#perfect for Santino

[thewhumpcaretaker]

Santino in this because it could go well with his eyes :]

Again, getting ready to see John

I made this one into a short drabble ^_^ I remembered something you wrote once about Santino liking the beach and John liking the forest!

Santino fidgets with his tie on the drive to pick up John. He knows he's overdressed. They're going for a walk in the forest, and then a picnic. But part of him hopes that if he's wearing something nice, it will deter John from going down any rough trails or staying out too long among all the bugs and thorns. They can just pick a quiet spot to sit down and eat, and besides, this color will go well with the last of the summer greenery. And then there's the other reason he's so dressed up: he wants to impress John, as always. Santino exhales shakily and tries to focus on the scenery going by outside the window. Why is he so nervous? They've been dating for a while now - surely he should know that John likes him.

Sometimes it seems like John doesn't notice when Santino dresses up - after all, he dresses up almost every day. But then, without fail, he'll kiss his cheek and say, "You look beautiful," and all of Santino's nerves will go calm.

On other days (and today is one of those days), it's obvious right away that John notices all the effort he put in. As soon as he opens the door, John blushes. He can't stop looking between Santino's chest and his eyes. "You look..."

"Not right for the occasion, I know." But he's just fishing for praise at this point.

"...breathtaking." Today, the kiss is on the lips, and all Santino's nerves flutter wildly and then go perfectly still.

[bluelolblue]

Trick-or-treat!!!!!

YAYAY THANK YOUU 💖💖

This could be for Wick Week - Autumn prompt (I'm a little late, but it fits ^ ^), event organizer @wickblr

Alright, you get a WickedSaint TREAT! Here is a little ficlet with Santino, John, Biscotti, and Dog! Wick D'Antonio husbands with their doggies :3

Enjoy ^ ^

🍂 Orange Sweaters 🍂

“Do you think it's cold?” Santino asked, resting on the couch with Biscotti in his lap. 

“No? I mean if you're cold, I could set the temperature to warmer.” John offered. He knew Santino was more into spring and especially summer when it came to the weather. He doesn't like feeling cold, so he would wear multiple layers of clothes and it would take him so long to get ready when they would go somewhere. Then again, at least he would wear his beautiful suits.

“I just want Biscotti and Dog to feel warm. Biscotti is small and fluffy, but she doesn't have an undercoat. And Dog…” Santino looked over at Dog, who was next to John and wagged his tail at him. “He has very short fur.” 

“Right. They seem fine to me. Biscotti is always cuddling next to you, so I’m guessing she likes to feel your warmth, but other than that, I don’t think she's cold. Dog, too.” John patted Dog, and he immediately placed his head on his lap, whining for more pats on the head. 

“Yes, but when we're going outside, they both only have those raincoats… that's not warm enough.” The raincoats Santino insisted on, but John was happy to get them for their pets. “They need something like… sweaters.”

John chuckled, “Sweaters?” 

“Yeah, you know… I saw so many dogs wearing all kinds of clothes outside. I think we should get them sweaters.” There was no stopping Santino, again. Their dogs have most of the things because Santino was the one who made sure they got it. Even if it was something like scarves with ghosts and pumpkins for Halloween.

“Sure, we can get them. But the pet store is closed for a week due to some renovations.” 

Santino sighed in annoyance but smiled when Biscotti climbed on his chest to give him a lick on his face. “I'll find a way, don't worry.”

“You don't need to rush, we can wait for a week,” John said softly and rubbed Santino's thigh. 

Santino hummed in agreement, kissing Biscotti’s head when she calmed down, making herself comfortable in his lap again. “Well… they announced rain for that week. I'd like to get them as soon as possible.” 

John found it so sweet how Santino was thinking a little too much about all this and how he always found a solution to get their dogs anything they wanted. He moved closer to his husband and kissed him on his cheek. “You're so sweet.”

“I'm being serious,” Santino murmured and leaned his head against John's shoulder. 

“Of course, honey.” 

Santino was right. The rain hadn't stopped for two days already, and both Biscotti and Dog were left soaked even if they had their raincoats after their walks. And John had to wash them.

Right when John returned from the bathroom with Biscotti and Dog running past him to get to Santino, who was holding a package.

“What's that?” John asked, trying to remember if they ordered something.

“I told you I always find a way.” Santino smiled, opening a small package right in front of John. He pulled out one small orange sweater and one that was bigger. 

“They only had the orange ones. But I think it fits for autumn and Halloween.” 

“They're really pretty and definitely would fit for that, yes. But… when did you even order them?” John was always amazed how Santino managed to get everything under control and find a solution for anything. 

“People still work for me, remember?” Santino winked playfully, crouching down to put the sweater on Biscotti.

“Oh, yeah. You just keep surprising me.” John smiled at him, watching how Santino put the sweater on Biscotti. Santino glanced at John and chuckled.

“Ah, it fits her! She's adorable.” Biscotti happily wagged her tail, licking Santino's hands and quickly running towards John to do the same. 

“Yeah, she is,” John agreed, picking her up as Santino managed to get Dog to stand still to get him into the sweater. “They're both ready for the cold weather now.”

Santino struggled a little to put the sweater on Dog but he managed. “There we go. Look at him,” Santino murmured as he patted Dog, checking out his sweater. “Beautiful. They both deserve treats.” He went to grab the treats, Biscotti wiggled in John's arms and he placed her down, watching how she ran up to Santino, whining and begging for treats.

“They are matching like this, good job, honey. I'm glad you got them.” John could forever watch his husband play with their dogs, it was something that made him happy because Santino was finally truly smiling, feeling happiness that before he rarely experienced.

Later, the sound of the rain pouring outside made everyone sleepy. Biscotti and Dog lay down by their feet, in their sweaters, Dog was licking Biscotti's head as if he was cleaning her. 

John kissed his husband deeply, caressing his cheek and admiring him. “This is really nice what you did for them. I'm guessing they'll be wearing these every day?” 

“Of course, as long as it'll be cold. I'm sure there will be different colors for winter, so I'd like to get more. And I want you to choose with me next time.” Santino snuggled closer to John. 

“I'd love to.” 

John was about to kiss him again when Biscotti and Dog squeezed between them. “They really want to show off, huh?” Santino chuckled, rubbing Biscotti's back over the soft sweater.

“Yeah, and they have every right, they know they look good.” John snuggled with Dog, while Biscotti found a perfect place between him and Santino.

“I could pre-order more sweaters if they continue to act like this.” 

“I already know you will.” John reached to hold Santino's hand. 

Santino hummed softly before answering, “I will.” 

[santinos-grenade-launcher]

I miss you Skyrim.

I miss you Ak'kir my beloved khajiit. You did so good. You will never be forgotten. I will write about you, people deserve to hear your stories.

[aunteat]

going crazy thinking about how armand suffered more than anyone at santino’s hand and how he’s also the one who’s likely quickest to forgive him

[imwritesometimes]

I spent half an hour and nearly a whole pack of lysol wipes cleaning out the sliding glass door track by hand so they could sit and enjoy the cool, overcast weather we're being graced with this weekend

[obiwan]

.

[purplebucket]

{ bio }

*back on tumblr as of 11/15/22 after four years since twitter has gone to shit 🫧🫶🏾

- background: she/her, cis, 23y/o, black, african diaspora, bisexual, spiritual

- icon: character bloodthirst from subaru world

- interest: fashion sensibility and philosophy over aesthetics, safe spaces > inclusion, socialism, piercings, the sims franchise, music, films, nollywood, kdramas, hag k-pop girlies, non conventional makeup, jewelry that’s gold filled, intersectional feminism, romance books, interior design

- dni: anti-blackness including (colorism, featurism, tribalism) minors, apologist, ableist, lgbtphobic including terfs, pansexual, fatphobic, interracialshippers, (tbc)

[devourcr]

there had been a time when santino represented his present. his future. in all of its entirety. he'd built the foundation for the vampire who'd ruled in paris, but only after he'd torn down the previous. it had been like fire spreading through him, burning, cleansing, leaving ash where a young vampire's soul had been. santino had introduced him to the dark, but in doing so, had taught him to find solace in it. he'd found solace in him, respect, admiration — love. and even now, centuries later, when he looked back on it, he understood. or so, he rationalized that he did.

the past is always bittersweet, always tainted with some acrid poison. his stomach twists in knots, an uncommon feeling for the vampire responsible for the lavish vampire haven around them. it's such a strange mixture of apprehension and longing. he'd wanted this reunion, despite how he could have so easily chosen the opposite route. one second was all that had separated him from approaching the elder to disappearing into the shadows yet again, leaving them still in a standoff, always aware of one another but never closing the distance. or would santino have eventually given him more than silence? in truth, he doesn't know. it's surreal to remember how much he'd known of him, only to see more of a mystery in front of him now.

even if it were possible that he knew he approached before he said anything, once the words leave his lips, there's no taking them back. there's no more pretending. now that he's closer still, his eyes drink him in, from the shape and cut of his clothing, to his chosen jewelry, and the way his hair falls behind him. he was a fearsome beauty, as he always had been. dark, daunting, powerful.

surely, he'd captivated the minds of many, particularly in his silence.

when he answers, the younger vampire feels some of the anxiety slip away, eased by the smile in his tone. oh, he's not forgotten, nor does it settle him entirely, but it gives him hope that it wasn't a poor choice to approach him. as he turns, his amber gaze lifts, settling over the familiar features of his face, eyes bright with observation, in revisiting memory. ❝ some might say the world is as close to 500 years ago as it has ever been. the styles have changed, the technology, but the heartbeat is familiar. ❞ he finds himself enthralled by the forward movement of the world, the rise of art and science weaving together, the humanistic perspectives that reminded him, at times, of venice before.

