himself into your hotel rooms.

So you don’t bother looking through the peephole, undoing the latch with haste and dexterity before you’re hauling the heavy door open and staring breathlessly at the other side.

—

Abu Dhabi greets Max and you with fanfare, with a plethora of paddock paparazzi and even a few gossip rags asking questions. Some journalists drop a check-in, cameras zeroing in on your intertwined hands and your shared smiles. She’s the World Champ’s! seems to be the pervasive headline lately, and your pictures from today will no doubt exacerbate it.

He squeezes your hand when you finally gain semi-privacy, entering the motorhome. Your dad sees you, sees Max, offers a wave that you both return. Your eyes go from wide and smiling to a little blank and dismissive, a change minute but noticeable. “You okay?” He calls after you when you enter his room.

You drop your Kelly—the bag—on the seat by the door and gather your hair to rest on one side. “Fine. You nervous?”

 “The planned strategy was horseshit.” Max is right and for the sake of your dad, it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to Dad for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” You’re getting up already.

“Wait—” He pauses when you’re kissing his cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Oh.” You pause to think. “We can get dinner, then.”

“No,” he says. “I’m going to be with Jos.”

“Drinks.” You leave no room for argument and leave with the door shutting softly behind you.

He stares at the just-closed door, your bag slung over the chair, the way you keep pressing against a certain spot on your neck. You are hiding something—Max just can’t put his finger on it.

[olderthannetfic]

I always see people who have never been antis, talking about/questioning how some antis even ARE antis when you look at their taste in media - ie the ever famous joke of "Hannigram is #problematique" "but it's a show where he eats people" or whatever.

I thought I'd weigh in as someone who could, hypothetically, be called an ex-anti (which, thankfully, nothing ever really came out of it - it was just very 2014 keyboardwarrior-esque behavior of me being a chronically online young adult who would share posts in a group chat making fun of certain shippers, or reblog posts about how 50shades is The Most Problematic Media Ever to exist -- basically I was an anti with anti-lines of thoughts, but i never, like, a ran a Shipping Discourse Blog or whatever)

For me, personally, it was a few different things. I can now see how it's incredibly hypocritical that teenaged me shipped Light/L, while still thinking that Dramione was Bad And Abusive. It ultimately boiled down to a) being pretentious, and b) just not understanding media or what proshippers REALLY believed, with a side of c) not realizing that nuance exists. like i was pretty late to join tumblr, I think I immigrated here during PEAK "yourfaveisproblematic" era which definitely did have an impact on my opinions and my tastes.

to elaborate, a.) being pretentious. i mean this one just kinda goes without saying. "I engage in media in a way more intellectual way than you do, don't you know that? You're a filthy and disgusting person who writes Snape/Hermione because you're an actually disgusting pedophile IRL who would probably date your own student that you're abusing if you could. Meanwhile, I'm a very smart, good, and pure person. When I read Uncle Vernon/Harry, I'm doing it in a G-d honoring whump way that clearly condemns abuse, incest, and rape. Unlike YOU who only writes harmful stuff as a way to get people off :/"

(as an aside, i think this line of thinking will ALWAYS be present in fandom and popculture in some way, sadly. ie the recent trend of people hating on booktok bc the books are 'trashy' and how these porn addicts should read real classic literature instead.)

as for b.), not understanding media - i cannot emphasize enough that i was GENUINELY stupid and disconnected enough to think that proshippers REALLY WERE pro-All Of The Degenerate Dead Doves That They Wrote.

why did i feel this way? why did i understand that Lolita clearly isnt pro-pedophilia, but for some reason i thought that someone shipping weecest was? well, first of all, i think that fanfiction is (generally) seen as Less Serious than classic literature, and fandom is a fun place, so i guess i somehow thought that every fanfic/fanartist who wrote Problematic Things, especially Problematic Things that they portrayed as Sexy, really DID enjoy the thought of that Actually Happening To Real People.

and i think THIS is the bulk of why antis ARE antis. i'm not calling them all stupid - i do think BEING an anti is stupid, but at the same time, there are people who are truly smart and good-intended people who just have some really off color opinions about, like, homestuck ships or whatever. Lawlight is okay because notebooks that kill people don't exist so it's IMPOSSIBLE for the Harmful Aspects of Light/L to be romanticized! but schoolyard prejudiced bullies DO exist and are a REAL problem so Drarry is BAD (*truly completely unaware of the fact that there's 'realistic' aspects of the Light/L dynamic and 'unrealistic' aspects of Drarry - such as, for example, Hogwarts arguably being even MORE of a fantasy setting than DN is.*) I know that media literacy is the hot buzzword of the year to throw around in 2024, but, like, i really did not have media literacy.

as for c.), not realizing nuance exists - ok "nuance" might not be the best word here, but i dont know how else to describe it. like, each time ive typed the word "problematic" out in this ask, i've done so in a very tongue in cheek/ironic/retroactive way, but, like, those posts about how Everything Is Problematic, Including Your Fave ARE true. and i didn't like the fact that my favorite media or favorite person might've Made A Mistake! i need to Talk About Its Issues Because I'm So Betrayed That My Dear Sweet Comfort Media Would Do This To Me. I Need To Prove I Clearly Condemn It.

like, i legit morally could not justify reblogging a twilight post without adding in the tags '#this is my guilty pleasure it sucks that the books were so racist though' or whatever. Most people were lucky enough to avoid that line of thinking, but there was an actual group of people who felt a genuine need to virtue signal all the time, partly bc, hey, they WERE passionate about talking abt #issues in media, but also bc of a subconscious fear of If You Reblog A Singular Piece Of Hetalia Fanart, You're Literally A Nazi And Will Get A Callout Post Written About You.

and during all of this i was at the tail end of my high school experience (yes i know im younger than most of your audience, ha). i was going through A Lot emotionally, going through a lot of life changes, and lived in a very . . . interesting household/place where i couldn't do ACTUAL good in the world that i was passionate about. so to make up for the fact that i was genuinely in no place to do legit activism, clearly i had to save the gay community by arguing about johnlock queerbaiting or whatever.

