#happy anniversary another life
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hinaliix · 1 year ago
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Teen Vashie doodles 💜
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krispiblueberry · 1 year ago
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happy late birthday krispy pie and frienzs !!!!!!
also fuck backgrounds this shits hard
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Happy Debut Anniversary, Xiao Zhan!
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I cannot overstate how much my life has changed since discovering this man’s existence and the existence of his amazing work. Thank you, Xiao Zhan, for sharing your wonderful art with us.
Get Prints Here
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hoothootmotherf-ckers · 10 months ago
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maluron · 1 year ago
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today in my German lesson two aging gentlemen were listening to the song they danced to on their very first date thirty years prior OH THE FEELS OH
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catboyarg · 5 months ago
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Hola, guapito. It’s been a bit since I’ve done this, I know. I also know you are going to make fun of me relentlessly when you read this, call me a sap, but I’m going to do it anyway. You like when I’m a sap, even if you say otherwise.
There is not much of a purpose for this letter other than reminding you that I love you. More than anyone in the world, I love you. Outside of our kids, of course.
You understand me better than anyone else. Somehow you always know just what I need. I laugh when I need to and I can be more serious when I need to, and no matter what you know what will help before I do.
You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. If I could only look at one thing for the rest of my days, I would look at you. Your eyes lock me in place and your smile brings out my own. I could be in front of sunrise or sunset, under all the stars in the sky, and I would still choose to look at you over any of them.
You are so smart. Sometimes you play like you aren’t, but you are smarter than I could ever hope to be. There is no one I trust more when I cannot figure out the solution to an enigma – you always think in ways I do not. Your brain works in a way that I could only dream of.
Your voice is the most stunning sound in our universe. Every time you speak, every time you laugh, I want only to hear more. Singing and laughing with you makes my chest feel warmer than the blazing summer sun. If it were an option, I would listen to you every moment of every day.
There is more to say. There is always more to say. I could talk about you for hours without rest. You make my heart race. You make my mind halt. You make me a good person, something I never knew was possible. You are the Earth I trust in and rest upon. The sun that warms my skin. You are everything.
Te amo mi guapito. Gracias por nuestra vida juntos y por quedarte conmigo incluso cuando cometo errores. Nunca podría haber otro como tú, y agradezco a todas las deidades que se me ocurren que me hayan bendecido contigo.
Tuyo, Cellbit (tu gatinho)
[The letter is carefully placed in a drawer. It is not folded, wrinkled, or torn. Wedding plans rest atop it. The drawer is locked, but is one that is opened frequently. This letter will be looked at often before its delivery.]
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cosmicdreamgrl · 8 months ago
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omniscientfish · 5 months ago
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also, they’re are people on the other side of the world awake in the morning when your awake in the night. They are getting married and having birthday parties and anniversaries. Everywhere, people are constantly living. They are looking at the stars and the trees and the water. We can see through each others eyes. When you get a random burst of happiness, that someone getting their dream job. Or finding out they no longer have an illness. Or just realizing that maybe just being themselves is okay. If you ever feel alone late at night, remember that there are billions and billions of people just like you. You aren’t alone, you’re just another star in endless space.
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beheadable · 7 months ago
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I’m very grateful grandpa gave me his old shop chair, but it’s not helping my productivity. It’s very comfortable and leans back far and when I sit at my desk in front of my window, I just want to nap in it. I’m tired all the time anyway this chair absolutely does not help
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alcaparrass · 10 months ago
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I bring a sort of “homoerotic-staring-at-you-lovingly-as-if-I-had-a-crush-on-you, staring-into-the-distance-when-I’m-talking-about-you-to-other-people and sort-of-acting-like-we-are-secretly-dating-while-people-stare-in-confusion” vibe to every close friendship that my straight ™️ girlfriends don’t particularly understand
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kathaynesart · 3 months ago
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Felt a bit emotional today over the movie's second anniversary and I thought I might embarrass myself about it online. This little film has become really special to me in how it captured my attention and drew me back into something I haven't been a part of for a long time: a creative community.
For a good portion of my adult life I had been forced to put my energies and creativity primarily towards my work. I wanted to tell stories that people enjoyed and had felt like my career was the only method to achieve that. But this community and fandom really sparked a creativity in me I haven't felt since I was younger and I'm so happy to be able to find that avenue I've always wanted not through an employer but through all of you! I have met so many wonderful and inspiring people and none of this would have happened if I hadn't randomly come upon the four minute opening of the film 2 years ago cuz Youtube looked at my algorithm and said: "hm, lets see if she still likes turtles."
Thank you everyone, for loving what I do and enjoying my work. It means the world, and while my updates have become slower due to longer comic posts, real world obligations, and health issues, I still strive to continue the story inspired by this movie with a passion that has shockingly never waned.
Here's to another wonderful year!
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dreamlandcreations · 1 year ago
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In Another Life
Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Alternate Universe!Reader
Summary: One moment you’re going about your usual day, the next you’re in Ravka - the fictional country in a fictional universe. When you realise that the story you know by heart hasn’t even begun, there’s only one person you can think of going to.
Warnings: canon level violence, threat, minor injury, the reader has a rough first day in Ravka
A/N: lots of people liked the look of this idea so here’s the first part, I definitely want to make this a series as well. In this fic, the netflix show doesn’t exist, but the shadow and bone book has some elements from the show in it.
My Masterlist • Series Masterlist • Next Part
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“I need to speak with General Kirigan.”
Chin raised, you survey each of the guards evenly with as much confidence you can gather, trying to determine which one of them is in charge.
They are all wearing the oprichniki uniform, though they appear to be on a break as they lean against a wall that sits by the small metal gate leading to the Little Palace. The palace itself is hidden behind the large stone gateway in front of you.
A tall man with a dark beard lifts a brow in your direction, taking the cigarette away from his lips as he speaks.
“The General isn’t available.” There’s a pause as he looks you up and down. “And certainly not for the likes of you.”
“Tell him I know where the sun summoner is.”
The guards surrounding you laugh, and the man closest to you grins mockingly.
“Yeah, and I’ve found the Firebird.”
Unfazed by their laughter, you cross your arms over your chest.
“I won’t leave until you’ve told him that. If he refuses to see me, I’ll leave. But until then I’m not leaving.”
The man who addressed you before is clearly the superior, and now he steps forward with his eyes narrowed. You’re telling the truth. Your only hope at the moment is that the General will allow you to speak to him. You have nowhere else to go.
He holds your determined gaze for a long moment, before he sighs and glances over at the woman leaning against the gate.
“Ana?” She shrugs.
“I fancied a walk anyway.” Her eyes meet yours and her face hardens as she issues a command for you to, “Wait here.”
She opens the gate and sets off down the path which you assume leads to the Little Palace. The gate swings shut behind her, and one of the other guards slides a bolt into place, keeping it shut.
Despite your display of confidence with the guards, nerves run through the entirety of your body. One of the younger guards offers you a cigarette, which you decline.
Ana seems to be gone for a frightening length of time. Once the guards have finished their break they return to their positions and you lean against a nearby stone wall as you wait.
You’re staring very hard at the ground, trying to come up with a backup plan for if the General won’t speak to you.
Joining the First Army wouldn’t guarantee the opportunity to find Alina. Unless you were purposefully useless during training, maybe you could request to join the cartographers? But even then, how could you tell Alina about a power she has buried inside her when you have no way of proving it to her?
At the sound of metal clanging shut you lift your head up. Ana seems just as surprised as you are when she says,
“Come with me.”
The Little Palace is beautiful. As Ana leads you down a gravelled pathway, you catch your first sight of it which steals the breath from your lungs. It’s far grander than you ever could have imagined, and your eyes are wide as you follow her through the entrance.
She walks like a soldier, shoulders straight with her head level as she makes her way through the corridors, her heavy boots thudding against the oak flooring. Meanwhile, your head is tilted towards the ceiling, admiring the ornate carvings painted in gold. The wallpaper that lines the walls of each corridor is exquisite, a soft cream colour with intricate patterns.
It’s only once she stops in front of a set of dark wooden doors that you remember why you’re here. The sun in eclipse is carved into the door, and the sight of it sobers you. She knocks, and you hear a man’s voice call out,
“Enter.”
The walls of the war room are lined with maps and papers. You don’t spend too much time admiring the room, as your eyes land on its sole occupant. The Darkling. General Kirigan sits at the war table in the centre of the room, a pencil in hand as he writes something down.
“Moi soverenyi,” Ana says in greeting, bowing lightly. The General only nods in acknowledgement, his eyes never leaving the page in front of him.
“You may leave us, Petrova.” The casual command in his voice makes you shiver. She bows again.
He still doesn’t look up at you, and you’re certain this is some sort of intimidation technique because it is most certainly working.
“My guard tells me you know the sun summoner,” he remarks casually, as if he’s merely making small talk as he works. Your mouth opens then shuts, and you fumble over your words before they can even leave your lips.
“I know of her,” you say, fiddling with your fingers as you admit, “I haven’t actually met her.” There’s a beat of silence before you throw out a stilted, “Sir.”
At this he lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours for the first time, and you don’t breathe for a solid five seconds. He raises a questioning brow as he observes you.
“And who exactly might she be?”
“Alina Starkov. She’s an Assistant Cartographer in the First Army.”
His brows furrow lightly as he leans back in his chair, discarding his pencil and resting his elbows on the dark wooden arms beneath him. He dismisses your claim immediately.
“That’s impossible. Grisha testers would have discovered her power when she was a child.”
“And if she suppressed her power when she was tested?” He tilts his head slightly.
“If she did, I might ask how you would know of such a thing.”
“I don’t know whether you’ll believe me.”
“Tell me.”
At this point you falter, eyes dropping down to look at the floor, then the table as you struggle to find the words to describe what had happened.
“Let’s say that the making at the heart of the world is actually the making of all the worlds. A centre of sorts, where every world is connected.”
You don’t dare to look at the General as you continue slowly, considering your each and every word carefully.
“Let’s say that I’m from a world where everyone is otkazat’sya, and Ravka is a fictional country. That everyone here only exists in my world as characters in a book.”
Considering the fact that you don’t know exactly how you appeared in this world, you think you’ve explained the unexplainable rather well. Though the look on the General’s face doesn’t comfort you.
His next words baffle you.
“Prove it.”
“Wha- How?”
“Tell me something only I would know. That you know because you have read this supposed book.”
With Alina being the protagonist, you know very little of the General’s internal monologue, or what has happened in his life, especially at this point in time, when the story hasn’t begun. Almost everything you know about him is from Alina’s point of view. Almost everything.
“You first used the Cut when you were thirteen years old during an attempt on your life.”
He goes very still.
This was an incredibly bad idea.
Because if you know about that, you know when it happened. You know he’s been alive for centuries. And if you know that, then you know he is the Black Heretic.
Every one of your heartbeats echo thunderously in your head, and when you glance down at your hands you realise you’re shaking. He stands with an unreadable expression on his face, the shadows around him lengthening.
The darkness creeps over the floor, heading straight for you and you fight the urge to flinch as the sunlight from the nearby window is extinguished.
“What else?” he asks in a low voice, hard as steel, and you scramble to think of something, anything to prove to him that you aren’t lying or crazy.
Deep down, you know there’s one thing he wants to hear from you. Whether you know his biggest secret - who he is and what he’s done.
“I know that Baghra is your mother.”
He takes slow, measured steps towards you, rounding the war table as he speaks again, and you fight every urge inside you to turn tail and flee. He would catch you. He could cut you in half before you reach the door.
“What else?”
“I know that you’re a lot older than you’re currently pretending to be.”
That’s as close as you can get without explicitly saying it. But it isn’t enough for him. With one final step, he stands directly in front of you, a towering figure that stares down at you. His voice is quiet as he repeats himself for one final time.
“What else?”
Throwing caution to the wind, you hold his gaze as you say it.
“I know you’re the Black Heretic. That you created the Fold.”
There’s a pause as he stares into your eyes. His words are even quieter as he asks,
“Are you afraid of me?”
“To some extent,” you admit honestly.
From how close he is, you can hear the small breath of amusement as it leaves his lips, and you hurry to explain yourself.
“I know that right now I’m a liability for you, and you’re trying to figure out whether my usefulness outweighs the damage I could do.”
He raises a brow at you.
“And?”
“And…” Your voice fades, looking down as you think it all over in your mind. Then you sigh. “You have no reason to believe me. But you know what a lie looks like, and I’m not lying. Am I?”
