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sinofwriting · 6 months

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Figlia Mia - Charles Leclerc

Words: 6,231 Summary: When she had met Charles Leclerc for the first time in 2017, she watched as her grandfather gave him the impossible task of restoring Ferrari’s greatness and her the task of making sure he does so. Note(s): This was a lot of fun to write. I got to do a lot of digging into Ferrari’s history in motorsports and F1, and make sure that the changes I made to the history of Ferrari made some sense. I also got to reignite my love for stats and things. I spent a lot of time looking at different circuit stats (which will be relevant in the second part of this fic) and just driver stats. Used a translator for the Italian but not google translate. Also, I shouldn’t have to say this but: How I write the drivers in these fics is not based on my feelings for them, it is just what I need them to be. So, please don’t send me hate because your favorite driver says or acts or is regarded in a certain way. Thanks! Hope you like this!

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Figlia mia - my daughter stella - star

2017

She eyes her grandfather wearily. He had called her home early from her classes and she had rushed home to Maranello.

“Nonno, what is the matter?” His gaze turns to her and he smiles, the solemn look on his face gone as he sees her. “My stella. You are back home.” His accent is thick as it wraps around the English words, always willing to indulge her. She sighs, leaning down to hug him. “You called me back. Did something happen?” He shakes his head, patting her hand when she straightens. “No, I have a meeting that I want you to attend with me.” She frowns. “It is late in the season for a meeting. Did Vettel or Räikkönen break contract?” “No. It’s for the team, but more of a future prospect.” Her frown deepens. “If it’s Hamilton, he won’t leave Mercedes and you shouldn’t entertain him, Nonno. You only have so much energy.” “I don’t want to take him from Mercedes. He wouldn’t be able to win with us anyways.” He groans as he thinks of how long it’s been since his team has won, and has achieved the greatness they are supposed to. “I just want your opinion, they should be here any minute.”

An uneasiness sits heavy in her stomach at how cryptic he’s being with her, something he never is, but she sits in the chair beside him. Taking his hand in both of hers and breathing a sigh of relief at the strongness still in his hands, no shakiness to be found. He was in good health, she reminded herself as they waited. He hadn’t even had a cold for three years, but still her mind worries.

“Mr. Enzo, Stella, your guests have arrived.” Anita’s voice says through the intercom. He presses the button to talk. “Please have Andrea get them and bring them back and tell him to stay as well.” “Andrea is here?” He hums, “I asked him to come. I have an idea.” She doesn’t say anything else to that and keeps quiet as she waits for whoever to arrive.

There’s a slight relief in it not being either Vettel or Räikkönen, she wasn’t keen to meet them for the first time right now, not when she had rushed home. She also didn’t want her grandfather meeting them now for the first time, so late in the year where he could catch an illness.

A knock sounds on the wooden door and she turns her head to look at it. Releasing her grandfather's hand from hers and moving to stand behind his chair. Her normal position in such meetings.

“Enter.” He calls and the door opens. “Signor.” Andrea greets, as he steps into the room, two, or rather one man and one boy following behind him with wide eyes. “I have your guests.” “Please sit, the three of you.” He tells them and they all quickly do.

Her eyes narrow as she recognises the familiar face of the man who is currently running the Ferrari Driver Academy and the just familiar face of the current F2 champion. The sight makes her want to lean down, to question why a F2 driver of all people is being allowed to meet her grandfather. A luxury he hasn’t afforded a single F1 driver since her father died other than Michael Schumacher. And even then he had won a championship first with them. But such a thing isn’t not her place, especially in front of guests, so she keeps quiet as her grandfather does as well, clearly waiting them out, letting the tension in the room build.

“Charles Leclerc.” Her grandfather says and the boy practically jumps. “You started winning in karting before you were even ten in 2005 and never stopped. A second place in Alps, then fourth in the European F3.” She watches as he winces at the reminder of what he clearly views as failures. “But you won your first year of GP3 and now have won F2. Truly impressive.” His eyes are still wide and they dart to the left before returning. “Thank you, Signor.” Her eyebrows raise at the way the Italian term leaves his mouth. He clearly had invested time in his Italian lessons. “Don’t thank me. You’ve done well for yourself. And now you have an F1 seat.” Her eyes darted to Andrea, “Nonno.” She hisses, stepping forward. “Andrea has signed the appropriate NDA’s and contracts, stella. There is no need for your worry.” This meeting seemed to be nothing but worrying for her. And suddenly the employment contract she had seen in her inbox for Andrea makes all the sense, especially since it had been sent to her directly, not cc'd.

“You will be joining Sauber this coming season. Are you ready?” “I hope and believe I am.” “And you have a team? A trainer, your own PR manager? A assistant?” Charles shakes his head, cheeks red. “I’m afraid not. I only signed the contract two days ago. I haven’t made arrangements.” “And your plans for the 2019 season? Still at Sauber?” “I only signed a one year contract with them. So I hope to stay with them if I can.” He hums and the tone if it tells her everything she needs to know and it takes everything in her to not show the horror she’s feeling. “There will be a spot open at Ferrari for the 2019 season. Show me you can handle an F1 car and perhaps it will be yours.” The three sitting opposite stare at him with wide eyes and Charles’ mouth is open, jaw dropped. “And Andrea will be your trainer. I have a good feeling about you Charles Leclerc, prove me right.” He then nods his head towards the door and the three scramble to stand and leave with rushed goodbyes.

She stands behind him for a moment before walking around the desk and flopping down in one of the seats.

“That boy is going to get destroyed.” “He is a boy to me. Barely a year younger than you, I believe.” She scoffs, “please, nonno. You have just put the biggest weight on his shoulders. Prove to me? And what if he speaks of this? Of getting to meet the great Enzo Ferrari when the man doesn’t leave his house and hasn’t met any drivers or even team principals in person since Schumacher.” “Then you will handle it, I suppose. And I will be proven wrong about the boy since he had to sign an NDA. Not a word of this meeting or this trip to Italy.” “And if people ask about Andrea? How they met? How he came to work with him?” “The academy put them in contact together. And no one will think anything of it. He is too distantly related to think that we have anything to do with it. Nor has he ever spoken of us.” His eyes soften as he really looks at her. “Everything will be fine, stella. I have a good feeling about this one.” She looks at him, worries still sitting heavy in her stomach, horror too, because god what if her grandfather had just sentenced him to forever chasing a dream he can’t have and faith in them that they are unable to deliver. She knows already that both Räikkönen and Vettel are feeling that way, their faith in Ferrari wavering if not gone. “I won’t be able to do anything to help him. Not for years.” “You will be able to help. Not as much as you will in a few years time, but you can still help. We still make decisions for the team and sign off on things.” “And if he leaves before then?” “He won’t.” His voice is quiet, but filled with unwavering faith. Faith she wants to feel herself. “He will be what our team needs to become champion and he won’t leave until he gets that.”

