#that was a really nice interview actually

[rex-rambles]

➤ SUGAR | CHARLES LECLERC SMAU + FIC)

pairing: charles leclerc x pastry chef!reader

summary: you're offered a position as a pastry chef in monaco, where an f1 driver with a distaste for snails shows you the sweeter things in life

wc: 6.5 k

warnings: slight angst? photos from pinterest & ayo edebiri face claim <3

➤ MASTERLIST

Liked by yourbestie and others

chef_yourusername my last day in nyc, had to make the most of it

↳ yourbestie I'm going to miss you, monaco better treat you right 

↳ chef_yourusername eat all my favourite foods for me while I'm gone :(

↳ foodie12 have you ever made an Instagram post without food?

↳ chef_yourusername where's the fun in that?

-

Liked by yourbestie, bi_sous and others

chef_yourusername i promise we're proper, certified pastry chefs monte carlo, i promise 

↳ bi_sous i think you mean un chef pâtissier

↳ chef_yourusername oui oui, ma bibliotechique

↳ yourbestie did you just call him a library? 

↳ chef_yourusername ...no

-

Moving to Monaco to become a full-time pastry chef was a daunting, daunting thing. 

Being asked to move to Monaco to become a full-time pastry chef was just baffling. You weren't aware that your work had actually been noticed internationally, let alone outside of New York. Yet, here you were, with a fancy title, a terrible apartment, and a line on your resume that you couldn't quite believe. 

"Non, non. C'est un gâteau miniature, pas un petit gâteau." No, Bishop corrects, your French leaving much to be desired. It's a miniature cake, not a cupcake.

"Ah, oui." Ah, yes, you manage to put together. Despite it literally meaning smaller cake, petit gateau was the name of an actual thing, whereas you were just saying a small cake. 

"You know he can speak English, right?" Maeva says, nudging your shoulder. "We all can." 

"I'm just being a good host." Bishop answers, somewhat smug. "They need to know the language." 

Maeva picks up a stray paper from the countertop, reading over it for a moment before turning back to Bishop. "You got invited to the Feu de Cascade opening?" Then, glancing back at the paper, "What a stupid name." 

"I, believe it or not, am a renowned pastry chef." Bishop answers, plucking the paper from her fingers. "I get invited to special events." 

"Temporary pastry chef," Maeva reminds him. "Same as you. I give you two months before you crack." 

Bishop, though a native to France, was hired a month before you were, after the last two pastry chefs were caught doing something unspeakable in the walk-in freezer. Luckily, considering Bishop's boyfriend and your own relationship issues, that wouldn't be an issue for the two of you. "You're just jealous you didn't get invited." 

"I did get invited," Maeva says, moving to start her prep for the next day. "I'm just not going." 

"Not going?" Bishop says with a soft gasp. "What will we do?" 

"No 'we' in that scenario," You say as you turn towards the plans you were writing for your not-petit-gateaus. It didn't hurt, really, that you were seemingly ignored in this universal invite. You were new enough to Monaco that they likely didn't have enough space for everyone, or perhaps you were too young, or perhaps you were just overthinking it. "I wasn't invited." 

"Then you can have my ticket." Maeva says, dusting her hands off by clapping them together. "You two can have fun putting up with Monaco's finest." 

Bishop spares you a glance with a raised brow as you try not to show how excited you are. It wasn't some real, exclusive event, but it was your first time out getting to know the restaurant world in Monaco. One launch might lead to a dinner, or another invite, and pretty soon, you have an in with some of the fanciest restaurants in the world.

Bishop, however, obviously has other thoughts on that. "I thought we were Monaco's finest?" 

-

Charles was very used to red carpets by now. He could speak at any press conference, make jokes with any interviewer, shaking hands and clapping shoulders, playing nice. He had enough media training to tell him when to smile and where to go, but when he was left completely to his own devices, when the cameras turned away from him, when he didn't really know anyone in the crowd, he found himself in unknown territory.

This restaurant launch he was paid to attend was more of a publicity stunt than anything, vague celebrities drifting about and taking pictures together as Charles nursed a glass of wine, tucked away in a seat away from the centre of it all. He's sure, if another driver were here, if someone he knew were here, he'd be much more sociable, much more attentive to those twisting through the crowds, but he was alone tonight, and he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself.

He had chosen this seat for its distance, after all. Everyone else was crowding near the cameras, the food tables, the celebrity chefs arriving. Well, he supposes everyone is a general term. The only other person in this far corner of the grass-covered patio was you, but he was pretty sure you were in unknown territory, too.

You had sat down in the chair left to him, arms cradling multiple bowls, and you had lined them up on a small table as you tried each one, taking pictures as you went, happily content in your own silence. It wasn't that Charles was watching you, really, but you were more interesting than the TikTokers who kept starting videos rather obnoxiously. He'd be drawn into one eventually, but for some reason, it seems that you'd be immune to those sorts of things.

You pause your taste-testing line, looking up at the crowd with a soft furrow between your brows, and Charles understands the feeling. The draw to go to where the people are, to make yourself known, to keep up the charade of Monaco life. But, as your gaze drifts from the crowd to him, he finds that he doesn't care much about that tonight.

He's content to just sit here, invisible, for the rest of the night, but unfortunately, you had caught him staring. It was hard not to, anyway. Besides your own strange presence, you also happened to look like an angel, which was more of the wine than Charles talking, but you were pretty, and it was making looking away from you a hard thing to do. "C'est bon?" Is it good, he asks, and you spare a glance to the side with a grimace. 

"Si tu aimes les escargots?" Do you like snails? Snails! Charles is quick to lean over to look at the dish, taking in the different colours and textures and trying to figure out which could possibly be snails. Sure, he was Monegasque, but snails had never really enticed him as a dish. You laugh softly at his reaction, a sound that makes him warm under his collar. "Non?" 

"Non." Charles extends a hand, and you stare at it as if he just offered you some sort of alien creature, rather than a handshake. "Charles Leclerc." 

You offer your name, and Charles notices that French is not your first language, like most people here. Your French is fairly good, but your intonations are off. Strangely, he thinks you sound a bit like George, whenever he tries and fails to speak French. You say something else, and Charles doesn't catch it, based on the distance between your chairs and the soft cadence of your voice, so without much thought, he grabs the leg of your chair and slides to towards him, and in his slight, tipsy stupor, he hits the edge of your carefully balanced bowl of snails, and it topples into the grass silently. You both stare at the mess seeping onto the ground, and Charles waits for the backlash.

The pictures, the disgust, the recoil, the remarks of how stupid he'd been, but rather than making any scene, or scolding him, you shrug as you try to conceal your smile. "Guess you really didn't like snails." You say, before realizing you hadn't said it in French, and you quickly try to translate before Charles raises a hand to stop you.  

"I'm releasing them back into the wild." He says as he nudges the bowl under his chair to hide the evidence, and you laugh again, not at his misfortune, but for his humour. He's not sure how he can tell, but maybe it's just from how sweet the sound is. "You are new to Monaco?" He asks, and he watches you relax slightly back into your chair. 

