#what a treat huh

[sandflakedraws]

my 'u should play ghost trick' propaganda starts now

[divineandmajesticinone]

4 MINUTES (2024) I EP. 6 & EP. 7 "You're still afraid of dogs."

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXVIII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... Danny has another hashtag breakdown! Man, we've got a lot of these, huh? It's YJ's fault this time; whoopsie doodles! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

“Danny,” Diana says from the door.

Danny looks up from his place in the book. It’s definitely aimed at younger kids, but it’s a pretty wordy picture book; there are a couple paragraphs he can’t quite parse, but he’s making pretty good progress on the words he can’t recognize.

It’s a story about a cat who misses its mother. Danny tries not to relate to it too much.

“Hm?” he asks, flipping the front flap of the dust cover over his current pages to mark his place. The book goes back onto the nightstand, beside his space shuttle; Danny uses the railing beside his bed to support himself stepping up and out of his wheelchair, leaning on the railing until he can figure out…wait, where’d he leave his old people walker?

“This walk is long. You will want your chair.”

Well, then. Couldn’t she have said that before Danny did all that pulling? Danny falls back into his chair, kinda peeved. “Fine.”

Diana smiles. She doesn’t have to wear the mask around him anymore— Danny’s pretty sure that his injuries have been declared as clotted, or sealed, or whatever at this rate. They for sure swabbed his ectoplasm and came to some kind of conclusion, anyway, which means he only looks gross, but isn’t, like���actively leaking fluids.

On the one hand, gross! But, well, you know. Nothing for it but bandaids and time.

And her face looks nice. Danny hadn’t known what she’d looked like, before. She smiles when she sees him. Her light eyes crinkle, and her lips turn up… She’s nice. Danny’s sure that she’s only there to be in charge of him in case he gets scary, but she’s in charge of him and she’s nice. She doesn’t have to be nice; lots of people have been in charge of him and been mean about it. There was that one guy who kept holding him—with the taser—

(Time slips away from him, a little. When he gets back to the world in front of him, Diana is carefully looking at his face, the back of her hand stroking the back of his.)

Danny’s in his chair. He’s not…there. He’s in his chair, on a big space station (????) with a bunch of really colorful fighters on it, and Diana is touching his hand (that’s so much weaker and slower than it used to be) and he’s not hungry and he’s only scared because of memories. He’s safe. He’s not being pinned down by the neck so that they can strap down his wrists and hips to the table—they’re not shocking him—he can move his fingers, he’s not stuck in his core—

His core throbs. Danny bites into his bisected lip, and tries not to cry.

“Are you alright?” Diana asks, voice gentled. The soft touch of her hand doesn’t stop. “We can wait. There is no—“

Danny shakes his head, and takes his hand away so he could wipe at his eyes. It’s fine. Bad memories are everywhere: in the walls, in the floor, in the ceiling, in the hands of people taking care of him. That’s not… There’s nothing Danny can do about that. That just. Takes time.

…He think he might have that time. Now. He thought he would die for good in that five by five box, waiting for something that would finally end him instead of just keeping him in a cycle of injuries he never fully healed from.

But now he’s not. He’s here.

He wants to keep going.

“Alright,” Diana says, slow and careful. “Hold on.”

Danny doesn’t hold on—or, well, you know, he engages his core muscles and all that, but he doesn’t cling to his arm rests or to the frame of his chair because he knows that Diana is really, really strong, but she also really, really doesn’t want to hurt him.

She rolls him out of the medical wing and into the space station proper. Danny feels like he’s been here before, but he doesn’t remember it super well. Maybe it was when he was sick or something? Either way, a lot of different people wave at him as they go by—or just straight up stare, if they’re rude—and Danny generally just watches people rush by, carrying all kinds of equipment, and a potted plant, and a…starfish in a jar…?

Oh, the starfish waves at him???? Danny waves back because?? What??

Danny rolls to a stop at a smooth, cylindrical elevator. It looks like a giant test tube.

…Oh boy. Danny takes a deep breath, and holds it. Reflexively. Sure, this elevator probably isn’t like being dunked into water to see if his body absorbs ambient oxygen from the atmosphere or if his biology is truly not oxygen-based, but the memory is. Bad.

They go upwards. Nothing happens but Diana’s pushed button.

Danny exhales.

They get off at a section of the base Danny’s never been to, and it's essentially just a long, somewhat narrow hallway. The walls are actually painted a creamy off-white here, and there’s…like…decorative panels towards the base of his wheels trailing down the hallway? An orange ceiling, too?

Huh??

The rooms are numbered, but they’re not plain steel like in other areas downstairs; some of them have stickers, or drawings, or marker written straight onto the door itself. They look...cozy...? Danny thinks so, anyway, compared to the rest of the ultra high tech space base.

They roll to a stop in front of a door. It’s got a number on it, same as all the others, but there’s a box cutout taped to the front of it. The—

—The print is of the same style of space shuttle Danny keeps next to his bed, inked onto glorious cardboard medium.

Danny stares.

“Gegrapa,” Diana urges, so gentle. Too bad that, uh, Danny doesn’t know that one. He looks at her. She mimes touching the door— Oh. Got it.

Danny leans forward just enough to touch the door with his fingertips.

The door says something in a robotic voice, but the synthesizer is too mangled for Danny to make out the words. The door slides open horizontally into the wall, instead of the way the other doors open like portals or from below, and it’s kind of cool?

Inside is a bedroom. Danny stares.

…No, it’s actually a bedroom. Not a medical wing, not a cot, not a repurposed conference room or—it’s actually got a bed in it. Like. A real one. There’s a wooden headboard and it’s got a mattress on it that’s thicker than a VCR.