2018

“Vettel is not happy that he wasn’t told before about getting a rookie as a teammate.” She tells her grandfather, looking over the top of her laptop at him. “Sebastian will deal.” Enzo coughs. “And he won’t have a rookie as a teammate.” She makes a humming noise, looking at all of the articles about the announcement of Charles Leclerc joining the historic F1 team before opening her email again. “Should I cover Andrea’s costs again?” “Yes. As long as you aren’t in power with the team, I want Charles kept close.” “That won’t happen until the end of the 2023 season. You want us to pay for Andrea that long?” “Andrea is also family.” He reminds her, before lips twitch into a smile. “And there is a reason he doesn’t receive as large of a Christmas bonus as everyone else anymore.”

2020

“They want to sign Sainz for a two year deal.” He snorts, “and for what? Let me guess sponsors?” “They’re serious about this, nonno. His team has already approached us about a two year contract.” “And he can’t go to Aston because Vettel is going there for two years.” “And he’ll never go back to Red Bull. Mercedes won’t entertain the idea.” “But we are?” He groans, running a hand over his face. “God, what has happened to this team? He hasn’t gotten a single podium, a win! And he’ll hit a hundred races this year. That is who they want on the team?” “He was sixth in the driver standings last year.” “Could he handle it?” She frowns. “Maybe. We wouldn’t know until it happened. He’s older like Vettel, has more experience as well than Leclerc. But Leclerc already has wins under his belt, managed to get fourth in the standings in only his second year. He was teammates with Verstappen in his rookie year, so it’s possible he could handle it.” “A two year contract, huh?” “Two years.”

2022

“Sainz wants to be extended.” She rubs at her forehead, the email, moreso the wording was troubling. “And why should we?” “Because he finished ahead of Charles in the driver's standings last year.” “By less than ten points and due to our own team's failings. They way they embarrassed him in Monaco.” He shakes his head, the rage he felt that day watching it happen coming back. “Four podiums to one. And neither got a win.” “Who needs a seat?” “There’s rumors about Schumacher.” “No.” He shakes his head, fingers beginning to tap against his desk. “Maybe in a few seasons, but not now.” “Bottas, Guyuan, De Vries, Hulkenberg.” He scoffs at all the names. “A friend at McLaren said they’re looking to drop Ricciardo.” His fingers stop. “Ricciardo. He’d understand his role.” “And as long as we treat him better than Red Bull did or how McLaren are, we’d have him.” “Why do they want to drop him?” “Underperforming. Norris is doing better.” He looks at her disbelief. “Please tell me that’s a joke.” She shakes her head. “He gave that fucking fake British team their first win in a decade!” “He’s older and despite his knack for giving good development advice, they’re ignoring it for Norris’.” He rubs at his forehead. “Write him down. Maybe we can get a talk with him before another team manages to snatch him up. Who else?” “It’s all reserves and formers now. There’s Piastri who's serving as Alpine’s reserve this season, wouldn’t shock me if they’ve already signed a contract with him for the next year but haven’t announced it though. We or Haas really has Illot still under contract as a reserve.” He shakes his head. “Leave him in Indycar for a few seasons. Might try him in 2024 when we’re looking for another driver.” She nods, writing his name down with 2024 beside it. “And Piastri?” “No. Alpine probably has something signed with him already. They’d be stupid not to.” “That leaves Ricciardo and Sainz.” He frowns. “Reach out to Ricciardo. We nearly had him for 2021, we should’ve taken him.” “Understood.”

As she begins to type out her email to Ricciardo’s team and she wonders how Blake will react to seeing an email for Ferrari, Enzo speaks.

“How is Charles?” “Nonno.” “I can’t ask?” “You are fishing.” She replies, not looking away from her laptop. “But he is good. Ready for the season to start.” “Hmm. And will he be coming for dinner?” She pauses her typing, looking at him. “Are you asking him to come to dinner?” “I’d like to meet the boy that has made my granddaughter so happy.” “Oh, nonno. It is not a boy that is making me so happy. Just you. You have been in better spirits for the last year.” She laughs. “And isn't it interesting that it was only when you started seeing him that both of our spirits rose?” Her eyes narrow. “Don’t make me take the Leclerc name.” It’s a high insult to the Ferrari name, one that her grandfather has made sure that she knew better to even joke about, but he doesn’t react with his fiery temper, just smirks. “It’s serious enough for marriage but not for you to bring him to meet me?” Blood rushes to her cheeks. “You have met him.” “When he was a boy.” He counters. “One you had distaste for.” He reminds her not that she has ever forgotten.

She had told Charles on their third date about it, watching as his mouth gaped at her, unable to believe that the boy he was at the age could be distasteful. Now, he likes to tease her about it. About how she didn’t like him but as soon as he left the room and she was issued the challenge of making sure he got to Ferrari she did.

“I haven’t met him since. I haven’t met him as your partner. And we both know that you’ll be taking each other's names.” “It is too early to say that.” She tells him, voice quiet. “But I’ll message him. He’ll love to meet you.”

2023

“This is ridiculous!” “I told you that this would happen! You put your hopes and dreams on a boy and look at what has happened!” “I did no such thing!” “You did! And I told you that you would ruin him. That he would lose faith just like the ones before and now look.” She waves a hand at the TV in front of them, playing the lowlights of the season. “He didn’t just go to that meeting with Red Bull and then shut it down like he has before, he entertained it.” She scoffs, shaking her head. “He should’ve left us for them when they first fucking offered.” “You do not mean that.” “Look at what our team has done to him! Look at what you have done! I have no power there and barely do you. I get to vote on what drivers we add to the team, but it is one vote, against six others. Same goes for the general direction of the car, which we both were out voted in. And that is it, that is my power! I don’t get to give him the Ferrari team he deserves, that we deserve, because you signed it away when my father died until I turn twenty-seven!” She turns away from Enzo, taking in a shaky breath, before turning back to him. “And you will not ever bring it up to Charles that he considered leaving us or if he does. Because I set up that meeting with Red Bull for him.” He looks at her resigned, saddened, but not surprised. “You would let him leave?” “I don’t let him do anything. I love you, nonno. I love this team. But it is not just Charles that they are disappointing and letting down. It is our fans, our people, our family, our legacy, me, you. Next month, I get to finally take back our families power in the sport and it is already too late for this season and nearly too late for the next. I can’t even guarantee a good first season with me in charge because of where the car is already developed too. And the upgrades.” She shakes her head. “None of it would matter with the team that is working there.”

“What do you want to do?” She looks at him, struggling not to cry, and she folds herself down in front of him, taking her hands in his. “A new structure and house. The voting can stay, but it has anonymity, we don’t talk about who is going to vote for what, only after the votes have been cast we talk, discuss, but with us having the power to veto if decisions are being made too much on outside factors like money and perceptions. Drivers who have multi-year contracts starting next season can be present for the votes, hear why we voted for what we did and even jump in on discussions if they feel inclined. We change. We have been stagnant for too long. We need new blood and beliefs.” He starts to shake his head and she squeezes his hands.