"I just started as a pastry chef two weeks ago." Maybe that's why you seem so sweet, he thinks, but would never voice aloud. His brain then catches up that you'd only been here for two weeks, and he can't help but think that all this must be a bit much for two weeks. It had taken him years to get used to this kind of lifestyle, and he was born here. "It's still sort of hard to believe. Everything is so much...more, here." He can imagine: the lifestyle, the people, the money. Everything is bigger and better and flashier and somehow worse in Monaco. "And you?" 

Choosing not to give too much of himself away, he settles on: "Born and raised." 

"Really? I didn't know they let babies in Monaco." At that, it's Charles's turn to laugh, head tilting back to look up at the stars. Monaco's population was definitely older, though he's never heard someone phrase it like that. "They're not old enough to pay yet." 

"Most Monaco babies are born with money in hand." It was a hard reality to escape, really. It was every other fancy car, every other fancy restaurant, and expensive store. Monaco was a place for the rich and wealthy, save for those who helped make it run. 

Like you, as a pastry chef. He supposes a place doesn't need a pastry chef to run, but it's a nice thing to have. "Ah, so I'm speaking to a former rich baby?" 

A former rich baby.

Charles tries to contain his laugh, still unable to look at you. He's sure that if he did, the stupid smile on his face would grow even larger, and he at least needs to pretend to be somewhat dignified. "You know, if anyone overheard our conversation, they'd think we're crazy."

And maybe, just maybe, he's avoiding the answer. You didn't need to know about that part of Charles's life, at least not yet. He preferred being this kind of invisible with you than some shining star that might scare you off, or entice you for the wrong reasons.

He spares a glance your way, and you just smile over the rim of your glass at him. As least that hadn't ended up in the grass.

"Luckily, the other formerly rich babies don't seem to care." You turn to look out at the crowd, picking up small plates and never eating them, mingling and changing in one great mob. You probably should be out there, talking, making cooking connections. Then, as if reading his mind, you let out a soft sigh. "I suppose we should be socializing, but I'd rather be over here." 

The admission does something strange to his stomach, and he tries hard not to show it as you look back at him. There were plenty of reasons you could like being over here, but Charles can't seem to shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, you like that he's over here too. "Really?" 

"I'm sorry if I disturbed your peace by joining you, but this-" You gesture between the two of you, leaning on the arm of your chair to look at him, and he realizes relatively quickly that he's had a little bit too much to drink, and that he pulled your chair a little too close, because half leaned on the side of your chair, you're almost in his lap, and he doesn't mind in the slightest. This time, it's Charles's heart that does something strange at you being so close, like just your proximity has him infatuated. "Seemed a lot more welcoming than that." 

Not that he'd call it infatuation. That would be crazy for someone you'd just met, but then again, you chose to come sit beside him because you felt it was welcoming. You felt he was welcoming when everyone else couldn't care to look his way for once. "You saw me?" 

"I didn't hear you." You say, though not as a bad thing. "The silence was nice, compared to all...that. I hope you don't mind the company."

"I don't mind." Charles says quickly, and a soft smile grows on your face, "It's...nice." 

"Even with the snails?" Chares snorts into his glass at your comment, most certainly not a good look, but your smile grows as Charles's heart does, and he finds that he's screwed in a mere matter of minutes. 

"Even with the snails." He answers, thoughts returning briefly to the dish he's hidden under his chair. You had the right idea, taking photos of it. So far, there was no proof Charles had attended besides him looming in the back of others' photos, and the few he had taken upon arrival. "Could you possibly send me a photo you took of them? I should post something nice while I'm here." 

You nod, returning to your phone, and Charles has never so easily gotten someone's number without even thinking before. "And how should I send it? Instagram?" 

"Ah." Or not number, he supposes. Then again, he shouldn't be handing his phone number out to strangers anyway, but still. Giving you his Instagram means you finding out everything about him in one perfect capsule, his former baby lifestyle on display, when it was this kind of connection he wanted you to have. He didn't want to scare you off, or change what this was.

He just wanted something to be normal, for once. 

"Ah?" You echo, looking up from your phone, that smile fading.

"You will know who I am, then." He clarifies, and your brows pinch together. 

"And you don't want me to know who you are?" Well, when you phrase it like that, it doesn't sound great.

He just doesn't want you to know that side of him yet. "You'll see that I'm not so different from them." He says, gesturing to the crowd, "But I suppose it's too late now." 

"You could ask for my number, and I could promise not to Google you?" It's a kind, soft answer, and this time, it feels like Charles's whole body has been set on fire, dunked in ice, maybe thrown in a blender for good measure. Now, you were giving him your number, and as much as he didn't believe you wouldn't Google him, it was a sweet gesture. 

A response immediately comes to mind, the sort of brave thing he can picture Carlos saying, or maybe Lando. And, maybe because of how you're making him feel, maybe the few glasses of wine or the distant crowd, he finds himself saying it before he can stop. "Or, I could ask for your number, and take you out to dinner to better explain who I am in person." 

He watches your cheeks flush, barely noticeable under the dim lights of the yard, and he'd give anything to see what you look like flushed in the daylight. "I'd like that." You say, handing over your phone, and Charles tries not to shake as he types in his number. This wasn't the smartest thing he's ever done, but something about you is trustworthy. "I'll make sure to pick a spot with no snails." 

"You're picking the venue?" He says, glancing up from your phone, and you shrug.

"I'm the chef, after all." You have a point there, but still.

Monaco was Charles's home, despite his qualms with it. He would show you everything and anything it has to offer, including food. Somewhat foolishly, he thinks that, if he can impress you, a chef, with his culinary opinions, he might just make this work.

"But I'm the host." He argues back, handing over your phone. "You've only been here two weeks, I should suggest where we eat." 

"Fine, then." You relent, grinning down at the phone in hand. "You pick the place to eat, and I'll see just how good your taste is." 

-

-

↳ f1gossip A follower spotted Charles Leclerc getting cozy with @/chef_yourusername, a pastry chef based in Monte Carlo, at the launch of a restaurant last night!

↳ brocedes finally someone can teach that poor man to cook 

↳ yourbestie anyone makes a joke about them going back to the kitchen and I'm throwing hands

↳ mclar_win charles I hope you have a good workout regime, have you seen the desserts @/chef_yourusername can make??

liked by chef_yourusername

-

"So, about dinner." You had tried, when Charles had picked you up, to be normal about it. You had made polite conversation, laughed at his jokes, gotten into his ridiculously expensive tinted car without batting an eye, but you knew the conversation waiting just below the surface of your silence. 

After all, it was pretty hard to ignore. It had started with some gossip account on Instagram that had somehow gotten your identity, and then it spread like wildfire until everyone you knew was calling you, texting you, sending quotes out to news sources about your relationship status and your past. You and Charles blew up before you even knew his identity, and, well.

So much for you finding out about him over dinner, because now you are very aware of his F1 fame and Monaco status, and he knows you know, except neither of you can really bring yourself to say anything about it. "What about it?" You ask, feigning ignorance even as you cringe internally. 

"I think maybe Blue Bay wouldn't be good for tonight." He parks the car in some little back alley, and your heart stops for a moment, because at the end of the day, this is basically a stranger, albeit a very rich stranger. "For your sake." 

"My sake?" His head falls back against the headrest, rolling to the side to look at you, and you let out a low breath. It wasn't fair he looked this good when he was probably about to cut this off. "I wasn't going to say anything." 

"Why?" 