^ and honestly i do think that is the position of most antis. theyre isolated and cant seem to do Enough in the Real Scary World so they have to resort to talking about how bad of a person someone is for "shipping abuse", bc theyre not in a situation where they could, for example, ACTUALLY fight the good fight to end abuse or raise awareness for it.

There was way more to it and way more that I could say, if I wanted to, but this post is long enough as it is and probably doesn't make much sense.

I feel bad for antis, honestly, or at least the ones who are antis in the way I used to be.

--

Oh yes, passionate young fools who think they can at least fix the internet if not their lives make up most of the cannon fodder. Some of the ringleaders are just mini dictators and wannabe cult leaders, but most anti-leaning types are just traumatized or clueless, even a lot of the ones who do serious damage and don't just mock shit in private with their friends.

[galaxywhump]

i would love to see daniel making what he feels like is a mistake with wren (similar to how he fucked up with wren getting attacked by the local wildlife in the beginning of the story). like he pushes wren too far without realizing it, or hurts him in a way he didn't intend to (like rope failure during suspension bondage). love to see wren suffering and i also love to see daniel feeling guilty so like. best of both worlds lol

[SV-240 masterlist]

contents: slavery whump, forced relationship, creepy/intimate whumper, defiant whumpee, suspension, dislocation.

~~~

“Uh, could you… check the ropes again? Something’s weird about the balance.”

“I know what I’m doing, sweetheart.”

“But-”

“Just trust me. Besides, just a few more pictures and we’ll be done, okay?”

Daniel snaps a picture. One of the knots in the elaborate ropework keeping Wren suspended snaps too.

It happens in a blink of an eye. Wren becomes certain that something is wrong with Daniel’s handiwork, that it wasn’t just his imagination, and in the next moment his body jolts downwards. If that was the end of it, it wouldn’t be bad - he’d just be a bit startled, he’d get to savor Daniel being proven wrong, but, unfortunately, he mostly did know what he was doing.

Wren’s right arm was still secured with rope, and when he shifted, it stayed in exactly the same position.

He sees stars. His scream of agony comes out as a strained gasp. His shoulder is on fire.

Daniel curses, sets his camera aside and rushes to start painstakingly undoing the knots while Wren hyperventilates, eyes wide, forehead lined with cold sweat.

"I told you!" he chokes out, close to sobbing. "I fucking told you and you didn't- Why the fuck didn't you believe me?!"

Daniel doesn't answer, focused on untying the ropes; Wren's shaky breathing is the only sound. When he's finally freed, the pain only gets worse when his shoulder shifts, and he can't stop tears from falling from his eyes. It hurts so much, a completely new pain. Daniel cradles him in his arms, petting his hair, and the look of remorse on his face is nowhere near as satisfying as it would be if Wren could think more clearly.

"I'm sorry," Daniel says, carefully laying his hand on Wren's injured shoulder, making him tense up and gasp. "Next time I'll make sure the ropes are secure."

"Next time?!" Wren cries. “My shoulder is-”

"I know, I know. And… I need to set it, so be still. Just trust me."

"Again?! You just fucking showed me why-"

Once again, he doesn't get to finish his sentence - with practiced confidence Daniel grabs his arm, lifts it up, and pulls, and Wren howls in agony feeling it pop back into place.

“Okay, okay, it’s okay now,” Daniel whispers, holding Wren close as he struggles to breathe. “You can rest.” He sighs, then the corners of his mouth rise in a playful smirk. “First that animal, now this. I guess I’ll just ask Berkeley to bring me some new rope next time so there’s no more accidents, hm? I really am sorry, though. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“You didn’t learn shit,” Wren rasps, somehow mustering enough strength and clarity to glare at Daniel, who, much to his fury, laughs.

“See how quickly you bounce back? You’re stronger than you realize, sweetheart.”

Wren presses his lips tightly together and shakes his head. He’s not strong enough to fight back in a way that matters, not strong enough to escape. At the moment his strength seems completely meaningless to him, and he’s so tired of staying strong this way when Daniel only seems to find delight in it.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab

@funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter

@as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump-blog @kixngiggles

@ohwhumpydays @whumpsical @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words

@pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @burtlederp

@there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

[strawberrickys]

hi I saw u write for epex too and I'm absolutely in to them these days. if u don't mind could u write epex members when u fall asleep on them (before dating)

aaa plz i love epex 😭 yesyes this is so cute

im doing this in bullet points, hope you don't mind ❤️ if you wanted headcanons or if you want me to elaborate on any of them plz don't be afraid to ask! — not proofread, lowercase intended

─────────────────────

epex — falling asleep on them !! (pre-relationship)

×× 곽 다윗 —★ kwak dawit ! wish ···

• will let you sleep unless you look uncomfortable 💀

• hes probably used to his members leaning on him and sleeping on him all the time but.. you??

• oh he's a wreck

• wants you to be comfortable and if it looks like you're in pain even in the slightest he will move you or wake you up

• overall just wants you to rest well, doesn't care that you're leaning on him

×× 금 동현 —★ keum donghyun ! keum ···

• 100% confused and WILL wake you up 💀

• "do you want to sleep? i can come back another time"

• vv worried and wants to know if you're getting enough sleep

• if you tell him you are actually tired he would be so conflicted

• he wants to spend time with you but he wants you to sleep

• prob just ends up letting you sleep on him after, win-win lol

×× 서 경민 —★ seo kyungmin ! mu ···

• will not intentionally wake you up but the second your head hits his shoulder he tenses up enough to scare both him AND you 💀

• will apologize and let you sleep on him ☹️

• WILL take photos of you but will 100% delete them if you don't like them lol

• texting EVERYONE for moral support

• "omg omg guys they're sleeping on me what do i do help help help" but no matter what anyone says he's not gonna move you until you wake up

• has ruined your sleep before, will not let it happen again 💀