You don’t know where this sudden burst of confidence has come from, but you know your words are true. He’s lived for centuries. This can’t be the strangest thing that’s happened to him. Surely he would keep you alive, if only out of curiosity.
He tilts his head aside, a half-smile curling at his lips as the darkness begins to fall away.
“You haven’t given me your name.”
Hardly believing that this is his reaction, you tell him it softly and he repeats your name in a murmur. It’s only then that the surreality of the situation hits you.
He steps backwards, putting a casual amount of distance between the two of you, and warm sunlight settles over your skin once again. He looks away, glancing at the war table momentarily before he turns his head in your direction.
“I’ll have you shown to a room. Remain there until I decide what to do with you.”
You nod.
You’re not upset, or even worried, by his words. If anything, this is the best case scenario. He isn’t sending you down to the dungeons to be tortured for information. Despite the nerves still lingering in your body, you manage to push out the words,
“Thank you.”
There’s a calculating edge in his eyes, as he observes the genuine expression of gratitude on your face. He doesn’t acknowledge you, and you have the impression that you’ve confused him.
He heads towards one of the doors leading into the hallway, opens it, and speaks lowly to one of the oprichnik posted there, no doubt issuing orders to prepare a room for you.
Your eyes meet his for a moment as he closes the door and turns back towards the war table beside you.
“May I ask you something?” You nod. “Why come to me? Why not let the story unfold as it should?”
It’s a good point. But you don’t want the story to go as it should. There’s a sharp twist in your heart as you look at him, as the end of his story plays on a loop in your head. A knife in his chest, the Fold falling apart around him. You can’t let that happen to him.
“I want to help,” you tell him with a light shrug, before you look down at the space between you. “I’m not Grisha, I don’t have a power that can change the world…” At that you look up at him. “But you do. If I can help you make Ravka a better, safer place for both Grisha and otkazat’sya, why wouldn’t I?”
“That won’t happen without your interference?” He muses with a raised brow, and you hesitate before answering. You can’t tell him that he won’t achieve it in his lifetime.
“There are some complications along the way.”
“You want to avoid those,” he states and you nod.
There’s a knock at the door, and the General straightens himself before he calls out a sharp,
“Enter.”
Ana the oprichnik opens the door, glancing between you and the General before she bows lightly in his direction.
“The vezda suite has been prepared, moi soverenyi.”
His attention is fixed on you.
“Petrova will show you to your room. I hope I don’t need to tell you to stay there until I send for you.”
You nod.
“I’ll stay,” you tell him, meaning every word of it.
Ana leads you through the hallways, and you follow as quickly as you can. You’re glad of the opportunity to see more of the Little Palace. There’s a few Grisha milling about, but they don’t pay you much attention.
She opens a door, revealing the suite prepared for you. It’s stunning. Eyes wide, you look over everything in awe. The colours are light and delicate, and the sun shines through lace curtains, casting its rays over the smooth wooden flooring.
The door shuts behind you, and you’re finally alone.
For a few minutes all you can do is stare at the furniture and walls surrounding you. Footsteps echoing over the floor, you peek into the bathroom, eyeing the large bath tub and other facilities. It’s so much grander than you could have imagined.
You hardly dare to touch anything, as if once your hands settle onto the chair or one of the tables everything will disappear. Like none of this is actually real.
Sitting down at the vanity table, you spot some paper and a pencil, and soon you’re channeling your nervous energy into doodles. Flowers and leaves and a stag. Clouds and sunshine. Tiny little scribbles that allow you to focus on one thing, rather than the fifty million things you should be thinking about.
A few hours pass, and the sunlight begins to fade. With a few tentative attempts, you manage to lift the glass shade of the lantern by your desk, and you feel rather proud as the room is filled with warm light once the lamp has been lit.
The sound of the door opening attracts your attention.
Lifting your head up from your drawings, you soon spot the oprichnik who shuts the door behind her. She isn’t familiar, though you had only seen a few of the oprichniki so far, and her Ravkan accent is heavy as she speaks,
“The General wants to see you.”
You nod, turning back to face the mirror as you push the seat back a little. Before you can react, she’s behind you, a string pulled hard against your throat. Writhing against her, you gasp but fail to draw in any air and panic grips you.
Kicking hard, luckily your foot manages to meet the vanity table, knocking the two of you backwards. The fall sends you both sprawling, and your lungs heave in air as you stumble forwards. Barely thinking, you seize the letter opener on the table.
At the sound of her approaching you again, you swirl the letter opener out in an arch, wielding it in her general vicinity. She cries out, clutching her arm with a vexed growl. There’s a splatter of blood on the floor, and you almost drop your makeshift weapon.
Instead you grip it tighter as she pushes you against the wall, your arms trapped between your body and hers, you try to push the end of the piece of stationary towards her chest.
Horror fills you as she frees her hand, her fingers flexing in an unfamiliar motion, and the metal curves in your hand, twisting into a useless lump. Grasping your hair, she slams your head against the wall, and the world goes black for a moment.
Consciousness returns to you only seconds later, blood pounding through your head, stars sparkling over your vision as you realise you’re lying crumpled on the floor.
The door opens, and the hands leave you.
“General Kirigan,” she says in surprise, looking down at you. “Your guest dragged me in here and attacked me.”
Tears are flooding down your face, as your lips part in shock. This is it. Just when you thought he might be able to trust you, you’re framed for assault. With wide, frightened eyes you can only stare at the General as he nods to the heartrender beside him in a silent order.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you prepare yourself to lose control over your heart, for your blood to burn in your body, and to die a grizzly death. An sob escapes your throat, and you hope dying in this universe sends you home. There’s a heavy thud, and your heart slows a little, but you’re not dying.
Tentatively, you open your eyes. The oprichnik that attacked you is lying unconscious on the floor, though you can hardly give her much thought as the General crouches down at your side.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, holding out his hand towards you. More tears pool in your eyes. Your head aches terribly, as does your throat and arms.
“A little.” Tremors shudder through your body, and you reach out towards his hand. Fingers curling around his sleeve, and with little thought of his reaction, you tug him closer, collapsing against his chest.
“Ivan, send for a healer,” he orders, and in the distance you hear the thudding of boots as the heartrender retreats.
The General’s hand cups the back of your head, keeping your face pressed against his chest as you take in a few sharp, shuddering breaths. His other arm wraps firmly around your body, hand settled against your side as he shields you from the scene.
“You’ll stay with me tonight,” he insists.
You don’t respond verbally, but you’re certain he feels the weak nod of your head.
The next hour passes in a muffled blur. The General guides you through the hallways towards his quarters. He sits you down at his vanity table, and a healer soon arrives to fix up your wounds. Her touch is delicate, though the healing itself prickles uncomfortably over your skin. She urges you to rest, but tells you there’s no cause for concern.
Her healing hasn’t removed the heavy exhaustion that has settled into your bones, or the anxiety causing your mind to run overdrive. You thank her all the same, as she leaves.
“I should have known this would happen,” you admit in a whisper, staring at nothing as your mind runs rapid, considering each of your thoughts frantically.
As if clouded by fog, your gaze slides over to the General, his arms crossed as he leans his hip against his vanity table.
“How could you have?”
“Baghra makes an offhand comment to Alina about having some Grisha that are loyal to her. Meaning they aren’t loyal to you.” His jaw tenses slightly at your revelation. “When one of your trackers finds the stag she has a Grisha, disguised as an oprichnik, try to kill him.”
Tears slip down your cheeks, but they’re borne of frustration rather than upset or fear. You need to be smarter from now onwards, but how can you? Baghra has lived for centuries. She’s ruthless, and here you are crying.
“She must have heard I knew about the sun summoner. Saints, if she found out what I actually know she would kill me herself.”
The General opens up his wardrobe, and after a moment of consideration he selects a black shirt and walks over to you with it in his hands. His presence beside you pulls you from your thoughts, and you glance up at him before looking down at the shirt with a frown.
“For you to sleep in.”
Your cheeks warm, but you take his shirt all the same, murmuring a small,
“Thank you.” He nods in acknowledgement, before he turns and sits on the sofa beside his bed with his face turned away from you, looking out of the window. Taking that as your cue to change, you do so quickly.
Once you’re dressed you sit at the end of his bed and clear your throat to signal that he can look at you. There’s an unreadable expression on his face as he looks at you, sitting on his bed wearing his shirt.
He stands slowly, giving you a small bow before he says,
“I’ll bid you goodnight.”
He’s walking by you when you reach out and grasp hold of the sleeve of his kefta.
“Stay, please. I know you have to go and deal with what’s happened but… I just don’t want to be alone.”
Part of you might have felt bad, pulling the alone card on him, but you’re too tired and anxious to think about it. If it takes a little manipulation to get him to stay - to keep you safe - you don’t care.
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” he concedes. “When I leave I’ll lock the door behind me. The doors to the war room are already locked.”
“What about the secret door?” you ask, mind immediately filled with visions of Baghra stepping through with a knife in her hands, ready to kill you while you sleep. He tilts his head aside with surprise in his eyes. “The one behind the bookcase,” you add.
“Come with me.”
You follow him as he steps into the war room, rounding the table as he heads towards the bookcase in the corner of the room. The one that hides the secret passageway.
He ensures that you’re watching him, as he reaches towards the back of the shelf where a small bolt is fixed to the wooden back. He slots it closed.
“It’s that simple?” you ask in a near whisper, thinking over how easily Alina running away could have been prevented. A tiny bolt. He nods.
He makes a show of trying to open each door leading into the hallway, and a small smile tugs at your lips as he presses his shoulder against the door whilst tugging on the handle. It’s a little over the top, but you appreciate it.
Once you return to his bedroom you slide under the covers, and the General opens a drawer in his vanity table. He takes out something, and steps closer to the end of the bed to show you it. A dark metal key.
“I’m the only one who has a key to this room.”
You nod, biting down on your bottom lip as you think. It isn’t long before you have another issue.
“A fabrikator could unlock the door,” you reason, remembering how your attacker had twisted the metal of your letter opener with her power.
You’re certain the General must be getting tired of you and your worries, but he merely nods and seems to give your suggestion some serious thought.
“Is there a Grisha you trust?”
You consider his words, running through a list of Grisha that you can think of, then questioning which ones you could rely on.
“Fedoyr.”
“I shall have Fedoyr posted outside until I return.”
That reassures you. Very little could get through a heartrender, and as far as you know Fedoyr is a good person. You nod in agreement, offering him a tiny smile.
“Thank you.”
He looks conflicted for a moment, and you decide to ignore whatever it is he’s thinking about while you’re settling yourself under the covers. After a moment of hesitation, the General sits down beside you, his back leaning against the dark oak headboard.
Eyelids heavy, once you have your arms curled around one of his pillows, pressing it firmly against your face and chest, you manage to relax a little. Your shoulders sink as you exhale, and sleep tugs you closer into its embrace.
The last thing you’re conscious of is a feather light touch, stroking at the crease between your brows and down the bridge of your nose.
»»---------------------►
marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity
BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift
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alexthetrashyracoon · 8 months ago
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Simon wants to marry you.
This fact was as clear as rain on his mind. You were the love of his life, he was ready to settle down with you and grow old.
So Simon prepared everything for that special day, it was your fourth year anniversary and Simon wants to ask you the biggest question someone could ask and he hoped, maybe even prayed despite not believing in any higher deity, that you would say 'yes' to his proposal.
He has planned out the whole day, from the moment you woke to the moment you would close your eyes for the night again, everything was supposed to be perfect.
Simon brings you breakfast in bed, watching your smile brighten when you see the freshly pressed orange juice and the fresh buns, still warm from the bakery. "Happy Anniversary." He whispers before slipping back into bed behind you, pulling you between his legs and stealing some of the freshly cut Mango from your plate.
When breakfast is over, you two made a mess out of each other while trying to feed each other, he scoops you up and carries you into the bathroom, telling you to get ready and that he has a lot of plans for today which causes you to become perceptive. Immediately starting to question him about his plans, but he's still a trained soldier, he withstands your flow of questions.
Another plan of Simon for today was bringing you to a fair, the same one you two met four years ago.
Here he wanted to ask you to marry him, on top of the Ferris wheel where you two had been stuck together four years ago due to a technical issue with the electronic.
But after spending a few hours walking the fair ground, having to walk back to his car once to bring Lord Otto from Otterson, the plush Otter he won you at one of the stupid and usually very rigged fair games, to safety and out of the way. You make it to the Ferris wheel and Simon's face fell.
"Out of order..." He breathes and runs a hand through his short blonde hair, staring up at the still standing wheel and the dangling cable cars.