“Nonno, please just listen to me.” She pleads. “We need a complete overhaul of the team, you know it and have said it yourself. I can’t just hire Italian first, not when that has ended with us where we are now. I can offer everyone severance packages, pay for it all myself, but no more Italian first. We take who is best suited for the team and hope they are Italian. Maybe we baptize them if they aren’t.” His lips quirk into a smile. “The strategy team needs to go, PR, social media, the race engineers.” “Sainz likes his race engineer.” “Sainz also likes to say that he comes up with the strategy used in the races but as soon as they fail, he backtracks. He is a fair driver, but he needs to be retrained in PR.” “His family needs a gag order.” Her grandfather huffs. “Yes, but that is not something we can do. What we can do is get him retrained and get a new PR manager for him, same with social media. Charles will be getting the same. He needs an image refresh.” “This is what you want?” “Yes. I want to bring our team back to greatness. I already have the people I want for the team, I’m just waiting for your approval and for the next month to pass before I start sending out contracts.” He sighs, looking in pain. “Can they at least speak Italian?” She smiles, standing to press a kiss to his cheek. “They can learn and they will quickly.” Another sigh leaves him but he smiles, warm and gentle at her. “Mia figlia, la mia stella, fai quello che devi. Il mio supporto è tuo, sempre.” My daughter, my star, do what you must. My support is yours, always. “Thank you, papa.”

October 23rd, 2023

She stands facing the back wall of the room, listening as the door opens and people trudge in. She tries to count the pairs of feet she hears. She knows how many are supposed to come to this meeting, how many she asked to come, but it wouldn’t surprise her if someone let slip that the new boss, and the big boss at that, had arranged a meeting that a few people would try tagging along.

It’s the sound of the door shutting and then locking from the inside that has her turning around, giving a nod of thanks to her bodyguard, Roman, who inclines his head before retreating to the left front corner of the room.

“I see you all made it.” She says, her Italian accent barely noticeable around the English words and she can see a few faces turn confused at the English. Ferrari was Italian, they spoke Italian, had meetings in Italian. And more importantly, she was not just Ferrari, but a Ferrari. One that only three people in this room had ever met in person, and only two others had seen her face because of video calls. “Good, let's talk about the dumpster fire that was yesterday.” She can see a few faces balk at her words, but it’s Sainz’s that gets her attention. “You don’t agree?” “It was an unfortunate thing that happened to Charles, but I still ended up in P3.” “Due to a disqualification. Which is also what happened to your teammate. This also is the third time you’ve ended up on the podium due to such a thing. Let us also not forget to acknowledge that while the FIA didn’t check your car, like they should have after finding that two of four of the cars they checked had issues with their planks, doesn’t mean we didn’t.” He frowns and so does a good majority of the room. “I don’t understand.” “Your planks were just like Leclerc’s. Just barely under what they should be. But still enough for disqualification.” Eyes widen and she continues. “Not that it matters, because I won’t be alerting the FIA of such a thing. Not when the teams didn’t get enough time to set up the car because of the sprint format and I don’t think we need to give McLaren more of a jump on us.”

Walking around the room, she nearly pauses behind Charles' chair. Wants so badly to squeeze his hand, to offer him comfort or a way to get his frustrations out, but she continues until she is at the front of the room.

“The FIA won’t get rid of sprint races, but myself and a few other team representatives, will be going to them with a new sprint format for the next season hopefully or for at least starting the 2025 season. I expect both of you,” she looks at Sainz and Charles, “to voice your support. And I’m sure Red Bull, Williams, Mercedes, McLaren, Aston Martin, Alpine, and Haas, will be saying the same to their drivers as well.” “You want us to support a format that could be worse?” Charles asks, and she can see a few shakes of the head at him. “No, I want you to support one that is better. For Sprint weekends, you will have free practice one and the sprint shootout on Friday. On Saturday, there will be the sprint, followed by second free practice, then qualifying. Sundays of course will just be race day. Does that sound worse?” “No. You think the FIA will go for it?” “The FIA won’t have much of a choice. And besides next year allows each team to have more tyre’s allocated, they’ll want something extra to help burn through them to make it more interesting.”

“Now,” She lifts the lid of one of the two file boxes she has. “Leclerc, Sainz.” Both grimace at the use of their last names, but she catches a glimpse of amusement from Charles. “I have meetings with both of your management teams after this. Sainz, you’ll be getting a new PR manager, Ana. She or her assistant Val, will be with you for every event, interview, or anything else PR wise. Sometimes they both will.”

She turns her head to look at Charles. “Leclerc, you're getting an image refresh. I’m not letting a driver for this team have a vast majority of people thinking there’s nothing behind your apparently good looks.”

“Why isn’t Charles getting a babysitter?” She raises a brow at the tone and question. “Ana and Val aren’t babysitters, they work in PR. They will be retraining you. Because at the moment I could be breaking your contract right now with four races left in the season due to the public clause and if you have to ask why, you need more help than I thought.” He looks at her in shock and she can see a few people in the room shift uncomfortably. “Also concerning both of you, you both will have new race engineers in Mexico. Your previous engineers were lacking.” They both look uncomfortable with the decision but don’t say anything and she turns her attention to Fred.

“Fred.” “Ms. Ferrari.” She smiles at the title, though there’s nothing polite or happy about it. “This is your team is not?” She gestures to the drivers, the heads of different departments that all sit in the room with them. “Yes.” “Then, why am I doing your job for you and handling them?” With that she starts throwing out the severance packages onto the table. When she runs out of ones in the first box, she takes the lid off the second and just tips it over, letting them spill out.

“Severance packages.” She states, seeing some people's confused looks. “Some are effective immediately. Others will be given after the last race.” “Fabio’s name is here.” “So is Gualtieri and Cardile. They have been given generous severance packages.” She reassures. “You will meet their replacements either later today or in Mexico.” “They are heads of their departments!” “And they have failed at their jobs. As has everyone who has been issued one of these.”

—

“How did they take it?” “Safe to say I haven’t made any friends.” “So, it's going well.” She snorts, smiling at Charles as he enters her hotel suite. “I’m fairly certain they all would like to burn me at the stake.” Charles frowns. “Not Charles of course.” “Is he there?” “Just got here.” She confirms. “Do you want to talk to your grandson?” She teases and predictably Charles flushes. “Yes, yes. I want to make sure that he’s taking care of you, protecting you.” She rolls her eyes at the last part but passes the phone to Charles, pressing a kiss to his cheek as she does before stepping around him to her open laptop.

Leaning against the desk, she stares at the list in front of her. A list of drivers, currently on the grid, reserves, and not yet on the grid. Before the halfway point of the 2024 season she’d either have to sign contracts for one new driver or two for the 2025 season and now it just came down to who she wanted to reach out to.

A good amount of them are already on the bottom half of the page under the bolded words, not an option.

Verstappen was there, both Mercedes drivers, Bottas, Hulkenberg, Magnuessen, Alonso, Ocon, Stroll, Perez, Norris. She chooses not to look too closely at the fact that she doesn’t have Piastri there. She’d buy out a contract if need be and she knew Mark. If she proved that Ferrari could improve and be a winning team under her, he’d be willing to help her break a contract or two.