×× 조 민우 —★ cho minwoo ! a-min ···

• confused but will let you sleep

• will 100% just. look at you.

• not like out of adoration but like why are you sleeping in the middle of the day and why on me look (out of adoration too)

• eventually understands because he's had his moments too

• might look at something on his phone and laugh a little too loud 💀

• will apologize even if you don't hear him or wake up lol

×× 김 ��우 —★ kim hyunwoo ! baekseung ···

• nervous and will tell everyone who walks in the room to be quiet 💀

• will make sure you stay asleep because he wants you to rest and he needs to calm down

• will be vv sweet and will ask one of the members to bring you a blanket or something

• he won't hear but said member will walk away grumbling about how whipped he is

• v soft and just wants you to be warm and happy ☹️ need

×× 권 예준 —★ kwon yejun ! ayden ···

• will try to wake you up, ultimately fails, doesn't try again 💀

• "why me and why now." FEAR. someone help this boy 😭

• thinks that you meant to fall asleep on him and will get delusional /lhj

• will not be able to function until you wake up, whatever he was doing has been long abandoned

• might fall asleep too ngl 💀

×× 서 예왕 —★ seo yewang ! yewang ···

• takes him a second to realize what's going on but will let you sleep lol

• will try to wake you up but when you don't he won't push it

• if you're tired, you're tired, and he wants you to rest

• (so you guys can actually hang out 😭💀)

• will watch you and will make sure you're still sleeping and not just leaning on him to make him nervous 💀

×× 이 재호 —★ lee jaeho ! jeff ···

• you have broken him. congratulations.

• the most scared of them all a literal chill would run down his spine I think 😭

• would be 100% still and would NOT move

• will totally wake you up out of fear plz help him ☹️

• he'd wake you up like yejun but will not give up until you wake up 💀

• will ask you why you fell asleep on him but totally didn't mean to lol

• his ears are bright red please dont mention them he already knows

─────────────────────

thank you for reading this far! ❤️ feedback, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated.

— strawberrickys, 2023.

[pierogish]

your art is so wonderful! its so expressive and colorful and joyful and never overworked. your compositions also really blow my mind! if youve ever recorded any timelapses or if you ever would like to elaborate on your process ever, i would love to see it + would pay money to. have a good day!

Hi! I apologize that it took me so long to get to this ask! Thank you so much for this incredible and kind compliment!! :') <3 I enjoy having fun with compositions and everything else and I'm glad you like what comes out of it!

Thank you for being interested in process! I haven't been answering for so long because I couldn't come up with a good answer... I have never recorded any timelapses and don't intend to in the nearest future. Also every time the process looks differently, haha..

But I compiled potentially interesting pictures (for free) - under cut :)

one fun thing I do quite often is that I begin something on paper and then complete digitally. Doodling in textbooks and sketchbooks was the beginning of many stuff

This Seri process is one of my favorites, he was born from leftover green food coloring that I splashed and smeared over pages. Then I begin my favorite game of searching for shapes and letting them "grow" naturally from what there is.. if that makes sense.

From those little monsters that were born during classes then appeared compositions, because having some starting point is helpful to me, even if it gets completely lost eventually.

I don't have a scan and use the imperfection of phone pics for my advantage, sometimes it creates additional texture or interesting colors after little bit of editing.

This one took longer than most of other works. (dont go after me for unrealistic architecture)

I was struggling to come up with compostition for the cathedral so again beginning with a doodle of a random arch helped. and in the end there's an infinite "yeah now it's finally done" *spends a couple of hours more*. on screenshot these are all versions I thought would be final and I sent them to look at on my phone and immediately went to fix something else :P

Beginning from a detail isn't a classic way to build a composition, and usually it's reasonable to start from defining big shapes, and that's what I do often. There are just different approaches of creating compostitions that I like using. Starting from a piece and shaping the rest from there helps me find something I maybe wouldn't have thought of doing otherwise. But it's very important to always hold a big picture in mind of course! After looking at a piece of doodle for a while, I have an approximate picture in mind of how I want to use it.

With digital doodles I usually do lineart immediately without sketching it first, then I can edit or erase it or blend with colors. Have fun and be yourself is the only rule

thank you again <3 I hope it was helpful!

[quillkiller]

rita & barty bodyguard au??? elaborate. tell me more. speak on it. pls pls pls

so lifeguard!rita is @sugarsnappeases’s aka kara aka my most beloveds invention, which then led to us discussing lifeguard!barty because i wanted him to seduce bored housewife guest effie <3

anyway!! karas lifeguard!rita and the rita & barty lifeguard au aren’t necessarily linked together in any sort of way. but they also are. because it’s like an au of karas au… but i’ll still tread lightly bc a lot of it IS borrowed from kara’s au which she IS writing !!!!

it’s some sort of hotel resort type thing. rita and barty are lifeguards. the potters & the blacks (<- the sisters and their family) stay at this hotel <3

rita is like. atleast 8 years older than barty and their first impressions of each other are horrible but for some reason they almost always have the same shifts. like they can’t STAND each other but also. no one on staff can stand either of them. like to the point where they’re not even inviter to after work drinks shfjejwkr. so like they bond over that. talking shit about their shitty coworkers. being absolute cunts together . it’s a wonder rita hasn’t been fired but she’s a customer favorite because she’s aaaaalways nice to rich people <3 barty is new for the summer season !!

and like. they are horrible at their jobs and constantly bully the rich little children lmao. but they do work better together than with other people. if you disregard from them getting high on the job and being mean to kids.. but like they both want their shifts to be over so so badly that they actualy do their jobs. while if they’re working with other people they just let the other take the grunt work lmao . while texting each other through their entire shifts . <3