"Damn." You curse softly next to him and scratch your neck. "Well, maybe we can ride it another day, mhm?"
"Yeah, maybe. Well, we can't change anything now." He chuckles and squeezes the velvety box in his back pocket. Keeping it safe until you two would reach the next destination.
The small restaurant by the corner where you two lived was filled with loud voice, happy laughter, children running around, not that Simon minded, he knew you were a very outgoing person and enjoyed the social interactions from such evenings.
Simon had reserved a table a few weeks ago and the waiter brings you and him over, Simon shushing the poor man who just wants to help you sit.
He is your boyfriend, bloody hell, he can do something so simple as helping you get seated.
"I know it is our anniversary, Simon," You chuckle as you put down the glass of wine Simon has ordered for you and him, "But something feels different. I just don't know what. Special..."
"Four years is just a long time, love. Maybe your brain finally catches up with... wha-?" Simon wants to be cheesy with you before asking you the question of all questions when suddenly his feet feel wet and he looks down, seeing water come from the kitchen.
His second attempt of asking for your hand has been sabotaged by a broken water pipe.
Simon curses internally as he carries you back outside, not wanting to get your feet wet and cause you catching some flu.
Well, there is only the romantic walk through the nearby park which is empty around this time of the night, so you two can walk around the pond and watch the fireflies and swans before he can go down on one knee and finally ask.
But before he even get you through the sturdy iron gates that allowed entrance to the park, his phone rang, Prices' number on the screen and everything in Simon screams to ignore his Captain for the sake of your relationship and your future.
He apologizes and takes the call, listening to Price explaining that they've got information about a certain Russian Terrorist planning an attack and that they had to meet within the next hour.
"It's fine." You reassure him when he brings you back to your shared apartment, squeezing his hand with a gentle smile on your lips. "I had a lot of fun today with at my side. And saving the world is much more important. We can celebrate another time, Si."
"You're too forgiving." Simon replies and presses his chapped lips against your forehead. "But it's not fine. I had the whole day planned out. And the universe seems against me at all, bloody hell. All I wanted to do tonight was asking you to marry me. And everything I've tried blew. The Ferris Wheel, the restaurant, even the walk..."
You cut him off before he can talk himself into a frenzy by wrapping your arms around his neck, having to stand on your tiptoes and planting your lips on his.
"Yes." You grin when you pull back. "Yes, I will marry you, Simon Riley. I will marry you."
Maybe he should have simply asked you this morning during breakfast, might have saved him from getting another grey hair on his head. But sometimes the simple answer is hidden behind the complicated ideas.
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5sospenguinqueen · 11 days ago
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My Boyfriend's Boyfriend - Alex Albon x Reader
Summary: When you start publicly declaring your love for your boyfriend, George takes it as a challenge to prove he loves him more. And poor Alex is caught in the middle of it all. 
Warnings: Thirsty comments. Fluff. Crack fic
Requested: No 
Faceclaim: Elisha Applebaum (and random pinterest pics) 
F1 Masterlist
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williamsracing just posted
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liked by landonorris, jensonbutton and others
williamsracing locked in for quali
2,323 comments
yn_ln who gave him permission to look that tasty!
yn_ln gnawing at the bars of my enclosure 
→ williamsracing do we need to lock you in alex’s driver room? 
user1 @/yn_ln are you bored per chance?
→ yn_ln i am salivating! 
→ user2 i think she meant ovulating because girly is being horny on main 
user3 the hand veins 
→ yn_ln agreed, babe 
user4 oh wow. he looks like prince charming in that light  liked by yn_ln 
alex_albon oh so this is why the team keep telling me to check on you before i get in the car?
→ yn_ln i’m fine. it’s not my fault you’re so beautiful 
→ francolapinto you’re making him blush 
georgerussell63 people on twitter said somebody was acting like they loved alex more than me? 
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yn_ln just posted
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liked by charles_leclerc, williamsracing and others
yn_ln and my man, thank you to my man 
3,316 comments
alex_albon happy anniversary, my love. 3 years with you isn’t long enough ❤️
→ yn_ln i love you so much. i’m so blessed to have your arms in my life 
→ alex_albon just my arms?
→ yn_ln big fan of your hands and neck
→ yn_ln and something else
→ landonorris don’t finish that sentence!
user5 he’s such a cutie liked by yn_ln
user6 yn feeds us with the alex content
→ user7 she knows what we want to see ‘cause she’s just as thirsty as us 
georgerussell63 huzzah. a man of quality 
→ yn_ln this is why you have no friends
→ georgerussell63 at least i’m not the reason he has to have a pr meeting tomorrow 
→ yn_ln you might be the reason he doesn’t get laid tonight. we’ll see how much he likes you then
→ alex_albon whoa what
user8 happy anniversary to my fave f1 couple! how are you spending the day?
→ yn_ln in bed liked by alex_albon
→ user8 oomf got a response but at what cost 
landonorris i swear every time your name pops up on my instagram, my eyes burn
user9 oh wow. hello arm veins liked by yn_ln
alex_albon just posted
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liked by logansargeant, francolapinto and others 
alex_albon going back to my roots for my 100th gp with my first ever helmet. onto the next 100
2,363 comments
georgerussell63 i can’t wait to race another 100 with you, mate  
→ yn_ln yabba dabba don’t 
→ georgerussell63 why hasn’t he dumped you yet
→ yn_ln my head game is too strong liked by alex_albon
→ user10 i live for their comments 
→ user11 the beef between george and yn over alex is my favourite thing about f1
yn_ln if you’re going to pucker those lips then you could at least put them against mine
→ alex_albon 😘💋
→ user12 i love that he embraces the crazy 
jensonbutton happy 100, alex! 
williamsracing thank you for celebrating your 100th with us
→ alex_albon thank you for putting up with my girlfriend and george
→ yn_ln @/georgerussell63 ha, see how i was my and you were just george
→ georgerussell63 🖕🏻🖕🏻
→ mercedesamgf1 george, that’s not appropriate online behaviour 
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yn_ln just posted
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liked by carmenmmundt, alexandrasaintmleux and others
yn_ln it’s finally me and you, and you and me. just us, and your friend george
1,923 comments
georgerussell63 he looks happier with me
→ user1 you can’t see his face with yn
→ georgerussell63 irrelevant 
→ yn_ln @/user1 he had to turn away so the cameras wouldn’t catch his boner
→ alex_albon you were whispering in my ear! 
→ user2 omg it’s true! 
user3 the flowers 🥰
carmenmmundt i think you should date me instead 
→ yn_ln let’s run away, babe 
→ yn_ln @/georgerussell63 see, even your own girlfriend prefers me
→ georgerussell63 you can keep her
user4 okay but that bouquet is beautiful 
user5 alex is literally the dream boyfriend 
alexandrasaintmleux this is how i feel with charles and pierre 
→ francisca.cgomes we all suffer the bonds
alex_albon guys, the flowers weren’t for her. they were from her for me
→ yn_ln it was a thank you for the orgasms
→ williamsracing yn, please. we’re tired
→ yn_ln that’s too damn bad
→ georgerussell63 @/alex_albon if i buy you flowers, will you love me more? 
georgerussell63 just posted
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liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri and others
georgerussell63 me and my friend alex. oh, and some stalker 
3,001 comments
user6 posting this 10 mins after yn’s post aha
user7 alex didn’t respond to any of george’s comments so george made a whole post dedicated to galex
user8 yn’s face 😂
→ yn_ln it’s because i was looking at george. 
user9 the fact that george is touching alex in each of these
→ yn_ln and he’s not touching him back says everything 
→ georgerussell63 i hate you i hate you i hate you 
mercedesamgf1 we need more galex content! 
→ georgerussell63 thank you for being on my side in this, admin
→ williamsracing we’ll set something up ;)
carmenmmundt and where is my public declaration of love?
→ yn_ln i love you 
→ carmenmmundt thank you. i love you too
williamsracing we approve of this post 
→ georgerussell63 so you prefer me to yn? see, alex. i’m pr approved 
alex_albon i’m feeling so loved lately
→ yn_ln it’s hard not to love you when you look that delicious 
→ georgerussell63 oh but when i say this it’s a “problem” 
alex_albon just posted
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liked by williamsracing, logansargeant and others
alex_albon happy birthday to my most beautiful, annoying thot
3,234 comments
georgerussell63 excuse me. what is this? 
→ yn_ln i win! 
user10 alex calling her a thot 😂 he knows she’s thirsty and he loves it
yn_ln @/georgerussell63 suck it. you don’t have a whole post dedicated to you 
→ georgerussell63 is it because she blows you? i’m willing to make some sacrifices 
→ alex_albon please don’t
user11 williams and merc pr tremble every time these two post shit 
→ williamsracing can confirm
→ mercedesamgf1 we have to pay for their therapy 
user12 yn is so pretty 
→ alex_albon yes, yes she is. the prettiest 
→ yn_ln keep talking that way and you might get lucky tonight
carmenmmundt george just fell to his knees in the car park 
→ alex_albon i’m sorry you have to deal with that 
→ carmenmmundt i’m sorry that you had to deal with him
yn_ln i love you so much that i’m willing to ignore the second to last word. you are my favourite person and i would fight all the drivers for you
→ alex_albon i love you too, bug. even if you do force me to have weekly pr meetings 
→ georgerussell63 i admit defeat
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Requests are open!
Tag list
@peachiicherries @rosecentury @c-losur3 @heavy-vettel @evie-119 @raizelchrysanderoctavius
1K notes · View notes
pucksandpower · 3 months ago
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Metamorphosis
Charles Leclerc x ex!Reader
Summary: Charles makes the worst mistake of his life, leaving him to watch from the sidelines as you move on to bigger and better things (and people)
Warnings: cheating, only one of you gets a happy ending (hint: it’s not Charles)
Based on this request
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Charles enters the bedroom he shares with you, his heart pounding in his chest. He knows he has to finally come clean about his infidelity. The guilt has been eating away at him for weeks.
You’re sitting up in bed, reading a book. You look up with a warm smile as Charles approaches. “Hey, you’re home early.”
Charles takes a deep breath. “Yeah … we need to talk.” His voice is heavy with regret.
You mark your page and set the book aside, giving him your full attention. “What’s going on?”
Charles sits down on the edge of the bed, unable to meet your trusting gaze. “I ...” The words get caught in his throat. How can he tell you? How can he shatter the life you’ve built together?
After a long pause, you prompt gently, “Charles? You’re worrying me ...”
He forces himself to look at you. Your beautiful face, your eyes full of love and concern for him. It breaks his heart anew.
“I’ve done something unforgivable,” he confesses in a pained murmur. “I … I cheated on you.”
For a moment, the room is silent. You stare at him, eyes widening in shock and hurt. Then, almost robotically, you slide out of bed and walk over to the closet. You pull out a suitcase and start methodically packing clothes.
“What? No, please, don’t do that!” Charles jumps up, panic and desperation gripping him. “I’m so sorry, it was a mistake! It meant nothing to me, I swear!”
You don’t respond, continuing to pack with eerie calm.
“Aren’t you going to yell at me? Throw things? Please, just … show some emotion!”
You pause and look at him impassively. “Why should I waste my energy? You’ve clearly checked out of our relationship already.”
Charles feels like he’s been slapped. “No! No, that’s not true at all! I love you, I want to make this work!”
Shoving the last shirt into the suitcase, you move over to the vanity and begin unclasping your jewelry — pieces he gave you on holidays or your anniversary or just because. You stack the earrings, necklaces, and bracelets on the surface, finally pulling off your engagement ring and adding it to the pile with a soft clink.
“Please ...” Charles begs, tears filling his eyes. “Please don’t leave me. We can get through this, I promise!”
You zip up the suitcase and turn to him, your expression unreadable. “Let me go, Charles.” You roll the suitcase toward the door.
Charles follows you through the apartment, desperation clawing at his insides. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m so, so sorry. Please, just give me another chance!”
You stop at the front door, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes are dry, but there is a deep sadness etched onto your features. “Why should I give you another chance when you didn’t give me or our relationship a second thought?”
“No, wait!” He rushes after you, grabbing your arm. You shrug him off easily, pausing with your hand on the knob to look back at him one last time.
“I used to think you were my soulmate,” you say quietly. “But you’ve shown me who you really are. I can’t keep loving a lie.”
“Don’t do this!” he pleads, desperation clawing at his throat. “Don’t just give up on us, on everything we had!”
You pause at the front door, finally turning to face him fully. “You gave up first, Charles. Not me.”