There’s constellation sheets on a bed big enough to curl up on.

There’s a nightstand, a small desk on the far wall—there’s a little lip where the bedroom dips into a tiny sitting room, a small television on a table and a small table and chair. It’s kind of…it’s kind of like a little hotel suite.

Danny’s mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t move, and Diana doesn’t wheel him in. “It’s okay,” Diana says, and—Danny almost flinches when she touches his hair, but it’s only Diana, who’s never hit him, and they’re fine. He’s…safe. It’s safe. He’s safe here. “Do you want to go in?”

Danny doesn’t move. His hands don’t touch the wheels. They’re shaking; he puts his hands in his lap and he tries to breathe. “…What?” he asks hoarsely.

“A rum for my Danny,” Diana murmurs, quietly. Danny’s heart throbs at the possessive. “You are healthier now. You do not need doctors every hour, but only sum hours. You cuðe spenda more time here, all ana.”

Words go by so fast even at Diana's smooth, unhurried pace— and Danny licks dry, split lips. He looks around the room—and the room is small, sure, but they're in space. Space will always be a premium. Even in this small room, though, the furniture is sparse and placed distant from each other…distant enough that Danny can wheel around freely in his chair.

There’s a Moon clock display hung on the wall over the doorway, and Danny can faintly see the outline of what he assumes is the current lunar phase as seen from Earth.

Having the lamp isn’t exactly the same as glow-in-the-dark-stars, and thank goodness for that. If it had been, Danny might have cried.

(Or, he realizes, something burning in his eyes that isn’t ectoplasm, maybe he is crying.)

“...Me?” Danny asks, terrified to know the answer. Is this room for him?? Is he getting a room here? Is he supposed to stay here? On the moon?! Is he supposed to stay with everyone here, in a tiny room, where there’s nowhere to go and nowhere to escape?

…It’s a bedroom. It’s already so much more than the stupid guys in white ever gave him.

“Yes,” Diana says, and lets go of his hair. “Use it, or do not. Sitta here, or sitta in the medical bay, but now you have two choices.”

Okay. So Danny has choices. He swallows his feelings—they taste a lot like snot—and rolls himself inside to inspect the room.

There’s another little fridge inside the sitting area. It’s not right next to the bed like it is beside Danny’s cot, but it is the same style of fridge. When Danny pops the door open, it has the same styles of snacks. Fig Einsteins. Peanut butter squeezies and applesauce squeezies and yogurt squeezies. Protein shakes in bottles. Pedialight. Hummus packs.

Danny might still need someone to open the snack packs for him. That’s kind of a high dexterity food, if he thinks about it.

“If you wish to sitta here, we will visit you all you like. There is a belle at your bed,” Diana says, and walks in with all her purple scrubs and tied-up hair to point to a little button on his nightstand. It’s red. It’s got a little smiley face sticker next to it, and Danny thinks he recognizes the style from one of his nurse’s bestickered name tags. Belle is probably a direct cognate for bell. He’ll be able to get everyone to come up here if he needs help.

…Okay, that’s kind of nice. To have personal space. He hasn’t had that since… Danny’s eyes squint as he thinks; he rubs an eye. Wait, when had he been squatting under a conference table? Was that a real memory??

Diana is very tall, even in the little space, but when she ducks her head, the gesture makes her a little smaller, a little more manageable for Danny’s lower-than-usual-gaze. Now that he can see her expression, she looks soft, and even uncertain, even though she looks stone and strong on the television when she goes out to fight. “Do you like it?” she asks.

Danny fidgets.

He—does. He likes it a lot. The room doesn’t have any windows, but if Danny moved all his things in here, got used to being able to come and go, and people coming in and out…this space could be just another space. It’s quieter than the medical ward. More peaceful.

…The room is utterly devoid of other people.

(Danny thinks of The Box. Danny thinks of being in The Box.)

(Danny doesn’t like remembering The Box.)

“I am scared,” Danny admits to his twitching thumbs, his fingers itching for a fidget toy or one of his physical therapy tools. Diana’s face immediately drops.

“Why are you scared?”

I’ll be alone Danny wants to say, but he doesn’t know the word for alone and he struggled with phrasing. “No…people here.”

“That is triewe. You would have more dīegolnes here,” Diana agrees, and straightens out of her crouch. “Is that good, or bad?”

It isn’t good and it isn’t bad…? Danny isn’t sure how to phrase it. It’s neither. Being alone is just scary.

“You not hurt me,” Danny tries, knowing he’s missing some connecting word in the middle. He ignores how Diana comes back to kneel beside him, because if he looks at her, he won’t say anything. “Do not.”

“No,” Diana says, from beside and below him, gentle, careful. “We do not.”

No. They don’t. Danny swallows. “Bad…hurt me.” He doesn’t know the word for Earth or planet or even downstairs, so he just meekly points downwards.

Diana stills. It’s like watching Vlad’s Maddie cat spot a bird to hunt down. Danny tries not to feel pinned. “On eorþegearde?” she asks, still light, still gentle. Danny can hear a shadow of steel, though, and he counts himself lucky that she’s never treated him like an enemy. Danny quickly nods. His eyes squeeze shut.

“Who?” Diana asks feather-light.

Danny doesn’t want to tell them what he is. Admitting the name of the agency hunting him itself would be given in.

…But maybe if he doesn’t say the name…and they...and they promised they'd help hide him...

He wants to be right. Danny wants to be right that they're nice, and that they want to help him. Danny wants to be right that they want to protect him. As long as he never, nevernotevernever tells them he's a ghost...