She jolts when a pair of lips presses themselves to her forehead, her phone being set down next to her laptop. “Your list is interesting. No Antonio?” “He’s a good development driver.” She says, typing his name out under not an option. Charles hums, sitting in the chair and then pulling her onto his lap, carefully pulling her legs to hangover the arm of the chair. “You have two Indycar drivers under possible.” She shrugs. “I’ll watch closely as the first few races go for them. They only have contracts for the 2024 season.” “Not that it would matter.” She grins, huffing out a laugh. “Not that it would matter.”

She watches as he peers at the list, his hands rubbing at her calf. “You have a lot of no’s.” His eyes narrow as he scans it again. “Mick, Ollie, and Vesti all under maybe?” “Vesti’s done well for himself, Mercedes is just going to waste him. Especially if he’s any good in an F1 car. Bearman’s had a strong first season in F2. Schumacher,” She hesitates. “I’m not keen on the idea. Especially with two seasons out of F1, but there is the opportunity to put him in Alfa Romeo.” “But Valterri and Zhou.” “Valterri knows he won’t be promoted back up. He’s doing good for being at Alfa Romeo, but he also has a lot of other ventures and pursuits. I’d like to keep him for another year or two after for development if I can.” He hums, “Alex and Schwartzman?” “Albon is sticking to Williams like glue. Which is understandable after Red Bull, but there’s hope.” She doesn’t mention that she’d think that he’d be a good teammate for Charles. “Schwartzman is already under contract with us. Just as a reserve and for testing, but who knows.”

He presses a kiss to her shoulder and he reads the top of the list, the possibles. He had only skimmed it before, but now he gives it his full attention.

“I’m on here.” “Yes.” “But,” “You don’t have an extension with us. You are only contracted with us for this next season. And as much as I’d like to keep you as would the fans and nonno, we haven’t proven that we deserve to have you here. I have to keep my options open that there will be two drivers I have to sign for 2025.” “I don’t like it.” He tells her, frowning. He didn’t like to think about not being at Ferrari, at the possibility of it, especially now with her at the helm and already making drastic changes. He didn’t know yet if those changes were good or not, but it felt like they were, he hoped that they were.

Piastri, Ricciardo, Drugovich, and he blinks as reads the last name, saying it outloud. “Sargeant. You have Sargeant under possible? Not a maybe but possible?” “Sargeant would sign a contract with us in a heartbeat, no contracts to break. 2024 will be a one year for him.” “Something has been signed?” She shrugs, “it’s common sense to keep him. Otherwise they’d just be dealing with a whole other rookie.” He sighs, jaw twitching. “I don’t like it. He has only scored a point because of my disqualification.” “I know.” “He has cost them much.” “I know.” Charles pouts, “he is American.” She lets out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “That will be your issue with him? His Americanness?” “Yes.” “Well, it’s just a possibility.” She smiles, before leaning down to press their lips together in a quick kiss. “Now, tell me out of everyone in the maybes and possibles who you’d want as a teammate.” “And what? You’ll make it happen?” “If I can give you a good season next year, I’ll do everything I can.”

He eyes the list, taking in the names he mentioned before and the few he didn’t.

Pierre would end in a dumpster fire and he was selfish enough to say that he didn’t want him as a teammate so they could keep their friendship, one so close to his heart. Lawson was an interesting idea, he had performed well for having to suddenly jump into a car. Alex would be a good teammate as well and he knew that Alex would also love the development side of things like he did.

He didn’t know enough about Drugovich or either of the Indycar drivers really. They had performed fair in F2 and were doing well in Indycar, but it was unknown. He could see them both though at Alfa Romeo. Ollie was too young to step into such a huge seat, maybe for him also Alfa Romeo in 2025 and by 2028 he’d be ready to step in and then take over a seat.

Oscar and Sargeant are both interesting for completely different reasons. He wishes that she had gotten power in the beginning of 2022 and when the Alpine drama happened, snatched Oscar up.

But there’s one name that he keeps on looking at, that’s circling in his head.

“Daniel. If I could have anyone, I’d want Daniel.”

There’s a shared pained history there and Charles knows that he took what was going to be Daniel’s seat in 2019 before Ferrari really started gunning for him while Renault took a keen interest in Daniel.

Charles could still remember around the fifth race of the 2020 season when Daniel had cornered him, looking nervous to be around him for the first time since their accidentally shared Vegas trip that made them break the ice. Daniel seemed so much smaller as he asked Charles if he’d be okay with them being teammates next season, and had seemed shocked by the relieved and happy grin Charles had given him.

She hesitates, “I never said anything, but I tried getting Daniel for 2024 and even 2023 when the rumors about McLaren dropping him started up.” “But Carlos?” “He asked for an extension, but nonno and me wanted to present a different option. But by the time I reached out, Red Bull had managed to snatch him back up. He’s only with them though for 2024. He’s free after that.” “So, you are saying?” He hopes. “I’m saying that, I’ve already reached out as of yesterday. Red Bull isn't in any hurry to get him under contract for 2025 and Blake has made it clear that Daniel isn’t signing any contracts until May or June to them and us.” “Which is enough time to prove that the team is improving.” “Yes.”

He stares at her wide eyed speechless. “What does that mean?” “If we improve?” He nods. “We sign you and Daniel until 2027.” She pauses, hesitating, but she won’t lie to him now. “We let you two battle it out at the beginning of the 2025 season. If Daniel is scoring more points, higher on the podium than you by break, you defend. We’ll ask you to let him pass if both of you can get on the podium or he has better pace and can get on it. We let him become world champion first. And it would go the other way around as well.” He rolls the idea in his mind, lets it sit in his stomach. “Daniel Ricciardo the 2025 world champion and Charles Leclerc the 2026 world champion.”

He lets them sit in the air, the idea of practically another three seasons before it could happen. Could he wait that long? Watch as Daniel got it before him? Watch as his teammate got it before him? Could he let himself be sacrificed for his teammates gain again? He thinks it over, because it is not fair for her to ask, to say, but that is what driving in Formula One is. It is not fair, with unequal machinery and only twenty spots available. To have to worry not just about your race but also your teammates depending on where the point standings are at.

But she is offering him something that he wasn’t before and with clearness, transparency. Not something that will be dropped on him in the middle of the race or as he’s about to finish lap ten or fifty. She’s telling him now what to expect and how it will go. She’s letting him know that it doesn’t matter which one is in the lead for the championship, just that whichever one isn’t when they come back from break, will be defending and he thinks now of her emphasis on the word. Not sacrificing, but defending. She wouldn’t let either of them be compromised so badly that they drop either low in the points or out of the points completely, but she would ask that they defend the other.

“I want it. Even if I do have to wait an extra year. It’d be worth it.” “And if you won in 2025 and then Daniel in 2026?” “We could trade off years, but I want it, I want that.” She smiles and there’s something sweet and dangerous about it. “Then I’ll make it happen.”