❝ would you walk with me? the beach is empty this time of night. ❞

there is a quiet around him always. thick and heavy. a protective blanket that he seeks solace inside. his thoughts are muffled there. bits and pieces of the past lay out naked and bared in front of him here. as if they are being pulled through him like a needle and thread stitching themselves through his skin, his soul, the very fabric of his being. yet never managed to. only suffocate. by not his hand but the hand of his companion. who refused to allow santino to sink into that solitude that so often ends creatures such as them.

perhaps he was close to his when he was found. perhaps not. he doesn't like to think of those few years before maharet's fledgling found him and began to bring him into the new era. into peace. or what semblance of peace creatures such as they are allowed. santino finds himself pulled towards the ocean many nights.

the presence of marius is a dangerous one. he knows that any step near him would be a teetering on an edge that both of them would have to walk. but they've spoken. they've talked. about the present and the past. there seems to be an understanding now. santino allows himself to hope for one. but he knows not to linger or hover near the other vampire for long. not to push his luck as they say now.

then there is ARMAND. armand who consumes his thoughts from the moment he wakes. armand that has him bound here. unable to gather the strength to approach him. yet equally unable to gather the willpower to leave. there are so many things he wants to say to him. to show him. to prove to him. and yet? there's nothing to show for all that want and need. just yet. perhaps soon.

though he's not given the luxury of breaking that distance on his own. it is hard to tell if the elder vampire notices the presence of armand. or if he truly was so lost in his reverie, hands clasped behind his back. silver-toned rings decorate his fingers. one with an intricately caved onyx pattern. gaelic in nature. thick, black hair hangs long on either side of his face. a thin braid down the left side has small pieces of beading and intricately laced silver wound into the strand. hand placed by his companion with the painstaking detail only a vampire's fingers could weave.

his chin tucks towards the collar of his black leather jacket upon hearing a voice that is as angelic as the tone he attempted to snuff centuries ago. santino's light curve of lips can be heard in his low voice. "as they do you as well, armand. it's as if you were made for this era above all others." he turns, catching sight of his former pupil. his former everything. "you shine beautifully here."

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ 𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕎𝕙𝕠 ℍ𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕊𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕃𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝔽𝕠𝕣 - ℂ𝕙. 𝕏: ℍ𝕠𝕨 𝕍𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕃𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟 ℝ𝕠𝕞𝕖 ⚜

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ ✧.*★ Thank you to @evren-sadwrn for the beta read!

Summary: Vincent goes back to his old life in Rome as if nothing happened. But there's Chidi, at his side, the one thing Vincent doesn't want to forget from the last few months. And it's causing complications...especially with Santino.

TW: grief, nightmares, PTSD, drug use, hypersexuality, stalking, jealousy, withdrawing consent during sex (and the response to the “no” is scary, although there’s no assault), attempted kidnapping, knife wound, concussion, Dead Dove Do Not Eat

Author's Note: The title is a callback to that line in one of the first chapters, in which Chidi wonders how Vincent lived in Rome - bonus points if you remembered!

Fine. Good and done with. Vincent was strong again.

It was better to forget all of it. That bloodied thing that he could not recognize reflected in the mirrors outside the ballroom. The words coming through the intercom. The time in the hospital. Even the coronation. That was worst of all, perhaps. The disappointment in himself, in the way that perfect day had felt so hollow… No, no, no, just forget any of it had happened. And to Vincent’s great relief, his mind blanked it all mercifully away. There was a gaping hole at the center of him where he dared not tread, but that was better than dealing with it. He could even talk about it, very easily, just as he had done at the ball with everybody. As long as he didn’t feel it, he could talk about it. This was the way one recovered from grief, he decided. One day, one simply decided to stop being a baby.

Yes, he was just going back to Italy after a few days away, and everything would be normal. “Il palazzo,” as he called it, was the quaintest, pleasantest place anyone could imagine living, and he would thoroughly enjoy it. It was humble by the Marquis' standards, but still very comfortable, and fully staffed with maids and a cook. He’d made it every bit as lavish as might suit him, while being a little less stuffy than Versailles. There was an abundance of French furniture with a Roman twist, in sunset gradients from pink to burgundy, with gilding glittering at the edges of everything. There was statuary in honor of Bacchus and Apollo. There was a full bar in the parlor where Vincent was sure to entertain guests as often as he could. There was some obscure art piece or trinket in almost every room, gifted from suitors. He would walk by the river in the mornings, with one of those suitors on his arm, and have luncheons with Gianna to talk business. And sneak off with Santino, not to come back until morning. What happened in between was…generally something of a blur.

In Rome, he didn’t feel quite as unsafe as he did in the estate. He had learned to navigate this city on his own – always guarded, yes, but giving the guards the slip long enough to do a line unseen. The Myrmidons didn’t have the slightest idea about his activities…well, maybe the slightest idea, but they couldn’t prove anything. In the past, Vincent had made sure of that because they reported to his – no. No. Nothing happened. Don’t think in that direction.

There was one problem with this perfect plan, and its name was Chidi. He had absolutely no desire nor ability to forget Chidi. And it was Chidi who carried his broken body out of that bloodbath, it was Chidi who held him together in the weeks afterwards. It was Chidi who stood up for him at the coronation, and then swayed with him in an empty side room, leading him with unexpectedly graceful steps and an exhilarating hand pressed to his waist. Chidi was inextricably tied to everything that had happened to him, everything he had suffered, lacing every poisoned memory with something too sweet to spit out. Chidi had seen all of it, dealt with all of it, and now he haunted Vincent, reminding him of every moment. Vincent found that it was becoming difficult even to look at his bodyguard. A mixture of shame and hope and…something hung over Chidi, making him unbearably beautiful.

So, when they arrived at the precious Il Palazzo, Vincent assigned him a room on the lower floor, not adjacent to his own. It was much finer than the servant quarters. It was the finest of any room in the house except Vincent’s, in fact. But they absolutely had to sleep separately. He was not a child, nor was he a lover. What was acceptable in grief was no longer acceptable once one was done grieving. And Vincent was done grieving, thank you very much. He could sleep very well on his own, and he would need his privacy. Chidi made no protest.

Thus it began. Forcing his eyes to close in an unfriendly darkness. Waking up in cold sweats at three AM until he learned to fear sleep more than exhaustion. Sobbing with his face buried in a pillow so that no one would hear him and force him to admit that yes, things were different now. That he could no longer take being alone. Each morning dawned in pure, golden relief, spent gasping until the remnants of tears had cleared out of his breathing, and then meeting Chidi with a stately nod at his bedroom door. Chidi must know, by the way he waited there earlier and earlier each time, but he said nothing.

There was, of course, an alternative to this torture. He could go to bed with someone. Not Chidi, no, that would reopen too much, but…someone.

It was just three days after their arrival in Rome when Vincent dismissed Chidi for the first time. “Je sors avec les autres gardes ce soir. Prenez du temps libre. [I’m going out with the other guards this evening. Take some time off.]“ He said it casually, the way that one might casually toss a grenade into the center of a crowded room. They were seated at either side of a little round tea table for an afternoon snack. Chidi stood up and stared at him, breathing hard. Vincent raised an eyebrow. “Avons-nous un problème? [Do we have a problem?]”

He promptly sat down again. “Non.”

“Bien. [Good.]”

That night, Chidi had already gone to his own bedroom when Vincent returned with a man on his arm. But the door was cracked open, and Vincent could feel eyes on him as he passed, prickling his skin with visceral guilt. Well, to hell with that. He would not be guilted for doing what he had to do to get a moment of peace. No matter whether he pictured Chidi alone in that downstairs bedroom, unhappy. Probably very unhappy…

The night passed without troubled dreams – in fact, it passed almost entirely sleepless. And in the morning, Chidi was waiting for him at the door, the same as ever. His co-conspirator must have passed Chidi on the way out in the early hours. They didn’t speak a word about it.

And they didn’t speak a word about it the next time, or the time after that. It became Vincent’s habit to ensure that he did not sleep alone two nights in a row – which was to say, it became Vincent’s habit not to sleep more than two nights in a row. It was a perfect system, really. A liaison kept the nightmares away for a night. Drugs kept him upright and free of shame over the course of the day following a liaison. And by the time he passed out from exhaustion the next night, he was too tired to dream. As long as he didn’t look at Chidi, he didn’t have to feel bad about any of it, which was perfect, because he was trying not to look at Chidi anyway. What could go wrong?