they would never ever hang out outside of work or actually keep in contact when they go back home. and they dont really hang out at the hotel either unless they’re stumbling into each other at the bar and get drunk together. misery loves company etc etc etc. but they’re not friends. it’s the forced proximity and the fact that they hate their other coworkers more than they hate each other

they always bet on who can seduce which miserable housewife. maybe they have a score board in one of their lockers keeping track of how many married women they’ve slept with. they always compete for like. a joint or a piece of gum or a chocolte bar. the stakes are SO low but they’re SO serious about it

then the potters and the blacks come to stay and things get more serious and complicated than they’ve ever been and now they’re basically teaming up and hyping each other up because it’s SOOOOOO important. its the effie and bella effect i fear. barty first intends to seduce james because hey thats easy but he spends like 2min with him and is like 🧍 not even for a million dollars . and effie chuckles at him knowingly and he’s a fucking goner. he even tells effie like ’if that was my son i’d kill him with a hammer’ and she’s soooooo amused by him. in such a condescending way that makes barty want to fall to his knees . also james still spends the summer flirting with barty

anyway & also they hate each other and dont respect each other and call each other awful things. but if one of them quit the other would quit too probably because there would be no point in staying. like that scene from shameless whete lip calls fiona a slut and she says ’i know you are but what am i!!!!!’

i’ll leave the quillkiller bits out of this because i dont want to accidentally mix up karas au with this au (again!! they’re not in the same universe!! sort of !!! while they also are !! but a lot of it is like. mixed together from our yapping <3)

[stillarandom-radfem]

There's something that I want to say, and I'm trying to work out the right way to phrase it right now.

Libfems. They are so... idk. Is wishy-washy the right term to use? They're sort of silly. They are so adamant about the notion of "smashing the patriarchy" but it's all just lip service, and it's not even necessarily because all of them are intrinsically bad or anti-woman. For some of them, idk, a few, their hearts may actually be in the right place, but the actions (or rather, lack thereof) that they take to get there are misguided and will never grant them their desired result. And I want to elaborate on why I think that is. It's because you can not fight against a social institution (in this case, patriarchy) without first having a clear understanding of what it is, why it exists, how it operates, and what it's goals are. In other words, you have to know your enemy in order to fight it effectively.

Libfems don't. Their version of feminism lacks a solid sense of analysis. They don't know who the patriarchy consists of (jealous, controlling, entitlement-minded men acting collectively against women in their own self-interest). They don't understand why it exists (the male phenomenon of womb envy exists at the heart of patriarchy; men wish to control the biological function of life-giving which only women possess, and to do that, they must first control and subordinate women). They don't grasp how patriarchy operates (by controlling the legal, financial, and social norms and institutions that govern every patriarchal society on the planet, and forcing them to operate in men's favor rather than women's, and also by using violence against women in order to keep us in line). And they don't know what patriarchy's goals are (complete and utter control, subordination, and enslavement of women to men). They don't know that men are the enemy, that hurting and controlling us is their goal, not some unfortunate accident. They don't realize that the system is working as it's intended to (by men), that it isn't a fluke or a flaw. They mistakenly assume that men are like us, that they are truly decent people underneath it all, and not that they are being cruel on purpose. They see men show compassion and kindness and empathy for other men, and falsely believe that they would do so for women, too, if we could just show them the way. But, they couldn't be more wrong, and the fact that men do show such kindness and caring for other men tells us that they know what that looks like, that their horrible treatment of women is a choice on their part, and a very deliberate one at that.

Sucking up to men, doing their bidding, and pleading for kindness from them will never eliminate patriarchy; only full liberation from them can accomplish that. But libfems, still blithely unaware that men are the enemy at all, dont grasp this. So, they keep doing the opposite, thinking that, if they can prove themselves to be "cool" girls who will submit to men's desires and even convince themselves that they are their own, then men might maybe listen to them about rape culture or abortion rights or something. Baby steps, they tell themselves. Slow progress is still progress. They don't realize that control over women's reproductive capacities is at the heart of patriarchal societies the world over, or the role violence against women and girls has in maintaining men's hierarchal dominance over women, and thus, said reproductive capacities. This is why liberal feminism is so ineffective, so man-centric, so wishy-washy. This is why it will always play directly into the patriarchy's hands. It's why all of the major changes made to benefit women over the past century or so have been made by radical feminists, not liberal feminists. It isn't even that libfems are entirely evil or misogynistic (although, make no mistake, their behavior is definitely frustrating to see). It's because, in order to fight your enemy, you must first know your enemy. In order to destroy the patriarchy, you must first have some sort of feminist analysis and framework to work within.

[rivalmelty]

one (1) person asked (@saltasaurus-loricatus) so i’m gonna ramble about my ranpo and fyodor narrative foils brainworms

possible spoiler warning under the cut

you’ll have to forgive the jumbled nature of my thoughts and if i forget anything bc i don’t have the manga/light novels/anime pulled up right this second to double check specifics these are more broad thoughts that ive been reiterating to friends over the years