@eleetalks @cixrosie @badbatch-simp24 @darleneslane @fanboyluvr @teti-menchon0604 @eugene-emt-roe @gemofthenight @peachiicherries @lpab @copper-boom @topguncultleader @iloveyou3000morgan @boiohboii @benstormy @bibliosaurous

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #f1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #f1 x reader #figlia mia - charles fic

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imthebadguyyy · 7 months

Text

Every Thing Has Changed

pairing : carlos sainz x reader

fandom : f1

synopsis : healing from a relationship in which you never felt loved is made easier when your a certain ferrari drive feels like home and changes your perception on love.

warnings : just some making out, mentions of a past abusive relationship, crying, angst, nightmare

a/n : just a short blurb inspired by photograph by Ed Sheeran and everything has changed by Taylor Swift💕

relationships, once resembling the sweet symphony of love can turn to play a dissonant melody, much like a wilting rose, its vibrant petals fading to a melancholic shade of gray. the once-gentle winds of understanding transformed into bitter gales of miscommunication, tearing at the fragile bonds once woven. love, once a warm and comforting embrace, can feel like a jagged, icy terrain, each step a painful reminder of the shards of trust shattered.

thats what your relationship with love had been, stuck a in a relationship with a man who did not appreciate you and found himself raising his hand at you in frustration or tear into your soul with ice cold words that threatened to shatter your soul.

it had left you vulnerable and untrusting, unwilling to open up to a relationship ever again.

until a certain ferrari driver came along.

carlos sainz.

maybe it was the way he had looked at you across the ramp at the Milan fashion show ferrari had made him attend, surrounded by other celebrities he was uncomfortable around.

your label had made you attend to show your fans you were fine post the 'termination' of your old relationship.

your eyes had met his dark brown ones, a gentle sparkle in them, and he found his lingering on yours, taking in the sight of you in all your gorgeousness across the room.

he had come up to you after, shook your hand and introduced himself.

the thick accent had you blushing, and the sight of this greek god like man dressed in a black tuxedo with the most perfectly mussed up hair had your heart doing a little tango in your chest.

he was charming and sweet, offering you champagne at the after party and telling you about his career and passion for formula 1. he had also admitted to being a fan of your music, to which you had giggled, and he had smiled.

as the party wore on, you stuck to him, finding him to be the only sincere person in the ballroom full of fake smiles, the only person who brought genuine smiles and laughter to you.

within a few hours it felt like chatting to an old friend.

you ended the night with his phone number logged in your phone, and yours in his, and a mutual follow on both your ends on Instagram.

two days later, he sent you a video of himself at the track, with charles singing Adele in the background,with the caption 'wish i could have your voice serenading me before I step into the car instead of his'

you found yourself smiling, shaking your head at his antics, but also blushing at his lopsided smile.

but something in your brain made you stop, hesitate to reply.

the scars from the past were still fresh, and the memory of heartache loomed large. the prospect of opening your heart once more, or even flirting, felt like stepping onto shaky ground.

you found yourself replying with a simple smile emoji and a promise to send him whatever new song you'd be working on soon.

days sped by, with little texts shared and likes dropped on each other's posts.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

your friends asked you persistently about the nature of your relationship with the spaniard, to which you said "he's just a friend I made recently"

when you came to barcelona to record your album, you dropped him a text, to which he asked you to a simple dinner at his favourite restaurant.

even though your heart hammered against your chest and your brain screamed no, you accepted, trying to ignore the slight alarm in your body.

and the dinner was perfect.

carlos was nothing short of a gentleman, pulling your chair out for you, complimenting the way you looked, and your music and taking genuine interest in what you had to say.

carlos found himself utterly infatuated with your beauty, inside and out, and he swore every time you giggled his heart fluttered like a butterfly.

he loved the nervous way you pushed your hair back behind your ears when you got shy, or the intense concentration as you picked your pasta, which was a butternut squash ravioli, which you told him, was your favourite.

he loved how you got so intense when telling a story, and how your hands moved animatedly as you told him a funny story about your night at the Grammy's.

he couldn't help but laugh as you told your story, and he couldn't help the slight flush to his cheeks when you said, "you look handsome tonight" with a sweet smile.

"thank you bella" he said, the nickname dripping off his lips like the sweetest honey, sending a homely warmth through your body.

you'd be lying if you said you weren't arrested to the handsome spaniard in front of you.

he had worn a turquoise blue shirt, the first few buttons undone, and pristine white pants that looked absolutely phenomenal on his gorgeously tanned skin, the Spanish sun clearly doing wonders for him.

he looked like an angel descended from the heavens, his hair falling imperfectly perfectly across his forehead, and his lips looked so delectably plump and pink that you couldn't help your eyes fluttering down to them multiple times throughout dinner.

you loved the way his accent laid heavy, as he talked to you about the atmosphere at monza. you loved the passion in his eyes and his voice as he spoke about how much he adored his job, and how deeply he cared about ferrari.

you loved the way his eyes furrowed in concentration, as he listened intently to the story you were telling him, and the sincerity in his dark eyes, the rich and velvety brown eyes radiating warmth.

you couldn't help the way your heart beat quickened, when he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand, when you walked into the restaurant.

neither of you could deny the unspoken electric connection that you shared, zinging through the both of you like a bolt of lightning.

when you got out from the restaurant, he offered to drive you back to your hotel, the red ferrari purred through the streets as you both listened to the soft enrique iglesias songs playing on loop on the radio.

you continued sharing stories, as you made your way though the streets of barcelona, and by the time you reached your hotel, you found yourself unwilling to say goodbye to the handsome man beside you.

"so...this is me" you smiled, and he chuckled.

"I'm aware" he smiled back, and you giggled, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek.

"thank you for tonight carlos. i really enjoyed myself" you told him sincerely, leaning over to squeeze his hands softly.

"you're welcome carino, I enjoyed myself too" he said, running a thumb over your knuckles.

for a moment, the urge to just grab him by his stupidly handsome face and kiss him zapped through your body, but fear stopped you.

you weren't ready for that.

you couldn't do that.

not all over again.

and yes while he had proved to be different, how could you know for sure that things wouldn't turn sour?

"i think I'll get going" you whispered, voice not strong enough to maintain its regular volume, and carlos nodded, a crease in his brow forming at the sudden tremble in your voice.

"sure, let me know if you'd like to hang out sometime later" he said, getting out to open the door for you.

you lingered in the dimly lit hallway for a second, not quite warning him to leave but not strong enough to tell him you liked him.

you fluttered between fear and intuition, before deciding on a middle ground : leaning up on tip toe to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

carlos found himself blushing, responding with yet another gentle. kiss to your hand, and then your forehead

"good night carino" he whispered.

"goodnight carlos" you smiled.

you watched him walk away, heart strumming against your chest.

oh, you were in for a hard time.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

carlos sighed as he looked at the list of media duties in front of him. he zoned out, sylvia's voice lulling him into a doze.

the soft ping of a text notification snapped him out of it, and he looked at is discreetly under the table.

y/n, carlos

you : thought of you when i saw this 🫶🏼

*one attachment*

looking at the message, carlos grinned.

carlos : haha. looks like I follow you wherever I go ;)

you : haha very funny carlos. how's imola going for you?

carlos : you've memorized my race schedule now? 😄

you : noo i just saw a post on Instagram

carlos : it's just media today which i hate so I'm just ready to go home already

you : i get that!! i don't like doing press either :(

carlos : yeah I'm in a meeting right now and I wish i was in my bed fast asleep

you : ....wait are you in a meeting RIGHT NOW?!?

carlos : yes

you : carlos 😭 why are you texting me then??

carlos : because I prefer it ;)

you : oh my gosh okay we'll talk later okay?

carlos : okay carino, have a good day

you : you too 💕

"carlos, can you please put your phone away?" sylvia's impatient voice broke the trance he was.