Best of all, the whole cycle numbed him just enough to maintain things with Santino. The relationship had become…draining. A series of encounters that he had to get through by being drunk or high or teasing Santino to vent his own resentment. But the connection made sense politically. Vincent wracked his brain for a real reason to break up, and he couldn’t justify it. He definitely couldn’t deal with the fallout that would ensue if Santino decided to throw a fit about the breakup, not right now. It could ruin things with Gianna, and that was going so well.

Santi, for his part, was only too glad to have Vincent back in the city, and to restock his drug supplies whenever he wanted. He made excuses to stay in Rome until winter. The D’Antonio family was already making plans for how they would spend Christmas together. Again, the only hitch was Chidi.

“Pourquoi ne vous débarrassez-vous pas de votre garde du corps stupide? [Why don’t you get rid of that brainless bodyguard of yours?]” Santino would say, while eyeing him across the room and grimacing. Normally, Vincent tried to see him when Chidi wasn’t on shift, but Santino had an infuriating habit of showing up unexpectedly. And every time the two were in the same room, some variation of this conversation played out. “Il ressemble à un gros bœuf stupide. Je peux t'en trouver un meilleur. Quelqu'un de pointu. Vous savez à quel point Ares est efficace... [He looks like a big, stupid ox. I can find you a better one. Someone sharp. You know how effective Ares - ]”

“Je suis très bien fourni en gardes du corps, merci. [I’m very well supplied with bodyguards, thank you.]” But he never seemed to drop the subject for good. It was like Chidi was getting into everything, changing every aspect of his life, haunting his thoughts throughout every one-night-stand. No matter how he tried to act like he didn’t care, no matter how he tried to compartmentalize him, there was Chidi again.

What bothered him most of all was that Chidi seemed to have no trouble getting a life of his own. He was settling into his role as head of the Myrmidons admirably. In the evenings, when Vincent allowed himself the agonizing ecstasy of an hour in undivided company with Chidi, he learned that Chidi was exploring Rome by himself and finding it very much to his liking. He had even discovered a favorite restaurant in a historic building downtown. Would Vincent like to go there together sometime? He seemed to be testing the waters. Vincent couldn’t resist saying yes. Despite his best efforts to exclude Chidi, he couldn’t bear the thought of Chidi having a favorite place that didn’t include him. It was very confusing.

Apparently, the other Myrmidons sometimes accompanied him on his walks through the city. One of the maids, too. Chidi was friends with them now. Everybody liked him, because of course they did. He was so gentle in his brutishness, so playful and yet so steadying, so infectious when he laughed. And on top of that, just look at him. Vincent did, and felt physically burned by the way his shoulders strained with muscle under his blazer, the way that beard cut knife-sharp along his jaw. As usual, he had to look away.

The next day, Vincent watched him with this maid. He felt burned then too. The way her shining, brunette curls bounced when she nodded at something Chidi said, glowing with smiles. Did Chidi feel burned when he looked at her? When he looked at Vincent? Had Chidi ever felt this way, about anyone? Had anyone in the world ever felt this way about anyone else, or was Vincent being tortured in some cruel and usual manner peculiar to god’s least favorites? He was in flames. He was dying. He must be.

That night, he got very high indeed.

He went to Santino, because damn it, if Chidi was going to go to the maid when he was lonely, then Vincent was going to go to Santino.

A line. Santino’s finger running over a wine glass as he stared out at the river at dinner, interrupting sparkling candlelight. A line. That sparkling transformed into flashing on a club floor. A line. Their bodies pressed together in the back of a limo. A line. Santino’s words spilling into his mouth between kisses. “Sapevo che mi volevi, mio ​​caro. Sapevo che saresti venuto da me da solo uno di questi giorni. Hai finalmente finito di farmi implorare? [I knew you wanted me, mio caro. I knew you’d come to me on your own one of these days. Are you finally done making me beg?]”

Disgust twisting in the pit of his body. “No. Prega più forte. [No. Beg harder.]” Say that you desire me. That I’m worth something…that no one could resist me… Santino whined and started humping into the leather seat with Vincent still buried in his ass.

“Per favore, mio ​​amore. Per favore. Fammi sentire bene. Non so come fai... aaaa... devi essere una specie di diavolo. La mia tentazione. Non sei nemmeno umano. [Please, mon amour. Please. Make me feel good. I don’t know how you do it…aaaa…you must be some kind of devil. My temptation. You’re not even human.]”

“Ovviamente non lo sai. Non mi conosci affatto. [Of course you don’t know. You don’t know me at all.]” It just slipped out. Santino didn’t seem to notice.

But he noticed when Vincent went soft and retreated into the seat away from him.

“Dove-cosa...? Dove sei andato? [Where-what…? Where’d you go?]”

“Ferma la macchina. [Stop the car.]”

“Che – [What the – ]“

“Sei sordo e del tutto inosservante? Ho detto di fermare la macchina. Ho avuto tutto ciò che volevo. [Are you deaf as well as completely unobservant? I said stop the car. I’ve had all I wanted.]”

Santino’s face went from confused to livid. “No! Verrai a casa con me stasera. Hai accettato. [No! You’re coming home with me tonight. You agreed.]”

“Davvero Santino? Sei quel tipo di uomo? [Really, Santino? Are you that kind of man?]” He rolled his eyes disdainfully, but his heart had started doing something utterly sickening. Was Santino that kind of man? His hand closed on the handle of the knife in his back pocket.

“Non ti toccherò. [I won’t touch you],” Santino said very graciously, despite caressing the air just above his cheek in a gesture so close to touching that it might as well have been. “Ma avevi promesso di venire. Ti terrò finché non ti renderai conto di quanto ti piaccio. [But you promised to come. I’m going to keep you until you realize how much you like me.]” His face hovered inches from Vincent’s. How did this escalate so fast? Only minutes ago, it seemed, he was sober, having dinner and planning to go home soon…

Don’t panic. He wished Chidi were here. How could he get back to Chidi? What could he do? His bodyguards were following behind them in another car. They’d know if he went missing. And they’d notice if he jumped from the vehicle. His eyes flickered from Santino’s too-close lips to the door handle. Santino caught the look and covered the lock with his hand, grinning. “Non mi sfuggirai, Vincent. Finalmente, dopo mesi, sei venuto da me volentieri. Non a un pranzo con me e mia sorella, non a una cena per cui ho dovuto implorare. Sei venuto da me, da solo, perché stai iniziando a vederlo anche tu. E non ti permetterò di buttarlo via solo perché a volte ti confondi. Apparteniamo insieme. Quella guardia del corpo ti sta dando fastidio, ma io... [You’re not getting away from me, Vincent. Finally, after months, you’ve come to me willingly. Not at some lunch with both me and my sister, not at some dinner I had to plead for. You came to me, all on your own, because you’re starting to see it too. And I won’t let you throw that away just because you get confused sometimes. We belong together. That bodyguard is messing with your head but I’ll - ]”

The blade plunged into the center of Santino’s hand. It was so satisfying that Vincent had to take a moment to enjoy the look on his face. “Oh, sei sorpreso di essere stato pugnalato dopo un discorso del genere? Hahahaha, malato di merda! Non appartengo a te! [Oh, you’re surprised you got stabbed after a speech like that? Hahahaha, you sick fuck! I do not BELONG with you!]” It was already too late – he might as well unleash everything. “Sai perché sono venuto qui stasera? Perché sei il fondo del barile, la persona che vedo quando ho voglia di sguazzare. Ti ho sedotto solo nel caso in cui tu uccidessi tua sorella più tardi, e sai una cosa? Spero che tu ci provi, e spero che lei ti uccida prima. Ti odio a morte, questa è la verità. Ovviamente devi ricorrere al rapimento solo per la più piccola speranza di ricevere il più piccolo briciolo di attenzione, patetico e disperato succhiacazzi. Risparmiati la fatica e non cercarmi più [You know why I came here tonight? Because you’re the bottom of the barrel, the person I see when I feel like wallowing. I only ever seduced you in case you kill your sister later, and you know what? I hope you try, and I hope she kills you first. I hate your guts, that’s the truth. Of course you have to resort to kidnapping just for the smallest hope of the smallest scrap of attention, you pathetic, desperate cock sucker. Save yourself the trouble and don’t look for me again.]” And with a spray of crimson trialing behind, he wrenched himself and the knife out into the battering midnight wind.

It hurt…a lot more than he was expecting. His shoulder made impact first. The purple-black of the city sky rolled over and over itself as he tumbled across cobblestones. There was tearing fabric, rocks driving into his flesh, a sharp impact against the back of his skull. In the distance, he could hear screeching tires. Was it one or both cars that turned back for him? But he blacked out before he could learn the answer.

He woke up in motion. A familiar scent. Someone’s arms underneath him. “Move. Don’t stand there, get a doctor.”

“Chidi…?” He curled closer against his chest. They were going up a flight of stairs, it seemed.

“C'est moi. Vous allez bien, monsieur. Vous êtes à la maison. [It’s me. You’re okay, sir. You’re home.]”