Maybe someone will help him. This time.

“Bad,” Danny repeats, because he genuinely has no idea how to translate?? “Wants…hurts me? For…” WHAT WORDS DOES HE KNOW? Danny gives up and just draws a y-shaped autopsy incision on his chest. It goes down from his collarbones to his belly button.

Diana watches. Her eyes are sharp.

“Do you feel safe with the staff dunstæger in medical?” Diana is quick on the ball with the question and Danny nods quickly—he’s never alone there, and no one’s ever hurt him, and people whose job it is to help people are always coming in and out, and Medical helps them too.

“Good,” Danny whispers. “Talk…talks to me.”

“Ealne weg,” Diana affirms firmly. Whatever that means. “We will cepa you safe.”

You safe and we is all Danny needs to hear. He could probably cry by himself, but Danny wants the comfort anyway; Diana lets Danny take her hands into his, and he lets tears fall into someone else’s grip instead of his own.

*

Bruce is halfway to the monitor room before he feels himself be picked up from underneath the armpits.

Usually finding himself at inappropriate heights involves horseplay from Clark. No one else would be so bold as to actually put their hands on him within the professional setting of the Watchtower—and Bruce has worked very, very hard on maintaining a reputation that keeps the handsier of his fellows at bay.

The culprit is not Clark this time. Bruce finds himself looking downward at Diana’s tearstained face, fury and resignation warring in her expression.

Bruce is careful not to sigh. “Wonder Woman. What is the matter?”

“Someone,” Diana grits out, voice carefully modulated to cut out her own pain, “Hurt my charge.”

On the one hand, the situation with their patient is exactly as Bruce had expected. The circumstance is tragic. The circumstance was predictable.

On the other, Diana's new upset means that Bruce now has more information to work with than ever before.

Bruce can work with this.

“Tell me everything.” Bruce’s voice is just as firm—even held midair like a cat. “I will help you in every way I can.”

[shanastoryteller]

so I'm working on the outline for the "sam hunts in college" au because I have no self control/am cursed and like

a huge chunk of the support structure of this fic is the constant comparison of dean and jess and what each means to sam. and it's obvious and visceral and constant since she's not a dead concept but a living person stealing dean's fries

and it was supposed to be gen but at this point it's like. this is way more creepy and uncomfortable if they don't want to fuck actually

[kagoutiss]

the newly vassaled gerudo king is inexplicably handed a baby

[hood-ex]

"Love" and "proud" and "family" come up so frequently in bat comics now. Bleh. Bring back something I can relate to like emotional constipation and repression.

[buwheal]

Damn, Spam, did the cake taste that bad? - bad joke. Sorry you're havin' a rough day. We're here if you need to talk, or if you just need a distraction.

[mamawasatesttube]

revisiting a funny concept here. i think krypto has a mental ranking of the bats and its something like this:

kon. kon isn't a bat? krypto doesn't care kon is his favorite ever!!!

dick. actively enjoys and encourages krypto to toss him around in the air. will sit on the floor and hold out his arms and let krypto bowl him over. also he's clark's favorite so he gets EXTRA bonus points.

tim. squeaky toy. goes "eep!" when he gets tossed around. kon's favorite of the bats, which has a significant influence on krypto's opinion.

cass. kon's other favorite bat, but loses points slightly because one time she ate one of krypto's treats in front of him and he never forgave, never forgot.

damian. loves dogs. often has treats. often smells like other dogs. gives good ear scritches.

steph. also gives good ear scritches and is niceys to him. doesn't have treats as often as damian though.

babs. niceys to him, but he doesn't particularly see her often. her voice modulators make him do the head tilts.

bruce. clark likes him well enough but krypto thinks he smells weird. he also wears so much black and complains about white dog hair.

alfred. he doesn't like dog hair, dog slobber, or being licked on the back of the head at superspeed. fuck this guy. krypto will stare him down and lift his leg against an antique couch, see if he doesn't.

[triglycercule]

nightmare viewing the murder time three as little toys but more in like a little spoiled kid kinda way. because it would be funny and if you take into the account that he was like 6 before getting corrupted and do some mental loopholes it would be even funnier. like these are his dolls (killer dust and horror) and this is their barbie dreamhouse (his castle). they all have to stay in one room because nightmare needs to keep his toys in a toy box. the toys only ever come out when he wants to play but oh damn it they keep on breaking out!! silly toys,,, and then he locks them into the room again.

nightmare serves them food with plastic tea cups and plastic plates and there is no food. there is no tea. they have to imagine the food because dolls can't literally eat. there are food containers and stuff in the house but its all just a bunch of empty boxes. horror starts tweaking out after he scavenges the kitchen and finds a cereal box and milk carton that have NOTHING in it (why keep empty boxes?????)

they have to go where he wants them to go. nightmare gets to dress them up in whatever he wants because theyre his dolls they can wear anything he wants. it gets incredibly embarrassing when the trio is forced to wear pink pretty dresses and fight like that. or they have to go around the castle doing stupid fucking roleplays and it gets weird because theyre being forced to reenact a bullying scene and nightmare's giving them the death stare if they don't get it right (is this projection. this must be some form of coping mechanism dust theorizes)

and then you know nightmare's not exactly the best toy owner so he loses a few of his dolls here and there. maybe they get destroyed when he was playing a bit too rough with them! (killer dies in battle for like the 29th time) but its okay because he can just go back on down to the store (something new) and buy. wait no. steal another doll and then put it back in his dreamhouse and BOOM he has a full set again!! so sweet so cute. his dolls don't have consciousness what are you talking about theyre begging to be let go?? that's all just your imagination. what do you mean you're asking about the several slowly dying bodies with removed arms or legs in his dungeon. oh that's just where the broken but not yet destroyed toys go dw theyre fine its humane

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

She can't keep getting away with this!

