#ive put charles leclerc thru so much im sorry

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top 10 grim reaper writing moments

i've written a lot in 2 years, with 68 works published on ao3 (not all of them r good wkjdiej)

but sometimes i hit the mark, i think, and i like to look back on my work. so here's top 10 moments across all fandoms (mostly f1)

10. starting off strong with mafia au maxiel

Daniel squeals in happiness once he reunites with his car. He leans his head against the plush leather seat, wanting to stay like that forever, but he needs to drive, and forgets that a mafia boss is sitting beside him. When he presses the start button, the V10 engine comes alive, and its sound is like a lion’s roar, music to Daniel’s ears. Max stares at the wheel.

“Can you drive?” he asks. “I know cars arouse you. I’ve learned that much, but we have to go now.”

Daniel exhales and smoothly pulls out of the parking spot with one hand on the wheel. “They don’t arouse me.”

“Yes, they do. You’re having an orgasm at the sound of a V10.”

Daniel ignores the accusation and follows the navigation system. He notices a bunch of black cars surrounding him and looks at Max.

“What? I’m a very important person. They protect me.” he says defensively.

“Not me?” Daniel jokes.

“No.” Max says, fiddling with his phone. It’s a tense, awkward ride, but they make it through, and with some small talk, Daniel concludes Max is a FIFA addict—he’s opening packs as the Australian parks on the grand driveway.

“You can head inside. I’m gonna sit in Rafal for a bit.”

“You’re so fucking weird for naming the car.” Max tells him.

“And you’re weird for playing FIFA at your age.” Daniel retaliates.

“It’s perfectly normal, and FIFA is fun. Try it instead of sniffing fresh car leather.”

“I said you can go.” Daniel ignores his statement and gets comfortable in the seat, despite sitting for approximately two hours.

9. charles leclerc's silly boy crisis

After eighteen years, I am the Scuderia’s saviour, and I savour the delight and jubilance it brings me.

The alcohol tastes sweet like victory, like an overpriced, thick hot chocolate in Monaco. I can feel sweat crawl down my back, my fireproof sticking to it like glue. Everything that follows is a blur, a disarray of recollection; time is a never ending refinement, an endless cycle of gambling and comprehension.   

A month passes and I no longer feel sweet. I feel bare, like society has stripped me down and seen my darkest fears, because they’ve seen my highest high—what if they see my lowest low? Is there such a thing?

I sit in silence, sinking into scrutiny. Most of my days fly by like flocks of birds, and I can taste apprehension on my tongue, wet and overbearing.

And so I continuously ask; is this it? Is this how I go now? Do I resign?

For after the calm of the storm is a drizzle. A gentle but demanding rainfall, a reminder. I may be a miracle, but I may also be a mistake. Whenever I close my eyes, I see it—the taunting temptation of yielding.

I ignore my obligations and cry. For what is the purpose of going again? To break a meaningless record? I have served my purpose and now I serve agony, an unavoidable reality.

8. surprise brocedes proposal

“So what’s up? It must be impartial.” Lewis chuckles, nervous. Nico wonders if he is intruding—do they have more meetings? Is it time to analyse data?

Shit.

“I was thinking about what you said at our dinner.” He begins. “And I saw how empty you feel, how alone you are. And I—I know. I know it—I know you. Like you said, I know you more than anyone.” He closes his eyes briefly, making a quick prayer.

God, please don’t embarrass me.

“And I also know how happy I can make you feel. Therefore,” he pulls out a box, refusing to kneel. “I would be delighted if you agreed to marrying me.”

Like gloomy Monaco mornings, everyone stills, just how Nico Rosberg likes it. His cheeks are bright crimson, and his ears are ringing as he waits for an answer; Lewis’ face morphs with astonishment written all over. He opens his mouth to speak, but pauses—a loud thud echoes in the garage as Toto Wolff drops to the floor.

The stillness disappears like rain pouring on the soil. While engineers frantically rush to their boss’ side, Nico and Lewis stay put.

“Bu—“

“This is absurd! Why are you just standing there? Help him!” George Russell interrupts with his eerily blue eyes. Lewis looks at Nico with sorrow, but Nico shrugs, unfazed. He knew it was going to happen.

He did it! He shocked Toto!

7. max being tired of his job

“I’m sorry, sir, but we cannot do that.” This is usually where the customer stops—they analyse the situation and conclude that it’s fine. They’ll make do.

“Who’s we? Do you speak on behalf of the entire company? I’m Charles Leclerc,” he emphasises his name as if Max should know who he is. His attitude is horrible—at this stage, Max calls for the manager and lets her deal with it. But she’s conveniently absent.

“I do not know who you are, sir. I will say it again: we cannot do that.”

“You’re kidding me. See, I hate to be the one, but you hold no value to anyone. I need someone important,” he emphasises the T, “like your manager.”

This is the stage where Max’s cordiality slips away; fuck the customer service bullshit. When someone becomes malicious towards him, he bites back. He couldn’t care less about Charles Leclerc—the reality check was going to be a harsh slap.

“Listen, Charles, the fucking king of who cares—after checking your flight, I’ve realised it is full. This means two things. Seat change is not allowed as it's not mentioned in the terms and conditions. Even if it were, we would have to ask a first-class passenger, and who’s saying they would exchange their nice seat for an economy seat?”