Splitting pain down the center of his head. “Je ne… je ne ressens pas… [I don’t…I don’t feel…]”

“Vous avez une commotion cérébrale. Mais tout ira bien. Tu étais si courageux. Ils m'ont dit – [You have a concussion. But everything will be alright. You were so brave. They told me – ]“ Chidi cut himself off, seemingly overcome. “De toute façon. Je vais te déposer maintenant, au lit. Est-ce que ça va? [Anyway. I’m going to set you down now, in bed. Is that okay?]”

Vincent realized he was shaking. “N'allez nulle part. [Don’t go anywhere.]”

“Je ne le ferai pas. [I won’t.]” He was laid very gently onto soft sheets. His shoes and tie were pulled away, the blanket tucked up to his chin. Everything was so warm, so bright…his head was still cradled in Chidi’s arms. Finally, Chidi was in his bedroom again, and everything seemed fixed. The change from the past few days was so enormous that Vincent couldn’t understand why he hadn’t done this sooner.

“Chidi?”

“Oui?”

“Je déteste Santino. [I hate Santino.]”

That gorgeous jaw set tight. “Il t'a fait du mal? [Did he hurt you?]”

“Non, heureusement non. Il a juste essayé de me kidnapper. [No, fortunately not. He just tried to kidnap me.]” Vincent scoffed. “C’est de ma faute, j’ai renvoyé mes gardes du corps, donc j’ai dû sauter – [It’s my fault, I sent my bodyguards away, so I had to jump – ]”

“Ce n'est PAS votre faute. [It is NOT your fault.]” Chidi pressed a kiss against his pounding head. “Cet homme est une petite fouine dégoûtante. Je ne le laisserai plus jamais toucher à toi. [That man is a disgusting little weasel. I will never let him lay a finger on you again.]”

Vincent smiled, savoring the way the warmth spread from the spot his lover’s lips had touched. “Merci.” He studied Chidi’s face. Worry lines at the corner of his mouth and eyes stood out prominently. There was the burning thing, flaring up in his chest at the sight of Chidi’s face. The guilt, the shame. The terrifying magnetism. “…Que vous ont dit les gardes? […How much did the guards tell you?]”

“Que veux-tu dire? [What do you mean?]”

They didn’t tell him anything, then. This was going to be incredibly difficult. Vincent tried one more time. “Vous ont-ils dit ce que je faisais avant de quitter le club ? Vous ont-ils dit… dans quel état je me trouve? [Did they tell you what I was doing before we left the club? Did they tell you…the state that I am in?]”

“Ils feraient mieux de ne rien me cacher. [They had better not have kept anything from me.]”

“Je leur ai fait jurer de ne rien te dire. [I made them swear not to tell you.]” He stared at the far corner of the blanket for a minute, trying to muster the courage. Instead, he found himself deciding maybe not. Maybe it was better Chidi didn’t know. If he quit, then who would ever have to tell Chidi? Nobody, right?

But Chidi saved him the trouble. “Que prenez-vous, monsieur? [What are you taking, sir?]”

Infinite silence, still staring into the corner. “Cocaïne.” He waited for disappointment, for crushing sympathy, already preemptively irritated by both.

“Comment ça a commencé? [How did it start?]”

“…Santino. Quand je suis arrivé ici seul pour la première fois. […Santino. When I first came out here alone.]”

“Je vois. [I see.]” Vincent could almost feel that information being filed for later. “Voulez-vous arrêter? [Do you want to stop?]”

“Non. Oui. Je ne sais pas. [No. Yes. I don’t know.]”

“Eh bien… c'est mon travail de protéger votre santé, monsieur. Je ne ferais pas mon travail si je te laissais continuer. [Well…it’s my job to protect your health, sir. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I let you continue.]”

“Et si c’était la seule chose qui me garde sain d’esprit, hmm ? J'ai besoin… [What if it’s the only thing that’s keeping me sane, hmm? I need…]” Fuck, he was going to cry if they kept on with this discussion. “Et si ça me maintenait en vie ? N'est-ce pas important pour ma santé ? Je serai trop fatigué sans ça, et puis je dormirai, et puis je… je ne peux pas… je ne peux pas… [What if it’s keeping me alive? Isn’t that important for my health? I’ll be too tired without it, and then I’ll sleep, and then I’ll…I can’t…I can’t…]” At some point he had started hyperventilating and couldn’t stop.

Chidi took his hand and kissed it, looking deeply pained on his behalf. “Monsieur. Je veux t'aider avec les cauchemars. Avec le chagrin. Tout cela. Chaque jour, je te vois souffrir alors que tout le monde s’attend à ce que tu ailles bien. C’est impossible, vu la pression que vous subissez, d’essayer de revenir instantanément à la normale. Sachez que vous n’êtes pas obligé de le faire seul. [Sir. I want to help you with the nightmares. With the grief. All of it. Every day, I see you hurting when everyone else expects you to be fine. It’s impossible, the amount of pressure you’re under, trying to go back to normal instantly. Please know that you don’t have to do this alone.]”

“N'êtes-vous pas trop occupé avec la femme de chambre? [Aren’t you too busy with the maid?]” Vincent wished he could take back the words but they were already out, and now he would have to hear the answer, hear Chidi lie or get angry or pity him or -

“Comme si quelqu’un pouvait être plus important pour moi que toi. Vous êtes ma vie, Maître Vincent. J'ai donné ma vie pour la tienne volontairement, tu te souviens ? J'étais prêt à être exécuté. Et je reste prêt. Je vous attends. Je n’ai touché personne d’autre, et je ne le ferai pas, peu importe le nombre de personnes que vous coucherez. Faites ce que vous devez faire, monsieur. Je veux juste être là pour toi. Même quand les choses vont mieux. Quand tu n’as plus mal… et je ferai en sorte que ce jour vienne… quand tu n’as plus mal, je veux toujours être à côté de toi. Pas besoin d’être malade pour dormir à mes côtés, Vincent. Si tu me veux, c'est tout ce qu'il faut. Je viendrai à toi. Peut-être que tu ne ressens pas la même chose, mais je t’aime et je le ferai toujours. [As if anyone could be more important to me than you. You are my life, Master Vincent. I gave my life for yours willingly, remember? I was ready to be executed. And I remain ready. I wait for you. I haven’t touched anyone else, and I won’t, no matter how many people you take to bed. You do what you need to do, sir. I just want to be there for you. Even when things are better. When you’re not in pain anymore…and I’ll make sure that day comes…when you’re not in pain anymore, I still want to be next to you. You don’t need to be unwell to sleep beside me, Vincent. If you want me, that’s all it takes. I will come to you. Maybe you don’t feel the same way, but I love you, and I always will.]”

Maybe it was the dawn finally starting to rise, but the world shone gold at all the edges. Like it was cracking, and sunlight was seeping in. It bled around the curtains, onto the bed, onto their joined hands. But Vincent’s eyes were too well adjusted to the darkness. He didn’t know what to do. Barely even knew how to talk around the lump in his throat. Say it back. I love you too. I love you too. I love you too. “Je ne savais pas… Je ne savais pas que tu pouvais parler de cette façon, Chidi. [I didn’t know…I didn’t know that you could talk this way, Chidi.]”

“Ce n’est pas une conversation, monsieur. Je t'aime. [It’s not talk, sir. I love you.]”

I love you too. “Allonge-toi à côté de moi. [Lay next to me.]” I love you too. “Jusqu'à ce que le médecin arrive. [Until the doctor gets here.]” I love you too. “Je ne veux pas que tu ailles n'importe où. [I don’t want you to go anywhere.]”

And Chidi slipped into the bed beside him, embracing Vincent skin to skin, arms securely around his waist, sighing contentedly against his neck… not asking him to say a thing. “Je sais. [I know.]”

◃ Back ⚜ Next ▹

Image Sources: One | Two

[mediocre-shark-tales]

Azerbajian GP Weekend Part 2

Masterlist

The engine hummed beneath me, a steady rhythm that barely masked the tension coiling in my chest. Halfway through the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, I was still holding P10. A solid position, but I couldn’t help the restless fire burning in my veins. The car felt good—responsive, nimble—but it wasn’t enough. Not for me. Not when I had to prove so much more than the others ever expected.

Santino’s words echoed in my mind like an unbearable buzz. I’d barely had a chance to catch my breath from the barrage of rumors swirling around me when his latest attempt to undermine me dropped like a bomb. Santino Ferrucci, a man who had never seen the value in anyone else unless it served him, was now playing his cards to feed the gossip machine. The same ex-teammate who’d made it clear from the moment I stepped into the F2 paddock that he wanted nothing to do with me. The same guy who didn’t even give me the chance to prove myself before deciding I was nothing more than a distraction. Now, somehow, he had the media eating out of his hand, painting me as some kind of problem child, someone who didn’t belong.

I gripped the steering wheel, teeth clenched, my eyes narrowing as I weaved through the unforgiving turns of the Baku City Circuit. The whispers—those rumors—were becoming louder and louder in the background of my mind. The media. The drivers. My ex-teammate. They all thought they could write my story for me, that they could decide my worth before I ever had a chance to prove myself.

But they were wrong.