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Because you’re right — he’s the one who destroyed this, who sacrificed your life together for one selfish moment.
Your jaw tightens slightly, the first flicker of emotion he’s seen. “Goodbye, Charles.”
You turn and walk out the door, pulling it shut behind you with a final click.
Charles is left staring at the closed door, the deafening silence around him. He’s not sure how long he stands there, frozen, replaying your parting words in his mind. Goodbye, you’d said, without any anger or tears.
Just … goodbye.
***
Months later, Charles is seated in the front row at Milan Fashion Week, watching the Ferrari Style runway show with a tight smile plastered on his face. He’s here for publicity, to keep up appearances, even though the last thing he wants is to be thrust into the spotlight tonight.
Not when you are walking in the show.
He tries not to hold his breath as each new model struts down the sleek crimson catwalk. He’s successful at keeping his cool, nodding occasionally at a particularly striking outfit, until suddenly … there you are.
You emerge from the backstage wings, a vision in deep Ferrari red from head to toe. But it’s not just a dress or evening gown. No, the Spanish flag and bold 55 displayed proudly on the front of the outfit leave no doubt — you’re wearing a feminine version of his teammate’s race suit.
Charles’ jaw goes slack as you move with confidence, head held high, every inch the picture of poise and strength. Of a woman who has moved on, left him and their broken relationship in the rearview mirror.
His hands clench in his lap as you pivot at the end of the runway. Even from here, he can see that characteristic glint in your eyes, the spark that had drawn him to you in the first place. The same spark that had been extinguished in those final moments at your shared apartment.
As the show wraps up and the other models join you, Charles rises shakily. He knows he shouldn’t, knows he has no right. But the masochistic urge to see you up close, to try and speak to you for the first time in months, is overpowering.
He makes his way backstage, flashing his credentials to bypass security. A deafening mix of cheers and laughter guides him towards the dressing area, where he finds a cluster of models still in their runway looks, giddily celebrating.
And there you are in the center, radiant and alive in a way he hasn’t seen in so long. A tall, broad-shouldered man he doesn’t recognize moves towards you, a massive bouquet of red roses in his hand.
Something dark and ugly rears up in Charles’ chest as the man leans down, offering you the flowers with a brilliant smile. Your returning grin is equally bright as you accept them, lifting the vibrant blooms to inhale their sweet scent.
Of course you have suitors lining up, Charles thinks bitterly. Look at you — confident, successful, leaving him and your painful history together far behind. Who wouldn’t want to give their entire heart to someone like you?
The irrational flare of jealousy is like acid in his veins as you turn to the man, mouth opening to undoubtedly offer your gratitude. But then, shockingly, the man simply pivots towards a nearby male model, gripping his lapels and pulling him into a searing kiss.
Charles blinks dumbly as the pair continue their heated embrace, seemingly oblivious to the raucous cheers and whoops from the other models, you included.
Even as the tight knot of jealousy in Charles’ chest loosens, it’s replaced by something worse — a sinking feeling of regret as he watches you from his hidden vantage point.
You look … happy.
Vibrant.
Surrounded by friends and uplifted by your success, without him holding you back with his selfish mistakes.
Why did he ever think confronting you backstage was a good idea? You’ve clearly moved on to an exciting new chapter, one he has no place in. Not after how much he broke you, shattered the loving core you’d shared.
You throw your head back in a full-bellied laugh at something one of the other models says. Even from here, even with the distance he forced between you, the uninhibited joy on your face in that moment cuts straight to Charles’ heart.
“Hey, you lost back here?” A rough voice breaks into his thoughts. Charles turns to find a burly security guard eyeing him suspiciously.
“I … no. No, I was just leaving.” Charles forces his feet into motion, turning on his heel to all but flee from the scene of your happiness.
As painful as it is seeing how beautifully you’re thriving without him, he has no one to blame but himself. He’s the one who threw away the greatest thing he ever had. You owe him nothing, certainly not delaying your healing by dredging up the past.
Even if watching you move on cuts deeper than any physical wound.
***
The salty Sardinian breeze ruffles Charles’ hair as he leans back on the plush deck lounger, soaking in the warm August sun. For the first few days of their annual family yacht trip, he’d felt the knots of tension slowly unraveling from his shoulders as the clear blue waters and simple routines of life at sea worked their magic.
His mother’s gentle humming as she read nearby, the sounds of his brothers horsing around and doing cannonballs off the stern, the nights spent under a blanket of stars — it had almost been enough to fully distract him from thoughts of you.
Almost.
But of course, nothing can ever be that simple.
“What the hell is that!” Arthur’s annoyed shout breaks the tranquil silence.
Charles squints against the glare over the water to see what his brother is griping about. At first, it’s just a speck on the horizon. But as it draws nearer, he can make out the sleek, gleaming white lines of another yacht — one nearly triple the size of his own comparatively modest vessel.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Charles mutters under his breath as the ostentatious floating palace drops anchor mere yards from their private little cove. So much for the serenity they’d been enjoying.
He rises, moving to the railing with narrowed eyes as the other yacht’s passengers begin to emerge on the decks above them, raucous cheers and laughter cutting through the previously still air. The sound is abrasive, grating on Charles’ very last nerve.
Until a very specific, very familiar laugh rings out.
It can’t be … can it?
Charles freezes, his heart jackrabbiting as your unmistakable voice and bright, bubbling giggle reach him across the waters. He watches, feeling like he’s been doused in ice water, as you come into view alongside a group of equally vibrant, beautiful people.
Of course it’s you. Who else could it possibly be, here to upend his few days of hard-won peace?
You lean over the railing, your sunglasses sliding down your nose as you peer down at the crystal clear waters. Even from here, even with the distance separating you, Charles is struck by your radiant, carefree smile. When was the last time he saw you look so … effortlessly happy?
Before he can spiral too far down that winding road, you whip off your sunglasses and straighten, pulling the flowing fabric of your cover-up over your head in one smooth motion. You toss it aside carelessly, revealing the deep navy string bikini underneath as you take a few steps back from the railing.
Charles’ mouth goes dry as he tracks the sway of your hips, the confident, easy way you carry yourself in just that tiny scrap of swimwear. And then, with a bright peal of laughter, you’re sprinting forward and sailing over the railing, tucking into a flawless backflip before slicing into the glittering waves below.
A chorus of cheers and whoops erupts from your friends as they follow your graceful leap, one by one pelting into the water in your wake like a stream of sleek dolphin dancers. Charles watches, his earlier frustration morphing into something darker and much more complicated, as your head breaks the surface, tendrils of your soaked hair clinging to the graceful curves of your neck and shoulders.
You toss your head back, slicking the dripping strands away from your face as you tread water easily, that brilliant, freed smile never slipping. How long has it been since Charles saw you look so radiant, so at peace, so … alive?
“Mon ami, close your mouth before you start drooling all over the deck.”
Joris’ voice startles Charles from his reverie. He blinks, only then realizing his hands are clenched tightly around the cool metal railing, knuckles straining white. His best friend arches an expectant brow as Charles quickly averts his eyes, flushing hotly.
“I wasn’t ...” he starts weakly, but Joris simply scoffs.
“Yeah, okay mate. Keep telling yourself that.” Joris settles in beside him, bare feet kicked up on the railing as his eyes track over to your group, now engaged in an intense game of chicken fight among the gentle waves. “She looks good, doesn’t she?”
The resentful scowl that tugs at Charles’ mouth is automatic, instinctive. “I couldn’t care less how she looks,” he lies through gritted teeth.
Even to his own ears, the petulant deflection sounds pathetic. Joris raises an unimpressed brow. “Could’ve fooled me, with how you were eye-fucking her from over here just now.”
Charles’ flush deepens as your bright, delighted laughter rings out again, echoing across the waters. “It’s not like that,” he insists, even as his gaze traitorously tracks after the source of that sound. “I was just … surprised to see her here, that’s all.”
“Sure, yeah. And I’m the Prince of Monaco.” Joris snorts, shaking his head. “Listen, man, I get it-”
“You don’t get anything,” Charles bites out, rounding on his friend as frustration boils over. “You have no idea what it’s like seeing her like … like that, after everything. She’s just moved on like our entire relationship meant nothing!”
The ugly admission hangs between them in the still air, Charles panting slightly from the force of the outburst. Joris watches him cautiously for a long moment before speaking. “That’s not fair, Charles. You’re the one who-”
“I know!” Charles cuts him off sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I know what I did, alright? You don’t have to remind me.”
He sinks back against the railing, suddenly exhausted down to his very bones. Out across the waves, you’re perched atop one of your friend’s shoulders, engaged in an epic battle against another pair that’s quickly devolving into a fit of violent splashing.
“I know I screwed everything up. I have to live with that every single day.” Charles’ throat feels tight, watched. “I just … I never thought I’d have to watch her being so happy without me too.”
The fight seems to leave Joris as he takes in Charles’ miserable, broken expression. The other man sighs, squeezing Charles’ shoulder comfortingly. “I’m sorry. That’s … that’s got to be tough as hell to see. But you can’t blame her for moving on and being happy again, you know? What you did … well, you really broke her heart.”
Charles doesn’t respond, letting the words hang heavy between them as your melodic laugh continues to drift towards them. He knows Joris is right — he has no one to blame for this gut-wrenching situation but himself. But that doesn’t make watching your vibrant, beautiful soul shine so bright without him there any easier.
***
Charles guides his Ferrari up to the valet stand outside one of his favorite restaurants in Monaco, the engine purring like a contented cat. He throws the car into park and kills the ignition, savoring that last potent growl of the powerful motor.
There’s just something different about a Ferrari, something quintessentially Italian and bred for speed. He runs an appreciative hand along the sleek black curve of the door as he waits for the valet. This is a beast made for the racetrack, for pushing past limits. Not like those garish, overcompensating-
The loud rumble of another engine cuts into his thoughts. Charles looks up in disdain as a blinding yellow Lamborghini pulls up.
“Trying too hard, as always,” Charles mutters to himself as he watches the valet park the ostentatious machine. Could a car be any more desperate for attention? Absolutely zero class or restraint.
He climbs out, already half-dismissing it from his mind, when a familiar figure emerges from the restaurant entrance. The valet is hastening to assist, offering a hand as she descends the front steps in a form-fitting crimson dress. Even from here, even with the perfectly curled hair and smokey makeup, Charles would know the line of those shoulders, the elegant curve of her neck anywhere.
You.
His breath catches as you smile warmly at the young valet, sliding him what looks like a generous tip before slipping into the driver’s seat of the garish yellow Lamborghini and roaring off without a backwards glance.
Charles is still gaping after you, mouth slightly ajar, when the second valet appears at his side.
“Good evening, monsieur. Shall I park your car for you?”
He blinks dumbly for a moment before recovering. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
Sliding the young man his own tip, Charles pivots on his heel and strides into the elegant dining room, mind whirling. Of all the cars in the world, he never would have pegged you for a Lamborghini person.
Then again, he clearly doesn’t know you like he thought he did. Not the new you, the version free of him and his betrayals.
He takes his usual table in the back corner, ordering an expensive Chianti before he can even glance at the menu. Tonight calls for relying on old vices. As he swirls the deep burgundy liquid, he finds himself drifting back to your matching crimson dress, how it clung to your curves in such a delicious way.
Even when you were furious with him, you could never quite hide the passion that smoldered underneath. Charles had spent many blissful nights stoking those flames, coaxing them into an all-consuming wildfire of want and need. He misses the scorching heat of your desire, your clever hands and wicked mouth setting his body ablaze.
He closes his eyes, letting the memory of your bare skin flush against his wash over him. Those nights of tangled limbs and breathy gasps, when nothing else mattered but struggling to get impossibly closer, as if your very beings could meld into one.
With a frustrated groan, Charles slams back the rest of his wine. What is he doing, torturing himself with memories of your lovemaking? You’ve clearly moved on to new chapters, new … cars. New everything, really.
And yet he can’t quite extinguish the gnawing sense of dissonance. A Lamborghini? Something so utterly over-the-top and desperate for attention just doesn’t seem like your style. You were always more understated … more elegant.
Not that it matters, he reminds himself firmly. Whatever choices you make now are no longer any of his business. He systematically strips away the judgements, the fragile sense of still knowing you intimately. After what he did, he sacrificed that right completely.
The waiter reappears with a fresh glass of wine and Charles takes it gratefully. He’s determined to focus on learning to untangle you from his thoughts and simply enjoy his evening. He came here for the ambiance, the food, the escape.
