#driving his maserati

[dramaticlacrosse10]

proof that Andrew Minyard is the goat. shutting bitches up with a single sentence. because neil smacked you... now what. you'll WHAT? WHAT, HOE? nothing. exactly,,,, stinky ass,

QUIET AINT NO BACKTWALKKKKKK

[saerins]

heyy you don’t have to do this but could you please make those moodboards that was like the one you made of otoya and yn’s aesthetics awhile back but based of on yn and sae in chapter 5?

-🐰

of course here you go :)

[jane-the-fool]

someday ill make a whole dissertation about why hozier is actually not the forest prince that people perceive him as and actually modernity and its imagery is at the forefront of so much of his work and it is actually so much more interesting to see his work like that rather than an escapist fantasy about some made up fantastical past, in this essay i will

[dykekarkat]

two of my favorite hcs that i have are that andrew is like an extreme car guy he fucking loves expensive fast cars but he also knows like jackshit. refuses to learn anything about them. originally bought the gs by asking for the most expensive thing he could get within his budget. the maserati gets a flat tire and andrew is staring down at the tire jack like he can explode it with his eyes. the engine makes a weird sound and he just plays the music louder and ignore it. and then u have neil who knows literally nothing about car breeds and what makes them impressive but is like magical when it comes to making them work. takes him 10 minutes to change a tire. he looks under the hood once and suddenly the engine light that was on for 2 months? disappears. he's like 'hey andrew have u ever checked the oil' '...' 'andrew you've had this car for 4 years'. they go on a drive one day and the maserati breaks down so neil shows him how to hotwire a car so they can drive to a nearby garage and andrew thinks it's the hottest thing he's ever done

[feverdreamsandlucidnightmares]

I’m so happy for Andrew and the fact that he likes driving but I can confirm as someone his height that he can’t see over the dash. Road safety is entirely an estimation. It’s set in 2006, most cars didn’t have a backup camera or sensors or shit and he can’t fucking see. As if Andrew would ever strain to look around while driving. He has absolutely insane spatial awareness just so he can carpool his family.

(Going off of @strongqueercharacters post about Andrew’s car: the Lexus GS is longer than a Honda CRV. The Maserati is longer and wider than both.)

[stankhole]

what vehicle i think veilguard characters drive/their mode of transportation

bellara- street legal dirt bike that she did all the work to. can go from the streets to the forests wherever she needs

taash- jeep wrangler with no top so they can have room for their horns and enjoy the rivaini sun

davrin- 2000 toyota tacoma. it’s may be a little beat up and dirty from work but it gets the job done just as well as bigger trucks

neve- public transit 💅, though she is also forklift certified

lucanis- a maserati ghibli or jaguar f-type. he would have a luxury sports car but it wouldn’t be overly ostentatious like a lamborghini, but just know that the price of it would pay off my rent for years

emmrich- a lexus rx. he will spend the extra money for the knowledge that it is a very reliable brand

harding- 2012 toyota prius with a bunch of bumper stickers from all the places she’s been

elgar’nan- a cyber truck lol fuck this guy

ghilan’nain- an amphicar. she would think it it the pinnacle of science to have a floating car and she can go visit her sea monster creatures

varric- a mom van to haul around all the strays he’s picked up over the years

rook- clown car/unicycle. 🤡

solas- runs, especially from his problems 💀

[jjsfavgirl]

Calm down party girl

JJ Maybank x partygirl!reader

Summary: JJ taking care of his girlfriend after a long night of partying.

I’m going to a party on Saturday and couldn’t stop picturing this hope you enjoy! :)

Warnings:alcohol, underage drinking, nudity, suggestive content( just reader being a horny drunk)

Part 1 Part 2

-

“Jay! Jay! Did you get my drink?” I smiled, stumbling into my blonde boyfriend as he caught me by my elbows and stabilising me. Chuckling at my drunken state, he knew that now was the time to cut off my tab and send me home.

“Calm down party girl.” He began, pulling my closer to him as to avoid shouting over the noise of drunk teens and the 2000s mix blasting over the stereo as cheers filled the room. “Let’s get you home, princess.” He smiled at me.

“Nooo.” I groaned, pouting out my bottom lip, praying it would convince him to let me stay.

“You can’t even stand without falling over, hun.” He chuckled.

“But-“ I began speaking.

“Nuh uh. No buts let’s go.” He spoke, not hesitating to take his hands off my arms and scoop me up bridal style, his arms setting under my neck and legs like they were sculpted for his touch.

Not wanting to argue with him, I allowed him to carry me to the porch of the house. As he set me down on the wood, my heels clicked and my head spun from the sudden position change.

“Can you make it to the car?” He quizzed, taking my pink purse off my shoulder and stuff both our phones into his pocket as he fished out the keys to the Twinkie.

“Yep.” I giggled, my drunken state driving my emotions hire wire.

Shuffling my way through the car park, my eyes glowing up at my handsome boyfriend who was looking back every so often to make sure I was still following him.

He smiled at me brightly, interlocking our hands together and helping guide me as he spotted the Twinkie behind a black Maserati.

My bottom lip poured out once more as the pain of my pink heels dug deeper into my ankles, my feet dragging even more.

JJ took notice to my struggle and immediately stopped walking to check on me.

“Put one foot on mine so you can take of your heel.” He ordered, knowing exactly what was hurting me.

We had both seen this before, partying every weekend then ending in me getting a foot massage from JJ after wearing my iconic pink heels that were one size too small for the long hours of the night.

“No, I’ll hurt you.” I spoke, looking up at him with puppy dog eyes.

“I don’t care, you’re in enough pain as it is.” He said.

I obliged with him, doing as he said and placing my skinny heel on his foot as I removed my right heel then did the same with my left.

Groaning slightly as my bare feet tingled from the cold, sharp gravel beneath them, JJ turned around, placing both hands behind his back and motioning for me to hop on.