"You wanted me to get to know you away from all...that." You understand, now, why he'd hesitated to give you his Instagram. This would've been a lot nicer to learn over good food, rather than the internet. "Thought I'd still give you the chance." 

Charles watches you for a moment more before a small smile graces his face, putting the car into park and turning it off. "You're not upset I'm a formerly rich baby?" 

"Intimidated, maybe." You admit, "But not upset." Then, because you feel like you need to, "I'm not here because of who you turned out to be, either."

"Good." Charles says, opening the car door. He pauses, then, looking back to you, and he gets that same smile on his face. "Good. I think you'll enjoy this place more, then." 

When people typically say a restaurant is a hole in the wall, they mean it's small - Charles has taken you to a place that's basically infinitesimal. It's two high-top tables and a counter, with slices of pizza on display. It's the sort of place you couldn't imagine existing in Monaco, or that Charles would willingly enter. 

"Charles!" The shop owner says, quickly shuffling across the small restaurant to shake his hand. It's somehow shorter than Charles, a feat you weren't sure was possible. "Si tôt de retour?" Back so soon? Back? 

Charles had come here before? Willingly? "Ah, Paulo. Nous avons besoin d'un endroit privé pour manger." We need a private place to eat, Charles says, gesturing to you beside him, and you offer a small wave. 

"Ah, quelle charmante surprise!" What a lovely surprise, which you hope is the truth. He gestures for you to follow, and he opens the door to the kitchen. Charles gently places his hand on the small of your back, gesturing for you to go, and you stop to look at him. 

"Anything you want to tell me?" You say, finally walking into the equally small kitchen, and then, to your surprise, through the back door to a little wooden dock on the water, and you stop in your tracks. 

"That my trainer does not know this place exists, and never will." What obviously is a back walkway on the water has been turned into a little oasis away from the rest of Monaco. Considering every trip you've taken outside has resulted in some sort of secret photo being taken of you, this table, with two chairs and a candle, far away from anyone, was far better than any fancy experience out there. The sun, just starting to set, has the sky covered in pink and orange twists of clouds, reflected in the water just at the horizon. "Merci, Paulo." 

At a loss for words, Charles pulls out a seat at the small table, and you sit. He takes his place across from you, crossing his arms as he looks out at the water. 

Compared to all the headlines you'd read about him, all the clips and all the comments, you hadn't really expected this. You expected the former rich baby lifestyle, the luxury, not secret back patios to old pizza restaurants. Somehow, it makes Charles more attractive than he already ridiculously is. "My father would take me and my brothers here." Charles says, finally looking from the water to find you staring. "I know it's not exactly Michelin star, but-" 

"It's perfect, Charles." The response seems to take him by surprise, his expression shifting into something you don't quite understand. "I'm impressed." 

"Well." Charles says slowly, cheeks and neck flushing. "If I had known this was what impressed you, I wouldn't have tried so hard." 

Paulo appears with two glasses of wine and wordlessly sets them down before disappearing. "You were trying hard to impress me?" 

"I mean," Charles quickly cuts himself off, taking a sip of wine. "After everything I've put you through, I ought to try hard, no?" 

"Well, it's working." Paulo reappears, with two paper plates with single slices, reminding you so much of New York, of the life that, despite only being two weeks gone, felt so far away. 

"Paulo is from New York," Charles says, thanking the man as he takes his plate. "I thought you might enjoy." 

"That's really sweet, Charles." You happily take your plate, staring down at the food you'd been craving for weeks. "Merci, Paulo." 

"Did you like New York?" You don't answer Charles immediately, because you're already inhaling half your slice. He laughs softly, watching you eat, awkwardly trying to lift up the piece to take a bite. 

You wave a hand as you swallow, stopping him in his tracks. "You fold the slice." 

"What?" Charles looks at you as if you've grown two heads, and you show him with your slice how to fold the edges to make for an easier process. 

"This is how you do it in New York." You take another bite as you watch Charles tentatively eat his, before seeming to get the hang of it. "And I love New York. It's home to so many great restaurants, great people. Monaco's a lot more to get used to." 

"Well, there are great restaurants," Then, somewhat slyly, "Great people." 

"Yourself included?" 

"Well," He says, grinning ear to ear as he looks out at the water. "I wouldn't say that." 

You hum softly in agreement, and for a moment, all the stress of the past few days slips away. All the photos, all the fans, who Charles is supposed to be disappears, and you're left staring at him, the real him, who keeps trying to fold his pizza slice the best he can and somehow fails it every time, who knocked over snails and asked you out and somehow, despite it all, is still incredibly sweet. 

Him being this attractive also doesn't hurt either. "Well," You finally say, leaning forward on the table. "You wanted me here so you could explain yourself better." 

"And we saw how well that plan went," Charles mutters under his breath. "Not much else for you to learn, is there?" 

"I wouldn't say that." There are plenty of things you didn't know about him. "Like, what's your middle name?" 

With a soft groan, Charles lowers his forehead to the table. He mutters something utterly unintelligible, before finally raising his head to give you an unimpressed look. "You're going to make fun of me for it!" 

"Well, now I have to know." 

"Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc." Charles, Marc, Hervé, Perceval, Leclerc. You try your hardest not to laugh at how truly former rich baby it sounds, and Charles fights a smile as he tries to be angry at you. "I told you!

"You sound like a prince." You say as Paulo reappears with more slices. 

"A lord, actually." He clarifies, some sort of inside joke you've obviously missed, and he waves a hand. "Never mind. Tell me something about you, then." 

"No, no, tonight's supposed to be about you." You quickly try to change the topic, to keep it on him, but he won't allow it. 

"Tonight's about us, actually." He says, and you can feel yourself grow warm, smiling like a fool down at your new plate.

Us. 

You like the sound of that. "Tell me your most embarrassing baking story." 

"We're starting with most embarrassing?" You question, quickly looking up, and Charles offers another perfect grin. "Really?" 

"Well, you already know everything embarrassing about me." With a scoff, you ball up your napkin and throw it at him, and he offers a soft gasp as it hits his shoulder. "What? You've seen my racing." 

"And that's embarrassing?" It couldn't possibly be. 

Really, you were surprised he hadn't bragged about it by now, made it something bigger, but he had avoided the topic entirely. "It's embarrassing when I lose." 

"Ah, poor baby." You tease, and Charles glances down at his plate, the softest expression breaking through, and you decide to give him a break. If he doesn't want to talk about racing, or winning, or losing, he doesn't have to. You'll have plenty of time for that later. "Well, I think most embarrassing for me would be setting one of my instructors on fire." 

And you find that, as the night goes on, and the wine gets poured, and the slices keep coming, and the sun dips below the water and night falls, Charles doesn't ever explain who he is, or what his life really is like, and really, you don't need him to. You find out everything you need to know about him simply by sitting across from him and letting yourself enjoy the night. 

-

Liked by yourbestie, bi_sous, charles_leclerc, and others

chef_yourusername I ate more than just food last week

↳ yourbestie the hottest woman to grace this earth

↳ bi_sous i'm never getting the film camera back, am i?

↳ yourbestie i'm still waiting for her to give back my bracelet from sixth grade, get in line honey Liked by yourusername

↳ brocedes call me crazy but is that not the EXACT same photo charles put on his story??