"yeah yeah" he mumbled a little grumpily, earning a short from charles and a nudge from his press officer.

but he didn't care. he'd prefer spending time with you over the press anyday.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

sighing, you scrolled through your camera roll, erasing any trace of your past relationship. it was gone. it wasn't a part of you anymore.

every deleted picture felt like a weight being lifted off your mind and your chest and tears filled your eyes.

the sheer relief that came with the alleviated pain had a gasp rising in your throat, coming out in a strangled choke.

before you knew it, you were sobbing, knees pulled up to your chest, tears running down your face, choked sobs leaving your throat, each one seemingly ripping your throat open.

you cried till your throat was raw and your body on the brink of exhaustion.

the sound of your phone ringing cut through, making you jump.

you watched as carlos' name flashed across the screen, and after taking a deep breath, you answered.

"hello?"

"buenos dias carino. como estas?" how are you he asked, his voice light and melodious, and you inhaled deeply, feeling the anxiety slowly leaving your body.

"I'm good carlos, what about you?" you replied, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible.

"all good carino. just missing you" he flirted, but you didn't miss the sincerity in his voice.

you felt your heartbeat increase in pace, a flush painting your cheeks.

"i miss you too.." you mumbled, embarrassment flooding you as you realized you really did miss him.

"then why don't I fly you out to Monza? its ferrari's home race and I'd love to see you in ferrari red" he said and you giggled.

"I'd love to carlos" you said, and you heard him laugh.

"okay then carino, I'll have the jet pick you up okay? does Thursday work for you? ill pick you up after media duties?" he said, and you awwed at his concern.

"i can just go to your hotel? you don't have to pick me up" you assured him, and after much convincing, he reluctantly agreed to have caco pick you up instead.

"just ask him if his name is carlos too" he had joked, smiling to himself when you let out a hearty laugh.

with promises to see each other soon, you hung up.

you took a deep breath, wiping away the salty tears, contrasting to the sweet smile on your face.

maybe, just maybe, you could watch love begin again.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Thursday rolled around, and you flew to Monza in carlos' jet, to be received by a man with a kind face and a bouquet of flowers waiting for you.

"you must be carlos?" you asked shyly, shaking his hand.

"yes, I'm carlos' cousin, but please call me caco" he had smiled, offering to take your backpack from you.

the two of you chatted on your way to the hotel, making jokes about all the carlos' in the Sainz family.

"how do you manage to keep them all distinct?' you had asked, and he had just laughed and said, "trust me, we don't"

you found yourself enjoying the company of the older man, who was as friendly as someone could be.

as you reached the hotel, you felt nerves spring in your belly, and you bit your lip anxiously.

caco noticed, and sent you a soft smile.

"you know, carlos doesn't usually invite people over. you must be special to him if he's called you to a race" and you tried your hardest to not warm up at his words, but the bright smile on your face said it all.

"come, let me show you to your room, it's next to carlos', and then we can wait in his room for him to come back he should be here soon" caco said, doing the needful with the reception staff.

with a sigh you sunk down into the plush cushions of the sofa in carlos' room after depositing all your baggage in your own room.

you and caco continued to talk for a bit, sharing stories and laughs till the door opened, and a pair of white sneakers made their way over to you.

"hola carino" carlos' voice rang through the room, and you turned on your heel, heart fluttering in your chest as you took in the sight of him, in his red and black ferrari shirt and apparently signature white pants.

neither of you noticed caco gently slip away, not wanting to intrude in the private moment.

"hello" you smiled, waving at him nervously.

in quick strides he made his way across the room, engulfing you in a big hug.

you inhaled the musky scent he wore, reminding you of dior sauvage, and focused on the feeling of his large, coarse palms gently rubbing your back.

"i missed you, y'know?" he mumbled, drawing away and gently caressing your cheek.

"i missed you too, so much' you replied, voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm happy you're here" he murmured, gently pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ears.

"I'm happy to be here, thank you so much for having me" you smiled at him.

"anytime, corazon" heart he flirted, and you flushed again.

the two of you spent some time chatting, before jet lag overtook you, and you ended up falling asleep with your head on his shoulder.

carlos gently pulled your legs up and out a pillow under your neck to prevent you from getting a crick as he laid you on the sofa, penning a small note when he realized that he had to run to meet fans in the hotel.

with an odd feeling of sadness, he tucked you in, leaving you, to head down.

he remained a little distracted, not quite able to focus when he truly just wanted to spend time with you.

he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so deeply infatuated with someone, the last time someone had flooded his mind 24\7

you were so utterly perfect in so many ways, sweet and kindhearted, headstrong and independent, warm and funny, friendly and open.

but still, he felt a reluctance to be vulnerable, the walls you had put up that you refused to let him penetrate. he was also aware that you even coming to had been a huge step, and he could slowly work towards findings out what exactly was upsetting you.

with new found determination, he made his way back to the room.

upstairs, you were still fast asleep, and as he walked in he noticed the agitation on your face, the beads of sweat dripping down your forehead and the whimpers leaving your lips.

he rushed over to you, fingers gently shaking your tense shoulders, heart breaking at the whimpers escaping your lips, little murmurs of “please don’t hurt me..” leaving your lips, making his heart shatter.

still in a haze, you frowned, watching as the dark shaped got closer and close to you, you tried to run, but you were frozen in place, a scream rising to your throat only to stick, mouth open without making a single sound. the dark figure got closer and closer, ominous giggles leaving their mouth as they approached you, faceless, but for an evil smirk on their lips.

the figure reached out and touched your face, cold and clammy, and you felt a chill run down your spine.

"im going to hurt you," the figure whispered. you tried to speak, but no words would come out. you were trapped, helpless.

the figure leaned in closer, and you could feel its hot breath on your neck. It reached out and touched your throat.

you closed your eyes and waiting for the impact.

but then, you heard a familiar voice, sounding almost dreamlike and distant, like a guardian angel descending from the heavens to refuse you.

"wake up, carino! it’s just a dream. I’m here, estas a salvo” you're safe Carlos’ voice broke through and you awoke with a gasp.

carlos took in the sight of the tears dripping down your cheek, and the pants leaving your mouth, and he swore he felt his heart shatter.

"stay away" you whispered, bringing your knees to your chest to shield yourself.

"wh-what?" he mumbled, surprised.

"i said stay away!! don't touch me" you shouted, voice quivering with fear.

the storm of emotion in carlos' eyes sent self pity surging through your heart.

"oh, cariño mío, nunca, nunca, nunca te haría daño, te lo prometo." oh my darling, i would never ever ever hurt you,i promise he whispered, but still, he took a step back. he did not want to cross any boundaries.