But no matter how he tries, your image keeps invading his mind’s eye — sliding into that sunshine yellow machine, stunning in that slinky red number and your lips curved in a contented smile. Content without him still lingering in the shadowed corners of your life.
And then it hits him like a slap across the face — you in that screaming yellow Lamborghini wasn’t about attention at all. It was the opposite — a declaration of fierce independence. Of staking your own claim, making your own flagrantly joyful choices without a care for his opinions or approval. Free from his reputation, his expectations, his name.
The realization is like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath. You’ve remade yourself so thoroughly, forging a vibrant path that has absolutely nothing to do with him. While he’s been stuck in neutral, spinning his wheels and passively watching you soar out of reach.
A strange sense of loss washes over Charles. As badly as he’d wanted you to find your way again after his unforgivable betrayal, he can’t deny how disorienting it is to realize you’re not the same woman he fell in love with all those years ago.
You’re a new version, one he isn’t familiar with at all. One who makes choices and carries herself in a way he doubts he’ll ever fully understand, no matter how much he wishes he could go back and undo every selfish mistake that set these changes into motion.
Charles blinks against the unexpected sting in his eyes as he stares at the table. On some deeper level, he knows this remolding of your identity, this blossoming into someone both thrillingly unfamiliar yet unmistakably you, should be cause for celebration. It means you’re healing, leaving his mistakes in the past and coming into your own again in spite of his ugliest failures.
He just wishes he didn’t have to watch the entire metamorphosis from a distance.
***
Charles squints against the bright morning sunlight as he strides through the paddock towards his garage. A slight chill still clings to the air, promising another sweltering afternoon session once the sun reaches its peak. He adjusts his cap lower over his eyes, trying not to dwell too much on the practice times from yesterday. There’s still so much fine-tuning needed to find those crucial extra tenths of a second.
Passing by the Red Bull motorhome, a flash of familiar flowing hair catches his eye. Charles freezes mid-step, his heart stuttering. It couldn’t be … could it?
But then the figure moves fully into view and there’s no mistaking the delicate slope of your jaw and those cheekbones he knows as well as his own reflection. It’s definitely you, slipping inside the sleek facade of the Red Bull motorhome with an easy smile.
Charles blinks dumbly, certain his eyes must be playing tricks on him. Why in the world would you be going into the Red Bull motorhome? You never had any connection to their team or drivers before, back when ...
When you were still together.
Charles swallows hard, dragging his gaze away. He must have imagined it. Sometimes his subconscious still gets carried away, superimposing your presence into random moments or places like an echo of a life he can never return to. Seeing you here, intertwined with his racing world in some way, is just too improbable.
Shaking off the strange moment, he refocuses on the day ahead. But over the next two days, he can’t seem to avoid catching glimpses of you around the Red Bull garage and hospitality areas. There you are chatting with one of their engineers just outside their motorhome entrance. Then sharing a hushed conversation off to the side with their chief strategist.
Finally, on Sunday just before the race, he watches with raised eyebrows as you throw your head back laughing at something Max Verstappen says, the Red Bull driver’s own grin wide and appreciative.
Some sort of friendship surely couldn’t explain this level of access and familiarity could it? A sour knot of suspicion begins twisting in Charles’ gut. There’s no way … no way Max would ...
But he has to know.
As the Formula 1 circus begins packing up after the race, Charles spots you slipping away from the Red Bull group once more, clearly headed back to their closed-off sanctuary. He watches Max linger outside, fiddling idly with his cap as he waits.
It’s the perfect opportunity. Charles doesn’t even think, just lets his feet carry him across the crowded paddock until he’s standing across from his fellow driver.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The accusation comes out half-snarl before he can stop himself.
Max turns, eyebrows shooting up. “... Charles? What are you on about?”
“Don’t play dumb.” Charles jabs a finger back towards the motorhome you disappeared into. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been with her all weekend. How you two can’t seem to get enough of each other’s company.”
Realization dawns and Max actually has the audacity to laugh. “Wait … is this about Y/N? You jealous she’s been hanging around our team?”
White-hot fury lances through Charles and he has to grit his teeth against the heated words that want to come spilling out. “You think this is funny? Cozying up to my ex-fianceé less than a year after I lost her? What, you couldn’t find someone else so you had to go after her?”
Max shakes his head slowly, clearly fighting to keep his expression neutral. “Damn … I didn’t realize the great Charles Leclerc makes the rules on who Y/N can associate with these days.”
The blatant dismissal in his tone is like a physical slap. Charles recoils slightly before squaring his shoulders. “Don’t turn this around on me. I know what I saw, how cozy you two were-”
“Easy there, tiger.” Max cuts him off, holding up one hand placatingly. “First of all, Y/N and I are just friends. I happen to have my own gorgeous girlfriend, but thanks for looking out.”
He pauses, letting the implication that Charles is being irrational and out-of-line sink in. When Charles doesn’t immediately retort, Max continues.
“Second … you seem to have conveniently forgotten that you’re the one who threw away your life with Y/N. The one who cheated and broke her heart. You don’t get to dictate a damn thing about who she spends time with or how she chooses to live her life now.”
The words slam into Charles with brutal force, knocking the breath from his lungs. Because Max is right — he has no claim here, no right to make assumptions or demands. Not after what he did.
Seeming to sense he’s scored a direct hit, Max shakes his head again. “Look, I get it’s probably hard watching her move on fully, start over without you. But that’s on you, not her. You’re going to have to learn to deal with the consequences of your own actions.”
The quiet truth in his voice is like a white-hot brand. Charles swallows hard, suddenly incapable of meeting Max’s level gaze.
“Then … then why has she been around your team so much?” It comes out sounding more petulant than he intended, a desperate scramble to regain some levity. “If she’s not … you know ...”
Max huffs out a soft laugh, stooping to retrieve his discarded cap. “That answer isn’t mine to give.” He slides it back on, fixing Charles with one last searching look. “But if I had to guess? She’s putting herself first now. Pursuing her own path, one that has nothing to do with you anymore.”
He turns towards the Red Bull motorhome, tossing his final phrase over his shoulder. “I’d get used to it, if I were you.”
Charles watches him disappear inside, leaving him rooted in place and feeling completely lost. The crowd continues to disperse around him, teams and personnel breaking down equipment and packing things away.
Yet Max’s words keep ricocheting through his mind on an endless loop.
She’s pursuing her own path now. One that has nothing to do with you anymore.
It makes perfect sense of course — the laughter, the camaraderie, the ease of her presence in Red Bull’s inner sanctum. The seamless way she navigated their ecosystem all weekend long while Charles remained oblivious.
Because you’ve fully remade your entire existence into one that no longer intersects with his whatsoever.
As the paddock slowly empties around him, Charles finally forces one foot in front of the other, his legs feeling like overcooked noodles. Part of him wants to stick around until you reemerge, to demand that you explain this bold new reality you’ve carved out.
But what would be the point? You don’t owe him any explanations, any part of your life now. Those days are over, gone forever thanks to his own bone-deep failings.
So he keeps walking, leaving you and your mystery behind. After all, hadn’t you made it crystal clear from the very beginning?
This was your path to reclaim now, a future that was yours and yours alone to chase.
***
Charles frowns down at the envelope in his hand as he pushes open the door to his apartment, his mind still half-focused on the looming Austrian Grand Prix. The return address is from some high-end clothing boutique in Paris, but it’s the name neatly printed below that makes his heart stutter.
Y/N Y/L/N.
For a long moment, he simply stands there in the entryway, turning the innocent envelope over and over in his hands. How did this slip through the cracks and wind up here, at what used to be your shared home before everything combusted?
He traces the graceful swoop of your name with one finger, memories flickering through his mind’s eye. Coming home from races to find you curled up on the sofa with the latest fashion magazines scattered around you, making notes in the margins. Or catching you in the huge walk-in closet the two of you designed together, carefully hanging up some new couture purchase with a reverent touch.
You always did have impeccable taste. Charles can’t even find it in himself to judge the fancy Parisian boutique’s stationary now clutched in his hands.
Making a split-second decision, he spins on his heel and heads right back out the door, letter in hand. If this innocuous slip of mail made its way here by some shipping error, it’s the perfect excuse to … what? See you again? Try to explain himself one more time?
He’s not sure, but either way, the pull to seek you out is utterly irresistible now that this connection has fallen into his lap. Charles makes it two blocks before realizing with a start that he has absolutely no idea where you’re living these days.
The logical side of his brain reminds him he could simply call or text to get your new address and make arrangements to pass the letter along. But the thought of such mundane formalities after all this time, after the way things were upended so brutally, is laughable.
So instead he lets his feet guide him towards the upscale apartment building you lived in before moving into his place. There’s a chance the leasing office might have a forwarding address on file he can use. A small voice whispers that this is almost certainly a futile quest, that you’ve no doubt successfully untangled every last thread of your life from his.
But he has to try.
The lobby is blessedly quiet, devoid of the usual bustle and foot traffic he remembers from past visits. Charles straightens his shoulders and approaches the front desk, where a youngish woman with a bright smile greets him.
“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”
“Hi, yes, I’m actually trying to track down the new address for a former tenant — Y/N Y/L/N?” He carefully pencils in the last name, watching as the woman’s face scrunches in thought for a beat before her eyes widen in recognition.
“Of course, Mademoiselle Y/L/N. One moment.”
She taps efficiently at her computer, scanning whatever information has popped up on the screen. Just watching her work makes Charles’ heart kick up its rhythm in nervous anticipation.
“Ah, yes, here we are. It seems Mademoiselle Y/L/N moved out around three months ago. She actually left instructions for any further mail that slips through to be forwarded to ...”
She pauses, glancing up at Charles with newfound curiosity sparking in her eyes. “Are you a relative, sir? Mademoiselle Y/L/N requested her new address only be released to family.”
“I’m … an old friend,” he answers carefully, unsure if that bends the truth too far or not. “We used to be very close.”
The woman’s polite smile dims ever-so-slightly at his choice of words, like she can read the subtext loud and clear. Used to be very close … until he completely obliterated that closeness.
“I see,” she says neutrally. “Well, in that case, I’m afraid I can’t provide her new contact details without explicit permission. But the residents currently leasing her old unit have been directly forwarding any mail to her, if that would help?”
It’s not ideal, but a frustratingly belated realization stops Charles from arguing further — you clearly requested your whereabouts be kept private now, at least from him. Probably a wise decision, all things considered.
“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.”
She rattles off the apartment number and Charles commits it to memory with a polite nod before turning to leave. As he crosses the airy lobby once more, he can’t resist glancing up towards the corner unit he knows was yours, absently wondering if someone else’s belongings line those shelves now, if there are new photos or mementos dotting the surfaces where yours once stood.
He shakes off the melancholy pang — you’ve forged an entirely new existence somewhere far away. Of course your old place has been repopulated, just like all the love you breathed into it has dissipated like smoke.
The apartment door opens after the third solid knock, revealing a twenty-something woman with a confused furrow in her brow. “Can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m actually here about a piece of mail for the previous tenant? The front desk said to bring it here.” Charles quickly proffers the letter before she can raise further objections or shut the door in his face completely.
“Oh.” She accepts it hesitantly, turning it over in her hands just like Charles had done earlier. “Yeah, the last tenant did leave instructions for stuff like this, now that you mention it ...”
She trails off, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies him more intently. He knows that look, can pinpoint the exact moment realization blossoms.
“Wait … you’re not Charles Leclerc, are you?”
So much for anonymity. He opens his mouth, fully prepared to deny and deflect as the tension stretches between them-
“Oh my god, you are!” The young woman actually gasps, one hand flying up to cover her mouth as her eyes go saucer-wide. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you. I mean, sorry about … you know. That entire situation with Y/N. My boyfriend is such a fan of yours though, I can’t even-”
“It’s alright,” Charles cuts her off on pure instinct, the words rushing out in a bid to stem the conversational swerve that’s clearly brewing. “I actually stopped by to pass that letter along, but also see if there’s a current address where I could reach Y/N? Perhaps send her things directly from now on.”
His polite inquiry has the desired effect — the woman’s starry-eyed expression shutters again as she refocuses. “Ah, well, about that … Y/N asked for anything like this to be forwarded to an address in Austria once she moved there. Let me grab that for you.”
Charles waits in silence as she ducks back inside, busying herself with finding the details. Austria? Of all places, why would you have relocated to-
“Got it.” She reappears, a small slip of paper in her outstretched hand. “This is where you can send anything for Y/N. Though I obviously don’t know all the details about … you know. Your situation.”