↳ pastry81 charles, we already know, you don't have to lurk

-

liked by yourbestie, bi_sous, charles_leclerc and others

chef_yourusername proof that I can serve more than food on my instagram

↳ bi_sous you need to stop with the food puns. 

↳ chef_yourusername could you say I'm...milking it? or that they're pretty corny?

↳ bi_sous i'm going to need you to put the phone down

↳ f1_fanatic CHARLES??? the hand placement????

↳ fan44 so the soft launches begin

-

-

Going out with Charles was...good. It would be hard to say anything else. It was fun, it was new, but it was daunting. 

Because it wasn't just a joke, or something to hide, Charles's fame was real, and it wasn't something that would go away, even if you were going on dates with the man. Sure, those dates were behind closed doors, but that didn't stop paparazzi, and fans, and nosy neighbours. 

It was quite a different change of pace. Moments with Charles were always in the spotlight, and you had always been behind the scenes, behind a stove, for most of your life. To have a fancy car pull up in front of your apartment building, to have reservations at the most in-demand and then the most unknown restaurants, to be his, it was all sort of a dream. And then, when you weren't with him, you were thrust back into the reality that you weren't part of the former rich baby crew. You were not a fitting piece to this wealthy, strange puzzle. 

And slowly, it dawned on you, that he'd realize this. That you catered to people of this lifestyle, you didn't live it. You couldn't name his expensive watch brands, which cost more than your apartment, hell, cost more than some houses. You couldn't pass the small talk, couldn't look the part. That, if you weren't at Charles's side, you didn't matter to the world of Monaco outside of making their desserts. 

And some day, when Charles recognized this, all of this would come to an end. The fantasy, the flings, the late nights spent curled in each other's company. Maybe, if Charles weren't so loveable, that truth would be easier. After all, it was Charles, who dumped bowls of snails on the ground, who took the lead to take you out to dinner, who treated it like it was normal. With him, everything felt normal. By your third date, you were lounging on his patio, reading books in silence. You'd taken a photo of it, included it on Instagram, because it felt like something you could control. If Charles weren't famous, it would be perfect. You would be daydreaming of getting into an actual relationship, of some day down the line wearing white, of all the possible futures you have together. 

But Charles is famous, and that fame is not ignorable, and it's not in your control. At the very least, you were spared criticism so far by those around you. People on the internet likely had other thoughts, but at Charles's advice, you didn't look at those things. You might occasionally watch videos of him, where he makes little jokes about you like it's nothing, just to remind yourself that this is real. 

You let yourself daydream and carry on because, when it does come your time to lose Charles, at least you'll make the most of it. "I never want to see a raspberry again." Bishop says as the night winds down, the last of the orders finished. "Or a blueberry. Or any berry for that matter." 

"Just be happy you work with sweet foods," Maeva responds bitterly as she wipes down her station. "I've been working with octopus all week." 

One of the servers lingers in the doorway to the kitchen, earning matching glares from the kitchen staff. "Il y a une note pour les pâtissiers?" 

There's a note for the pastry chefs, a line that has both you and Bishop look at each other in horror. "Qu’est-ce que c’est?" 

"Eh," The server extends a napkin folded into a rose to you with a somewhat embarrassed look, and you might die in front of all the other kitchen staff. "Chais pas." 

He doesn't know? How could he not know! You unfold it, expecting something from Charles, but instead, unfamiliar handwriting stares back. How you've come to know Charles's handwriting in weeks, you're not quite sure, but it reaffirms that maybe, just maybe, you've been playing into this delusion for too long. 

In case things don't work out with Mr. F1,

It says, followed by a number. 

Bishop peers over your shoulder, eyebrows raised so high they almost disappear. He was one of the few people to actually ask you about Charles. Everyone else was either too worried to ask, or didn't care to know. You turn back to the server to ask about who sent it, but he'd disappeared, and you're left with all eyes on you. 

It's the sort of attention that makes your skin crawl. "Je reviens!" I'll be back, you blurt, quickly heading for the back door. The last thing you needed was for more gossip to start up about your love life, and then, as you open the back door to the alley behind the restaurant, you find Charles leaning up against the wall, waiting for you. 

Perfect timing, as always.

The door slams behind you, startling him as he looks up from his phone, and he breaks out into a grin that, for the first time, doesn't make you smile back. "You sounded stressed this morning," He says, pushing off the wall to come toward you. "Thought you might want the company." 

You had texted him about how swamped you were at the restaurant, and at any other time, this would be a sweet gesture, in fact, it still is. It's just overshadowed by your own understanding of how soon this is going to be over. "You didn't have to do that, Charles." 

"I only have so much down time," He says with a shrug. "Might as well spend it well." 

Then, he notices the napkin in hand, the phone number written down unmistakeable. 

"Ah." The small exhale he makes does nothing to help the debate in your mind. Does he think you wanted someone's number? Does he recognize how absurd this whole thing is? An F1 driver and a pastry chef. In what fairytale does that work out? "Seems I have competition." 

"It's nothing," You say, crumpling up the paper. Maybe you should keep the number, you think. For when this all ends. "I'm sure." 

"You're sure?" He echoes, expression twisting into something unreadable. "If...if you're interested in someone else, you can just say that." 

"I'm not, Charles." And it's the truth. You want him, but that's not realistic. That much is obvious, from all the other flings F1 drivers have had, all the normal people who don't exist in their lives. They get models, and actresses, not you. Not like this. "Are you?" 

His face twists then into an expression that you can read, which is utter confusion. "No, mon coeur, why would I be?" 

"I'm not exactly a former rich baby." You say, trying to joke and failing. It was the sort of complaint you felt shouldn't be put into words, that you were worried Charles would realize how much more he could find from someone else. It was just your insecurity, but at the end of the day, it felt real. It was real. This wasn't made to be something that lasts. "We have very different lives." 

"And that's good, yeah?" He steps forward, hovering above you yet not touching. Part of you wants nothing more than to reach out and place a hand on his chest, maybe fix his hair, but another part of you is too terrified to move. "You show me snails, I show you Monaco." 

"And when you get tired of snails?" You ask, because if this is happening, you need to get everything off your chest. "And someone comes along that-" You cut yourself off before you manage to say it. 

"And someone comes along to try and convince me to try something new?" The alley falls into silence as you and Charles look at each other, because how else could you say it?

There were other people out there better suited for him. Plain and simple.

"Someone comes along with a dish that's more palatable. That people here like." You finally continue, and Charles pauses, the metaphor taking a moment to catch up, and you let out a soft breath. "What I'm saying, Charles, is that this, us, me, it doesn't last. Or at least logistically, it doesn't." 

"Logistically?" 

"You are used to the spotlight, being front and centre, and that's where you belong. I'm used to being hidden away in kitchens. That's where I belong." Charles opens his mouth to protest, and you raise your hands. "And I want to be there. Baking is my life, but it's not exactly compatible for sneaking around with a Formula One driver."

The words cling to the air, suddenly hot and heavy between the two of you. It wasn't the best way you could've phrased it, but it was the truth. "Sneaking around?" 

"Tell me that people aren't saying things. That the whole reason there's so much paparazzi coverage and photos and weird fan messages isn't because you've been seen sneaking around with a pastry chef." That's all you were.

The pastry chef. An oddity. A-"I wouldn't call it sneaking around." Charles's words cut through your thoughts, and you blink up at him in disbelief. "I'd call it dating." 