[First] Prev <--> Next

[fala-alfredo-pasta]

A very self indulgent tatted and pierced up Ichimatsu thas it

[ninetqs]

lesbian lestappen oh my god you've written SUCH an excellent little brainworm i am never going to stop thinking about them tysm <33

here's all of what i wrote for it (unfinished) just for you anon (unfinished) (did i mention it will never be finished) 6k words. some of those words are nsfw so be warned

Charles barely has time to rip her helmet off before Jenson’s grinning face fills her vision.

She’s seen this scene before. Twice, actually. And neither time did she see it directly from the sidelines; she watched the post-race interviews later, once she was back in her apartment and thoroughly wasted. 

Jenson, with all the bright-eyed joy and energy only someone not strapped into a car for hours could have, thrusts a microphone into her hand. His eyes practically sparkle.

“Charles, congratulations!” His hands flail a little, a gesture that looks like it wants to be a hug but doesn’t quite have the nerve. She manages an apologetic smile. Under different circumstances—sans camera and crowd—she’d probably take him up on it. He knows it too. “How are you feeling?”

She’d rehearsed this answer in her head a hundred times, crossing the finish line, and yet now, with Jenson in front of her, the script has evaporated.

“I am…” She shifts the mic awkwardly between her fingers, and it feels heavier than it should. “Overwhelmed. Happy. So, so happy.” She breathes in deep, trying to ground herself, though it’s no use. The adrenaline’s still surging, refusing to let go. When she looks up again, Jenson’s nose is scrunched, his smile all shaky like he’s seconds from tears. Cute, she thinks distantly. “We—the team—have worked for years for this moment. Hoped for it. To see it come true is a dream.”

It’s not the polished, eloquent answer she wanted, but it’s something. Her skin’s slick with sweat, her pulse still hammering. She should be forgiven for not having it all together. If anyone deserves a pass, it’s her.

Jenson bobs his head, a blur of motion. “I can only imagine,” he says, enthusiasm practically bubbling over. His grin is infectious, pulling a tired but genuine smile from her. “You didn’t look nervous at all out there.”

“Of course, I was very nervous, but—” Charles falters, the words forming a knot in her throat. It’s impossible to articulate this feeling. Jenson knows—he’s been there, lived it—but the fans, they deserve to understand. “Once I got into the car, though, I didn’t think about anything else. Even if the race seemed uneventful, I couldn’t let my focus slip, not for a second. Especially not on this track. But then, in those last few laps… my mind started to wander. To Jules, and my father…”

She glances sideways at the camera, wondering if the vultures online will feast on this—call her an attention-seeker for dredging up the dead. But it’s the truth, isn’t it? 

Again, Jenson nods, hanging onto her every word.

“Being the first Monégasque to win here at home—just incredible,” he says, laughing a little. “And with the weight of all that pressure? Wow.” Charles feels the heat in her cheeks, letting the praise sink in, filling her up like water on dry earth. Then, cruelly, he adds, “Plus, being only the second woman after Max? Your family must be doubly proud.”

A chill runs down her spine, something inside her curling up, shrinking into itself.

Max. Always Max, like a shadow she can’t outrun.

“I hope so,” she manages, clutching the microphone tighter. “And I hope I can do it again next year.”

Not entirely unprecedented, then. She takes in the crowd and reminds herself that at least Max will never have the support of the entire nation. 

It leaves a bitter sting in her mouth nonetheless.

-

Three years ago, Charles spent her Sunday evening after the Monaco Grand Prix curled up in her bed with a giant tub of ice cream and a twitchy finger that kept tabbing between fifteen different YouTube videos. Some were of random stuff to take her mind off the race, others were of the race her mind refused to let go of. One was called Funny Charlotte Leclerc Monaco Compilation. A handful were interviews of people who actually finished the race. Unfortunately, she spent the most time watching those.

She popped open a bottle of wine Pierre had given her years ago when she reached Max’s. She can distinctly recall the sweet taste of plums down her throat as she listened. 

“How does it feel to be the first woman to ever finish the Monaco Grand Prix?” the interviewer had asked. Maybe it was Jenson. It could have been Rosberg. Her memory of that day is fuzzy.

It was windy out, but Max’s hair stayed stuck to her red cheeks, making her look like a cherry. She had answered in a joke like she always did. “I’m the first woman to win at many tracks, it never gets old.” She laughed, and waved her hand. “No, no, but more seriously, Monaco is a very historic place, of course, so…” Charles tuned out after that. 

Historic, yes. But not home. Max might live in Monaco—Charles sees her against her will sometimes, at the grocery store or the gym—but it will never be her home. 

Then, unimaginably: 2022 was even worse.

Charles didn’t even bother with the wine that night. The bottle sat untouched as she pulled out the small box stashed under her bed, the one filled with things Andrea would have a coronary over if he ever found out. She got high enough to see colours she didn’t know existed, hoping to blur the sharp edges of another disappointment. 

And still, through all the haze and frustration, Max remained unaffected. Well, not entirely unaffected—Max had sent her a text, asking if she was okay, if she wanted to go out, do something to take the edge off. It was thoughtful, even kind, but all Charles could think was: I’d rather you care about the race than about me. 

Who gives a damn if Charles is the second woman to win anything, when the first woman doesn’t care at all about keeping track? It makes Charles furious, how effortlessly Max shrugs off everything that matters to her. It’s easy for Max, of course. Easy to be nonchalant about records when you’re winning all the time. Meanwhile, Charles claws her way to pole by the skin of her teeth and more hours in the sim than she can count.