6. neybappe angst insert crying emoji

They went through the ten steps of friendship at unbelievable speeds. After a while, Neymar saw Kylian as more than a friend. There was an underlying truth they both ignored; that they were in love, and with their circumstances, there was nothing they could do except act. Neymar realised, on a frosty night while watching the Eiffel tower, that his aspirations weren’t football related at all—they were emotions, sunken in his heart and tattoos. He wanted love. He wanted more than love. The things he sought after: happiness, tranquillity, guidance; it all came back to his desire for a person. Someone he could spend the rest of his life with—someone who loved his flaws and imperfections, his lifestyle and his soul. On that night, the number seven on his jersey spoke volumes; he was in love with Kylian, and he was not pretending—no—he wanted to show Kylian his version of love. Hyperbolic and fluctuating, fun and heartfelt, devastatingly wrong and destined simultaneously. On that night, he didn’t feel hatred for France anymore. He didn’t despise the weather, or the people, or the president—for France was where his home was, where his lover grew and became who he was, where he grew as a person, where he reunited with a brother and abandoned another.

5. shadow being lovestruck

He had lived an entirely different life where everything was upside down—Maria wasn’t even a thought. The worst aspect of it all was that Sonic had seen everything. That opulent yet skewed reality contained all of Shadow’s contemplations. It made Gerald a loving father, which was something Shadow had yearned for since he saw the light of kindness. His days were occupied with mundane, domestic tasks—a reality Shadow dreamt of often during missions. He liked the idea of not being involved in battles and missions and instead wearing dresses, living a simple life and feeling regal.

It also brought Sonic and him together, like a guardian angel, and now Sonic knew. Sonic knew about Shadow’s immensely hard love for him. He discovered that Shadow’s blinds remained closed because Shadow would stay up all night, drawing Sonic’s eyes with the blinding stars. Sonic saw how nervous Shadow became around him, how his presence affected him greatly.

4. painter max

I am an artist. I like brushes. I like acrylic paint. I sketch with vigour and I paint with woe.

I have a lover. He has murky green eyes and thick lashes. His jawline cuts my skin and his hair transports me to the cruise ships.

My lover likes to watch me paint. He sits by the window; it rains and shines, but his eyes never move away from the canvas. My strokes coincide with his heartbeats. Every bristle that slides across the hardened cotton equalises the breaths he takes.

Seasons pass, and my lover ceases to budge. The canvases just keep coming, like tears at a funeral. My lover says it’s a blessing that my hands move like waltzers and my fingers rest on my brushes like a still baby. I know he knows; I sketch with vigour and I paint with woe.

3. charles panicking

And so he cries, a shattered visage, a broken window, a popped bubble, iridescence and shine diminishing into nothing. He crosses his legs and looks at his hands, freaking out—he has done unimaginable things. He has driven to victory, fought many drunk men, wiped countless tears, devastated the world. His tears drop onto his pale, worn hands—calloused and worn out by racing, living, breathing, being. His hands stare back at him like he is a monster; how can he treat them like this? How can he be so foul? And how can he get the tears to stop? They are surging like a burst pipe, wetting his cheeks and lips. He cannot even wipe his face—his hands do not deserve it. No—he does not deserve these graceful hands. God has given him the opportunity to bring light to the world, and he has let Him down. God should take his hands away!

2. charles being fed up

“Va te faire foutre!” Fuck that and fuck you! Charles responds, ignoring Andrea’s questions. “Look at the outside, Andrea. Look at the paddock and the teams. Anyone with a functioning brain can see that they are laughing at us. They think we’re a circus—merde, we are a circus! You can’t fucking predict the weather? Who are you, Williams? You’re Scuderia Ferrari,” He spits the name like it is a malicious insult, a death threat, a plague, a demon that must be feared. “You,” he points at Andrea’s chest, eyebrows furrowed and eyes vacant of all emotion, “are Scuderia Ferrari. You are the heart of this sport. You own this sport, its fans, its government, fuck—you own me. You own this paddock. The tarmac we race on is yours. The rule book we follow is yours; it is a fucking bible, and we worship it, we worship you, we bend on both knees and beg for mercy, we kiss the Italian flag—” He stops, searching for breath.

“We give our everything, Andrea. And what do we look like? A shit show. A joke. Connerie...”

1. paris is burning but as a motif

“If money wasn’t so important in the world today...to survive. I guess I wouldn’t want anything but what I have now. But since money does...I hope that the way I look puts money in my pocket.” says Octavia St. Laurent. Neymar listens to their wisdom.

“I’ve got to go now.” He states, glancing at the clock on his wall resembling a cat. He wants to be early (early is late - Otis).

“I want everybody to look at me and say ‘There goes Octavia’...”

“Look after the place. And watch the movie. You might learn something.”

“I don’t care about gay people!” Muhammed exclaims.

“It’s way more than that.” Neymar says before locking his friend in.

I didnt rank these by which is the most effective.

i ranked them by how i felt when writing, and how they make me feel now. whether they make me feel proud of this presence i have created through writing, whether i have done rpf justice. i think everyone should do this

anyways thats all. not like itll be seen