Dating.

Sure, you had gone on dates, but...

Actually dating? "What?" 

"These have been dates." He's quick to clarify, gesturing between the two of you. "Have I...not made that clear?" 

"Well, yes, but that's...that's a lot more official than it seems." Going on dates and dating, at least from what you're used to, are two very different things. If Charles weren't famous, if you hadn't read so much about him and his fellow drivers, it would be obvious. You go on dates, you're dating, you're something official.

But when a man that rich and famous and beautiful goes on dates? It's just a momentary thing, something to pass the time. None of the headlines you've seen have been serious, but as you study Charles's expression, you realize you've been looking in all the wrong places. The opinions of others never could've shown you who Charles really is.

So why should they dictate what your relationship is? "Ah." Charles breathes out, finally seeming to understand, and a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Do you want me to ask?" 

"Charles." 

"I do not care that you are not a former rich baby, or that you like snails, or whatever anyone else might have to say about that. You saw me." His hands come to rest on your waist, pulling you to him slowly. "You came and sat with me like I was anyone else. You make me feel like anyone else. I'm sorry if I don't make you feel the same." 

"You do, you do." You rush out, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Being this close doesn't feel real, and that small, nagging thought at the back of your mind reminds you why. "It's just that, every so often, a camera flashing reminds me that this isn't." 

"And I will make amends for that." Amends. It's a sort of thrilling thing, imagining Charles all serious, telling people to stop taking photos. It'll never really happen, but it's nice to picture. "But spending time with you, dating you, means the world to me. I...it sounds so stupid in English." He says with a laugh, a warm thing that finally has you smiling back. "Veux-tu être à moi?" Will you be mine, he asks, but it doesn't feel like the kind of question that needs answering, or even needs saying. You're his, the moment he dropped those stupid snails. "Don't pretend to not know French now." 

"Oh, I heard what you said." You say, hands smoothing down the front of his chest. "Just sort of...letting it sink in." 

And there, in the mild evening breeze, in a barricaded alley with Charles Leclerc, you find yourself in love. It's a little, gradual thing you know will grow further, but right now, you just let yourself enjoy the thought. 

"You're scaring me here." Charles jokes, and you finally decide to cut him some slack, and let yourself start living the life you want to live.

"Oui, Charles. Je suis à toi." 

I'm yours.

A grin splits across Charles's face so wide, it's as if you've never seen him happy before. His hands immediately come up to cup your face, as your arms loop around his neck, and he's kissing you. It's soft and sweet and so very Charles, taking up all your senses as you pull him closer against you. You had kissed before, little pecks on cheeks, but this is the first one that felt tangible, felt worthy of being called a kiss. It's the sort of reassurance that makes this insane possibility real. 

That Charles is yours, and you are his, and this is all possible, kissing in the back alley behind your restaurant like it was an everyday occurrence.

Really, you wouldn't mind if it was. "Good," He mutters against your lips. "I was going to ask you anyway." 

"Really?" 

"Mhm," He hums, pulling back with a lazy smile. "I had a picnic planned tomorrow. I was going to cook." 

"Oh, god." You laugh, letting your head fall forward against his shoulder. "Good thing you asked me now, then." 

It wasn't that Charles's cooking was bad, per se, but it was more than yours was better. "Just for that?" Charles says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "We're going on the picnic anyway." 

-

-

Liked by yourusername, carlos_sainz, and others

charles_leclerc believe it or not, I can cook

↳ chef_yourusername sweetheart, I'm going to hold your hand when I say this...

↳ charles_leclerc I did well!

↳ chef_yourusername you did so well at putting the toppings on

↳ carcarcar I'm sorry, the last photo?? i don't know what looks better, the pizza or @/chef_yourusername

liked by chef_yourusername

-

Liked by charles_leclerc, yourbestie, and others

chef_yourusername if you think dating a chef gets you free food, you are very wrong - you become free labour ;)

↳ charles_leclerc you're welcome, mon coeur

↳ chef_yourusername merci charlie 🥰

↳ charles_leclerc ❤️ 🥟 🍜

↳ mclar_win the matching fits!! 

↳ brocedes who wants to bet the white is to hide all the flour?

↳ carcarcar first an ice cream brand, what next, a full restaurant?

↳ chef_yourusername @/charles_leclerc please please please please please please please????

↳ charles_leclerc ... i'll think about it

↳ bi_sous @/chef_yourusername you better hire me

↳ chef_yourusername obviously

a/n: despite learning french for basically ten years now, i have no idea if any of this is correct. enjoy?

[f1cflcfic]

Won't Say I'm In Love (SMAU ft. Lando Norris) - part xviii

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader; past carlos alcaraz x fem!reader

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers, tbd

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons

series: part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii. part viii, part ix, part x, part xi, part xii, part xiii, part xiv, part xv, part xvi, part xvii, tbd.

bonus: one, two, three, four, five

a/n: so happy for Lando that he won Austria, and what a great and fun, clean battle between him and Oscar today! It got me a little distracted, but here we are :)

July 21 - 23, 2025

[Excerpt: Transcript Podcast Episode with Y/N]

Obviously the next big tour is coming up with Wimbledon. Now, there's been a lot of talk - as every year - considering the fashion of it all. It's one of the few tournaments where you're required to wear all white or risk disqualification. What are your thoughts?

"You know, there's something nice about the tradition of it all. It elevates it to this special tournament where everyone looks a certain part. But rules and traditions should also make room to evolve and adapt over time. To be honest, Wimbledon is the worst and the best. It's my home Grand Slam, but I've never won it before. It's got a lot of prestige attached to it, which also means a lot of pressure. And I've genuinely had many bad dreams about getting my period in the middle of a tight match on court. But hopefully, third time's the charm to win the final."

You bring up an important point. Periods. Menstruation and sports, is that something you have to plan around?

"I mean, a lot of us will probably all be taking some type of contraceptive that helps with that. But it won't look the same for everyone, and you all have to have a period at one point. So, yeah, you can try and plan around it, but anyone who menstruates will have had a period hit at the most inopportune time. I've been on my period during the US Open, for example. It was not fun. And even if it's not that, also like being at a friend's house and realising they don't have any period products is the worst. Thankfully, most of my male friends grew up with sisters, so they'll know better - but gents, if you're listening, get your period products in order!"

[...]

But after Wimbledon, there's a little bit of breathing space in an otherwise super tight calendar. What have you got lined up to relax over the summer? Your sister is getting married, right?

"Yes, she is! I'm so looking forward to it. They've been together for a long time now and have a kid together. But yeah, Derek proposed to my sister and then a day later they found out that Vic was pregnant with Jessie, so it's been in the works for a while this wedding. Obviously that also means that she's had to make changes all the time when it comes to the table setting, guest list, stuff like that. But I think it's going to come together really beautifully."

Have you been able to be as involved as you'd like?

"Well, I'm super glad my sister wanted to make sure she picked a date that I could actually attend. Still, there's stuff that I wasn't able to do with her, like a bachelorette party and all. But I'll get to be her maid of honour on the day itself, so that's nice. And I get to bring my best friend as a plus one, so I'm looking forward to that, too. Some of my friends have gotten close to Vic and her partner as well throughout the past years, so it's nice to be able to celebrate altogether."