I could feel the heat rising in me. The pressure to be perfect. To show them all that I was more than just a headline. That I was more than Santino’s petty attempts to tear me down. He didn’t know half of it. Didn’t understand how hard I’d worked, how much I’d sacrificed, or what I had to overcome just to be here. Every inch of my success had been earned, fought for—not given. And I wasn’t about to let a jealous ex-teammate or a handful of shallow opinions take that away from me.

As I entered the DRS zone, I could see the cars ahead of me, their tail lights glowing like targets. I knew I had to stay focused. Keep my head clear. If I was going to finish this race the way I wanted—no, the way I needed to—I couldn’t let their words break me.

With a snap of my fingers on the steering wheel, I activated the DRS. The rush of speed surged through me, and I pulled in on the cars ahead, inching closer to the top six. I didn’t have to look back to know that the battle for the points was heating up behind me, but I could feel the fire inside me intensifying with each lap, fueled by the hatred Santino had tried to spread.

They thought I’d fall. They thought the rumors would hold me back. They thought I couldn’t handle it.

But I was going to prove them wrong.

I floored the throttle, my mind locked in on the finish line. With every corner, every straight, I could feel the anger, the frustration, and the hunger building inside me. I wasn’t just racing against these drivers—I was racing against the world that had already counted me out. By the time I crossed the finish line, they wouldn’t just remember my name. They’d remember how hard I fought to earn my place.

P6.

It wasn’t just a position on the board. It was my victory. My revenge against the whispers, the lies, and the people who underestimated me.

And as the checkered flag waved in the distance, I knew one thing for sure: I would never, ever let anyone define me again.

The celebrations following the end of the race were a blur of cheers, high-fives, and the kind of joy that made all the hard work worth it. A smile finally returned to my face as it sunk in—I had done it. P6. I had crossed that finish line ahead of so many doubters, my heart racing with a mixture of exhaustion and triumph.

It felt surreal. After all the rumors, all the noise, all the moments of doubt—I had pushed through. And not only had I made it to the top ten, but I had also outperformed my own teammate, who had finished just behind me in P7. The pride I felt wasn’t just for the result, but for what it represented. I wasn’t just a placeholder. I wasn’t just surviving in this paddock. I was racing. I was competing. I was proving that I belonged here, every bit as much as anyone else.

Franco caught my eye across the paddock, grinning from ear to ear as he raised his fist in my direction. We’d both pushed so hard, and now, we had something to celebrate. It felt good to finally have something that belonged to me—something I had earned, without anyone’s help or approval.

I glanced over at the screen showing the final race standings, and there it was: P6. The numbers didn’t lie, and neither did my efforts. This race wasn’t just a win on the board—it was a win for everything I had fought against, everything I had pushed through. I had done more than prove myself to my team; I had proven something to myself. And that was worth celebrating.

Yet, when I finally reached the end of media pen, my smile quickly faded. I had barely stepped into the area when I saw who was waiting for me. Of course, it was him—the same interviewer who had tried to tear me down from the very beginning. The one who had asked all the probing, personal questions, pushing me to crack in front of the cameras. It wasn’t just that he had a way of twisting words; it was that he seemed to take pleasure in it.

I could see his smug expression as he adjusted his microphone, ready to ask the same pointed questions he always did. He had even been the one to interview my ex-teammate, Santino Ferrucci—the guy who had never once given me a chance to prove myself in F2, and whose lies about me had been used to fuel the worst rumors that followed me.

The thought of it was enough to make my blood simmer. I had worked my ass off to make it here, to get to this moment, and yet here I was again—staring down someone who was more interested in sensationalism than the hard work behind it all. It felt like a constant uphill battle, one I was tired of fighting, but I knew I couldn’t back down. Not now. Not when I had just shown the world what I was capable of.

I squared my shoulders, trying to push down the frustration rising in my chest. This wasn’t the time to show weakness, not with all that I had fought for hanging in the balance. 

I took a deep breath, trying to maintain my composure as the interviewer’s voice broke through the hum of the paddock.

“So, y/n,” he began, his tone already carrying the sharp edge I knew all too well, “there's still a lot of talk about your time away from racing. Many people are wondering why you left F2 so abruptly. Some say it was just a matter of timing, that you were simply ‘training’ for F1... but others think there’s more to the story.”

I could feel my jaw tighten as he carefully crafted his words. He wasn’t just asking for information—he was fishing, poking at a wound I wasn’t ready to reopen. I could hear the whispers in his voice, the way he implied I was hiding something.

I clenched my fists, but kept my face neutral. “I've already said this before,” I replied, my voice steady despite the rising anger bubbling beneath the surface. “I left to train. I needed to focus on becoming the best version of myself, and I made the choice to step away so I could be ready for the challenges ahead. And honestly, that’s all there is to it.”

His eyes narrowed, not buying it for a second. He pressed on, undeterred. “Right, right. But... you didn’t mention much about what happened during that time. Rumors have been circulating—specifically about your sudden departure and your reasons for being away. You see, many believe you had personal matters going on, things that weren’t exactly... racing-related. Some have even suggested your absence was tied to... other things.” He let the last part hang in the air like a threat.

I could feel the heat rising in my chest, my fists tightening into balls of anger. I could already tell where this was going, and I wasn’t going to let him drag it out. He wasn’t going to paint me as some secretive, unprofessional driver just because of his own assumptions and the garbage people like Santino had been spreading.

I stared him down, my voice cutting through the tense air. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my tone unwavering. “You can ask all the questions you want, but the truth is, you’re just speculating. And frankly, I’m tired of answering questions based on rumors. So if you’re looking for some juicy story about me, you’re not going to find it here. I’ve moved on, and so should you.”

The interviewer wasn’t backing down. He smirked, pushing further, almost daring me to break. “You know, some of these rumors have real consequences. People in the paddock have talked about you being too emotional, not cut out for this level of competition. And others... well, they wonder why you’ve clung so tightly to that turtle necklace. Surely that’s a little... odd, don’t you think?”

The words hit me like a slap in the face. He was baiting me, trying to get me to say something that would let him twist it into another story. But this time, I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. The anger that had been simmering in my gut finally boiled over.

I leaned forward, my eyes narrowing as I locked onto his smug expression. “You want to know why I wear this necklace?” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “You want to know what it means?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “It’s because of my mother. She passed away while I was away. I had to leave everything behind because she was dying. And now she’s gone. So if you want to keep throwing insults and rumors at me, go ahead. But you don’t know what it’s like to lose someone like that. You don’t know what I went through.”

The words hung in the air like a punch to the gut. The interviewer fell silent, his expression faltering as my words sank in. The entire paddock seemed to freeze, the tension hanging thick. I didn’t care about the cameras, the microphones, or the rumors anymore. This was the truth. My truth.

I took a steadying breath, still seething with anger, and stood up. “And as for the turtles,” I continued, my voice still shaking with emotion, “they’re a reminder of her. Not because I think I’m slow, but because she loved them. Because they remind me of her strength. She was a fighter. And I’m going to keep fighting for her. So you can keep spinning your stories, but I’m done talking to you.”

With that, I turned on my heel and walked away, leaving the stunned silence in my wake. I could feel every pair of eyes on me, but I didn’t care. The interview had turned into something else entirely—a moment of truth I wasn’t about to take back.

I didn’t know if I had silenced the interviewer or just made everything worse, but I didn’t care. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I had taken control. And if that meant walking away from this media circus, so be it. I had nothing to prove to them anymore.

I marched into my driver’s room, desperate for some space to breathe and escape from the chaos swirling around me. The weight of everything—rumors, lies, the pain of the day—settled deep in my chest, threatening to choke me. Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not now. Not here.

I paced the room, my fists clenched, trying to keep the floodgates closed. But then, just a minute or two later, I heard a knock at the door. My heart skipped a beat, and I forced myself to take a deep breath before walking over to answer it.

When I cracked the door open, I was met with the sight of Franco, flanked by Lewis and, for some reason, Charles. I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to deal with anyone right now.

Franco noticed my reluctance and offered me a softer, sad smile. It was enough to break through the anger clouding my mind.

“Please, Hermosa,” he said gently, his tone filled with concern. “Let us chat in private. Just a few minutes. Please.”

I glanced over at Lewis and Charles, who were standing behind Franco, their expressions unreadable but soft enough that I could tell they weren’t here to make things harder for me. With a sigh, I pushed the door open a little wider, stepping aside to let them in.

The moment they entered, the tension in the room seemed to lighten slightly, but it didn’t take away the knot that had formed in my stomach. I wanted nothing more than to curl up and be left alone, but I knew they were here to help—whether I liked it or not.

Charles’s voice cut through the silence in the room, surprising me. He wasn’t usually the first to speak up, but the sincerity in his words caught me off guard.

“First, I want to apologize,” he began, his expression softening. “For allowing myself to believe the rumors, even for a second. I should have known better, especially after all these years. And I’m sorry. I know I can’t fully understand what you’ve been going through, but I can relate to losing a parent before they truly got to see you succeed. It’s one of the worst feelings in the world. I may not know what it’s like to hide behind rumors to protect your pain, but I know the grief of losing someone close to you.”

His words hit harder than I expected, and I could feel the weight of his empathy in his tone. Charles smiled at me, a smile that held more vulnerability than I’d ever seen from him before.