“I’m not a little kid jay.” I laughed at his movements, placing my hands on his shoulders as I hopped on.

“What ever do you mean? This is a very serious piggy back.” He chuckled, turning his head slightly to flash his pearly white while both his hands linked under my calves once more.

He carefully placed me down in the passenger seat of the Twinkie, tucking my legs under the dash as he placed my pink heels in my lap.

Joining me in the car, he started up the engine and we headed back to the Château.

-

Arriving at the Château, we spotted John B and Sarah laying with legs intertwined on the hammock outside.

“I swear she went out yesterday?” John B laughed, noticing my skimpy clothes and drunken state.

“You are one crazy lady y/n” Sarah laughed.

“You know it!” I cheered, throwing my hands in the hair as my strapped heels swinged around my bracelet covered wrists.

“Come on, party girl, let’s get to bed.” JJ ushered me inside the Château, guiding me by my bare waist.

I giggled, turning around to my boyfriend and placing a sloppy kiss on his lips then trailing them down to his tan neck.

“Nuh uh.” JJ pulled my wrists away from his chest, forcing my lips to retract from his body.

“Whyyy.” I groaned, pouting like a spoilt little kid once again.

“Bedtime.” He smiled, spinning me back around and leading me into the spare bedroom we called our own.

Plopping myself down onto the bed, savouring the smell of JJ (weed, sweat and cheep booze) JJ searched through his drawers and pulled out a baggy shirt of his and black biker shorts of mine.

“Arms up.” He spoke as he approached me, fingers motioning me to put my arms up.

A bright smile covering my whole face from eyes to mouth, I obliged as my arms swung in the air and JJ began to strip off my small “shirt”.

He did the same action with the mini skirt I had on, immediately sliding on my shorts and carefully shimmying his shirt over my long locks.

We both lay down together, his arms immediately wrapping around my frame as I played with our matching bracelets which lay so perfectly on his tan wrist.

“Did you have fun tonight?” He smiled down at me, his smile growing even wider than what seemed possible as I grinned up at the surfer.

“Yeah, I broke the record for most shots taken.” I smirked back, very proud of my accomplishment.

“That’s my girl.” He laughed heartily, placing a warm kiss on my forehead.

[carelessflower]

On Testing and Qualifying Magnus Lightwood-Bane's Sugar Daddy Behaviors - An Analysis

Multiple arguments have been made against the current High Warlock of Brooklyn, superficially regarding whether this gentleman's reputation as the current Consul of the Clave's sugar daddy is underappreciated or exaggerated. This study aims to dissect the argument with the support of textual evidence throughout the couple's appearances in the series

Paying for their first date

Taking care of the bill like a gentleman. From this instance, one can assume he takes his gentlemanly courting ritual very seriously, as he also reached for the meal cheques in other occassions

Conjuring and pelping to pick fine clothes for Alec

On their famous Europe vacation, it is shown Magnus has a habit of magicking tuxedoes, suits, and well-made sweaters for Alec. Now, if he could upgrade that GAP scarf to a Burberry one, it would be much appreciated

Gentleman behavior

Even though his boyfriend is supernaturally strong with biceps to bite for days and hunts bloodthirsty demons for a living, Magnus would still rather pay someone to carry the heavy luggage than his darling

Luxurious accommodation only

There has been a previously published study on the expenses for all these places here, so this article will be repeating the same key points:

one night at Istanbul Grand Suite on the Orient Express: $26,000

suite in Belmond Hotel Cipriani: $1,056

suite in Palazzo Manfredi, Rome: $729

It is understandably relatable when one pulls Alec Lightwood and wants to do everything in their power to woo him. For Magnus, it apparently includes never letting Alec stay in any place less than five stars

Letting Alec drive the Maserati

It costs around $10,860 to rent a red Maserati 3500 GT Vignale Spider for one day. Therefore, it speaks volumes to Magnus's affection for his boyfriend that Alec almost crashes them and the expensive car off a cliff is just a "tiny accident". It is also very likely he buys this type of car later, seeing his husband's fascination with them

Living together in Brooklyn

Months into the relationship Alec has already possessed a literal key to Magnus's home and proceeds to move in after weeks of getting back together. For other poor souls who are looking for a 3-bedroom brownstone in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, the rent would be estimated at around $5000 per month. For the Consul, it certainly would involve a different type of payment method

Alec's magically money-full pocket

The consul carrying energy bars in his duffle bag instead of using the 15000$ in his pocket guarantees the funniest mental images one could possibly imagine

Enchanting Izzy's whip for Alec's birthday

Knowing Alec's top wish is to keep his family safe, Magnus chooses to tip his boyfriend's sister's whip in a prized potion to help her on the battlefield. Loving someone to the point you want to protect what else they love

Assisting shadowhunter without payment

This element may prove to be the strongest supporter of Magnus's claim as THE sugar daddy of the shadowhunter chronicles universe title, seeing how he used to overcharge shadowhunter on their business (deservingly so), and now he is willing to do all kinds of crazy shenanigans without an ounce of money. Whoever's in charge of the Clave's budget better send Alec the biggest, freshest, most expensive fruit basket

Final note

In conclusion, this research paper does not provide a definitive answer to the argument but encourages readers to draw their own perspectives. Nevertheless, it is a great possibility that in his report, the consul stated he used 10-20 dollars each week while he was traveling across the world, going to Japan when he craved sushi and staying in the finest places, all thanks to his generous husband

tag list: @magnus-the-maqnificent @literallytypogod @hoezier-than-thou @sociallyineptbibliophile @queenlilith43

@khaleesiofalicante @wandererbyheart @raziyekroos @onetimetwotimesthreetimess @alexandergideonslightwood @andrwminward

@noah-herondale-lightwood @elettralightwood @dustandducks @deliciousdetectivestranger @delightfullyterrible

@letsgofortacos

@kita-no @thelightofthebane @secrettryst @goldendreams3 @cityofdownwardspirals

@stupidfuckindinosaur

@i-have-not-slept @rinadragomir @potato-jem @kasper-tag @cam-ryt

@banesapothecary

[trippinsorrows]

midnight sun

authors note: don't ask. don't ask. don't ask.

words: 1.8k

warnings: angst, domestic violence

song inspo: 'faithfully' by journey

And bein' apart ain't easy on this love affair Two strangers learn to fall in love again I get the joy of rediscovering you

Pressure.