okay so it’s not a detail in ln3 that’s explicitly stated but in the anime adaptation of untold origins, V is something to do with one fyodor dostoevsky and the way its place timeline wise the story of the play is a hell of a lot more in line with fyodor’s whole methodology even going as far as to “kidnap” (in quotations bc ranpo planned for it) ranpo simply because he was loudly parading around his own ability

now asagiri probably set this up as a way to show how the agency and fyodor have been both intertwined and diametrically opposed to each other since the beginning but To Me with the nature of the agency hinging on ranpo almost exclusively (you need a detective to have a detective agency) i took the first sentence of this paragraph and swapped out ‘the agency’ for ‘ranpo’

there’s also these four seconds in the s5 anime opening and when i tell you the psychological damage i took seeing fyodor and ranpo in the rainstorm while dazai was in the light i have a whole powerpoint presentation of the symbolisms and understanding of just these four seconds istg it has to mean something or anything especially when we know asagiri is at least somewhat involved in the anime scripts but i digress ill just say that fyodor facing the storm with his back to the audience vs ranpo facing the audience with his back to the storm is once again showing just how similar they are as characters even as opposing figureheads of their own organizations (fighting back the worms in my brain that want me to only talk about the significance of four seconds)

we know fyodor main motivation in bsd that being to eliminate ability users as they are a sin on mankind or whatever this is my main talking point with these two bc there’s only been two instances (i think) where fyodor and ranpo are within the same vicinity: the end of untold origins and right before the creation of amenogozen godman (which there is also a whole tangent for my. hm. como se dice frustration around that which might or might not end up in here idk) only two despite how ranpo aligns perfectly in fyodor’s motivations let me elaborate

in untold origins we know that V has a thing against ability users it falls in line with fyodor’s ideals still he watches ranpo (now idk if fyodor is aware this early on that ranpo doesn’t have an ability but we know dazai mentions it in prison that ranpo surpasses even ability users implying his lack of one) bc at this point we as an audience know ranpo isn’t gifted and if fyodor is successful, he would be the only main member of the ada to survive the wiping out of all ability users and even then ranpo could continue natsume’s wishes in retrieving the book and fixing everything single-handedly since we know ranpo would go to any lengths for his family (this would be where i would tangent again and yap about demon ranpo to my friends)

last year i said to my friend “if asagiri reveals that fyodor’s motives all stem from ranpo because if he wants a world without abilities and ranpo is like some all perfect man without an ability as god intended or something like that then like ranpo is proof that the world would be better without abilities thus resulting in the beginning of v into the doa i will explode” now i no longer think that his whole way of thinking stems from ranpo since now we know his ability however i would not be surprised if the creation of the doa was because of ranpo and fukuzawa since i dont think we ever got a why as to their origins and bc of fukuchi’s involvement a sort of tether to the agency and by extension ranpo

here’s another quote i’ve said to my friend about ranpo fyodor “the other man (ranpo) who is greatness personified and without an ability as [fyodor] so desires, surrounds himself with ability users and would risk anything for their safety ‘ranpo is everything the world could be’” and yet ranpo runs head first into a tripolar singularity to save the one man who he trusts wholeheartedly even if that man has placed his trust in the wrong hands leaving ranpo to have to pick up the pieces. ranpo still runs towards fukuzawa as a man without an ability as a kid with only one person to look out for him ranpo still runs even if he won’t survive to see an after and that’s where we are today

ranpo and fyodor being narrative foils yet ranpo has all but disappeared from the airport from fyodor’s line of sight from the narrative and i don’t understand but for the sake of holding myself off from yet another tangent i’ll leave it at that

sorry if that’s all over the place and incoherent i’m just not normal about them and the possibilities and everything that there is and that there is not i just find them so interesting and unexpected as foils considering their irl works but also i can’t really read irl dostoevsky i just didn’t click with it but im gonna be done with this if yall want to talk more about this please i would love to i love talking bsd theory sm

[orangepeelshortbreadcookies]

Hello!!! sorry i jum in here but i saw many post of your as a polin pen hater. You can hate what you want of course but its necessary to lie just to hate a character because of her body??? it wasnt that bad, she was not mean.

yes, what she did telling the ton marinas secret was not the best choise but it was what she thought it was the only way. Do you all wish for colin a marriage with not love?? and in a more practical way this is fiction and we all now he was going t end with pen , they are end game and thi is romance, its suppouse to be romantic that theu found each other, and for me it is. She didnt told marina secret because she wants colin for herself , she never thought she cold have him. maybe yo dont understand this but we, fat girls who are foung unattractive NEVER expect love or having a man, even less somone like colin. I think you, as many sadly, jugdge Pen actions too strong and deep down its all becuase of how she looks. Depp down i know you judge her action strongly becuase you can't accept that a woman who looks like that get something. I know you will keep hating, just want to say my opinion

(2) I saw you ask once why we ( pen fans) are mad when people hate her like you do if we got everything, saying like she happy and get married and LW. i will answer that from my perspective. Im fat, people is mean and that herats and yes, maybe it not a good things but it nice to have a revenge for all that suffering , but beside that i feel represented FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME in a romance show, ALL THE ROMANCE FEMALE LEADS AND THIN WOMAN and for the first times she looks like me but everyone is hating her becuase of how she looks and the worst is anyone accept its becuase of that, you all write long essays jugdging her actions but as i said, Were her actions that bad???? think about it fr......

Others please also refer to this post for more context.