Now, standing in the chaotic, neon-lit depths of Jimmy’z, two tall glasses of something fruity already down, she’s still thinking about Max. The absurdity of it stings. It’s embarrassing, if anything.

“Charles, another!” Joris shouts, shoving a third glass at her. The second one is still in her other hand, empty. “You are not allowed to zone out, not today!”

Charles smiles, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude towards her friends. 

“Take this one back at least,” she jokes, and shoves the empty glass towards him. “Get yourself another too and we will drink them together!” 

Joris grins. “Sure, princess.”

Charles huffs, but the effect of the alcohol on her mood can’t be understated; she doesn’t feel more than a stir of annoyance at the nickname. 

It’s fine if her friends say it. They love her. They’re happy for her. They care that she’s the first woman to win the Monaco Grand Prix and not be in a Red Bull. That, and the thousands of fans who cried for her today, are who matters.

-

By the time Charles and Joris are done, they’ve probably downed enough alcohol to fill an entire bathtub. She can barely stand on her own by the time they leave, her legs wobbling like they’ve forgotten how to hold her up. Andrea tuts softly and hooks an arm around her to guide her back home. Her feet, suddenly aware of their existence, throb painfully with every step, and she winces. Andrea keeps giving her sharp little pinches to keep her from nodding off mid-walk.

“Water,” he commands, sliding a tall glass across the kitchen counter once they’re inside. Charles slumps into a chair, the effort of just sitting upright making her feel like she’s run another race. “And painkillers for tomorrow.”

“Those don’t even work,” she mutters, her words slurring slightly. “You know that.”

Andrea rolls his eyes in that way he always does when she’s being difficult. “Drink the water, then. I’ll text everyone and let them know you’re still alive.”

Of course she’s alive. She’s a Formula One driver. She drives really fast cars for a living. Like, really fast. A few litres of alcohol? Please. That’s nothing compared to what she does on the track. 

In fact, she feels fantastic. A strange, buoyant kind of euphoria settles over her, and she can’t even remember why she was pissed off earlier.

“This is amazing,” she tells Andrea, almost giggling at how brilliant it all seems now.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, ruffling her hair with a half-amused sigh. “To bed with you, champ.”

Charles stumbles through her nightly routine with Andrea watching over her like a prison guard. By the time she gets the toothbrush in her mouth, her awareness of him fades into the background. The minty aftertaste hits her like a freight train—far too intense—and she pulls a dramatic face that has Andrea snorting with laughter.

“You won today,” he reminds her, his voice soft but firm, as if grounding her in the moment as she sits on the edge of her bed in freshly donned pajamas. “You fucking won, Charles. You don’t need to dream tonight.”

Charles hums, a sleepy, noncommittal sound, her body already too heavy with exhaustion to respond properly. The next moment, she’s out cold.

-

Monaco is a very small place. Charles goes grocery shopping and sees Lando picking out bananas. Charles goes to the gym and comes face-to-face with George’s attempts at a thirst trap. Charles drags her friends to the movies and the person in front of her in the popcorn line is Kevin. 

Charles exits her apartment, and two seconds later she’s staring at Max. They’re in the middle of a sidewalk, for fuck’s sake.

“Charles,” Max greets. Her tone is as unreadably affable as always. “I’m surprised you aren’t still hungover.”

“Hah,” Charles forces a laugh. She only drank on Sunday night. It’s Wednesday. “I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

She already knows what Max will say before she says it. “I didn’t ask,” with a shrug and a good-natured grin. “Where are you headed to?”

Charles glances down at herself. She’s in her running clothes: headband to soak sweat, cotton white shorts for easy movement. It’s pretty obvious where she’s headed to.

“Pier,” she answers anyway, because she’s nice. 

Max’s face lights up. “I’ll join you.” 

She doesn’t look dressed for a run. Charles would bet a hundred euros Max had been on her way to the grocery store. But she can’t say no without seeming rude, so she just nods.

“Okay.”

The jog to the pier is uneventful, save for a few people pulling out their phones to snap videos of them running side by side. Charles feels the weight of Max’s gaze on her back, a persistent itch she can’t shake, but at least Sylvia will be happy. Free PR, if nothing else.

When they stop in a quieter area, Max wipes sweat from her brow, raising her arm just enough to flex her bicep. Charles isn’t sure if it’s on purpose, but it feels deliberate.

“I haven’t seen you around,” Max says, her tone conversational, like it’s perfectly normal to expect to run into each other daily.

“I’ve been busy,” Charles replies. It’s true, at least. “Celebrating, and then resting.”

Max nods, but there’s something unreadable in her expression. “Looked like a fun party, Sunday night.”

Ah. Charles should’ve seen this coming. She should’ve lied, avoided this little jab of pettiness. She bites the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay calm.

“It was,” she says lightly, not giving Max the satisfaction. “All my friends and family were there. Even my mother.”

She watches Max’s expression flicker just the tiniest bit, but it’s enough. Small victories.

“Is the Prince of Monaco your family now?” Max’s brows lift.

“Obviously not. He is just—supportive.” 

Max doesn’t seem to notice. Or, more likely, she just does not care. “It must have been quite the celebration then. A win in Monaco, the Prince attending...”

“Yes, it was.” Charles wipes sweat from her forehead, wishing she could wipe away this conversation too.

Max’s eyes linger on her, bright blue in the sun. “You didn’t think to invite me?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to come,” Charles says.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Max tilts her head, seeming genuinely puzzled.