He takes the slip without comment, just a curt nod of acknowledgement. The woman rocks back on her heels, worrying her lower lip slightly.
“For what it’s worth … I think it’s really cool you’ve tried to stay in contact, you know? Even after everything. That’s commitment.”
Her sincere tone grates against the ugly truth they’re both tap-dancing around — that he’s the one who torched your commitment beyond repair with his selfish actions.
“Thanks,” is all he can muster, already turning away and pocketing the slip of paper with your new Austrian address before she can say anything further.
As he retraces his steps to the ground floor, Charles finds himself clutching the envelope even tighter, knuckles going white. So you’ve fled all the way to Austria now, put an entire nation’s length between your old life and whatever rising present you’re building. No wonder you didn’t want your location breathed to just anyone, let alone the man who detonated your world.
Well, he got what he came for in more ways than one. He has your new address now, the roadmap to whatever path you’ve started down without him sketched out in his hands. Part of him longs to deviate from his own schedule and just … show up, uninvited, on your new doorstep. To try and explain himself, or at least attempt to understand what grander journey you’ve embarked on.
But the same voice that cautioned him earlier rings out once more — you’ve made it perfectly clear you want to sever any remaining ties or connections to him, no matter how tenuous. Perhaps out of necessity to fully heal or simply because you’re done having any part of Charles Leclerc tarnish your horizons any longer.
Either way, you’ve spoken through your silence and distance. Chasing you down now, while perhaps gratifying a selfish impulse of his own, would only disrespect the boundaries you’ve erected.
As Charles reaches his car and slides in behind the wheel, he can’t resist rereading the brief string of characters and numbers that make up your new address. He commits them to memory, sketching out a crude map in his mind’s eye of where exactly this secluded town lies in the looping alpine valleys and mountain peaks.
Part of him longs to program the coordinates into his GPS immediately, to seek you out while this connection still blazes hot and bright between you. But harsh realities keep crashing in — the Austrian Grand Prix is only days away, his own commitments and schedule unforgiving.
No, the wise choice would be to simply send the wayward letter on to its intended destination. To let you live in peace, unburdened by his disruptive presence any longer.
As Charles fires up the engine and eases out onto the main street, he catches one last glimpse of your old apartment building shrinking in the rearview mirror. He thinks of the wide-eyed woman’s parting comment about “commitment” and has to laugh bitterly.
Commitment is precisely what he failed to uphold, the whispered promises he shattered into pieces with his own calloused hands. You owe him no further explanations, no more fragments of yourself after he decimated the love you shared.
The seconds will stretch on towards the next race, the next city, the next routine of focused preparation. But part of Charles’ mind will linger in that small Austrian town, caught in the mystery of the new life you’ve built.
A life he has no right to reinsert himself into, not anymore. All he can do is wish you well from a distance and keep putting kilometers between you with every spin of his tires.
Kilometers and kilometers of regret.
***
Charles stares down at the navigation screen, his thumb hovering over the go button. This is ridiculous — completely irrational and just begging for disaster. He has no business showing up unannounced like this, disrupting whatever new life you’ve so carefully constructed.
And yet … the Austrian address you have been forwarding mail to is already programmed in, glowing softly with the swipe of his finger. He could be there in just over nine hours, barring any major delays on the route into Salzburg province.
His mind races, cycling through every logical argument for abandoning this reckless idea immediately. You’re entitled to your privacy, your fresh start far away from the wreckage he created. Anything more would be him selfishly barging back into your existence, the one place he swore to never intrude again.
Against his better judgement, Charles swipes the go button. Almost instantly, the robotic voice begins spouting turn-by-turn directions, the path to your doorstep stretching out in vivid digital detail.
What’s done is done. He’ll simply … take it one step at a time.
The winding Alpine roads are a marvel of feats in civil engineering, the roadways expertly carved into the towering rock faces in sweeping vistas. Even Charles, who has logged countless miles of serpentine racetracks and courses around the globe, can’t help admiring the impossible scenery whipping past.
Evergreen forests give way to snow-capped peaks reaching into the crisp blue sky. ancient castles and towering church spires alike keep popping into view around each new switchback turn. He can’t shake the nagging sense that this entire region is something ripped from the pages of a storybook, a landscape too perfectly picturesque to be real.
Which is perhaps why the sight of the enormous wrought-iron gates materializing up ahead doesn’t immediately faze him at all.
“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS chirps pleasantly as Charles slows the Ferrari, trying to comprehend the sprawling estate now stretching out before him. This can’t possibly be right, can it?
Lush gardens and perfectly manicured shrubbery serpentine around the perimeter in intricate geometric patterns, eventually yielding to an emerald green meadow dotted with ancient growth trees. A gravel path splits the sweeping lawns up ahead, clearly carving a wide berth around … is that an actual lakehouse?
Charles blinks in stunned stupor, instinctively searching for some sort of address marker or sign as he creeps up the main drive towards the gates. Instead, his eyes are drawn to the imposing manor itself, all honey-colored stone and arched windows that wouldn’t look out of place in a Renaissance fresco. Turrets and spires spiral upwards towards the cloudless sky, practically winking in the summer sunshine.
This has to be some colossal mistake.
He’s fully prepared to simply turn around and peel back out of this fairytale estate when the crackle of a speaker breaks the silence.
“Hallo? This is a private residence. Please identify yourself and state your business.” The clipped, accented words carry an undeniable tone of authority.
Shit. Charles swallows hard against his suddenly dry throat, throwing the car into park as he leans towards the callbox mounted on the ivy-laced exterior wall.
“Ah, yes, hello … my name is Charles Leclerc. I’m actually here to-” He breaks off, fresh uncertainty bubbling up. He’s here to what, exactly? Catch a glimpse of the new life you’ve created? Throw himself at your feet and beg forgiveness once more?
“One moment, please,” the disembodied voice instructs crisply before the line goes dead silent once more.
Charles sits back, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. He should go, right now before this reaches the point of no return. He could simply turn around, act like this was all some misguided joke and leave you undisturbed. It’s the mature, sensible choice.
Instead, his pulse kicks up into a furious gallop as the massive front gates begin slowly grinding open with a metal groan, clear invitation to proceed. Charles doesn’t move for a long beat, waiting for the second half of the intercom to bark out a warning, for security to appear and politely hustle him off the premises.
But nothing. The gates yawn open further, revealing the full splendor of the estate lying in wait beyond.
Before he can think better of it, Charles eases the Ferrari forward. The crunch of the pale gravel beneath his tires seems to echo off the looming stone walls as he winds deeper into the property, the boundaries blurring between reality and a dreamscape more suited for the silver screen.
Finally, he rounds the last curve and the manor in its full glory stretches out before him. Every inch of the sprawling facade is a carved, architectural marvel — from the polished lintels to the intricate mouldings encircling each enormous window and doorway.
He kills the engine and simply sits there, once again grappling with unprecedented uncertainty. What was he thinking, assuming he could just brazenly roll up and … what? Vent months worth of grievances and miscommunications in a casual chat? As if the life you’ve so clearly cultivated here could ever intersect with his own beaten path again?
Charles climbs out of the car on legs that seem determined to wobble out from under him. He’s vaguely aware of the thunder of footsteps on stone before one of the massive oak front doors swings wide and a figure fills the entryway.
“Charles Leclerc, I presume?” The man’s sharp tone instantly catches Charles off guard. He’s younger than expected, perhaps mid-thirties, with an athletic build and carefully groomed dark hair. Despite the informal lounge pants and linen shirt, an unmistakable air of assurance rolls off him in waves.
“Er … yes. Hello.” Charles hears the uncertainty edging into his own greeting, quickly scrambling to fill the conversational pause. “I didn’t realize Y/N had … household staff now.”
The words are out before he can fully snatch them back. The man’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker, but there’s suddenly a tension charging the space between them that has Charles’ palms prickling with sweat.
“I’ll inform her you’ve arrived,” the man says at last, his intense gaze scanning over Charles slowly from head to toe.
Is that judgment blending into the appraisal? Regardless, Charles feels abruptly self-conscious — he hadn’t expected to be on the receiving end of such frank scrutiny today. But then again, he’s the one who inserted himself into unknown territory here.
“If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the receiving hall?” The open doorway and subtle tilt of the man’s head is clear invitation, one Charles has no choice but to mutely accept.
He climbs the three stairs to the arched entrance, pausing just before the threshold to turn back with furrowed brow. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your-”
“Mark.” The reply is clipped but courteous enough, at least. “Y/N should be down shortly.”
And with that, he turns on his heel and disappears through the foyer, leaving Charles to hover there alone for a beat too long before finally stepping across the threshold. Each footfall on the gleaming marble seems to ricochet off the domed ceiling above, bouncing back in mocking echoes.
As his gaze travels around the cavernous space, roving over the hanging art and intricate tilework, Charles can’t quite bite back the breathless huff of amazement.
Where in the actual hell are you living, Y/N?
***
Charles follows a step behind Mark as the other man leads them deeper into the estate. He can’t resist craning his neck, taking in every jaw-dropping detail — the soaring archways, the intricate brickwork, the Venetian plaster and artworks adorning the walls.
It’s the art itself that begins nagging at him first. Charles frowns slightly as they pass yet another larger-than-life canvas, this one emblazoned with the distinctive Red Bull logo and colors. Then a series of framed photographs, all seeming to depict different angles and events tied to the racing team.
“You must be quite a fan of Red Bull,” he finds himself commenting as they round a corner.
Mark half-turns, one eyebrow quirked. “You could say that.”
There’s an undercurrent to his tone that Charles can’t quite put his finger on. Before he can pry further, they emerge into some sort of sitting room or receiving area, the walls giving way to a bright, airy ambiance.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Mark gestures towards one of the plush sofas arranged in the center of the space. “I’ll have the staff inform Y/N you’re here.”
Charles nods, still trying to absorb the sheer opulence around him as he takes a seat. How in the world did you find yourself situated in a place like this? The nagging questions about Mark’s potential connection to the Red Bull team continue to swirl.
He’s pulled from his ruminations by the sound of your voice filtering down the hallway, breezing and melodic as ever.
“Babe? You down here?”
Charles stiffens instinctively at the endearment, his eyes snapping over to where Mark is casually lounging back against the opposite sofa. There’s no missing the tender smile playing across the other man’s lips.
“In the sitting room, liebling. We have a guest.”
The teasing lilt in his response has Charles’ skin prickling with something he can’t quite identify. He rises halfway as your footsteps grow nearer, not wanting to seem rude by remaining fully seated.
“Oh, a guest! Who-”
You sweep into the room still chattering away cheerfully, entirely oblivious until your gaze finally lands squarely on Charles. The breath punches out of you in a surprised rush, your entire body going rigid as the words die on your lips.
For an endless heartbeat, you simply stare at Charles, motionless but for the slight part of your lips. He watches as a faint flush blossoms high on your cheekbones, long lashes fluttering rapidly.
“... Charles? What are you doing here?”
He blinks dumbly at the sound of your voice, hushed with disbelief yet still so familiar after all this time. “I … you got a letter. From Paris, I think. It arrived at our — at my old place by mistake.”
Cursing his stammering, Charles reaches automatically for his inner jacket pocket, fumbling until he can produce the crumpled envelope bearing your name. “I didn’t know if other things might keep getting sent there, so I thought ...”
He trails off lamely, unable to properly articulate the impulse that propelled him all this way. To deliver one measly piece of mail? To re-establish some connection, no matter how fragile? He realizes with a start that you’ve moved closer, extending one hand to gently accept the letter from him.
“Thank you,” you murmur, eyes momentarily skittering away from his probing gaze. “That was very considerate.”
The moment stretches out, silence expanding in the cavernous space. Charles watches as your free hand flutters unconsciously upwards to fiddle with the collar of your shirt, struggling to find his voice once more.
“I didn’t realize you had, ah … you had a place like this now.” His attempt at nonchalance is so piss-poor he wants to cringe. “And … company, I suppose?”
A delicate snort from the other side of the room reminds Charles he’s not alone with you. His gaze snaps over to find Mark watching the exchange with an inquisitive smirk, arms crossed casually over his chest.
“Company?” He echoes the word airily, igniting a fresh bloom of color in your cheeks. “This must be terribly confusing for you.”
In one seamless motion, Mark unfolds himself from the sofa and crosses the short distance to your side, slipping one possessive arm around your waist. The intimacy of the gesture has Charles’ mouth going dry.