I did not intend to answer this ask, because honestly, I'm really very lazy. Since there are only so many ways I can make my argument against the same accusation over and over again, especially to someone who clearly doesn't want to listen, I figured ignoring was the right decision. I'd rather spend my creative energy and efforts on my own writings, instead of figuring out another elaborate wording on how being critical of a character's actions does not equate fatphobia, and that personal adversity does not equal a 'get out of jail' free card for repeatedly inflicting pain on other people on a mass scale. I've talked about it in depth in my own blog, as well as reblogging other eloquent, well thought-out posts from others, Polin fans and anti-Polin fans alike. You can just scroll through my blog to see that. But I don't think you have come after me, time and again, to be convinced.

Even now, I still think ignoring you would have been the smarter, or at least, easier course of action for me. But I digress. Maybe it's one of those days where I feel more confrontational, maybe my ADHD is acting up and my meds are not hitting as well today, maybe after weeks of stress-filled personal achievements I'm feeling talkative seeing someone trying to disturb my peace. Nontheless, since you've made diligent efforts in seeking out my response, today's your lucky day, once and for all.

Something my mutuals and followers might have learned about me, is that I, being pretty fucking lazy, don't post/write a lot. To remedy this, when I do post, oftentimes I try to be as thorough as I possibly can. So, in the spirit of being thorough, here's a little log of the things I have received in the past weeks, on this site as well as on AO3, some of which, @cherryblossom970sblog, I have reasons to believe came from you

So you feel represented by character. Awesome. Good for you. You should celebrate it with like-minded people. You think nobody likes Penelope the way you do? Find the ones who do. I can assure you, they exist. I saw them daily on my dash. Read fics that bring you joy. Don't read the ones that don't. I have seen way too many Penelope/Anthony, Penelope/Benedict or even Penelope/Gregory fics, or fics where Penelope just straight up abused Colin that are celebrated in the comments. I don't like those and you know what I do? Scroll past those fics or click out of those and not read them. You know what I don't do? Go after the writers, try to police their writing, and accuse them of bigotry for not catering to my preferences.

Accept the fact that it's not going to be a 100% percent approval rating. And that's fine. That's part of life. I'm a primary Benophie fan, I've seen people wanting Benedict to end up with different people. It's their prerogative, I leave them alone. I have mutuals who have different takes on actions of Kate, Edwina, and Anthony, with varying degrees of feelings regarding how season 2 ends, and I have my own opinions. Personally, I find all three parties were wrong in that triangle, especially Anthony, and the sisterhood between Kate and Edwina in that season ought to have been handled with more respect and care. And my mutuals and I have civil, nuanced discussions about such things and ending those with still different opinions. That's okay. They're fictional characters and their actions are up to character analysis. It's fine.

What ISN'T fine is obssessively stalking inboxes of strangers, REAL people, unleashing insane level of hate and prejudices in defence of a FICTIONAL character, and accusing them of crimes they OBJECTIVELY did not commit, all because they don't share your opinions. I know you don't think this kind of behaviour is okay, you said so yourself that it's not a good thing. You've experienced fatphobia, you have my sympathies for that, but it doesn't give you the right to be shitty to other people. Your own bad experiences do not entitle you to disrespect, dismiss, invalidate and insult the people you harassed, including me, many of which are WoCs who have valid concerns regarding how their own experiences are represented and treated on the show. My struggles of being a bisexual, Asian, immigrant woman does not excuse me from being toxic to people who have done me no harm. I will not be vindicated in demeaning someone who have criticisms against the actions of fictional character who share my traits, criticisms that I just happen to disagree with.

And frankly, I find reducing the nuances of a character or person to only their bodies, to contribute (as either condemn or excuse) their actions to be only the result of their bodies, fucking insulting. It's infantalising and dehumanising.

Have a nice day and happy shipping. Leave us alone.

[let-me-be-an-egg-toast]

me when i redesign beta eternatus and adopt it as my own (made in MS Pain[t])

OKAY NOW THAT IT'S MY OWN, IM COUNTING THIS AS AN OC SHOWCASE (PT III) (PART 1 AND 2)

I'M NAMING IT OSSI'HADDI

so Ossi'haddi was once a gigantic Pokemon that ruled the Rhegaian seas before it died out somewhere in the prehistoric past, but it was revived by Tethe-Morte, the god of existence (also known as the Anchor of Existence)

Ossi'haddi is commonly known as the Lord of Corpses/Mortality, and is the mythical of the fossil pokemon (Ghost/Water that can use Dragon moves)

Some depict him as being under Tethe-Morte's jurisdiction or even being their equal

Some myths say he was once a human who died protecting his family so Tethe-Morte blessed him to become Ossi'haddi, other variants say that the identity was a curse (by Tethe-Morte ofc) because he did war crimes or some shit

unlike the other legendary/mythicals in Rhegaia Ossi'haddi isn't actually sapient and acts just like it did before; like a creature

Ossi-haddi can unfurl its "wing" bones because these were actually its large fins when it was still alive (think of mega gyarados fins)

i might draw Ossi'haddi better/professionally later

its really funny how Ossi'haddi was formerly beta eternatus because Tethe-Morte to an extent represents infinity

Ossi'haddi is Tethe-Morte's pet ig ("he dont bite i promise" "YES HE DO")

btw "boneform" is what Tethe-Morte calls the Fossil Pokemon while "Hayto" is the term people use

some dialogue about Ossi'haddi:

"Ah, Ossi'haddi. That was the name given to the largest boneform that I have ever ressurected - not by intention, of course - but it is interesting to see him swim around in his little waters. Why, do you intend to meet him, perhaps - even capture him yourself? I do warn you though, you were not the first, and will certainly not be the last, so I suggest you and your team prepare yourselves. After all, there are others who do plan on seeing you all again in the flesh." - Tethe-Morte