A constant, almost soothing, irreparable thing. A loyal companion that hasn’t escaped nor forsaken him for as long as he can remember. The perpetual weight of responsibility that was assigned to him the day he entered this world, and something that will remain with him until the day he leaves it.

Whenever the fuck that’ll be.

At this rate and with his luck, not for a very long time.

“Did you know that the average person has four bad days per month?”  An overheard question.  Something Roman has to scoff at. Whatever sample that was used that produced such a statistic had to have been the fucking soccer and yoga moms. The ones who consider Starbucks being out of fucking pumpkin spice the definition of a bad day. “Adults also apparently smile 15 to 20 times per day.”

Another random fact that’s overheard, except it’s something that Roman realizes is much closer than he initially realized. The proximity does not align with something that’s in earshot. More so something that’s right in front of him.

“I don’t know if I—if I really believe all that, but—”

With a heavy sigh, he lifts his head, ready to lay into the poor, unsuspecting soul. “Why are you fucking talking to—”

Two abrupt stops. Two interruptions. Two complete collisions. 

A second round.

Years. Almost twenty, and yet the instant his eyes lock with hers, he knows, and judging by the way she drops the notepad in her hand, she knows, too.

It’s been some time since he’s felt so thoroughly shaken, but that’s exactly what he feels in this moment.

“Solana?”

Not that there was any doubt before, but the tiny gasp that leaves her mouth is all the confirmation he needs that this is most definitely her. 

Her eyes. So big, brown, and inquisitive. Once filled with an abundance of hurt and pain, an ideal match with his all that time ago, is no longer the same. Something different. There’s some trace of happiness. Yet, there’s something almost disingenuous about it. Like, it’s a poor attempt at camouflaging what was felt so long ago.

What might still be felt.

“Roman….”

His jaw clenches. It’s been so long since he’s heard his name leave the mouth of someone like her. Soft. Innocent. Kind.

None of those non-physical things about her have changed. He can tell that even in this brief, unexpected interaction. 

Naturally, his eyes move over her, noticing her hair is no longer long and cascading down her back. It’s short, barely brushing past her shoulders. Lighter. It suits her.

Her body is filled out, shapely, womanly, heavy in the desired areas. And the minute her mouth curls into an almost hesitant smile, he finds himself pleased that that has remained unchanged.

She always had such a soothing, beautiful smile.

“I—what—what are you doing here?”

A good fucking question considering he has a million and other things on his to-do list and not one of them includes sitting in this random coffee shop he drove past on his aimless drive. 

“I mean,” she laughs nervously, hand to her face, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, that’s—that’s a silly question. You don’t have to answer—”

“I was driving and saw it. Wanted coffee.” Not necessarily a lie. He does now want coffee but not necessarily when he chose to park his Maserati and enter into the quiet, almost wholesome shop. “You work here.” A statement. Not a question.

Nodding, he’s much more pleased than he should be to see her smile grow. “Well, technically, I—I own it, but—”

“You own this place?” To anyone else, it’s perhaps a silly thing to “ask” given she just said as such, but for him, for them, it's so much more.

Her smile is bright, a light that contrasts the still unhealed bruises on her face as she shares with much more hope and optimism than anyone in their situation should have, “I want to own a coffee shop some day.” Looking over at him, consciously or unconsciously scooting closer, she challenges, “guess what I’m gonna name it?”

A bitter scoff leaves his mouth. He rolls his eyes but still gives it a go. “Sunshine’s place or some shit like that?”

Her giggle is a respite from the heaviness of the past two weeks. The only escape he’s found in this hell hole. And not just the facility. 

“No. I’m gonna name it—”

“Dulce’s…..” Roman pulls himself from a memory buried so deep, he doesn’t know how he was able to retrieve it. “You always said…..” 

“Yeah…..” she answers in a low voice, pushing back some of her hair, a nervous habit he sees still exists. But, it’s not the habit he’s focused on. It’s the diamond on her finger.

An engagement ring. 

“You’re engaged.” Another assessment. One that shouldn’t stir up whatever the fuck is brewing within him.

For a second, she looks like it’s a surprise to her as well. And, he sees it, catches the brief glimpse of an attempted escape. 

That sadness. A feeling that doesn’t quite escape a person, not to the extent she felt.

That they both felt.

Still feels, clearly.

For her, at least.

Maybe.

“Y—yes. Ummm—”

“Solana.”

Another voice introduced to the conversation. Male. Gruff. Infuriating. Roman cuts his eyes to the out of shape man who looks like a recovering alcoholic and someone who doesn’t need to be talking or even around her.

“Cody’s waiting.”

Cody?

But, Roman doesn’t have time to think too much about that ugly ass name. His focus is back on Solana, Solana who has suddenly shifted from slightly timid to downright terrified. She’s grasping at the material of her apron. “But, I—I thought he said I could work all day tod—”

“Plans changed.” A rude, coarse interruption that has Roman’s jaw ticking. Just who the fuck is this man and why does he think he can talk to Solana like that?

“Don’t you see we’re in the middle of a fucking conversation?” A much too late entrance into whatever this is, but an arrival nonetheless. “Leave.” 

For some reason, it seems the man only now decided to pay attention to just who she was speaking to, a recognition that has his eyes widened as he turns back to Solana, poorly whispering, “do you know who the fuck this is?”