July 23 - 25, 2025

[Excerpt: Transcript interview George Russell]

Now George, you're getting ready for qualifying, but we heard you joke about Lando Norris' poor eyesight after he collided with a door earlier today. You'd expect better from the championship leader, wouldn't you?

"I mean, sure. But aside from driving he's a bit of a mess. Just, chaotic, frenetic energy. Always very competitive, but also a genuine hazard for himself at times. As was apparent today."

You also play padel with him and the others, you posted a photo just the other day with you and fellow drivers. Who'd you say is the worst?

George smirks, then pretends to think it over. "We played padel the other day yeah, but who's the worst? I'd have to say Lando. You'd think he'd be better considering all the private lessons he's gotten from Y/N - but I guess they haven't really been very productive. Or he's just a lost cause."

Thankfully he's better on the racetrack.

George laughs. "I mean, that's great for him, but bad for me. If only it'd be as easy to beat him on track as it is on the padel court."

July 25 - 28, 2025

a/n: And look at that, y/n is making an effort and she is choosing to stay (for now hehe)

♥ likes, comments, reblogs and asks are always very much appreciated - i love chatting and hearing your thoughts! ♥

taglist (open): @linnygirl09 @julesbog @midnight-and-books @sarx164 @obxstiles @freyathehuntress @vhkdncu2ei8997 @berrnuu @lightdragonrayne @glow-ish @batsratswrites @blushmimi @colmathgames2 @esw1012 @sadiemack9 @tremendousstarlighttragedy @awritingtree @its-elias-world @sarah-thatstings-ann @jessicanotta @fairyjinn @destinyg237 @verogonewild @annimausi @taetae-armyyyyy @jkoooooooookie @coral7161 @chezmardybum

[starset21]

Part 1: Motorsport Unity Day

Pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

Summery: Max Verstappen, a dominant F1 champion with a reputation for intensity and precision, is partnered with you, a passionate, proud NASCAR champion who’s made history behind the wheel of car #33. When a Red Bull cross-promotional event brings their worlds colliding—literally—the clash of egos becomes impossible to ignore.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

A/N: This will be a multi-part series

The airstrip buzzed with cameras, crew members, and the unmistakable hum of too many egos in one place.

A PR stunt—that’s what it was. They dressed it up as “Motorsport Unity Day”, but really, it was just a circus of fast cars, faster mouths, and more testosterone than a pre-race driver’s meeting. You adjusted the sleeves on your fire suit, Red Bull’s logo stitched alongside your usual Team Penske insignia. You were used to attention. NASCAR champion at the age of 22, now at 27 your number—33—had become iconic. 

But this? This felt like bait.

Off to your right, rally cars sat squat and aggressive under the harsh sun. Down the row, MotoGP bikes leaned on kickstands like coiled animals. The center of it all was the custom drag strip Red Bull had laid out on the old airstrip, freshly paved and lined with towering banners. Loud, bold, over-the-top—exactly their style.

You were halfway through adjusting your gloves when the murmurs started.

Max Verstappen had arrived.

You didn’t have to look to know. His presence spread like gasoline fumes—unmistakable and vaguely irritating. You looked anyway.

He strolled in like he owned the place, Red Bull-branded suit unzipped halfway, fireproof undershirt clinging to him like it had been tailored by someone with an ego as large as his own. The smirk on his face said it all: he was here for the headlines, not the handshake.

“Figures,” you muttered.

Your crew chief caught your eye. “Play nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

Max’s gaze skimmed across the paddock, past the rally drivers, past the MotoGP star giving a quick interview. Then it landed on you—hard and unblinking. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Ah,” he said, approaching with that measured, practiced swagger. “The NASCAR star. Number thirty-three.” He let the number hang for a second. Then: “I always liked that one. Doubled up, neat, symmetrical. Shame it doesn’t seem to help with turning right.”

You blinked, once, slow. 

“Well, I figured I’d leave all the overcomplicated geometry to you F1 types. I prefer racing over calculus.”

His smile twitched wider, like he was enjoying this. Too much.

“And yet here you are—drag strip, shared sponsor, shared team. Guess we’ve got something in common after all.” He paused. “Besides winning, I mean.”

You stepped forward, just enough to close the space between you—not touching, but close enough to let him know you weren’t backing down.

“You want to talk about wins, Verstappen?” you said, voice low, steady. “Come find me on a track where you can’t DRS your way out of a dogfight.”

Max’s eyes flickered—just briefly—to the Red Bull logo stitched next to Penske on your chest. His expression turned thoughtful for half a second. Then, that same smirk returned.

Then, that same smirk returned—weaponized now, sharpened by something behind his eyes.

“I’m not picky,” Max said, voice lazy but pointed. “Tarmac, gravel, oval, street. Doesn’t matter. I adapt. That’s why I win.”

You tilted your head, just a fraction. “Right. Adaptability. Is that what you call it when you blame the tire strategy every time someone breathes down your neck?”

That earned a flicker. Not much. But you saw it.

A crew member coughed awkwardly nearby. Someone snapped a photo. You could feel the moment calcifying, turning into content—fodder for socials, headlines, maybe even a Netflix cutaway if someone was feeling dramatic enough. This wasn’t just posturing. This was theater.

Max glanced around, then gestured toward the starting line. “Enough talk. Let’s show them how it’s done.”

You followed him through the maze of cables and cameras toward the drag strip, the roar of engines growing louder as crews prepped the machines. The tension in the air was thick—half anticipation, half unspoken challenge.

Your crew chief pulled you aside. “Remember, this isn’t a race. It’s a show run. Start together, full throttle, straight line. The shot’s what matters, not the time.”

You nodded, though the adrenaline was already spiking in your veins. No room for error. No excuses.

Max was already slipping into his car—a sleek, almost fragile-looking F1 beast that seemed to hum with restrained fury. You climbed into the cockpit of your stock car, the familiar weight of the steering wheel and pedals grounding you.

The cameras circled, the director calling for final checks. You could hear the muffled countdown over the comms. The world shrank down to the strip ahead—a flat, unyielding ribbon of blacktop shining in the sun.

“Three… two… one… GO!”

Both engines roared to life, tires gripping hard, the air filled with exhaust and burning rubber. You and Max launched simultaneously, power and precision meeting in a blur of speed.

The strip stretched out beneath you like an endless challenge. No turns. No tricks. Just raw velocity—and pride.

The world blurred into streaks of color, the roar of engines pounding in your ears like a drum solo gone mad. The stock car’s weight pressed down through the suspension, muscles and metal working in perfect harmony. You fought the instinct to glance over—Max’s F1 machine was a rocket on rails, its high-revving engine screaming with a sound so alien to your NASCAR-hardened senses it felt like a different language.

But you didn’t look. Not yet.

The drag strip was deceptively simple, but it demanded everything. One slip, one hesitation, and the whole run was toast. The air thickened with heat and speed; the finish line blurred closer, a promise and a threat. Your hand tightened on the wheel. This wasn’t just about a PR stunt or a viral clip. This was pride—the kind you could taste in your throat, bitter and fierce. As the line flew beneath you, the F1 car pulled just slightly ahead—its aerodynamic edge clear, the precision of its design screaming at every inch. Still, you kept your foot down, knowing full well that raw power was your weapon here, the kind that didn’t care about finesse but about pure, brutal thrust.