"Oh. Ossi-Haddi. He was the greatest Hayto ever found in history. I myself don't know that much about him, but people do worship him to this day, and he's known as the Lord of Corpses. Or Mortality, if you want to be less direct about it. Why are you asking?" - Brava

"Ossi-Haddi! Oh yes, of course I know about him! The greatest Hayto to ever exist, the Lord of Corpses! I battled him myself, and suffice to say, you already know who won. [laughs] He was angry about it, but what could he do? He was already out of energy after all, haha! Oh, but please, don't take my remarks to heart, he is NOT one to be underestimated - no, no, no! His fight was tough as it was glorious, and contrast to what other people say - he IS intelligent, not in a conversational way, of course, but he knows what he's capable of and he is NOT afraid to show you." - Verona Donna

"His design is interesting - you would think a creature as himself would be complex and full of little structures - but alas, he's the most simplest Hayto I've ever seen so far! That is not to say he is plain by himself, no, no, no - he's marvellous! I do understand if that's what you thought my opinion would've been, considering my elaborate designs, but I myself have been learning to take the phrase "simplicity is key" to heart, and I'm starting with him." - Verona Donna

"Ossi'haddi may look like a creature focused solely on survival, but I assure you, he has emotions of his own, no matter how hard they are to see due to his - admittedly - simple-mindedness. He was only focused on survival in the beginning, but over time, he has become a little sentimental, and, well - he's lonely. I've scoured the oceans for other fossils like him, but alas - all their spirits have already moved on, and he's the only one left. I have given him the option to do so as well, but he decided to stay, despite his feelings, for some reason." - Tethe-Morte

[cowgurrrl]

since OFTM asks are being answered atm, I thought I'd come through with a few questions of my own about this WONDERFUL and LOVELY series because it's that good!

1. ik we're wayyyyyy past it but do rockstar!joel and actress!reader do anything for Valentine's day? have they done things early on the relationship, do they still celebrate now or maybe it's something simple like posting cute photos of each other on their stories??

2. okay this one is a fun one and I know there was an ask about how reader would potentially be a presenter at an award show BUT would she ever host at some point? if so, i definitely think she'd pull it off + she'd probably do some cute promos as well, maybe even do an announcement promo with joel in some way! i think it'd be fun for her if she did + joel and the kids would LOVE it.

3. as reader ever got to work with big name actors/actresses before or does she prefer more indie like things and working with more unknown actors and actresses?

4. idk if it was mentioned at some point but was reader ever pregnant during a project/role she was doing? how was her experience and what was it like? i def think there'd be times when joel visited the set and she was all smiles because "daddy's here! visiting us" haha, it'd be precious!

5. this one is ABSOLUTELY silly but i notice how some celebrities will be at big events or something such as a tennis game or whatever and some of the reactions are SUCH a mood so i feel like if joel and reader attended some type of event like that, their reactions would be so silly and REAL.

last one finally lmaooo, im sorry i just love these two lots but speaking of special events, i think of how sweet and nice it is to imagine joel just watching from a distance as reader is out doing her thing at a premiere or something like the met gala where she looks GORGEOUS and Joel's thinking "wow, there she is! that's my amazing beautiful wife" 🥹🥹🥹 because he's such a supporter of her HELLO and he's just an awe but also, imagine how reader feels whenever she sees joel on stage knowing that a song is being dedicated to her or just watching her husband from a distance knowing that's the person she's married and fell for.

ANYWAYS! this is so long, again so sorry 😭 but I'm curious to know your answers when you get a chance 👀💜💜💜💜

DONT BE SORRY THIS IS WHAT I LIVE FOR OKAY

I think at the beginning of their relationship, they definitely go all out for Valentine's Day. Nice hotels, dinners, heartfelt (and expensive) presents, the whole nine yards. I think when Sam and the girls are little, it gets harder to do stuff for Valentine's Day especially when you're bouncing between work, school, and helping your children make "Valentimes" for their classmates. Things calm down just a little and you two will settle for a nice, homemade dinner in your messy kitchen after the kids have gone to bed. Joel will send flowers to you at work and you'll humor him with a silly, giggly strip tease even though you're wearing sweatpants and a shirt with marker stains on it. It's pure, domestic bliss. Once the kids are older and they've been married for a long time, I think they would alternate between elaborate plans and low-key ones. After all, they definitely don't need an excuse to be grossly in love with each other.

I could totally see her hosting an award show! She'd be so busy but having so much fun and she'd recruit all her famous contacts to help her with promotion and what not. On the night of, if Joel's not there, he totally sets up a watch party at home with all of the Miller kids, spouses, and grandkids and cheers you on the whole time. If he is there, the kids are probably there too and help you backstage with awards, setting up different presenters, and keeping you calm. You'd all get dressed up and take nice pictures as a family. I see it being hectic but so rewarding (no pun intended)

I think it's a good mix of both! I have it in my personal canon that she does go on to do some Marvel, Greta Gerwig, Bridgerton type projects that have so much hype (and a huge budget) surrounding them but I also see her taking on some smaller roles from smaller production companies as long as the story is good. In my head, Red Dirt Girl (the movie talked about through much of the main storyline) is a smaller production and smaller actors but they all end up taking OFF after that.