“I want to offer you my help. I want to be someone you can turn to, someone who will listen without judgment,” he continued. “It’s definitely owed to you, after everything... after ignoring you just because of some baseless rumors.”

I didn’t know how to respond at first. My heart felt heavy with the realization that someone who had once been indifferent—if not cold—toward me, was now standing here, offering support when I needed it most. I blinked, trying to gather my thoughts before I spoke, but the sincerity of his apology left me momentarily speechless.

Franco stepped forward then, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Hermosa, you don't have to say anything right now. Just know that we're here for you, whenever you're ready."

For the first time in what felt like ages, I allowed myself to relax—if only for a moment. I was still angry. I was still hurt. But, perhaps, things were starting to change.

Lewis’s voice broke the moment of silence, his tone lighter than before. “You don’t have to worry about that interviewer anymore, by the way,” he said, his words catching me off guard.

I raised an eyebrow, confused. "What do you mean?"

Lewis smirked, leaning back slightly with a look of satisfaction in his eyes. “Well, as much as I would have loved to be the one to hand his ass back to him on a silver platter, Max beat me to it.” He chuckled, clearly amused by the turn of events. “At least we found something else to agree on.”

I couldn’t help but let out a small, surprised laugh at his casual tone. It was good to hear that Max had stood up for me again. Franco’s smile widened, clearly relieved by the lighter shift in the conversation. “Good. That man deserved it,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

I nodded slowly, taking in what they had said. Despite the chaos of the day, it was comforting to know that not everyone believed the rumors or enjoyed feeding into the drama. I appreciated their support, even if it was difficult for me to fully let go of the anger still simmering inside.

"Thanks, Lewis," I said, finally finding my voice again. Lewis shrugged nonchalantly, his grin still there. "We’ve all been there at some point. It’s about time some of the nonsense gets put to bed, don’t you think?"

I nodded, feeling a small weight lift from my chest. Suddenly, Franco let out a soft laugh and, without warning, shoved his phone into my hands. "You’ve got to see this," he said, his voice full of amusement.

I looked at him, confused for a moment, before I glanced down at the phone. Franco had already queued up a video, and my eyes went wide as I saw Max’s familiar figure step into the frame right after I had stormed off.

Max stood at the media pen, his jaw clenched and eyes narrowed as he stared directly at the interviewer who had just tried to tear me down. His voice cut through the air, sharper than I had ever heard it.

“If you want to keep making up lies about someone who’s just here to race, you can keep doing that,” Max started, his tone filled with frustration. “But don’t you ever come at her like that again. It’s one thing to talk trash, but you’ve crossed a line.”

The interviewer shifted uncomfortably, but Max wasn’t done. He stepped closer, his voice growing louder with each word, making sure everyone in the vicinity could hear him.

“You’ve been digging so deep, trying to unearth some dirty little secret, but all you’ve managed to do is expose yourself for what you really are—a pathetic excuse for a journalist," Max continued, his eyes burning with anger. "You think you know the full story, but you don’t know anything about what’s going on behind the scenes. You want to judge her? Let’s talk about your pathetic need to pry into people’s lives for a cheap headline."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air for a moment, giving the interviewer no room to respond.

"She's been protecting her family, dealing with a loss that most people would never understand. Her mother’s been gone for weeks now, and she’s been putting all of her energy into racing. All you’ve managed to do is twist that into something ugly. So next time you want to attack someone, maybe you should take a good look in the mirror and figure out who the real asshole is here.”

Max’s words hung in the air, silencing the crowd around him. The interviewer had no comeback, his face going pale. Max’s fierce defense had not only shut him down but had made it clear: he wasn’t going to let anyone continue to harass me without facing the consequences.

I stood there, a little in awe, feeling an unexpected warmth in my chest. Max had always been a competitor, but seeing him stand up for me like this... it was something else.

Franco let out a chuckle as I stared at the screen. "Max doesn't usually get involved in stuff like that, but... you’ve got to admit, it's nice to see him standing up for you."

I was almost speechless. Seeing Max, of all people, not just defend me but make such a statement to the media made me feel something I hadn’t expected—gratitude. I looked up at Franco, who was still grinning like a proud big brother.

“I... wow,” I muttered, still processing the video. “That’s... that’s really something.”

Franco smiled, his eyes softening as he watched me. “Told you. People are starting to see the truth.”

It was a small victory, but it felt like a step in the right direction. It was a reminder that, even in the midst of all the chaos, not everyone believed the rumors or was content to let them fly.

I exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the mix of emotions swirling inside me. "I guess maybe there's still hope for some of them, huh?"

"Absolutely," Franco said, his grin widening. "And you’ve got us. Always."

[lovelytsunoda]

chateau ( feel alright ) | kyle kirkwood

summary: powers out in andretti house. stuck working together on a project for their business marketing class, kyle and yn find themselves stuck in his dorm with no lights and no heating

pairing: college!kyle kirkwood x college! reader

warnings: you’ve heard of only one bed, get ready for only one ✨blanket✨ santino slander (and rightly so). kyle is such a himbo my lordy I love him. kinda slow burn since they don’t kiss right until the end (sort like in my other Kyle fic lmao)

there was a certain kind of charm to kyle kirkwoods dorm room at andretti house.

sure, the florida panthers jersey hung above the couch screamed ‘frat boy’ and he had an impressive collection of shot glasses lined up underneath the tv, and since he and his roommate were both hockey players, the main room tended to stink of sweaty locker room as they liked their gear in a corner, but it was proof that people lived there.

kyle never would have been her first choice as partner for this assignment, but she didn’t have many friends left in the program, and they’d all paired up with each other. lest she get paired with santino, who was so much of an asshole that she would rather get hit by a bus than work on a mid term with him, she’d turned to the boy who was sitting behind her and asked if he had a partner yet.

kyle thought he was crazy for saying yes. typically he paired with colton and the two of them somehow wrangled their way to an a-minus. everybody knew that professor rahal was a hardass, so every choice in partner counted.

but when he saw her pretty, pleading eyes behind those wire rimmed glasses, he couldn’t find it in him to turn her down.

“according to the simulation, social media interaction including view counts is higher when we post reel-like content.”

kyle was barely listening, watching as her delicate fingers tracked across the keyboard. her earrings were little gold pumpkins, they complimented her skin nicely. everything about her was warm and inviting.

he’d let her connect to the dorms small speaker system, and she’d chosen a britpop playlist, an early oasis song playing softly in the background. it wasn’t something he’d thought she’d listen to, but now that he could see her tapping her fingernails on the keyboard while she hummed along, it just seemed to make perfect sense, fitting in perfectly with his vision of her.

kyle kirkwood was totally and utterly infatuated with her.

“kyle?” she asked softly “are you listening to me?”

he blinked rapidly, trying to remember what she had asked. “yes, right, you were talking about short form video content and engagement.”

“I’m impressed.” she smiled. “you’re smarter than you look, kirkwood.”

“I aim to please.”

“good. now give me a hand with this next bit.”

she beckoned kyle over with two fingers, making space for him in the rug next to the coffee table. their mismatched dollar-store mugs of coffee were empty on the table behind her laptop, papers and notebooks spread out across the table.

“now, for this part here-“ she was cut off by an ominous beep, all the lights in the dormitory shutting off one by one.

the clocks on the stovetop and microwave shut off soon after, the living room illuminated only by her laptop, which now proudly displayed the “no internet” message.

“shit.” she cursed, leaning back against the couch. “the outage crashed the simulation.”

“well,” kyle tried to stay positive. “there’s got to be something that we can do in the meantime. truth or dare? never have i ever?”

she laughed, head in her hands. she could smell his cologne from here. well, she was sure it more like aerosol deodorant. something strong, like axe or lynx.

“what are you, five?”

all kyle could smell was her. vanilla and cinnamon. she was intoxicating.

“yeah. five heads taller than you.”

she paused, looking at him with a confused glance before she burst out laughing. god, he loved hearing her laugh. “kyle, that’s so bad!”

kyle laughed along with her until he felt the temperature in the flat had dropped markedly. he could see her shiver, his protective instincts jumping out.

he pushed himself up from the floor, disappearing into his small room. there wasn’t much in there. just some hockey gear, a desk, a twin bed and a rickety bookshelf. there was a plush blanket folded up at the foot of the bed, which he grabbed after pulling a cable knit sweater over his head.

he went back into the living room, gently draping the blanket over he shoulders.

“better?” he asked quietly, feeling some kind of intimacy that definitely wasn’t there before. his hand still rested on her upper back, warm and grounding through the blanket as she pulled it around her shoulders.

“warmer, yeah.” she turned to face him, rubbing at the corner of her eye. “what do we do now?”

“we could watch a movie or something until the power comes back on.” kyle suggested. “logan isn’t supposed to be back until later, you can stay as long as you want.”

he really didn’t want her to leave. in fact, he wanted her to stay forever, turn his silly dorm into a home. he wanted to be with her for as long as possible.

“I suppose so. It’s not like we can do anything constructive, and I don’t want the night to be a total write off. do you have a dvd player?”

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “you do?”

“it’s to watch my criminal minds box set.”