"don't lie to me" you whimpered, shoulders shaking and chest rising and falling rapidly. you were still dazed, not quite processing that it was carlos in front of you, not your ex, and that he was the last person to raise a hand on you.

"im not lying, mi duce" he said sincerely, gently reaching his hand out to you.

"no! thats what he said too" you sobbed out, knees giving out as you fell to your knees on the ground, face buried in your hands as you sobbed.

carlos decided that space wasn't the answer. with steps as light as a feather, he was beside you in an instant, gingerly reaching out to stroke your hair.

surprisingly, you didn't push him away, but you did flinch, and the sight made Carlos's heart break further.

"oh, oh, cariño mío... siento mucho, mucho que eso te haya sucedido..."oh, oh my darling, I'm so so sorry that ever happened to you, he whispered, gently rubbing your arm, the warmth of his hands helping the shivers taking over your body.

"I'm sorry" you sobbed, embarrassment, guilt and shame coursing through your veins.

"no, why are you sorry? you haven't done anything wrong" he stated firmly, gently letting you lean into him, sniffling into his shirt.

he didn't care about the mess on his shirt. he didn't care about the fact that he was late for a press meeting. all he cared about was making sure that your were okay.

"i shouldn't have been so stupid, so stupid that someone had to hit me to make me see sense" you continued, mind so drowsy and scared you didn't even know what you were saying.

"you're not stupid, amor, i promise youre not. i am so sorry that happened to you but please, mi dulce, don't ever demean yourself. eres más valiosa para mí que el sol, la luna y las estrellas, y juro que hay millones de personas que piensan lo mismo. no puedo deshacer lo que tu ex ha hecho, pero haré todo lo posible para tratarte mejor y hacerte sentir amada de nuevo, si me das una oportunidad, mi cariño. significas el mundo para mí y pasaré cada día de mi vida demostrándotelo si es necesario." he said,You are worth more to me than the sun moon and stars and i swear there are millions of people who think so too. I cannot undo what your ex has done, but I can try my damn hardest to treat you better and make you feel loved again, if you will give me a chance, my darling. You mean the world to me and I'll spend every day of my life proving that to you if i have to", gently lifting your chin so he could look into your red eyes.

"I'm not worth it carlos.. you deserve someone who isn't a mess, who isn't wrecked, who isn't a useless, used thing, like me.." you started but you were cut off by carlos pulling you into a tight hug.

inhaling deeply, you let yourself sink into his embrace, clutching the material of his shirt as if you were scared he would disappear into thin air.

"you are everything to me" he murmured, and you looked up at him, gaze flicking from his sincere eyes, the worry lines on his forehead to his perfectly plump lips.

and in that moment you made a decision.

"kiss me" you whispered, hand reaching out to stroke his stubble.

"there's nothing I want more, carino, but..are you sure? no quiero que te arrepientas de esto más tarde." i don't want you to regret this later he said, and you smiled.

"nunca he estado más seguro de nada más."I've never been more sure of anything else you replied, gently pulling him down to meet your lips.

you closed the space between the two of you, pressing your body against his as your hands found home on his face and waist, his in your cheek and hips

carlos sighed softly, against your mouth hands moving to wrap around you, resting on your back as he kisses you back, with unfiltered passion.

you never thought that actually someone could actually leave you winded with just a kiss, but here was a man, something out of a story book, taking your breath away with a kiss.

"I've wanted to do that for so long" carlos mumbled against your lips, as you slowly pulled away, trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering in your belly.

"i have too, but i was scared.." you started off, but carlos cut you off with a feather soft kiss to your forehead.

"you don't owe me any explanation, mi amor. thank you for trusting me" he whispered, and you smiled.

"just... promise me you won't hurt me?" you asked, vulnerability evident in every syllable.

carlos responded with a soft kiss to your knuckles, to your cheeks, your forehead, your nose, and then finally your lips.

"never."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

that summer, carlos took you to mallorca to meet his family.

he had brought you along, introducing you to his father, his mother, his sisters and a few cousins who had come to spend the summer.

carlos sainz sr had welcomed you with open arms, despite your initial nervousness. reyes had enveloped you in a warm hug, expressing her excitement at finally meeting the woman her son couldn't stop raving about, making the both of you blush.

his sisters, blanca and ana, had both gushed over you, making very little effort to hide how much they loved your music and how excited they were that their brother was dating you.

you were grateful at how welcoming and sweet his family was, how they treated you like one of their own, taking you sightseeing and taking you to their favourite spots, treating you to lovely lunches with the family, with reyes making you your first ever homemade gazpacho that you fell in love with.

out of everyone, you found yourself gravitating to her the most, and spent as much time with her as you could, laughing at stories she told you about carlos.

one evening she took you and her daughters out for a spa day. carlos couldn't hide the happy smile that refused to leave his lips the whole day, heart full at how well you meshed with his family.

"you look lovely dear" reyes warm tone greeted you as you made your way to the car so you could go to lunch and then a spa. she was so kind to you, even though she only met you a few days ago, she welcomed you into her family with open arms. "are you enjoying yourself, mi hija?" the nickname made you flush, as you nodded, a shy smile on your lips "don’t be shy!" she said, gently squeezing your shoulder, eyes twinkling

"mallorca is really beautiful! i really like it here" you said, a genuine smile on your lips, and reyes nodded. "thats good because I get the feeling we'll have you over much more often now", blanca added from the back seat.

she winked at you which made the four of you laugh.

"well, i hope i can visit much more often" you said, smiling at the three sainz women in front of you.

"you will, i know for a fact my brother is head over heels for you with how he looks at you like you hung the stars sun sky and the entire cosmos up" ana said sagely, making blanca snort.

"don't expose him like that, he'll kill you if he hears you told her that" her older sister chided

"I'm not wrong! he doesn't bring anyone home unless he's serious about them!" ana said indignantly, and you felt your heart flutter

"my carlito is very shy, hija, and that's why we were so happy when he told us you were dating, and even more when he said he was bringing you home" reyes said to you, a nostalgic smile on her lips as she thought back to when all her children were babies.

"you're a lovely person, y/n. i knew it the moment you walked in the door, and I know you make carlos so happy. welcome to the family unofficially, mi hija" she said softly, to voices of agreement from ana and Blanca and you felt tears rise to your eyes.

overwhelmed with emotion, all you could do was squeeze their hands and say a soft "thank you"

later that night, as you and carlos for ready for bed, he came up to you, wrapping his arms around you, pressing soft kisses to your neck and shoulders, massaging your shoulders with lotion.

"what did you talk to my mother and sisters about mi dulce?" he asked, pressing a gentle kiss to your collarbone.

"thats a secret, amor" you smirked and he whined, burying his face in your neck.

"ana has been winking at me all evening and poking me in the side. what did you dooo" he whined like a child and you giggled.

"i can't tell you,but they were all so lovely" you said, climbing into bed, as carlos snuggled up to you.

"see? i told you they'd all love you. my dad told me today as well, he thinks you're a perfect match for me and he'd like to take you for a round of golf sometime" he said, running his fingers through your hair.