“Kevin, please. I’ll—I’ll be out in a minute.” It ticks him the fuck off that she’s practically begging this motherfucker, a man who Roman doesn’t even know but would love to put a bullet in.

Just might after today.

Kevin scoffs and shakes his head. “Your mistake.”

He says nothing else, turning to walk away, Roman standing to possibly commit murder when Solana moves her hand in front of him, as if trying to stop him.

“It’s—it’s fine. My—my fiancé is here.”

Roman looks down at her, still completely unnerved by her complete shift in demeanor. Her fear is practically palpable.

“Solana….” He sees her eyes shut as her name leaves his mouth. “What’s going o—”

“It—it was good to see you, Roman,” she cuts him off, forcing a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. “But, I—I have to go.” And it’s as she turns to walk away, he makes the mistake of grabbing her wrist. Instant regret fills him when she jumps but something else as well.

Suspicion. 

Solana has always been jumpy. He’s known that from the day they met at that god-awful place so many years ago. But something about the fear that courses through her, is stamped on her voice, feels….different.

He drops his hand, stating in a low voice. “Give me your phone.”

Her eyes widen. “Roman—”

“Please.” A word no one on this goddamn earth could torture out of him, but something that so easily rolls off his tongue for her.

Obviously confused, her expression remains torn even as she reaches in the pocket of her apron, pulling out and unlocking her phone. He takes it from her, ignoring that strange feeling when their hands touch.

Moving fast and thinking quick, he programs his number, choosing an unsuspecting name, one he knows she and only she will recognize. 

Handing it back to her, he instructs, “you need anything, you call me.” It’s not preferred. What he’d prefer is to walk outside and snap that Kevin and this Cody person, if he’s outside too, necks. Would prefer to tell her to just stay with him. But, it’s too much. Much too much given how long it’s been.

And yet, they seem so easily falling back into routine. 

She’s still visibly nervous, holding her phone in her hand instead of placing it back in the apron. Another pained smile followed up with, “goodbye, Roman.”

He doesn’t say it back, almost refuses to. Just watches as she moves to the back of the shop, coming out a few minutes later, apron discarded, purse on her shoulder, nearly rushing out without sparing him a glance even if his gaze never leaves her.

Solana is only able to barely slide into the back of the SUV, the door held open by an irritated Kevin when she’s yanked by her hair.

Piercing blue eyes stare down at her, his other hand wrapped around her neck, squeezing tightly but not enough to completely restrict speech.

“Where the fuck were you?!”

His voice is harsh and angry, as is the look in his eyes. She opens her mouth to try to respond when he instead smashes her head into the window. She winces but refuses to cry out in pain even when his fist collides with her jaw. Her eyes clench shut, Solana already tasting the blood forming in her mouth.

“When I tell you to come, you fucking come, you understand me?!” He shouts, once again grabbing a fistful of her hair. 

Nodding helplessly, she forces out an answer, ignoring the blood leaking out the corner of her mouth. “Y—yes, sir.”

He scoffs, a cruel, wicked smile on his face as he takes pride in his work. In her terror. “Pathetic,” he hisses, shoving her away. Solana moves as far into the corner as she can, forever grateful when he pulls out his phone and initiates a phone call like nothing happened.

It’s stupid and risky and something she most definitely shouldn't be doing, but Solana can’t stop herself from also pulling out her phone and scrolling through her contacts, moving to the R’s only to find nothing there.

There’s an emptiness that accompanies that realization that makes no sense. A sadness that fills her at the thought that he didn’t, but…..the look on his face, so handsome and strong, the fact that he even asked….he had to.

So, she continues to scroll, carefully assessing for each stored contact, stopping when she sees it. Emotion fills her for a completely different reason, reading the single word that carries such weight and meaning.

Journey

[f1byjessie]

IN FAIR VERONA ━━ CL16.

things are hard when you're the only female in a male-dominated space, and the newest driver for the newest team knows this best.

( charles leclerc x driver!schumacher!reader )

━━ part two.

The car ride to the hotel is silent and subdued. Earlier that morning, the journey to the circuit had been buzzing with nervous anticipation━ the type of fidgety excitement that only comes from knowing you’ll be speeding through a straight and whipping around corners imminently━ but the atmosphere now lacks that euphoric enthusiasm and has settled somewhere between weary resignation and fatigued disappointment.

The car… is certainly a car. It isn’t bad, in the sense that it doesn’t seem to face the same struggles that other teams like Haas and AlphaTauri appear to be dealing with, but it fought you every step of the way throughout your session. The battle for dominance had felt more like you were trying to wrangle control of a wild stallion and less like you were attempting to navigate an understeering nightmare of a vehicle. With the added difficulty of now needing to anticipate every new challenge it could throw your way, driving it had left you feeling just as drained mentally as it had physically.

By the time you’d crawled out from the cockpit, you’d been teeming with frustration and your body had coiled taut from the forced hyperfocus necessary to keep you from spinning off into the gravel at every turn.

Mick hadn’t fared any better. Your brother reported the same resistance following his own session later in the afternoon. He’d been red in the face both from the heat of the Bahrain sun and annoyance at the car��s less-than-ideal performance, and his voice had sounded clipped like he was trying his hardest to bite back the less polite opinions he had on how things had gone. He’d ended things by tossing his helmet into the arms of his frazzled trainer and storming back into the garage in a huff, and it’s plain to see that the irritation still lingers.

He sits beside you in the backseat now, his arms crossed over his chest and his glaring eyes pinned to the sprawling landscape passing by just outside the window. If looks could kill, you imagine whatever’s out in the desert between the track and your hotel would be a good six feet under.

Similarly, the stress of the morning still clings to you even now, hours later. No matter how far you press yourself into the seat, your shoulders feel tight with a soreness you haven’t felt in a long time and despite kneading at the muscles and tendons in your hands since the early afternoon, your fingers still ache from the force of your grip on the wheel.