“I was just going to use my cell phone data. I have unlimited.” kyle said, switching on netflix. “what did you want to see?”

“how much do you like matthew mcconaughey and have you ever heard of the lincoln lawyer?” she grinned. “it’s one of my favourite legal thrillers.”

Kyle pulled up the movie as she shut her laptop, propping the phone up against one of the empty mugs. they settled in next to each other, hands resting on the ground with a conspicuous gap between them.

she yearned to reach over and take Kyle’s hand in hers, but the idea of being flirted with just made her fell so awkward and uncomfy. she just wanted a warm, comfortable love, but she supposed she had to start somewhere.

she inches her pink in finger towards Kyle’s multiple times before eventually bringing her hand back and settling it in her lap, pulling the blanket tighter.

Kyle turned to look at her, the way her face was illuminated in the soft blue light. on the screen, tv lawyer mickey haller was meeting with a new client in the county lockup. Kyle was mesmerized at the soft concentration on her face, the way her face was gently scrunched with focus.

a shiver ran through his body, and he found himself reaching for a corner of the blanket.

“Kyle.” she laughed. god, Kyle would do anything to hear that laugh again. “this is my blanket. go get your own.”

he was so fucking whipped.

“what if I miss something important?” he tried to give her his best impression at puppy dog eyes. “you’d have to explain the whole movie to me, I’d be so lost.”

she smiled, rolling her eyes. “fine.” she unwrapped herself, tossing one end of the panthers blanket to the man next to her. “but don’t be a blanket hog.”

“I make no promises.”

they had to move closer together to be able to properly share the blanket with each other. their Jean clad legs were almost touching, a nervous energy surrounding the duo as they kept their eyes trained on kyle’s iphone.

“Kyle?” she asked quietly, voice barely audible. “would it be strange if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?”

Kyle turned to face her, reaching over to pause the movie. “I’d actually like that a lot.” he smiled nervously, reaching out to hold her face.

her skin was soft, and she keener into his touch, biting back a sigh.

when he kissed her, it felt warm and inviting. a comforting addition to her life, rather than fireworks and burst of electricity that would have disrupted it. his lips were soft as they moved against hers, and it felt like coming home.

she sighed under his touch, reaching out to gently run her fingers through his hair.

she didn’t want to stop kissing him.

and he didn’t want to stop kissing her.

Kyle’s face was rosy, or it would have been if she could see anything.

“you’re really good at that.” he whispered into the dark, totally in awe of the woman in front of him.

“I dunno, I think I need a bit more practice.” she joked, hand resting on his knee. “maybe you could help me out.”

“gladly.” he beamed, leaning in to kiss her again.

[bluelolblue]

They say that dog owners look like their dogs

Biscotti and Santino, because of her little bit wavy fur, similar to his hair

(Link from pinterest)

John and Dog, because look at them :3

[romanticizingmurder]

I think a big thing with my interpretation of Marius & Armand comes down to Venice being good, Venice being truly a golden little paradise for such a brief time.

My biggest criticisms of Marius come from him not going back (thoughts on Akasha and Marius also being traumatized aside for one second), not how he treated Armand before the attack.

And that I think Armand's resentment of Marius, where it exists, is largely also around the abandonment. When I was grabbing quotes from TVA the other day I ended up rolling this one around in my head for hours:

It's such an interesting look at Armand's concerns. Here, before Santino ever attacks, we already have this seed of concern around Marius keeping him.

And in modern times most of his snapping at Marius concerns the same thing:

For all Marius and the fandom itself agonize over Armand's age when turned, over if Marius groomed him to be a vampire, etc - Armand's fear is what if he wouldn't have turned him, if circumstances hadn't forced Marius's hand? Would Marius have let him grow old, die? Leave?

And then Santino happens and Marius doesn't come back for him, doesn't save him this time, and it confirms that fear. (And Marius' own cult trauma and horror at realizing what Armand has become after he recovers enough to consider going back is a different conversation but know I am having it in my head lmao.)

500 years pass and a handful of years of bliss become both idolized and distorted in both of their minds, but it doesn't change that those years together were good, that both of them think of Venice as a nearly perfect time. Which I think is kind of a theme across TVC - happy times marred by knowing what comes after, misunderstandings and distorted memories, trying to forge ahead knowing you had something good once and it's gone (and the hope you can build something again).

[coimbrabertone]

Indycar Left Me Pleasantly Surprised, and That Makes me Happy.

The weekend started on a rather negative note for Indycar, with Penske Entertainment CEO, for reasons nobody can quite understand, deciding to pick a fight with Pato O'Ward. Pato, an extremely popular driver hailing from Monterrey, Mexico, has pushed hard for Indycar to race internationally, particularly in Latin America. In response, Mark Miles said that Pato would need to be more popular to make that happen, that he's not as big as Adrian Fernandez was, that he isn't on billboards. Mark Miles finished off on a note that Pato's popularity was growing, but the damage was done.

That, combined with Indycar trying to ease expectations by saying they expected just 15,000 fans per day at the Milwaukee doubleheader, really put me into a pessimistic mood on Saturday morning.

I figured that the race was going to be an easy win for Penske based on how the other short ovals - Iowa and Gateway - have gone. So the best I was expecting was that it would be Scott McLaughlin instead of Will Power or Josef Newgarden.

Then, on top of everything else, we found out that Milwaukee lost its lights at some point since the 2000s, so if the Saturday evening race went too long, we were gonna be at risk of getting called for darkness.

It wasn't looking good.

But then...the race started.

Immediately Santino Ferrucci and especially Conor Daly made audacious passes around the outside, making the uppermost groove work through turns one and two.

Then on the backstretch, it almost turned into a pack racing type deal, where if you had to check up on the backstretch, you immediately lost momentum and you were at risk of getting passed. It was pass or be passed, and that made any start or restart scenario chaotic in the most entertaining way possible.

It was already looking racier than expected, and that was before the two properly old school things kicked in. One: there was actually lapped traffic to contend with, Milwaukee's a short track and there are big speed differentials, so it's not an Iowa type scenario where the backmarkers are as fast as the leaders. And two: the speed differential got bigger because there was actual tyre wear all weekend.

Fresh tyres were worth a second a lap, so we got to see things like drivers pitting early to get massive undercuts, backmarkers on fresh tyres carving through the leaders to get their lap back, and massive closing rates when drivers had a tyre offset in their favor (more on that when we talk about race two).

And to top it all off, we got drama!

Marcus Ericsson and Josef Newgarden, who did battle at the Indianapolis 500 in 2023, came together in turn two. Marcus was trying to send it up the inside of Josef, tried to keep it in the middle groove, and Josef tried to hang it around the outside to get the better exit onto the backstretch. Marcus put a wheel onto the black stuff on the side, spun out, and hit Josef backwards first, knocking the both of them out of the race.

This launched the final phase of the race, with Will Power leading a group of cars from midfield on a longer strategy, whilst Pato O'Ward led the main group on the undercut strategy. Pato pit on lap 186, Power cycled to the lead, but almost as soon as he did, Colton Herta lost a tyre and brought out the caution.

Power and Conor Daly had to pit under caution, Pato cycled to the lead, and the race restarted with a battle into the sunset stint. Pato tried to break away, Power used the strength of his Team Penske car to push through traffic, while Conor Daly used his 'round the outside strategy to make up ground, these three would be the top three.

Power closed in to Pato O'Ward in lapped traffic at one point, but Pato was able to get through and win the Hy-Vee Milwaukee Mile 250 - Race One.

It was the perfect narrative, with Pato O'Ward's popularity being questioned in the morning, to see him come back and win from sixth? With the crowd erupting into cheers as he did so? It was perfect.

Because Pato is popular.

And despite all the negativity, when Indycar hits, it still hits.

Speaking of the crowd, it was also better than expected. Instead of the 15,000 that Penske Entertainment warned about, the ultimate crowd ended up being closer to 20,000.

That being said, with the race starting into the afternoon and getting to just about sunset - I think in the end, we got the race done twenty-five minutes ahead of the darkness call - there was a bit of a question mark over how the Sunday race in the heat of the day would be.

I was worried that the teams would figure out the pit cycle and we'd lose some of that chaos and some of that pace difference.

However, there was nothing to fear, because Sunday's race started out with chaos from the get-go.

First of all, we missed the initial start when championship leader Alex Palou failed to start with some sort of reliability issue. The championship got blown open at the penultimate race with none of us knowing whether or not Chip Ganassi Racing would manage to get him out again. They eventually did, with just a few more hiccups, and we got around to the proper start of the race, when we just got another dose of chaos!

The back of the field failed to bunch up for the start, so Indycar waved off the start. However, with the whole field anticipating a start and a lightboard flashing green even as the starter waved the yellow flag, we saw an incident.

Marcus Armstrong in third checked up and went to the middle, trying to avoid Josef Newgarden in first, but with his teammate Linus Lundqvist in third trying to get the jump, it would up being just the perfect angle for Lundqvist to spear Armstrong into Newgarden, wrecking against the inside wall.

And just like that, Josef Newgarden, the oval master, was out.