The engines began to fade as you crossed the line, the cameras exploding with clicks and shouts. Your chest rose and fell, sweat mixing with the heat under your helmet. The airstrip buzzed louder than before, the moment captured but far from over. Behind the scenes, your crew chief’s voice came clear through the comms: “Good run. Looks like they got the shot.” 

You peeled off the strip, heart hammering as the crowd’s murmurs swelled around you. Climbing out of the car, you quickly removed your helmet, letting the breeze cool your face. Max’s car was already gliding to a stop beside yours. He climbed out, helmet coming off to reveal that same cocky grin. But this time, there was something different — a glint of respect, or maybe just an acknowledgment that you weren’t a joke to be dismissed.

“Not bad for a brute,” he said, voice low but carrying that trademark edge. “Almost made me sweat.”

You locked eyes with him, letting the weight of the moment settle between you. No need for words—this was the quiet truce forged in speed and steel. The crowd’s noise faded into the background, replaced by the steady pounding of your own pulse.

You smirked, already peeling the gloves from your fingers. “You ever want a real challenge, take a stock car for a spin. See if you can handle something that doesn’t stick to the ground like it’s magnetized.”

Max huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair. “Tempting,” he said. “Could be fun… or deeply humbling. I’ll think about it.”

He held your gaze a second longer, grin crooked but no longer mocking. Just something close to… intrigued.

You crossed your arms loosely. “So what now? We shake hands and smile for the PR cameras?”

Max’s eyes flicked toward the crowd, then back to you. “We could. But I was thinking something less… staged.”

“Oh?” you raised a brow. “Like what?”

He took a small step closer, the space between you narrowing just enough to feel intentional. “I don’t know. Maybe a quiet lap around the paddock. Just you, me, and no cameras. 

You tilted your head, lips quirking. “A lap around the paddock? That your idea of foreplay?”

Max’s grin sharpened, but his eyes stayed steady on yours. “Depends. You planning to make me work for it?”

You huffed a soft laugh and shook your head. “Come on, Verstappen. Let’s walk before you try to impress me behind the wheel.”

He fell into step beside you, hands in the pockets of his suit as you both moved away from the crowd, away from the cameras and the constant hum of engine noise and forced smiles. The sun was starting to dip, casting long shadows across the tarmac and turning everything gold at the edges.

For a moment, it was just the sound of your boots on pavement and the quiet rhythm of two drivers who lived most of their lives in motion.

“So,” Max said eventually, glancing sideways at you. “You always this mouthy, or do I just bring it out of you?”

You smirked. “Depends. You always this smug, or is that a Red Bull requirement?”

He chuckled, genuinely this time. “Touché.”

You strolled past stacks of tires, past rally cars stripped down for show, and a pit crew packing up their gear. The air smelled like burnt rubber and brake dust—familiar, grounding. Somehow, it felt easier to talk now.

“I watched your run at Martinsville,” Max said after a beat. “The last-lap move.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you followed NASCAR.”

“I follow good racing,” he said simply.

A pause.

“…You were relentless.”

That stopped you—just half a step. Then you kept walking. “That’s the job.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

Another quiet moment passed, and then your shoulder brushed his—just lightly, maybe by accident, maybe not.

You glanced up at him. “So, Verstappen… you always walk PR laps with rivals?”

He smiled. “Only the interesting ones.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved anyway. “You really know how to flirt like it’s a sport.”

“It is,” he said. “You just haven’t seen me in qualifying yet.”

You laughed, surprising even yourself with how easy it came. Max looked almost smug with the sound, like he’d earned something.

As you reached the edge of the lot, the quiet between you settled into something that felt… unfinished. Like the story wasn’t over yet. You both stopped, standing near a stack of crates and a faded Red Bull banner flapping lazily in the breeze.

Max pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, then held it out. “In case I decide to take that stock car for a spin.”

You eyed the screen, then took it without hesitation, entering your number. “In case I decide to let you.”

You handed it back, your fingers brushing his. Brief. Intentional.

“Thanks,” he said, tucking the phone away.

You offered him a final smirk. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Max grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then he turned and walked off toward the rest of the pit lane, still that same casual strut—but now, somehow, it felt like he was leaving room behind him.

You exhaled slowly, then turned back toward your car, the crew already packing up. Your chief gave you a look—half amusement, half suspicion—but didn’t say a word. Good. You weren’t in the mood to explain whatever the hell that just was.

Not yet.

[markrex]

ok FINALLY getting around to asking you questions i’ve been so busy im gonna cry

Ok erm. Interview time twin!

these go for both pinko AND finn

favorite food?

worst fear?

favorite thing to do in their free time?

favorite outfit/accesory?

favorite media (show/movie/book)?

any extra lore you want to tell?

okay so i’m going to answer this like this:

PINKO:

pinkos favorite food would be literally anything that debbie makes for dinner, he doesn’t have a favorite because debbie’s cooking is the best to them💜💜

pinkos worst fear is being left alone because the majority of her life she was left alone since her parents shipped her off to earth because they were not like “everybody else” on her planet (to be far, pinko was literally a toddler when his parents were like “oh yeah let’s abandon our kid on earth!!!!!” so fuck them)

pinko actually enjoys reading because they enjoy learning about random shit, like she’d wake mark up in the middle of the night with the latest space fact and mark is like “oh…. that’s nice honey…” /ref LMFAOOO

pinko LOVESSSSSSS his collar and while many others think it’s dehumanizing it makes pinko feel like she has their own identity and isn’t just that creature that not many others like (fuck cecil by the way what a bitch) 

pinko is a simple creature and likes whatever mark likes 😛😛

in terms of extra lore; pinkos race (haven’t came up with a name yet) is a very intelligent species and that’s one of the things they pride themselves on and so when pinko was “falling behind” in terms of intelligence their parents had no choice but to ship them off and try again (fuck pinkos race btw they suck)

FINN:

finn’s favorite food is rice and beans (omg no way me too) because it gives him a sense of comfort since his mom use to make it all the time for either breakfast, lunch, or dinner

finn’s worst fear is not being able to live up to the expectations his father has set for him and not being able to make a difference in the world, something his mom had asked him to do before she passed

finn loves listening to music in his free time, he’s into any type of music, most of it is late or early 2000’d music or rap are his favorite

FINN LOVES HIS WOLF SHIRTS!!!!!!!!!!! he doesn’t go anywhere without them and ppl might call him cringe but at least he’s free 🐎🐎

breaking bad, he loves breaking bad for some reason he thinks it’s peak fiction, also he’s really into sonic for whatever reason (also his favorite movie is how to train your dragon because it’s PEAK and has dragons)

okay so finn’s family is interesting because his dad is like, just a demon sent from where? no one knows but his mom is fully human and similar to when debbie and nolan first met, they met after his father saved his mom and they really hit it off afterwards but then his mom got pregnant and his dad was like LMFAOOO BYE and left because he couldn’t handle that responsibility BUT he does send finn’s mom money for finn ((so she doesn’t have to take finn’s dad to court because he doesn’t want to get into that what so ever)) but after finn’s mom passed away his dad saw him once said “either you go out there and make something of yourself or stay on the streets” ((he said this to like 12 year old finn btw)) he had no choice to accept so from then on his dad has set very high expectations for him ((okay i’m done yapping))

[aihoshiino]

Hi, I hope you've had a nice day so far!