Charles pinches the bridge of her nose. “You didn’t want to party the last time I won.”

“That was two years ago,” Max points out, unhelpfully.

The statement pierces through the little threads of patience Charles still has like a needle through fabric. She digs her nails into her palms to stop herself from balling her fists. Don’t do something you will regret.

“Alright,” she says, the word clipped. “I apologise, then. I should have asked.”

“Why are you mad at me?” Max asks, instead of saying anything normal like it’s okay or no problem.

Charles rolls her eyes this time. She can’t help it. “I’m not mad, Max.”

“You are.” Max’s relaxed tone finally snaps. Her thick brows furrow, concern etching lines into her forehead. “You’re like this sometimes after this race—after Monaco, but I thought since you finally won this year, you would be happy.”

“I am happy,” Charles bites out. Again, not a lie. “I am very happy, actually, and I don’t think you know me well enough to say otherwise.”

Max goes quiet for a moment, and when she speaks again, it’s slower, measured. “Well,” she says carefully, “as I’ve tried to tell you before, I’d like to know you better.”

“Putain,” Charles spits, her cheeks going bright red. 

There’s almost certainly someone filming them right now, tucked away on a balcony, phone raised, ready to capture their moment for TikTok. The video will get clipped, stitched, dissected. The comments will roll in: Charlotte Leclerc is so arrogant lol, how does she have the audacity to yell at the only other woman in the sport? Especially when Verstappen is a three-time WDC and Leclerc barely has six wins! Laughing emojis, rolling eyes, the works. She can already picture it.

“I am not having this conversation, Max,” she says, voice stiff and low. 

“Why not?” Max openly frowns now. “You’ve been avoiding me for days—”

“You are not so important to me that I have to go out of my way to avoid you,” Charles laughs, somewhat in disbelief.

“Yeah, okay,” Max scoffs. “We live like a block apart from each other, but I haven’t seen you in a week. Not to mention you normally—”

Charles cuts her off with, “Good talk. See you in Canada.”

“Oh my god, Charles, will you just—”

Charles turns on her heel and jogs back the way they came. After two blocks, she glances over her shoulder and finds Max isn’t in sight anymore. 

She allows herself a measure of relief by exhaling without feeling like her chest is about to cave in.

Fucking Max, she swears in her head, and isn’t that the problem?

-

Max is not very clingy. They rarely talk outside of work, and Max never seeks her out on purpose. They cross paths by chance, yes—often at that, but Max would never stoop so low as to show up at her hotel doorstep begging for attention. 

What Max is is affectionate. Touchy, more like, given that there’s little actual affection in it. When Charles happens to be near, Max will touch her just because. A hand around her waist or fingers digging into her shoulder. 

Or like now: squished together in a booth at the dinghy club Lando dragged them all to, to celebrate his second win. 

Charles isn’t exactly in a celebratory mood given everything that’s happened recently, but Pierre requested she come and she can’t say no after bailing on the post-Silverstone festivities. There’s only so many parties one can miss before people start nagging.

The high from winning Monaco wore off just as quickly as it came, but so did her annoyance. Now, seeing Max’s smile doesn’t make her fume, at least not beyond its normal extent. 

“Another?” Max asks, nudging Charles in the side. Charles blinks at her, dazed and overwhelmed by the pounding music reverberating throughout the room. She’s pretty sure Lando took over the DJ booth, and it shows. “A drink,” Max clarifies.

“Oh.” Charles says, looking down at the empty glass in her hand. She hadn’t even realised it was empty. “Sure.”

Max waves someone over and shoves the empty glass towards them. Charles watches the movement of her hand and thinks about how unfair it is that Max’s hands are two centimetres wider than hers. It must affect her grip strength, make it easier for her to hold the wheel. 

“I’m glad you’re not mad at me anymore,” Max says, chuckling as her hand drifts to rest on Charles’ thigh, right where her dress ends. The touch is casual, almost too casual, and Charles feels a prickle of irritation despite herself. “Even though I still don’t know why you were mad.”

“I wasn’t mad,” Charles lies for what feels like the twentieth time.

“Sure,” Max says, a playful glint in her eyes, her hand still resting exactly where it was.

It’s like being back in that alley again—the heat rising to Charles’ cheeks, spreading too fast, too obvious. She can already feel the flush creeping up her neck, but at least the dim, awful lighting in the club might pass it off as alcohol instead of what it really is: embarrassment.

Max knows her too well. She leans in, close enough that Charles can feel her breath on her neck, waiting. Waiting for her to give in, to glance back, to react to how casually Max is touching her in the middle of a club with half the grid and their partners milling around.

“Max—” Charles sighs, her voice low, strained. “Not in public.”

Max’s hand slides off like it was never there, her laugh light and breezy. “Okay, okay,” she says, amused. “I’ll let you drink a little more. Maybe that’ll help get that stick out of your ass.”

Before Charles can snap back, the server arrives, placing two tall glasses of something pink and syrupy on the table. Max grins and hands one to her without missing a beat.

“Let’s just drink,” Charles mutters, her patience running thin. If she’s going to have to deal with Max and her casual provocations tonight, she’d rather not do it sober.

Max’s grin widens, all easy confidence as she lifts her glass in a mock toast. “Cheers, baby.”

Charles clinks her glass against Max’s with a grimace and a pooling heat between her legs.

-

It was always “princess” when she was younger, but not the flattering kind. When they called her that, they meant to dismiss her, to belittle her. You’re too pretty to belong here. You don’t really want this. They couldn’t stomach how well she drove, so they pinned her success on everything else. Her father, Jules—it surely had to stem from them, as if her talent were just a product of her surroundings rather than her own blood, sweat, and tears.