Your trainer, Sofia, had done what she could to try and alleviate the discomfort while your brother had driven, but you’re halfway certain that the tension is all a psychosomatic manifestation of your apprehension towards the car and the precious little time you have left to get it race-ready. It would explain the mirroring throb of dull pain beginning to rear its ugly head in your temples.

Your mind wars with itself, torn between trying to forget about today and stubbornly focusing on what new struggles you’ll be forced to deal with all over again tomorrow. Just the thought of another morning full of the same straining attempts to grapple control feels like your own personal Hell on Earth. The only thing that keeps back the slew of curses on the tip of your tongue is you closing your eyes and imagining sinking into a hot bath when you get to your room.

It is, of course, never that easy.

When you get to the hotel, you bid a half-hearted good night to the Maserati team members who endured the exhausting ride back from the track with you and then you and your brother make your way inside.

The lobby is quiet. There’s an attendant at the front desk who seems more interested in whatever’s on her computer than the two of you, and a man having a hushed conversation on the phone off in the far corner by the bar, but you only spare each of them a cursory glance before you’re stepping into the elevator with Mick just a half step behind you.

The ride up to the fourth floor is silent, save for the mechanical hum of the elevator and the soft ring of the bell as you pass by each floor.

Mick, despite the furrow of his brows and clench of his jaw betraying the anger he can’t yet seem to rid himself of, reaches out and pulls you into a reluctant hug before he steps off.

When the doors close, it’s just you.

The peace lasts for a few fleeting moments as the elevator climbs higher up the building. You pass the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh floor, and only as the digital display flashes to eight do the doors open and━

Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s golden boy and the fated “il Predestinato,” stands just outside the door to your room.

Seeing him crushes any hope you had of a potentially peaceful rest of your evening.

He lifts his gaze from his phone screen as the elevator chimes, and the smile that stretches across his lips is as dazzling as it is infuriating. A small part of you wants to smile back as was habit for so long, and the other half wants to scowl and demand to know what he thinks he’s doing waiting for you outside your door. He looks comfortable, like he’s already ready for bed, and you’re not sure if that makes it better or worse.

At the very least, you know better than to assume it’s a coincidence that he chose to wear the hoodie you gifted him for his twentieth birthday all those years ago. He wants something from you, it’s obvious, you just don’t know what.

You mentally kiss your hot bath goodbye.

“Leclerc,” you greet, stepping out from the elevator before the doors can close on you. You say his name not unkindly, but there’s an edge to your voice that you secretly hope he picks up on.

“Schumacher,” he greets back, smug at your exasperation.

You and Charles have a… track record, of sorts.

He was your first in many things. Your first kiss, in the parking lot outside Prema’s factory, early in the morning on a random Tuesday. Your first boyfriend, a secret kept from your friends and your family and your fans, a secret just for the two of you. Your first time, a soft moment hidden away in your bedroom, with gentle touches and whispered words, with the glow of the moon through the gaps in the blinds as your only witness.

Your first heartbreak.

“Is there a reason you’re standing outside my door?” You ask him, slipping your bag off your shoulder and pulling the keycard from one of its pockets.

Charles hums, “Do I need a reason to see my friend?”

“No, but I wasn’t aware you considered me such a thing,” you quip back, feeling the irritation from earlier this morning rise to the surface again. “I thought I was, as you put it, ‘a distraction.’”

He, at least, has the decency to look chastised.

“Is it really fair to use the words of my twenty-year-old self against me?” When your door clicks open, he follows you in. “I have changed in many ways since then, as have you.”

He isn’t wrong, though it pains you to admit. You have changed in many ways since that fateful year you spent as teammates. You prefer tea to coffee now, and the songs that were your favorite back then have since been filtered out of your most frequently played playlists. You listen to audio books when you’re stuck on long flights instead of scrolling through the movies on your seat’s screen, and your perfume is scented differently. You don’t like chocolate fudge anymore, and the thought of summer nights in Italy fills you more with dread than any of the giddy excitement it did all that time ago.

You’ve seen similar changes in him.

Six years will do that to a person.

Though, it would seem six years still isn’t long enough to change what matters.

“Can you blame me?” You let your bag fall to the floor and step over it to reach for a bottle of water on the counter. “I don’t think I ever got an apology for that, either.” Quite frankly, you have half a mind to kick him out purely for his audacity— how could you possibly forget the single most shameful night of your life? And how could he possibly think that you’d just forget it all when he hasn’t acknowledged the hurt he’s caused even once in the six years he’s had to fix his mistakes?

The comments on Instagram, the forced friendliness for the cameras, and the politeness for the sake of PR is one thing. It’s easy to follow the motions— shake a hand, give a smile, stand here, go there, say something polite but impersonal, stick to the script and everything will be fine.

But there are no cameras here in the privacy of your hotel room. No cameras, no microphones, no witnesses to your performances. There’s no need to adhere to the script and yet you cling to it like it’s your only protection. Probably because it is.

He steps over your bag and walks further into your room like it’s his own. When he turns back to you, it’s only after he’s lowered himself down onto the couch in the corner, legs strew out before him, arms spread out across the back.

“Sorry,” he says with a lazy shrug.

You feel your eye twitch.

“You know, Charles,” you abandon the bottle, opting instead to squeeze your hands into fists so tight your knuckles turn white, “for someone who clearly wants something from me, you’re not doing a very good job of convincing me to help you.”

He heaves a sigh and overexageratedly rolls his eyes, but you can see beneath the facade he’s fronting. He’s acting like an asshole because he knows it’s what’s expected from him— it’s the role he’s chosen to play in your story now, and no matter how much he, or you, long to go back to how things were, that moment has long passed. He, and you, have no other choice but to continue to play your new parts dutifully.

“I—” he clears his throat, suddenly finding his hands to be far more interesting than anything else in the room. “I just wanted to say congratulations. For making it to F1. I know this has been your dream for a while, and if anyone deserves to have a seat here it is certainly you.”