“Allow me to clarify — I’m Mark. Mark Mateschitz.” The subtle emphasis on the surname hits Charles like a bucket of ice water, comprehension crashing over him in waves.
“Mateschitz?” He hears himself repeating dumbly. “As in … Dietrich Mateschitz? The founder of Red Bull?”
Mark’s grin stretches into something wolfishly triumphant at Charles’ stunned expression. “The very same. My father.”
He lets the implication expand in the silence barreling down on them from all sides. Charles numbly finds the nearest armchair and sinks into it, struggling to fully process the revelation.
Of course. All the Red Bull imagery and iconography made so much more sense now. This sprawling, palatial estate clearly belonged to the family behind the team and brand, the multinational empire. Which meant … you weren’t simply a friendly acquaintance chumming around the Red Bull garages.
No, you were with the actual Mateschitz heir, the current co-owner of the goddamn company himself.
The sound of you softly clearing your throat breaks through his whirling thoughts. When Charles glances up, the vision that greets him is like a vise around his heart — you and Mark cuddled close together on the loveseat, his arm still looped possessively around your waist as you toy absently with the ends of his dark hair. Two people radiating intimacy and comfort, completely at home in one another’s embrace.
“We met during a Wings for Life charity run, actually,” you offer at last, almost as an olive branch. “We just … hit it off, I suppose. One thing led to another and … well, here we are.”
Mark’s fingers trail in a barely-there caress up and down your arm as you speak, his gaze locked adoringly on your profile. The look is so tender, so inescapably fond that it makes Charles’ chest constrict painfully.
“She’s a force of nature,” Mark says simply, the corners of his eyes crinkling with quiet mirth. “What else could I do but get caught up in her orbit?”
A flush blossoms high on your cheeks, but you don’t turn away, holding Mark’s fond gaze steadily. In that moment, the love you two share is almost a tangible force, shimmering and alive in the air between you. It’s beautiful and devastating all at once.
“I, uh, I should go.” The words leave Charles in a dazed mumble before he can reconsider. He rises abruptly, needing to create space between himself and the intimacies unfolding so easily in front of him.
As if snapping out of a reverie, you look up sharply. “Charles, wait-”
“No, really, it’s fine.” He tries valiantly to paste on a casual smile, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Thank you again for … well, you know. I’m sure I can see myself out.”
Turning on his heel, Charles makes it no more than two strides before your voice stops him once more, tinged with gentle exasperation.
“That’s the library you’re heading for. Here, let me ...”
You gently disentangle yourself from Mark’s embrace and cross the room towards a different set of double doors. Charles watches in silence as you lead the way through winding hallway after hallway with an effortless grace. Of course you know the layout of this palatial mansion like the back of your hand — this is your home now, your life.
The thought churns bitterly in his gut even as you both finally reach the arched front entrance. You turn back to face him, mouth twisting in that familiar apologetic quirk he knows so well.
“Listen, I know this was … unexpected. And maybe not the easiest thing to process.” You huff out a soft laugh, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear almost shyly. “But I’m glad you stopped by, despite everything. It was … nice to see you again.”
He blinks dumbly, at a loss for words in the face of your warm sincerity. This entire interaction has been an avalanche of emotions — the shock of discovering your romantic entanglement with the Mateschitz heir, the painful pang of watching you two’s intimacy on display, and now the remnants of affection in your tone as you bid him farewell.
It’s simply … too much. Too many conflicting feelings to deal with when his heart still bears the scar tissue of your break up.
“You too,” is all he can manage in return, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears. “I, uh … I should get going if I want to make it to Spielberg before media day.”
You nod, seeming to understand his unspoken need to retreat and regroup. “Of course. Well, safe travels then.”
“We’ll see you at the Red Bull Ring,” Mark pipes up from behind you, his voice cutting through the tension with surprising joviality. “It is our home race this weekend, after all. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The reminder that you’ll be perpetually woven into the fabric of his racing life from now on hits Charles with the force of a gut punch. He swallows hard, bobbing his head in acknowledgement as you open the front door for him.
“Looking forward to it,” he lies through his teeth before turning on his heel and all but fleeing down the front steps.
He’s vaguely aware of you calling out something about having someone escort him through the grounds and to the main gate. But Charles doesn’t pause, can’t stop until he’s directed the powerful Ferrari back out onto the main roads and open air.
Only then does he finally let out the shuddering breath he’d been holding, the sweet Alpine breezes sweeping over him. He floors the accelerator, putting as much distance between himself and that fairytale estate as possible.
But no matter how fast or far he drives, he can’t outrun the image searing into his mind’s eye — you nestled so contentedly in Mark’s arms, so visibly adored and cherished. Just as you’d once been cradled in Charles’ own embrace, before he burned everything to ashes.
Blinking hard against the hot sting in his eyes, Charles white-knuckles the steering wheel and lets the endless stretches of winding road unfurl before him. There’s only one direction now — forward.
Always forward.
No looking back, no wistful what-ifs allowed. You’ve found the life and love you deserve after he shattered your world.
All he can do is wish you nothing but joy from a distance, even as his own heart disintegrates inside his chest with every step further away from you.
***
The bass line thrums through Charles’ body like a living thing as he signals for another round at the club’s private VIP bar. He can barely make out the sound of his own thoughts over the pulsating music, but that’s rather the point tonight. To drown out the ceaseless reel of memories and fragmented realizations in a haze of liquor and pounding rhythms.
“You sure about that?” The bartender has to shout to be heard, one sculpted eyebrow arching upwards as she eyes the growing collection of empty glasses. “I think you’ve had quite enough, sir.”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough,” Charles snaps back, the words slurring slightly as he slaps his platinum card down with more force than intended. “Just keep them coming.”
The woman’s dubious gaze flickers briefly to somewhere over his shoulder before she simply shrugs and moves to fill his latest order. Charles slumps forward with a harsh exhale, fingers digging into his sweat-dampened curls as the relentless bassline reverberates through his bones.
“Easy there, calamar.”
The familiar voice cuts through the noise as a firm hand clasps his shoulder. Pierre slides into the open stool beside him with a concerned furrow in his brow.
“I’m starting to think my invite for a fun night out may have been a mistake.” His eyes rove over the staggering collection of empty glasses and bottles before lifting to meet Charles’ glazed stare.
“Or more like a cry for help,” he mutters, pitching his voice to be heard clearly. “Want to talk about what’s got you in such a mood?”
Charles opens his mouth but all that comes out is a bitter bark of laughter. He reaches for his newly-arrived glass, downing half the amber liquid in one go as it burns all the way to his core.
“What’s there to talk about?” The words are thick and unwieldy on his tongue. “She’s gone. Moved on better than I ever could have with some … some rich prick who treats her like his personal princess.”
He waves a sloppy hand in the air, gesturing vaguely. “Guy is richer than God, probably spoils her rotten with jewels and furs and … and billion dollar villas overlooking the Alps.”
His voice cracks slightly on the last word and he has to blink rapidly against the unwelcome sting in his eyes. Pierre’s forehead creases further as he watches Charles raggedly drain the rest of his glass.
“I take it your little meeting with Y/N didn’t go well?” He pitches it as a careful question, one Charles shrugs listlessly at before reaching for the nearest full glass. Pierre’s hand shoots out, closing around Charles’ wrist to impede his progress.
“I think you’ve had quite enough of that for one night,” he declares firmly. “Unless you want security dragging your drunk ass out of here, that is.”
Charles tries feebly to tug his arm free but Pierre’s grip remains vise-like. His traitorous thoughts drift back to the image of Mark’s arm so casually looped around your waist, confident in his place at your side.
“What’s he got that I don’t?” The plaintive question slips out before he can bite it back. Charles swivels glassy eyes towards his friend and teammate. “Seriously, Pierre … what can Mateschitz offer her that I couldn’t?”
A heavy silence stretches out between them, punctuated only by the thunderous pulse of the music. Pierre holds his stare steadily, clearly weighing how much harsh truth Charles can handle in his current condition.
“Well … thirty-seven billion dollars is a decent start, I would guess.”
The matter-of-fact words hit like a sucker punch to the gut. Charles flinches as if physically struck, mouth falling open in a small ‘o’ of shock.
“Jesus, have some tact,” Pierre continues crisply. “Forget the money for a second — mate, he didn’t cheat on her. He has the basic decency to stay faithful. You know … the bare minimum requirement for a relationship?”
The dig bites deep, sparking a fresh flare of white-hot shame and regret in Charles’ core. He twists his captured wrist futilely once more before giving up and dropping his head to thunk dully against the bartop.
“I thought we were past rubbing salt in the wound,” he mumbles towards the gleaming wood surface.
Pierre sighs, his grip softening enough to pull his arm free at last. “We are, we are … mostly. But you can’t honestly expect me to sit here and help you feel sorry for yourself about another man treating Y/N right after you treated her so abysmally.”
Charles squeezes his eyes shut as your face swims into focus. The light in your eyes when Mark gazed at you, the simple intimacy you radiated together ...
“I miss her,” he whispers, each word carved from shards of anguish and loss. “I miss her so damn much. And now every time I have to see her at a race or schmoozing at an event, I’ll know exactly what I threw away for one night of selfishness.”
Fat tears leak from the corners of his screwed-shut eyes, tracing hot pathways down his cheeks as Pierre watches silently. After a long stretch, Charles finally cracks one eye open to peer blearily at his friend once more.
“I need to win her back,” he declares with as much conviction as he can muster through the alcoholic fog seeping into his brain. “I’m not over her, I’ll never be over her. There has to be a way to … to make things right again, don’t you think?”
Pierre regards him steadily, arms folded across his chest. “I think … you’re drunk off your ass and in no state to be making grand romantic gestures tonight.”
Charles waves a clumsy hand, nearly toppling his remaining drink in the process. “Not tonight. But … soon. Yeah, soon I’ll figure out what her new favorite flower is or some shit. Maybe a nice bottle of whatever top-shelf champagne she likes these days. Or … or I can dedicate a race win to her! Girls go gaga over that romantic shit, right?”
He watches Pierre’s expression morph into one of pure incredulity before his friend pinches the bridge of his nose hard, eyes screwing shut with a shake of his head.
“You’re not even hearing yourself right now, are you?” Pierre asks at last, infusing as much patience into his words as possible. “This isn’t about some flowers or a bottle of bubbly or delusionally thinking you have a chance to beat Red Bull this season. You completely decimated her trust in you and demolished the entire foundation of your relationship.”
Charles squirms uncomfortably at the brutal truth. Part of him wants to get up and stalk away in a final burst of tipsy petulance.
But the rest of him knows Pierre is simply being the voice of reason — the harsh reality check he so desperately needs right now, despite how it slices into his wounded pride.
“Look ...” Pierre seems to sense he’s veering into dangerous territory and softens his tone slightly. “I’m not trying to kick you while you’re down, I swear. But any chance of reconciling with Y/N will require so much more than a thoughtless grand gesture or gift.”
Slowly, Charles lifts his bleary gaze and locks eyes with his friend. Pierre holds the stare steadily, mouth set in a solemn line.
“It’ll take rebuilding the bedrock of your foundation — time, effort, and trust. Things you can’t buy or speed along, no matter how much you try.” A heavy pause settles between them before Pierre speaks again, more gently this time. “Maybe reconnecting with her is possible one day … or maybe not. But you owe it to her and yourself to give space for those open wounds to heal first.”
It’s not at all what Charles wants to hear right now. His instinct is still to barrel forward, to blaze a path of extravagant overtures until you melt back into his arms. But deep down, he knows Pierre is speaking the truth — he systematically torched something sacred and attempting to simply spackle over that devastation would be spitting in the face of your shared past.
Nodding slowly, Charles reaches up to swipe clumsily at the dampness on his cheeks. Pierre places a steadying hand on his shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze.
“Come on, idiot. Let’s get you home before you really embarrass yourself out here.”
Charles doesn’t protest as Pierre slips off his stool and hauls him upright, looping one arm securely around his waist for support. As they navigate the pulsing crowd, he steals one last glimpse over his shoulder at the bar now shrinking away in the distance.
Perhaps this part of his story with you might be over, the final embers snuffed out. But somehow, some way, Charles vows to rekindle that spark again — even if it takes immeasurable time and effort to nurture it back from the smoldering ashes of his own making.
One thing is certain, though — any path forward will require him to douse these wallowing flames of self-pity first.
The pounding bass fades into a dull throb as Pierre guides them out into the cool night air. Charles blinks rapidly, the city’s twinkling lights swimming dizzily before his bleary eyes as his friend bundles him into the backseat of a waiting car.