No matter what she did, how well she performed, it was always too pretty, too privileged, too lucky.

Until the wins started piling up. Then “princess” took on a new flavour, but it still didn’t taste any better. Now it’s said with a smile, a nod to how perfect she looks even after hours in the cockpit. Her dimples, her curls that never seem out of place, her lashes that stay long and dark. 

There’s only one person who can get away with saying it without lighting that spark of irritation.

“You are such a princess,” Max says with a chuckle, her eyes dropping to the bright red panties Charles is wearing. Still, somehow, despite Max’s best efforts.

“Not everyone fancies going commando in public,” Charles huffs, though her cheeks betray her.

“I wasn’t judging. I think they’re cute.” Max pinches the edge of the fabric between her fingers, pulling lightly at the hem. “They’ll look even cuter around your knees, though.”

Charles rolls her eyes, but the flush deepens. “Just get on with it before I change my mind.”

Max doesn’t hesitate. Her hands are strong as she lifts Charles by the thighs, positioning her with ease, before yanking at her panties with a deliberate roughness. The seam catches against her skin, sending a sharp jolt through her, heat pooling low in her belly, spreading like wildfire up toward her chest.

Months of dancing around each other, teasing, resisting. And for what? To give in so easily?

She squirms under Max’s gaze, feeling exposed, too open, laid out on the scratchy hotel bed. But exposed is exactly how Max likes her. There’s no question about that.

“You’re very pink down here,” Max observes. “Little princess with her princess parts.”

Charles swings a leg over Max’s shoulder, a warning more than a real kick. “You are so annoying,” she says through gritted teeth. “You can put your tongue to better use, no?”

“Your wish is my command,” Max drawls, and lowers her head to do exactly that.

-

Monza is glorious, and it’s easier to drown her own trepidations out among the roar of the Tifosi. Charles is on top of the world as she hoists the P1 trophy, basking in the elated cheers of the crowd.

As she stumbles off the podium, Carlos wraps her in his arms and presses their wet foreheads and noses together. Carlos squeezes her ribs tight enough to bruise. She can’t find it in herself to mind. Charles has to pull away lest someone get the wrong idea, half-laughing as they nearly tumble onto the green.

“You did it!” he shouts.

“I did it!” she shouts right back.

The team hoists her up for photos, and the noise never stops. People rush around her—a wave of hands and congratulatory touches—and she’s almost overwhelmed by the love and admiration emanating from them.

She feels like a god, almost. It’s a terrible, arrogant comparison, but it’s true. She’s transcendent. Her supporters cry, they weep, they break down into tears of joy on the grass as they sink to their knees. What kind of power does a person have to make someone fall to their knees in ecstasy? Not in bed, but over a fucking sport? She would know.

After the interviews and the onslaught of media and congratulations comes Max. There’s no hesitation as Max walks toward her across the bar. Charles feels that same rush, but this time, she doesn’t push it down.

“You won again,” Max states. Simple. Not quite soft. Just an observation of the obvious.

“Yes,” Charles affirms.

“A little iffy if you only win at your own tracks,” Max teases.

Over Max’s shoulder, she sees Alex shoot her a look. A look that says don’t rise to the bait. Just ignore her.

But if I don’t bite, I will never win, is what she said to Alex in a darkened bathroom before the press started to arrive, shoulder to shoulder at the sinks as Charles washed her hands.

What will it be, when Max loses a championship? When Charles doesn’t just take pole, take a win, but something far greater? Will Max still want Charles after she gets it?

She needs to savour it while she can. She deserves it, tonight. Deserves all of it, more than anyone has ever wanted to let her have.

“There’s no ‘if,’” she tells Max.

“Touché,” Max hums. Her lips crook, and a slow, vicious shudder of anticipation roils through Charles, to the marrow of her bones. “You’re probably eager to celebrate. Am I allowed to join in on the festivities this time?”

Max’s words are so measured, so controlled, but Charles knows better than anyone how much that mask holds back.

“You seem to be the eager one,” Charles says pointedly.

“How could I not be?” A hand settles on her arm. It feels familiar. Max leans closer so that no one else hears what they whisper to her. “You know what happens when you win. Your cheeks get all pretty and red. That’s my favourite look on you.”

“Such a charmer,” Charles says, voice hoarse. The glass she’s holding sits between them, and a gentle touch from Max guides it to her lips. The cool glass presses up to her mouth and Max’s lips brush her ear. Max’s cologne, perfume—whatever it is—slithers in through her nose, and it’s sharp, tangy, like a fresh spritz on a hot neck.

Charles closes her eyes. It would be easy enough to steal a kiss. No one is paying them much attention anymore; not even Alex.

Just as she’s about to do something stupid, Max pulls away and smiles at her.

“My hotel is nearby?” she says, sounding so unabashedly hopeful that Charles can’t even make fun of her for it.

“I think I’m needed here,” she whispers back.

Max’s lips twist into a pout. “I guess so.” She sighs. “Maybe later?” Charles watches her fingertips, follows their slide down her chest, away from her chin. “If that’s—If you’d like.”

It’s not quite a stutter, but for someone with double her wins this season, it’s awfully hesitant.

“Later,” Charles promises, and waves Alex over, finally.

-

Max’s tongue is sharp in ways that aren’t limited to her words. No matter how many times this happens, Charles is always surprised by how deftly she works her, mouth hot on Charles’s thigh.

“Let me—” Charles thrashes, but Max’s arm is secure around her stomach. “Let me, fucking—not like this,” she whines.