“Thank you,” you answer after a moment, startled. His words are strange— off script. They’re the type of thing he would’ve said to you when you were teammates, not now when you’re barely more than aquaintances with a history.

He’s broken character, but as fast as the mask falls away it’s put back in place just as quickly and the Charles he used to be is once again locked away in the recesses of your shared memories. Despite the brief moment of something, it seems he, too, is just as desperate to cling to the normalcy and protection of the distance that now exists between you two. He nods and rises from the couch, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes.

When he passes you on his way out of the room, the sleeve of his hoodie brushes against your arm and there is a long suppressed part of you— a younger you, a you that’s still hopeful for what things could be, that sings at the memory of a softer, sweeter Charles— that wishes to reach out and ask him to stay. There is a part of you that wishes you could both drop the act for an hour, just an hour, and humor the longing of your heart if only for a little while.

The truth is, it’s safer to pretend that the love you felt for Charles— still feel for Charles— grew over time.

You can so easily imagine it as a slow process— a fledgling crush developing into something more throughout your season spent together as teammates. It’s built up brick by brick, solidified into something seemingly tangible with every post-race moment shared in the privacy of your own little world. Each adrenaline-crazed smile shone your way, each sweaty arm thrown around you in celebration, each glance that lingers for a moment too long on your lips to be purely innocent.

It’s easy to fantasize about the back-and-forth dance it becomes. The touches that stray a bit longer than they need to and the touches that are entirely unnecessary to begin with, passed off as an accidental brush of fingers or a clumsy bump of shoulders. The looks secretly and silently shared across a tittering crowd none the wiser, a sparkling gaze that speaks louder than the raucous celebrations, meant for two people and two people only. The endearingly inelegant attempts at flirting, with stuttered and stumbled words and cheeks flushed too pink to pass off as anything other than embarrassment.

The reality is much more simple.

You fell in love with Charles Leclerc when you shook his hand across the table in a random conference room and introduced yourself as his teammate, and you’ve continued to fall in love with him again every day for the last six years. Despite, or rather in spite, of everything that’s changed.

But the opportunity to ask him is gone, the moment’s already passed. He stands at the door, hand on the handle. All that remains is the lingering scent of his cologne.

It’s different than the one he wore six years ago.

“For what it’s worth,” he starts, pushing the door open, “I am sorry. For what I said.”

You nod. You don’t know what else to do. And then he’s gone.

━━ tags: @maih23 @urfavnoirette @casperlikej @awritingtree @bwormie @samantha-chicago @miyo-0oo @lighttsoutlewis @itsjustkhaos @lovecarsgoingvroom @mess-is-my-aesthetic @almostjollypizza @sugyomama @butterfly-lover @lightdragonrayne @loloekie @meadhbhcavanagh @spideybv28 @tremendousstarlighttragedy @nebarious @peqch-pie @woozarts @spilled-coffee-cup @moonyseyelash @pausmoon @cherry-piee @nataliambc @1655clean @evie-119 @ironmaiden1313 @charlesgirl16 @shoularium @sarah-thatstings-ann @theblueblub @formulanni @awritingtree @taytaylala12 @emryb @the-navistar-carol (CLOSED)

━━ a/n: okay, wow! er, surprise? it's certainly been a minute, and for that i sincerely apologize. for the sake of keeping this author's note shorter than the actual story itself, i'll spare you all the reason for why i've been gone, but i am seriously so in awe of how much support the first part of this series got. i had no idea that so many people would be invested in seeing this continued, so i am so incredibly sorry that it took me so long to finally get around to posting the second part. i am hoping that this lives up to everyone's expectations! please forgive any mistakes, i was rushing a bit to get this ready to be posted as soon as i possibly could that i didn't really take the time to edit or check for any grammar or spelling issues.

[allforthegaymes]

Neil loves everything about Andrew.

He doesnt care when Allison teases him about it, saying thats what everyone says when theyre in a relationship.

He loves when theyre kissing and Andrew always pauses to smile against his lips. When he snorts at Neil when he dives back in to continue.

He loves the glimpse of Andrews chipped canine tooth from a snow sledding accident. Nicky had been driving the Maserati, Andrew dragging behind it on a sled as they coasted through the parking lot, slick with ice. Before the sled hit a curb hidden by the snow and he’d gotten tossed into a tree.

He loves the way Andrew glares, half pouting, drunkenly at him when he stands in the Columbia kitchen cutting marshmallows up to try and mimic the mini marshmallows Andrew insists on having in his cocoa.

He loves the way Andrew stands in some supermarkets clothing department trying to decide if paying $20 is worth having the pack of spiderman boxers. He loves the way Andrew washes them the second they get home and groans as he rips at least two seams on them after they shrink outrageously small after the wash. He loves the way Andrew stubbornly refuses to stop wearing them anyways.

Neil loves how Andrew leans over the counter in the bathroom, dragging beard dye over his eyebrows to tint them a shade so they can actually be seen. He loves the way Andrews head tilts back with an annoyed groan when they come out too dark and Aaron takes at least 20 pictures of him with dark bushy eyebrows. He loves the way Andrew lets him drag him to the girls dorm so Allison can give him an evil grin and fix them.

He loves the way Andrew refuses to let him light his own cigarettes. The first few times he’d lit his own Andrew would snag it from his mouth for himself, and light Neil a new one himself. Usually he just presses the tips of their cigarettes together, the lit cherry of his own lighting Neils. Or Neil will just pass his lighter over to Andrew, leaning forward with the cig held between his lips, wobbling slightly from the way hes trying to squash a smile.

He loves the way Andrew has no opinions when it comes to which video game they all play on tuesday and thursday game nights, but is the loudest at insisting which movie plays on friday movie night, arguing with everyone that they have to do the hat method for picking one and insists everyone else is teaming up on him when his doesnt get picked. He loves the way Andrew refuses to let Neil copy his movie choice onto his own piece of paper, even if itd give his choice better odds of being picked out of the hat.