I'm sorry if this is a weird question, but how does one "get as much into a character's head" as you did with Ai?

All your posts about her are so incredibly in character, it's actually amazing. You seem to have a really deep understanding of her.

Sorry if this question comes off as rude or anything. I really like reading your blog posts.

thank you, anon! <3 i hope your day was nice too!

unfortunately i am going to make it slightly worse by giving what is probably the world's most unhelpful answer and say. I Don't Know. DJFKSJDSKLS

I think part of it just comes from the fact that my main hobby for basically my Entire adult life has been crosscanon roleplay, so nailing down a character's patterns of behaviour and extrapolating from it to draw conclusions about it that aren't just regurgitating canon verbatim is kind of baked into how I engage with media now, especially something that's really compelled me. That and I just enjoy this kind of analysis and meta for its own sake (AS IS PROBABLY OBVIOUS BY NOW)

In addition, a really formative work for me was Umineko: When They Cry which is, in short, a mystery novel about training you to be good at reading mystery novels and essentially demands that you Git Good at this kind of intricate character analysis in order to have the best experience with it. Higurashi defo has this to some degree as well, of course, but Umineko is the most explicitly About this aspect of its own narrative. So I was very much microwaved in the WTC mines.

THAT SAID, I can't tell you Exactly the process my brain works to arrive at the conclusions I do, but I can break down the process I'd recommend to start getting into a character's head.

First thing to do is pretty straightforward - revisit the canon material! Revisit all their appearances in canon and also seek out supplementary material - spinoff works, creator interviews, etc etc. Familiarize yourself with how they behave in the material as written.

From there, sit down with all this info and start drawing connections and following through on the patterns they establish. This is the part of the process that's hard to explain because it's basically just the meat and potatoes of forming your actual interpretation - like, as a random example; "hm, A-ko says she hates cats but we later find out that she's actually allergic to them. This seems small but it's part of a larger pattern of her trying to cover up for her weak spots even when they're small and inconsequential. Why does she feel so insecure that even something as small as a cat allergy is something she feels she has to lie to cover up?". That kind of thing.

Something else that's also important is... I'm not quite sure how else to say this but if you're looking to get into a characters' head as they're portrayed in canon, then you need to meet the canon text where it's actually at. By that I mean you need to think about the tone and the emotional themes of the work and how that character is placed within them. For example, a big reason I was always so exasperated by the 'omg what if ai was secretly teh evilz' speculation was because our sympathy for Ai and empathy with Aqua and Ruby's love and grief for her is the emotional foundation of OnK's story and taking that away compromises so much of the core premise that it would require a total restructuring of the very idea of what OnK even is, which is clearly way beyond the scope of what the manga was actually trying to do. Keeping in mind an author's intentions and what the story actually is can be really helpful when it comes to nailing down a character's internal world.

Hopefully this is helpful, anon! Some of this was very like, esoteric and vague lol but again, this is kind of just how my brain responds to narrative, so it's hard to explain.

[thethronezone]

I bet all the Primarchs sons were very confused about the love island... Aside the WorldEaters- they are greatly enjoying the break from papa.

They are all just like... "All this effort for a spouse...?" Even the ones with the cringefail in romance fathers feel this is tad much effort.

But the Iron hands are like ff this, and just trying to get on the island to get their father...and failing. This footage is used for the ORK fight island verson.

Like, the Primarchs might understand why the Emperor wants them to find life partners and all that but why does it need to be televised? That's what really confuses them. And what's up with the confessionals and interviews between segments? And the game challenges? And the totally scripted drama?

I'd like to think that most legions are rooting for their Primarch to find love. Like, the White Scars? Space Wolves? Luna Wolves? They have heated discussions about who's the best match for their Primarch and cheer whenever he makes a move.

Meanwhile, the World Eaters are mostly impressed that Angron has been able to stay so calm this entire time while the Iron Hands are trying to use clues to from the footage to find the location of the island so they can save their Primarch. These bitches are convinced Ferrus is sending them secret messages and orders when in all actuality he's having quite a nice time, chatting and getting cozy with this one tech priest contestant.

[inkshadow]

"lying about... how old you are or things like surprise parties?" she figures she can slip that in there since the whole age revelation thing happened just recently. "oh i don't — sure, i think that's an even trade." there isn't much else to her other than what's gleaned in interviews but not because of lack of substance; haneul just doesn't typically keep so many people around her for that to really matter or surface. it might be nice to actually speak with peach more as a friend as opposed to an employer. "we have a few minutes to spare. is... there anything else i should know about? oh — occasionally, we'll order food in backstage and everything. what sorts of things do you like to eat and drink?"

"i never lie! well, unless it's about birthdays or... you know, stuff like that." not that haneul has any reason to believe her, of course. they've only just met and peach isn't naïve enough to think that the actress can just take her word for it. "for sure, i'll be around then. you'll have to tell me more about you, too!" sure, there's things that she can probably read about the other woman but that doesn't feel nearly as personable as hearing them directly from her.

[gawankeundco]

jussi olkinuora giving insight on his new team’s city: frankfurt is really hot. the rink is very hot, too. i sweat a lot.

[escapingarchives]

if Nureyev and Juno are together post-canon but not living together (bc Nureyev needs adventures and heists off planet) I can absolutely see him announce to Juno that he's back on Mars by just committing a crime and leaving enough clues for a) the case to get to Juno, and b) lead him on a mystery chase until Juno catches him in a fancy hotel room, lounging on a bed covered in rose petals and a spectacular outfit, feigning surprise

(Juno figures out it was Nureyev several hours earlier, but he plays along anyway. Besides, following the clues is fun)

[bogkeep]

[at the gender clinic trying to get diagnosed as a trans man] me: ... and i unironically think that fictional characters who wear leather longcoats and wide brimmed hats that are like, edgy loners and stuff are cool. i think this is pretty conclusive evidence that i'm a man

the doctor i'm talking to: mmm actually several of our patients that are currently detransitioning like leather longcoats, so this is worrisome

[sapphicsnzs]

camping with allergies is so adorable especially with a significant other. being outside all day kicking off their allergies. then holding them close by the campfire and having the smoke tickle their nose more. and then finally exhausted after a day of sneezing cuddling into their partner in the tent only to realize there’s so much dust in there. also the idea of not having tissues because you can’t throw them out so having to use a bandana, a shirt, or your partner…

[russell-crowe]

[src]

[asmeninas]

crazy

[cel-aerion]

Me in a post two days ago: "It seems to me that [X character] was the programming guy, and [Y character] was the robotics guy."

RE in a YouTube interview that streamed yesterday: "We liked to say that like one of them was, like, the tech guy who did all, like, the hardware, and one of them was more of the software kind of guy who, like, did all the coding and stuff."

Me watching this interview: *nearly chokes on my drink because VALIDATED*

[thewhizzyhead]

I know that this brainfart is like a "well fucking duh" moment given that Barrett wilbert weed originated both musical Veronica and Janis, but like,,,auli'i cravalho could make for a good musical movie veronica and I mean that genuinely

[dsm-v]

my boyfriend who I have gone on one date with who I want to marry texted me and I’m gonna look at it in the morning I said I want to hold hands with him. maybe he is saying we are not a good fit and that would be okay too