“Just let me sleep it off,” he slurs as the plush leather seats engulf him. “I’ll be good as new in the morning.”
Pierre huffs out a wry chuckle as he slides in beside Charles, rapping his knuckles on the privacy partition to signal the driver. “Yeah, we’ll see about that. Once you’re properly re-hydrated and that tequila has run its course.”
The motion of the town car pulling away from the curb has Charles’ head lolling back against the headrest. He cracks one eye open to peer at his friend through his disheveled curls.
“I really do love her, you know?” The confession emerges soft and subdued, loaded with naked yearning. “Like … the love of my entire whole damn life, probably. How fucking stupid is that?”
He’s not sure if the dampness blurring his vision is from a fresh wave of moisture or simply the alcohol still sloshing through his system. Either way, Pierre’s gaze softens imperceptibly as he reaches out to give Charles’ knee a reassuring squeeze.
“We’ve all been certifiably stupid in the name of love before, believe me. The key is learning from those mistakes before moving forward.” A beat passes before he adds, “And for the record — I know you did love Y/N with everything you had, even when you monumentally fucked things up.”
Charles lets his eyes slip shut once more with a slow nod. “Then you know why I can’t just … let her go completely. Why I need to find a way to get back to her, even if takes years of making things right first.”
The words hang heavy between them, a tangled thicket of resolution and remorse. Finally, Pierre exhales a soft sigh.
“I know. But that’s a bridge to cross another day, when you’re sober and can actually string two coherent thoughts together.” He gives Charles’ shoulder a light shove. “For now, focus on putting one foot in front of the other and staying hydrated, yeah?”
Despite himself, the corners of Charles’ lips quirk upwards at his friend’s gentle ribbing. He fumbles blindly for the window switch, lowering the glass to allow a blessed gust of fresh air to roll in and fill the cabin.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Just … don’t hold your breath on me moving on anytime soon.” His eyes flicker open once more to meet Pierre’s steady gaze. “I’m kind of stubborn that way when it comes to the things I want most.”
Pierre holds his stare for a long beat before giving a slow shake of his head, a wry smile tugging at his own lips. “Believe me, mate — I’m well aware.”
They lapse into companionable silence for the remainder of the drive, the city’s twinkling skyline gliding past in a blur. Despite the copious amounts of alcohol still sloshing through his veins, a flicker of hope rekindles in Charles’ chest.
You might have slipped from his grasp, but that doesn’t necessarily mean your paths can’t someday and somehow intersect once more.
All it will take is the courage to keep inching forward, one stumbling step at a time.
No matter how many times the darkness tries to swallow him whole.
***
The roar of the crowd is deafening as Charles kills the engine, the high-pitched cheers swelling to near-riotous levels.
He tips his head back against the headrest for a beat, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. P2 at the Singapore Grand Prix isn’t cause for disappointment — he drove one hell of a race and pushed his machinery to its limits.
But the unbridled pandemonium echoing all around paints a stark reminder that second-place means precious little tonight.
As he cracks open his helmet visor, the screams seem to multiply tenfold. Charles squints against the blinding flash of a thousand camera flashes as the feverish celebration kicks into high gear. Of course the crowd is whipped into such a frenzy — a certain Dutchman has done it again.
Max Verstappen just secured his fourth consecutive World Drivers’ Championship.
Charles watches almost numbly as a swarm of bodies in dark blue coverings rushes the track. The Red Bull mechanics, crew members, and team management spill out in an ever expanding tide, swarming towards parc fermé. All desperate for their piece of history, to bask in the glory of their latest accomplishment.
Bracing one hand against the sweltering engine cover, Charles hauls himself up and out of the cockpit with as much energy as he can muster. He plants his feet wide on the sizzling asphalt, scanning the chaos overtaking the pit lane in search of … there.
You cut an unmistakable figure in understated elegance among the churning sea of navy. Even from here, Charles can make out the burgundy sheath dress clinging to your curves, the soft tendrils of hair escaping your chignon. You’re a vision wreathed in smiles as you follow closely behind Mark, the two of you buffeted but undeterred as you fight against the tide of bodies.
For a split second, Charles allows himself the simple indulgence of drinking in your radiance. Seeing the way your cheeks bloom with color from the heat and exhilaration. How your delighted laughter seems to sparkle in the humid night air, mingling seamlessly with the roars of jubilation.
You’re so clearly drunk on the evening’s euphoria, caught up in the intoxicating thrill of witnessing sheer greatness on display. Even standing halfway across the track, Charles can sense the infectious joy rolling off you in waves.
He’s always loved seeing you like this — passionate and alive in a way that sets his heart pounding. Though he knows now, with a ferocious ache, that particular spark isn’t for him anymore.
As if to underscore the point, Mark suddenly grinds to a halt right in the middle of the sea of revelers. You plow into his back with a breathless giggle, clearly caught off guard. That’s when Charles notices the obvious struggle as you try to regain your footing, wobbling precariously atop a set of wicked-looking stilettos.
Even from this distance, he can read the brief look of concern that pinches Mark’s brow as he turns towards you. The chaos of the celebration fades into background noise as Charles watches helplessly as Mark reaches for your arm to help steady you.
You wave him off with a warm smile, clearly unbothered as you simply shrug out of the towering heels completely. Mark lunges to catch the discarded shoes before they can get swallowed up by the crowd.
There’s a brief pause as the two of you seem to communicate wordlessly. Then, in one smooth motion, Mark pivots and crouches down in front of you, gesturing towards his broad back. Your laughter rings out bright and delighted as you clamber on, effortlessly looping your arms around his neck as he straightens with a grunt.
Just like that, you’re ensconced within the protective circle of Mark’s arms, held securely in place on his back as he continues walking through the celebrating crowd. From his vantage point, Charles can just make out the matching beams you both have plastered on as you sway happily with each step.
It looks so … easy. Natural and uncomplicated in a way Charles’ entire existence seems incapable of obtaining these days. He drinks in the vision of you nuzzling sweetly against Mark’s neck, leaving a feather-light kiss of pure affection on the hinge of his jaw before snuggling back down. Two people completely in sync and unabashedly in love.
Despite the sweltering humidity, an icy chill washes over Charles from somewhere deep within. He’s all too aware of precisely what he’s witnessing right in front of him.
You’ve exchanged his partnership — one defined by betrayal and brokenness — for something far greater.
Charles huffs out a dry, mirthless breath as he sinks back against the sweat-dampened chassis of his idle car, feeling painfully adrift despite the pulsing rush of people all around him. He catches one final glimpse of you and Mark before the crowd finally sweeps you up — the picture of contentment nestled so trustingly against your beloved’s back. Watching on as your dazzling smile lights up the night with each joyful step you draw nearer to the championship celebration
He knows with soul-cleaving certainty in that moment that you’ve likely never felt as cherished or prized in your entire life as Mark must make you feel every single day.
Meanwhile, Charles is perpetually exiled here on the outskirts, unable to do anything but bear witness to the other man’s spoils. So close to his own desires yet barred from ever seizing them for his own.
Always the usurped, forever second fiddle, constantly relegated to P2 in work and life.
With a jaw so tightly clenched it threatens to crack his molars, Charles wrenches his gaze away at last. He feels the first angry prick of heated moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes and hates himself for the painfully vulnerable reaction.
This is his self-manufactured hell, after all. He has no one to blame but his own selfish impulses and cowardly weakness for tossing that bond with you into the incinerator. For annihilating the relationship you had built over years of steadfast partnership in one careless night.
So he’ll swallow down the bitterness and lingering heartache as penance for his sins. Compartmentalize the image of you balanced so peacefully in another man’s embrace, so patently adored and worshiped as you deserve.
He at least owes you that mercy — to bear the whole of his consequences in dignified silence as you bask in the victor’s glow you were always meant for.
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hazelsmirrorball · 5 months ago
Text
Too Sweet | Oscar Piastri
SUMMARY: Y/n hard launches her relationship with a certain F1 driver bringing mixed reactions from her fans FACE CLAIM: Sabrina Carpenter PAIRINGS : singer! Reader x Oscar Piastri a/n: I'm on a roll
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y/nnnnn via instagram!
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liked by olivia.rodrigo, carlossainz55 and 2,782,293 other.
y/nnnnn in my model era!
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user15 Carlos Sainz? this photoshoot has everyone on the edge of their seat
user36 she's in her lover era
user37 you are glowing
user290 you are such a goddess
user278 please give me one chance!
user38 new soon when?
-> y/nnnnn sooner than expected that's for sure
y/nnnnn via instagram!
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liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri and 3,567, 092 others.
y/nnnn my new single "So American" is out on Friday!
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user25 you finally got your drivers license?
user28 this new era is upon us
user57 so American? are we finally getting a covergirl anthem?
oscarpiastri you learned how to drive? and didn't tell me?
-> y/nnnn sorry to break it to you but the car is parked, x
-> landonorris maybe you should teach her
-> user271 since when is this a thing?
user37 y/n x mclaren?
user98 she has to be dating lando, 100%
user87 omg omg lando x y/n! finally
user35 y/n in the paddock when?
user45 why is everyone assuming it's lando and not oscar?
noty/n via instagram!
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liked by notthebestmclarendriver, olivia.rodrigo and 1,000 others
noty/n life recently has been so sweet
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norrizz we get it, you're in love now please stop
-> notthebestmclarendriver stop being jealous
notthebestmclarendriver love you so so much, no one can do anniversaries like us
olivia.rodrigo can't believe it's been five years since you changed me for a formula one driver
-> noty/n you will always be my number one
logansargent proud of my parents!
y/nupdates via instagram!
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liked by logansargent, user37 and 2,000 other.
y/nupdates y/n l/n with mystery man in a small cafe in LA
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user15 omg! omg! omg!
user179 she finally has a man?!?
user16 we are finally getting her lover era
user189 who even is that, you can barely see who it is
user167 this is such an invasion of privacy
user278 i’m so happy for her!! she deserves this and more
user29 she looks all giggly and in love
user26 she’s down bad, i fear
user178 she should be focused on a new album not falling in love with some loser
-> user71 falling in love was what got her that grammy
user78 who f1 driver is she hooking up with to have the whole grid in her likes? cause i get her post but them following her private insta and liking fan pages is another level of crazy
y/nupdates via instagram story!
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y/nupdates via instagram!
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liked by user15, user17 and 2,4378 others
y/nupdates Mclaren F1 driver Oscar Piastri what was his go to song while racing and without hesitation he responded “So American” by Y/n L/n. There’s been a suspicion that Y/n has been linking up with a formula one driver, could it be oscar piastri?
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user157 i don’t think oscar is y/n’s type
-> user268 who asked for ur opinion
user278 you guys should touch some grass
user53 didn’t she say to please stop assuming things about her relationship
user17 she can also have friends that support her music
user39 let them live please
user67 and this is why she’s never been public with her relationship
user51 i don’t get why is everyone hating?
y/nupdates via instagram!
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liked by user36, user57 and 5,682 other
y/nupdates leaked pictures from Y/n L/n with the f1 driver, Oscar Piastri
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user189 we never learn do we?
user16 where do people even get this
user278 this has to be photoshopped, y/n looks too good
user678 guys guys guys!!! let’s make this happen
user468 okay but they look so so good together
user26 honestly i like seeing her happy
user16 she is glowing!!!
user71 i’ll wait until they confirm it on their own time
y/nnnn via instagram!
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liked by oscarpiastri, logansargent and 6,902,892 others
y/nnnn surprise! i’ll probably get my drivers license soon
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oscarpiastri why do that when you can be a passenger princess
user16 y/n is getting princess treatment
logansargent my happy family
landonorris please get off my feed, i have to see you guys enough in the real world
user51 omg omg omg it’s finally confirmed!!!
user178 should we act surprised ?
oscarpiastri i love you x
user17 our girl is all grown up
oscarpiastri i’m so coquette, lana del rey vinyl
-> y/nnnn how do you even know that?
-> oscarpiastri not important
user56 it’s not considered a soft launch because she tagged him right?
oscarpiasri via instagram!
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liked by landonorris, y/nnnn and 2,068,890 others
oscarpiastri i swear it’s not photoshop, i’m actually dating an angel
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y/nnnn i hate you for using that last picture
-> oscarpiastri don’t lie you love meee
user15 okay now i see the appeal
user78 hot couple alert!
landonorris again? i’m going to be sick
-> oscarpiastri go cry about it
user16 oh i know the new album is about to be good
y/nnnn drivers lessons are coming soon right? x
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