He loves the way Andrew groans and grumbles when theres a heat wave and tells Neil he runs like a furnace, but stays firmly wrapped around Neils back anyways as the fan points directly at them in bed. The connected skin between them slick with sweat that makes Kevin complain about the smell in the room until Andrew points at Kevins stinky gym bag in the corner.

He loves the way Andrew asks him ‘yes or no’ whenever theyre about to do something new. Loves the way ‘yes or no’ slowly evolves into different situations. Texted to him from across a sports gala once theyre pro to ask Neil if he wants to ditch it with him early. Mumbled against his neck when he shows Neil the transfer request to move back onto the same pro team together.

He loves the way Andrew understands when Neil says no, that he wants to finish up talking to a few more coaches around the gala first. When Andrew asks him if he wants to try a new steakhouse and Neil would rather get Thai from down the road and sit in the Mas instead.

[beneaththehalo]

love and deepspace car headcanons

sfw ramblings about which cars i think all of the l&ds guys would drive. i don’t know much about cars, so this is entirely based on personality & aesthetic. the car is pictured below the description. 300 words. contains: rafayel, xavier, zayne, caleb & sylus.

rafayel — maserati

it’s been said he drives a fancy sports car and is referenced several times throughout the game. the logo of maserati is a trident, which i imagine stuck out to him right away when he was car shopping. he was never one for material items, and he’ll pretend to brush it off when you show interest despite how proud it makes him feel. no wonder he always offers to drive.

xavier — honda suv

out of everyone, he rarely ever uses a car. with his teleportation ability, it’s likely just a silly expense so i imagine he bought one to keep up appearances but just lets Jeremiah borrow it. he took the first one off the lot and got conned into all the upgrade features. however, since he’s been on earth awhile, i think as a passion project, he secretly has an old classic car that he tinkers with now and then.

zayne — audi

cardiologists are notorious for having luxury cars due to their impressive salaries, especially a cardiothoracic surgeon. i like to think zayne keeps it more on the humble side of ‘luxury’ cars and chose an audi. the audi has consistently received high safety ratings, so on top of looking good, it’s also an overall good car.

caleb — mustang + yamaha motorcycle

in the warm months, caleb rides a motorcycle. he loves the adrenaline rush of the wind flying past him. if you ever take him up for a ride, he’ll keep you safe despite laughing at your tight grip to his jacket. in the colder months, he drives a mustang to the airfield since he can’t take his motorcycle.

sylus — rolls royce

something about a mafia boss and a rolls royce. rolls royce screams quintessential antagonist in a storyline. they are sleek, luxurious, spacious, and private. perfect for doing shady business in the back seat, take that as you will.

beneaththehalo || est. 2024

divider credit: saradika-graphics

[staranghae]

it wasn't your car...

summary : his car isn't yours by wendy. that's the summary. here, go listen to it.

pairing: l.sm x reader genre: exes to lovers warnings: chan slander (im sorry), mentions of making out(?), mention of drinking/drunk people, crying *i think that's about it but if i missed any pls let me know* word count: 800+

that's all lee seokmin was supposed to be. a summer fling.

but instead, the last few days of your vacation were possibly the worst days of your whole life. days that were supposed to spent lounging with him in the pool were spent fighting about your relationship.

it started when he admitted he was in love with you. you weren't ready for something serious then and you said the same to him to which he said he would wait for you. you frankly thought it was ridiculous that he had fallen for you in the span of a month. no one can love someone within a month of knowing them. or can they?

which brings you to now, standing in front of the open door of the passenger seat of your date's black maserati.

the same car you had spent a month driving around and making out in.

the same car that had pulled up to your vacation house every friday at 8pm on the dot to take you on a date.

the same car in which you're about to go on a blind date in now, just to forget about him. because, contrary to your beleifs, it is possible to fall in love with someone within a month. like how you had fallen for seokmin.

you're shaken out of your trance by your date's voice,

"y/n-ssi, are you getting in?"

by the time you look at him, he's standing near the driver's door, waiting for you to get in,

"we'll be late for our reservation if we don't leave right now so..."

you look at him one last time before getting in and willing yourself to forget about butterfly kisses in late afternoons and the enigma that is lee seokmin.

you get through the dinner with little effort. you date, whose name you learn is lee chan, cannot stop talking for the life of him. you're glad for it though, because it means you can zone out and daydream about what could have been with seokmin. eventually, the dinner ends. he pays like the gentleman he is and offers to drive back since it's quite late.

you check the time. 1am. you say yes to the offer despite not wanting to but trying to get a cab would be worse that listening to someone talk about how good of a dancer they are for the umpteenth time in the past hour.

you get home around an hour later and are shell-shocked at the sight in front of you.

lee seokmin, sitting (well, sleeping) on your front porch, with a huge bouquet of carnations and violets in his hand and a letter in the other.

you turn to chan. he looks at you concerned and offers to walk you in, mistaking seokmin for a drunk person who just got the wrong house.

you tell him that it won't be a problem and manage to get him out of your hair before he tries asking about a second date.

you walk up to him and shake him awake. he blinks a few times before turning to look at you. it's almost magnetic, how he reaches out to cup your cheek in the palm of his hand. he pulls back before he actually touches you, though, scared you might run away again.

he stands up and clears his throat before he starts talking, "i know you don't want anything to do with me but i-"

you cut him off before he can finish, "that's not true, minnie..."

minnie. a nickname you got accustomed to in the course of your relationship. a nickname you had tried so hard to forget over the course of the past few days. a nickname that came to you as easily as breathing.

he blinks at you, a little confused. "what do you mean?"

you have to look away from him before you speak, in fear that you may start crying if you had to maintain eye contact with him,