She hates it when Max makes her come before Charles can put so much as a hand on her. It feels a bit like she’s losing at something. Even though Max always insists she’s happy on her knees, Charles doesn’t buy it. Nothing feels better than being worshipped.

Max, predictably, ignores her and pushes a third finger in, her tongue tracing a slick pattern up her belly. “You come best when you have a little bit of a hard time with it,” she says.

“Fuck you—”

Max’s palm grinds against her clit, and Charles grunts. When she glances down between her legs, Max has a cheeky grin in place.

“I’ll fancy my chances with that,” Max replies easily, and nips Charles’ inner thigh like a cat. Charles throws her head back and moans.

There will never be enough time. Not enough to catch her breath fully while her heart races like a jackrabbit, and certainly not enough to do everything she wants to Max.

“Roll onto your stomach and spread your legs.”

Charles obeys without thinking. The first orgasm rolls through her when Max pulls at her hair, grinding her own cunt against Charles’ hips, dripping onto her. Then the second comes after Max forces her head down and rims her, the thumb on her asshole sending shudders through her whole body.

She never gets Max on her back that night.

-

Mornings after are Charles’ least favourite part of this, probably. This isn’t a concept she can touch without being burned, but somehow that’s only worked to entrench the fever in her skin more deeply.

Max’s hotel room is predictably fancy, and Charles gazes around it now, with Max still dozing off beside her. She looks like a curled-up bear. There’s something small and appealing about her sprawled on the sheets like this—something different to her larger than life presence on the podium, or on the track.

Charles slips out of the bed without jostling her, somehow. Quietly, she tiptoes naked through the room, and tries to find something of hers in the piles of clothes. Her bra goes on first. She fishes her panties out from between the bed and night stand, where they’d been tossed aside and forgotten. They’re a lost caught; her jeans go on commando.

As she’s slipping on a sock, something hefty and warm wraps around her middle, nearly knocking her off her feet.

“You should know better than to bend over in front of me,” Max says.

“Good morning,” Charles huffs, standing up properly. She lets Max turn her around, and she tries not to let her face flush when she gets a face full of Max’s bare tits. “I have a meeting in an hour, just so you know.”

“A virtual one, I assume,” Max says. “An hour is a long time.”

She looks down the bridge of Max’s nose. Charles’ fingers hover up against the muscles of her chest, almost touching.

“Not when it comes to you,” she says.

Max doesn’t even bat an eyelash, just smiles. “For breakfast, Charles. Not sex.”

Inside Charles, anticipation simmers. For the food, naturally. “Well, hurry up then.”

Max doesn’t waste time in calling for room service. Charles takes care to stay quiet in the background, careful not to let the staff member on the other end get any juicy gossip about there being a woman in Max’s room at seven in the morning. When she hangs up, Max prowls towards her again. The kiss she plants on Charles’ lips is just long enough to make heat bubble and spit at the bottom of Charles’s stomach. Soon, Max’s fingers are tangled in her hair and her tongue is in her mouth. Just the suggestion of Max’s breasts up against Charles’ makes her breathing unsteady.

“Already?” Max murmurs, amusement colouring her words. “You do have stamina, I’ll give you that.”

“You started it,” Charles accuses.

“Can’t blame me for being greedy,” Max points out, as her fingers trail down to Charles’ chest. Charles wishes she hadn’t found the bra, now. “We don’t usually get mornings.”

Charles thinks about what Max said at the pier. I’d like to know you better. Here, with the morning sun coming in, she feels closer to letting Max take a crack. “Better make the most of it, then.” Not an invitation, just a quip.

The food comes after a few minutes of frantic, slightly delirious making out. Max releases her and goes to the door to answer, taking care to wrap her towel completely around her torso.

[nami-moittli]

The thing about fem! Yuu, is that I do genuinely think she’d be treated a bit differently than her male and gn counterparts, not in a weird way though ofc, just that some characters would treat her differently. Like, Leona is obviously going to be a bit more respectful to her, or maybe Deuce wouldn’t know how to talk to her at first. After a couple of weeks or maybe a month I think they’d just. Forget that she was a girl and start treating her the same regardless. Idk, there would be slight differences but nothing that’s like. Weird or anything. Because NRC is an all boys school so fem! Yuu would be even more of an “outcast” for lack of a better word, but that’d be gone in a month

[talktonytome]

nothing, just wondering if @half-oz-eddie has seen these

[eddiegettingshot]

i love that the new favorite interpretation of eddie is that he is misogynistic and he has just mistreated so many women and the narrative has never ever pushed back on him for this ever, certainly not through their favorite character buck or through the fact that he has spiraled into enormous suffering every time one of his 3.25 relationships ended. meanwhile buck buckley has of course never treated any of his partners in questionable ways or talked about them in questionable ways with zero further discussion narratively and tommy has grown as a person from when he was outright super racist and misogynistic and yes homophobic even though we’ve never seen anyone address this directly DUH!!!

[uncanny-tranny]

I totally get gendered petnames like dude, sis, bro, and whatever else, and I get why some people might be confused as to why some trans people might take issue with a petname you might think is neutral. However, I do want people to remember that trans people often have different relationships with those petnames because they're gendered, and they might be uncomfortable with those connotations. A trans woman who doesn't want you to call her "dude" is probably not doing it to anger or accuse you of anything, but she might just have a negative relationship with that word.

I get that it can be hard to change habits, but it is worth it to include trans people. If a trans person in your life asks you not to use certain words, I promise they aren't trying to fuck you over or make you feel like you're under attack. They are just expressing a boundary - one that cis people also express.