And attrition was back in force on Sunday, with Conor Daly, Nolan Siegel, Pato O'Ward, Linus Lundqvist, and Marcus Armstrong all retiring whilst Alex Palou scrapped for whatever points he could twenty-eight laps down.

Back up front, we saw the Penskes of Scott McLaughlin and Will Power jockeying for position whilst the other teams tried to get the jump on them. Alexander Rossi in the sole remaining Arrow McLaren did his best to replicate Pato's win, undercutting virtually every time, but more often than not, it seemed to drop him in heavy traffic, allowing Will Power and Scott McLaughlin to hold onto the lead.

Eventually, Scott got the jump on Will, and then Power blew the championship wide open again by spinning on a restart.

Power was able to continue, but he gave Palou a lifeline.

Meanwhile, Colton Herta and Scott Dixon changed strategies, saving a bit and trying to cut out a pitstop to make the track position play, succeeding and cycled around twelve seconds off the lead.

And Scott McLaughlin was flying, making up multiple seconds a lap, swallowing up Dixon and eventually, taking the lead off of Colton Herta. However, Alexander Rossi stopped later than McLaughlin and head even fresher tyres now, so he was the fastest of them all, having passed Dixon, and now starting work on Colton Herta for second. At the same time, Herta was stabilizing a bit, gaining every once in awhile as Scott struggled with traffic.

We had a race on our hands.

And then Sting Ray Robb brought out the caution, bringing the leaders into pitlane again. Nobody had fresh tyres at this point though, so they switched to whatever tyres they had access to. Here, Alexander Rossi's crew got the jump on Herta, cycling into second.

It was going to be Scott McLaughlin in first, Alexander Rossi second, Colton Herta third, and Scott Dixon fourth.

However, Alexander Rossi spun up the tyres on the start, used up all the life left in his tyres, and lost out on the restart. This bunched up Herta and Dixon, with Scott eventually moving into second, ahead of them both.

It was now going to be a battle of the Kiwi Scotts, and before the race was over, they caught lapped traffic again.

Dixon gained big, but McLaughlin just managed to hold him off.

McLaughlin won for Team Penske, another Penske win on a short oval, but the way it happened...nobody was gonna complain about that.

Two popular winners on two different races, but both were great.

I have to admit, I wasn't expecting Milwaukee to be this good.

As an Indycar fan, after like two straight years of underwhelming news, it feels so good to be pleasantly surprising by the series. It feels so good for a weekend to go better than expected.

And attendance was even better on the second day, at just over 20,000 for a total weekend attendance of right around 40,000. A whole ten thousand better than expected. Life's good.

Elsewhere, tyre pace differences seemed to be the theme of the weekend.

New tyres were king at Darlington with Chase Briscoe and Kyle Busch using them to battle for the win in the closing laps, with Briscoe just managing to pull off the win for the closing Stewart-Haas Racing team. He clinched a playoff spot, at the expense of Chris Buescher and Bubba Wallace who battled hard for the last spot on points, hoping and praying for a repeat winner up front.

At Monza, Charles Leclerc on worn tyres from a one stop just managed to hold off Oscar Piastri on fresh tyres. As much as I was disappointed in McLaren squandering a 1-2, I can't complain about seeing Leclerc win at Monza.

And in MotoGP, Marc Marquez was the only one who could master a tricky repaved MotorLand Aragon circuit, dominating both the sprint and the race. Meanwhile, in the race, we saw championship implications as Alex Marquez slipped wide in the marbles, swerved to rejoin the racing like, and wound up hooking the bike of championship leader Pecco Bagnaia.

This allowed Jorge Martin in second to snatch the championship lead, mere weeks after he lost it to Bagnaia.

Tyre wear makes for great racing, huh?

Shame that, most of the time, tyre manufacturers don't want to see their tyres wearing out and potentially blowing. It makes for a better spectacle, but it doesn't make for as good of a marketing piece for Goodyear...or Michelin...or Firestone...or Pirelli...or whoever your tyre manufacturer of choice is.

[a-boca-do-inferno]

eu te amo agora (sonny corleone x reader)

summary: Love truly didn’t make sense. (y/n) would know. 

warnings: angst, cheating, light fluff

words: 1.0k

notes: yes, another songfic. it rocks what can i do. based on agora by alice caymmi.

Don’t wait for him to come back. There are fifty holes on his skin and no life in his eyes. 

(y/n) prefers to tell herself every day Santino’s gone because the thought of his death is somewhat more bearable than his willing distance. And he was in the wrong! Yet, she was the one who hurt the most. (y/n) couldn’t look at him. Now he had a family of his own, and it was criminal the way his orbs shone with love towards his children. The worst part was she had no place in his life, not anymore. That meant having no right to feel betrayed by how happy he looked. She was now but a memory, forgotten in the back of his mind. 

“Sauce?”, inquires Carmela, causing the girl to blink at her. She had been in her own head most of the time, it seemed. The food looked delicious, though, and so she beamed back at the woman in silence. But Carmela was no fool. She knew (y/n) ever since she was a baby. “What’s on your mind, my dear?”

A sigh escapes her lips. “I’ve been working a lot, that’s all.”

“Yeah?”, Carmela hums and chuckles softly, serving (y/n)’s plate. “It sounds like your heart has been working quite a lot, too. If you don’t mind me saying.”

(y/n) snorts. She really knew her like no one else. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Carmela was aware of her and Sonny’s brief affair before he got married. She was a very attentive woman, especially towards her children. And instead of judging either of them, she kept to herself and subtly tried to amend things between her son and the girl. (y/n) was like family, after all, and it would help no one to feed any animosity at home. It was so hard, however, to pretend like nothing was ever happening when her heart broke into a thousand pieces every time Santino and his wife exchanged normal couple affection. 

“Oh, but it does”, Carmela murmurs, still with her voice as light as a feather. She gives Sonny a look from across the room. He’s talking to Tom about sports, gesticulating and laughing out loud. His presence is intoxicating. (y/n) feels sick. “Look at him. He’s a better actor than you.”

She almost chokes on her drink, but puts herself together quickly. “What?”, she scoffs, completely incredulous. Sure, Carmela knew about it and (y/n) knew she knew about it, but the comment was bold even for her. His mother had never been so direct. Still a bit stunned, the girl adds, “you’re seeing things, Carmela.”

“I put that boy into this world, honey”, she says smugly, then gives her a knowing smile. “And there’s no need to be shy around me, I’d take you over his wife any day.”

(y/n) couldn’t help but snicker, causing a few eyes to land on her, including Santino’s. She wasn’t one to draw attention to herself, after all. Her cheeks burned and she turned to Carmela, ignoring the surprise on Sonny’s face to see her actually do something while in his house. His orbs on her figure felt like hot stones coming in contact with her skin. He wasn’t a discreet man, and she cursed silently for that fact. The next thing she knew, someone had taken a seat at her side. 

(y/n) couldn’t bring herself to turn and face him, and then came his voice, deep and full of playfulness. “Don’t be rude now, doll.”

Damn him. She gives Carmela a look as if asking for help to deal with the situation, but the woman quietly gets up and leaves them alone at the table. Despite loving her like a mother, (y/n) hated her guts at that very moment. She had no choice but to turn towards Santino, who waited for her with a loose smile on his perfect features. Their eyes meet and for a split second, it’s like the very first time they met at that small family gathering for Connie’s graduation. Except it wasn’t, it never would be, not with his children playing in the backyard while his wife cooked with Carmela in the kitchen behind them. 

“Santino”, she gives him a small but polite nod. 

He raises his brows, amused by her response. “So formal.”

“Stop, Sonny”, (y/n) begs in a whisper, looking down at the table as she tries to recompose herself. But Sonny, ever the rebel, grabs her chin between his index and thumb delicately, making her stare back at him. She feels her face on fire again. “Sonny.”

“Every time I see you, you’re more beautiful than before, I swear to God”, he blurts out, his eyes unblinking and intense. Her knees are weak and she’s relieved to be seated right now. His words go like daggers through her heart. And he knows it. There’s pain in his voice, too. “You know I want you, doll. I always will.”

“I hate you”, she grits her teeth, holding his gaze with anger. Her eyes are filled with tears, but they don’t fall. Not anymore. “So much.”

He smiles slightly, but it’s a sad smile. Bitter. “I wish it could’ve been different. I really do.”

“It doesn’t matter now”, she repeats, yet it sounds more and more like she’s trying to convince herself.

Santino touches her hair hesitantly, probably sensing she’s gonna back away. She doesn’t. (y/n) doesn’t have it in her anymore to run away from him. He coos, his husky voice sending shivers down her spine, “it does, because I know I love you now.”

(y/n) doesn’t have a chance to process his words when Carmela comes back with his wife, both of them carrying trays. They set them on the table and everyone takes a seat. She didn’t even see when Sonny let go of her hair and turned forward, serving himself and teasing Tom about something. They laugh like nothing happened, which technically, it didn’t. Not to them. But her heartbeat felt like that of a captive bird’s. She ate quietly, Santino’s confession eating up her insides similar to acid. Love truly didn’t make sense. 

(y/n) would know. 

[imwritesometimes]

hard to believe just 20 minutes ago he was acting like the devil's representative on earth.....