"i mean, i do want something with you. with us."

seokmin breaks first. sobbing his heart out as he stands up to engulf you in a hug. you've hug him back with silent tears streaming down your face.

he pulls away after a few minutes, eyes rimmed red and looks at you. like, really looks at you. the way your features are aligned perfectly on you, the way you're quite literally tailor made for him, and him for you. he also notices you actively trying to avoid meeting his eyes

he simply chuckles at your behaviour, before talking,

"what am i going to do with you?"

you finally find the courage to look up at him,

"you, lee seokmin, are going to be my boyfriend"

seokmin swears he sees a halo on your head. you laugh at him because of course he would say something that corny with a straight face.

yeah, you'll be alright.

a/n: someone teach me how to end fics, please and thanks :) also, look whose free from the prison of writer's block heh

staranghae.writing®

[blueslostboys]

thinking about how all of neil's IDs are fake because of his fake names and then the FBI issues him a new set of IDs with the name neil josten, including a driver's license. but neil certainly never took a driver's test. and probably learned how to drive from his mom. he must be an absolute menace in the driver's seat. to me this makes it even funnier that when neil bought andrew the maserati, andrew kicked nicky off the insurance (even though nicky is the oldest and most experienced driver) and added neil, who probably drives like he's running for his life

[misc-obeyme]

Back on my human au ideas...

ETA: because I only talked about it in the tags, but Asmo is a therapist in this au with a specialty in lgbtq+ issues.

More about Asmo, I think he's still obsessed with clothes & makeup, is a social media abuser, & tries to get Satan to wear something other than professor jackets with elbow patches. He's mildly TikTok famous for posting high quality videos of him doing amazing drag looks and makeup tutorials.

He often tries to join Beel for workouts on the farm, but doesn’t have Beel’s stamina & gets tired halfway through. Makes them both protein shakes. Helps out at the farmer’s market.

Mammon is a mechanic. He has to be because that's a human au situation I've always loved for him. Like yeah, he could own a casino and all that, but I want to focus on something a little different for him. And I love the idea of him being a mechanic who owns his own car repair garage, but it specializes in super expensive cars. Like all your Porsches and Maseratis and so on. And of course he has a couple of his own that he drives around. He likes to drive out to Beel's and he'll take any of his brothers for a spin if they want.

Regularly picks up Asmo from various places in customer's cars just because it makes him feel special.

He probably does a little illegal street racing, just because this is Mammon we're talking about.

He's in on Satan's rare bookseller connections. Turns out he's really good at finding such rarities, too, so when he does, they sell them together. That's if Satan can even manage to part with whatever Mammon finds lol.

Beel won't let Mammon into the corn fields, though. Man attracts too many crows for some reason. When they first discover this, Mammon feels so bad about it that he spends several days building Beel multiple scarecrows. They're still scattered through Beel's fields.

Mammon will also take Belphie for midnight drives out to places that have good views of certain celestial bodies. He loves to drive and he loves to see his little brothers doing what they love, so it's a win-win.

And of course, Mammon still does modeling occasionally. He won't do it full time because of the work involved, but if the price is right, he'll accept an offer or two.

One time Asmo gets really into making a marketing campaign for Mammon's garage which involved Mammon modeling with various expensive cars. Most of the pictures were a little too risque to use lol.

[bruciemilf]

Got anything for fem!Bruce & Uncle Ozzy?

I love the image of tiny Bryce just. Observing the people around her. Building connections and relationships with particular, precise details that paint abstract memories for her.

She remembers how funny her dad and uncle Ozzy sounded; The spicy rush of their accents, how every word was pronounced with laughter in them,

“Look atcha fatha puttin’ oregano in the bolognese sauce like a fuckin’ animal,— never do that, alright? It’s a sin”

“Stop scarin’ my baby girl, ya fuckin’ ice rat,”

“See, Mr. Doctorate over here don’t believe in hell, — but I seen it. Tastes like oregano.” Their laughter tasted like nicotine, — they didn’t smoke the same brand. Her dad made a point to only smoke light at Alfred’s request, but they never smoked around her

She remembers a potent scent of whiskey they drank over a poker table, where she’d sit on her mom’s knee. Martha always won, and Alfie always accused her of cheating

Her Russian accent would come through, soft but pronounced, “It is not cheating if I have my lucky charm” and she’d press a soft kiss on Bryce’s hair

Uncle Ozzy only smoked knock off vintage Cuban cigars and refused to get anything else. He said the fancy stuff were for tourists

After her parents go under the ground, he only eats pasta with oregano in it

She remembers his car; A classic Maserati, leathered with soft cushions. She’d drive her to and from school, putting her seatbelt on, and tell her stories,

“You listen to me, alright, — Alfred ever wants to ground you, or say he knew better at your age when you get in trouble, you call me, alright? I’ll refresh his memory. “

When she goes to boarding school, he’s there to take her. Bryce still remembers the heaviness of the ride, the way the road seemed to drag on and on. “Listen, slick,”

She still doesn’t know why he called her that; Her mom used to say it was because she was quick witted and always had a smart comment to make.

“Those little shits are gonna make you feel bad. They’ll say nasty, mean shit, cause they’re young, and they think it won’t last. But don’t let ‘em. If they go low, you go lower. Never let people feel like they can step all over ya. Okay?”

Her voice sounded little; Most 10 year olds did. “Okay. Can we get ice cream after you pick me up, uncle ozzy?”

He lied to her only once.

“Sure, kid. I got your back.”

When she’s an adult, she’s too burdened by Gotham, by Batman, by a cross she nailed herself to, to take notice of his absence. Bryce Wayne misses her uncle. Batman and Penguin don’t miss each other at all.

Deep down, she knows he knows.

When she drives him to Arkham, him in the passenger seat, she knows.

“Stop by the drive in, kid. I want an ice cream.”

Bryce says nothing. The ice cream is good.