I WAS LITERALLY THINKING ABOUT THIS TODAY GET OUT OF MY HEAD okay so I think with Sam, she is definitely pregnant in the middle of filming something but doesn't realize until she passes out at work or something and she gets taken to the hospital where they find out she's pregnant. They weren't trying but they weren't being careful so it's a little bit of a shock but they adjusted. For the first time in her career, she'd let them hire a stunt double for her and would take it easier than she had in the past. They'd definitely have to change some wardrobe and people would treat her like she's made of glass but it's all manageable. Joel would be the biggest change of pace. He'd been on set before but after they find out they're pregnant, HES THERE EVERYDAY. I think they'd fight about it a little bit just because she feels a little smothered and Joel agrees to back off a little. As she progresses, I think she'd be more okay with him visiting and would poke at her belly and be like, "your dad's here." With the twins, they find out relatively early on because her symptoms are so bad it's literally unavoidable and they try to keep it a secret for as long as possible BUT when she goes back to reshoot a scene where she has to be smoking a cigarette or something, she's like, "..... no." and they're like "we need this for continuity," and she's like "I'm pregnant. With twins." BECAUSE WHAT ELSE ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO SAY. I think she would've worked for longer when she was pregnant with Sam than when she was pregnant with the girls just because of the risks and Miller children are not known for being easy so I definitely think she'd have a harder time with the girls than she did with Sam but everything ends up okay!

It's canon to me that the Millers are a BASEBALL FAMILY it was actually one of the first things I wrote for the One for the Money universe! Joel is partial to the Astros (boo) while she's definitely more of a Cubs/Yankees fan because she lived in New York and did a lot of filming in the Chicago/Midwest area for a time. I think they would be able to compromise and cheer for the Dodgers together but when it comes to their personal teams, they don't play around. Sam also goes on to play baseball professionally so I see them going to baseball games together as a big, happy family. Being an actress, she DEFINITELY wouldn't be able to keep her emotions a secret and would regularly be caught yelling, cheering, and dancing along to whatever song is playing through the stadium. God Bless anyone in the nearest vicinity when the Astros and the Yankee's play each other in the World Series.

I 100% think Joel has these moments all the time at events. I see her off doing her own thing like interviews or individual photos and he's just staring at her like "that's really my wife." He's known to get teary or really affectionate on red carpets, giving photographers everything and more. She tends to do the same thing, especially if he's getting recognized for something, and will get choked up during interviews about him. They're just so in love and proud of each other they make me SICK

Thank you for all your fun questions about my little oftm family! I hadn't thought about some of these before and it was really fun to think about them so thank you!!!

[idealspawn]

fuck. i feel so fucking bad. i hate how i sometimes shut down and cant communicate my thoughts right away. and i cant really even vocalize that i need time either. i just lose my voice and freeze. i made the guy feel uncomfortable i think. like he said everything is fine but like. like . like. he is confused but like like like like like its not like i wasnt ever planning on elaborating bc im actually really good at communicating i just like. am weird sometimes. and i told him that. and all is well but i feel so bad that i literally just said nothing when he tried to talk to me about it. he wanted to sleep w me and i was okay w it at first bc i want it too but i was high for the first time after like 2 months and literally so disoriented and i freaked out like i barely even recognized him, i was THAT high. and then just froze and shriveled and said nothing and kept repeating that i dont know anymore and cant explain it rn. he stopped immediately the moment he noticed sth was off and asked if i was uncomfortable and/or afraid of him as in nervous. and he tried to talk abt it even when we werent high anymore and he blamed himself a lot which is so sad bc thats not it and then tried to like i guess move slower and said its ok if im not ready but the next 2 days we were together i literally just said nothing when he tried to make advances or talk abt why both of us acted awk and i like just acted like nothing happened but like still made moves on him and was okay with like other stuff just not like sleep-sleep w him. i kept sending mixed signals. i also was like so weird and quiet in general the entire time i was w him and i said i was in an odd mood and he pinky promised it wont affect anything and that he likes multidimensional people and its okay that im diff sometimes. i drank alcohol the entire time i was there too and fuck. idk im just. so fucking weird. he said its ok he is nervous and scared too and like i just fucking said nothing i dont know whats my fucking problem. fuck. like it was actually really fun too most of the time. we did graffiti and looked at the stars when we were lying down in this tower near like mmmm a big beautiful singing stage (???) and smoked his last lucky cigarette and did fun stuff on playgrounds at night and the moon and the clouds were so beautiful. the clouds were exactly like in suzume when the sky collapsed. then we cooked together, it was so fun to shop together and then we watched moomins and it was actually really nice. i picked him a nickname by opening a book on a certain page number and picking a word blindly. and he read me the little prince in french bc we both know french too and its a sentimental book to him. he sang me songs and played the guitar. he also surprised me by playing one of "our" songs and i literally started to cry. and he altered these lyrics in this one song so it applied to us and it was so sweet. i wear oversized clothes and he put my sweatshirt on and i had his jean jacket and bracelet on the entire time. he looked so nice in my hoodie and he didnt want to take it off and kept hugging it. i think probably bc it smells like me. i said i came from the moon, that they switched me when i was 5. he said he isnt even from this solar system. it was cute. made me not feel insane lol. its just like.. im a literal idiot sometimes. he was supposed to come to my place today and he asked if its okay if he comes tomorrow bc he is very confused and scattered and slow today and i think its bc of me and i feel so bad. like its okay he comes later but i intended on explaining what happened w me to him today and i just want to fix everything fast and i dont want him to feel bad and fuck. i fucking dont know. i asked him if he is confused bc of me but he hasnt answered yet. i feel so fucking bad. like all is well he said that a million times but i just want to fix everything now and immediately but not over texts....