"I'd love that" you smiled, kissing his nose.

of course, it didn't stop there.

before you knew it, carlos' lips were on yours. you pushed him away with a giggle, knowing it wouldn't stop at one.

"please amor, just one more, I've barely seen you today" he pouted and you rolled your eyes at his antics.

“fine. just one. one more kiss and that’s—”

carlos' mouth pressed against yours in a desperate kiss, mumbling a quick ,"yes, hmm, yes," as he nudges the tip of his tongue against yours to open up, trying to get you a more passionate kiss.

you pull back with a gasp, hands against his chest, “no no no no no. you need to behave and i only said one and your entire family is here and this is more than one —" he cut you off mid way again, pressing a flurry of pecks your lips.

desperately trying to keep your thoughts straight, you begins to cave in as his teeth gently nibble at your bottom lip, pulling it away and his eyes watching as it snaps back in its place, his tongue meets yours again.

you whine, body relaxing slowly into his, hands resting on his chest and face, monetarily forgetting the fact that you were making out with him in his family home.

"ay dios mio!" caco's voice exclaims and you jump, pulling away from carlos.

"por favor, cierra la puerta si vas a involucrarte en estas actividades, hermano." he said backing out of the room.

"qué quieres, caco?" carlos yelled after him, grinning at the sight of you burying your face in the blanket, shouting out an apology to caco.

"just wanted to say good night, which I now know you'll have!" he shouted back and you gasped, pulling the sheets over your face.

you were sure ana in the next room must have heard it.

"carlos" you whine as he laughs, anas voice floating in from next door "please don't traumatise me!"

all of a sudden, he pins you down, fingers ticking your sides, relishing the sound of your laughter.

“im so in love with you, angel, te amo." he whispered.

"te amo carlos" you mumbled, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips.

everything had changed, thankfully for the better.

and you could not be happier.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

a/n : might make it multi part or just leave it like this, please let me know which one you'd prefer!!

as always likes, reblogs comments, opinions etc are appreciated!! much love always 😘

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f1 : @theonly1outof-a-billion @rileynicol3 @ivegotparticulartaste @moon-enthusiast @superlegend216

everything: @roslastyles420 @hopefulinlove @bluesongbird

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lxclerc · 2 years

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𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐜𝐥𝟏𝟔

SUMMARY: in which your secret relationship with charles leclerc comes to light all because of a shirt. REQUEST: here PAIRING: verstappen!sister x charles leclerc WARNING: none. fluff. maybe some slight threats of bodily harm but it’s all in good fun. probably badly translated french and dutch.

masterlist

The first time you met Charles was an accident. You were drunk and you’ve lost your brother in the sea of people, shivering from the cold air of the outdoor after party, your dress definitely far too short and far too revealing for the european winds.

You’re gripping a drink in your hand, attempting to hold it properly in your incoherent state as your eyes search the sea of people for Max. in your confusion and alcohol ridden state, you hadn’t noticed the chest in front of you, barreling towards it. Thankfully, unlike the cliche, your drink hadn’t spilled on his shirt but rather just the floor but as you faced him, white dress shirt covering his toned body, you almost wished it had spilled on him just to give you a reason to suggest taking his shirt off.

“Het spijt me zo,” you said immediately, not even realizing that you’ve switched to your mother tongue in your drunken state. I’m so sorry.

The man before you stared at you for a few seconds, his brain trying to register the words. He too has had a few drinks though definitely not as drunk as you and he wonders if you’re speaking another language and talking gibberish. “Huh?”

Your cheeks colored red. “Oh um. I said I’m sorry.” There’s a slight accent to your words, similar to Max’s but a little thicker.

His face lit up as he smiled. “Oh, it’s okay. Are you alright?”

You noticed his very evident french accent, making you want to groan. You’ve never considered accents attractive till you heard him talk. But you’re sure he’s a driver because you’ve seen his face around before but with the alcohol flowing through your body, you can’t seem to recall his name.

“Yes,” you say, voice slurring a little. “I’m looking for my brother. Do you happen to know where Max is?”

“Oh, um…” he looked around, trying to spot the red bull driver to know avail. “Last I saw him, he was with his girlfriend. I think they may have left.”

It’s ridiculous you think. The party is for Max and his newest win and yet somehow he’s missing it. You rolled your eyes. Typical of him to forget all about you. “I’m going to kill him.”

“I can take you to your hotel if you want,” he offered.

“You’re a driver,” you accused, eyes narrowed. “You probably shouldn’t be drinking and driving.”

The man before you laughed and you tried not to stare at the way his smile lit up his face. You almost think it’s illegal for that kind of attractive to be walking around like nothing. “The hotel is walking distance from here, love.”

Oh. Right. You’d also walked on your way here earlier with Max and Kelly. Even from where you stand now, you can see the outline of the fancy building. “Well then I accept your offer.”

“Let me just say bye to my friends.” He smiles at you again and you resist telling him not to because his smile makes you feel tingles all over your body.

You nod, following him to their table where you saw the other F1 drivers standing around, some you recognized, some not but if you had been sober, you’d probably be able to recite all of their names.

“Mate,” he calls to one. You recognize him as Pierre Gasly only because a friend of yours from back home insists he’s the most attractive driver. “Je retourne à l'hôtel. Je vous verrai demain.” I’m heading back to the hotel. I’ll see you tomorrow.

You chew on your bottom lip. Speaking French has never sounded hotter than it did now.

Pierre Gasly looked at you, giving you a smile before turning back to his friend and saying something to which the man you were with rolled his eyes at before turning back to you, his easy going smile plastered on his face.

“I’m Charles, by the way,” he tells you once you’re away from the noisy crowd.

Your relationship with Charles was almost instantaneous, the connection between the two of you coming out of nowhere. He asked you out the next day of your second meeting, with you recruiting Kelly to distract Max for the night so you can leave and him taking you to a fancy dinner where he made corny pick up lines that had you giggling over the champagne.

The first time he kissed you, it was on a dock in Monaco, his lips softly touching yours till you muttered kiss me properly and pulled as his shirt, making Charles grin in the kiss as he felt you closer to his body. The first time you said I love you, it was under the blanket with a hoarse voice, trying to hide the fact that you’re terrified he might not say it back.

The next day after that, he said I love you ten more times. He said it as a hello, over a cup of tea, on a sunny monday morning with the sunlight glowing on his hair, as a thank you, as an apology when he accidentally got your order wrong, as a good morning, with a shuddering gasp, in a text, a whisper in your ear as they passed by each other and loud in the hotel room with feats of giggles.

You often bicker back and forth with you resulting back to dutch and him to French till everyone is staring at the two of you and you are laughing, already forgetting what it was you were arguing about. But whereas you both absolutely loved to talk, sharing the smallest details of your day over calls and facetimes, you also enjoyed the silence. You enjoyed just sitting on his couch as you read a book and he watches the TV or plays the piano, not speaking a word.

But you kept it a secret. At first, it was because you were still getting to know each other, wanting to be sure before you let anyone know and wanting to reduce awkward encounters in case it didn’t work out. And then it became something sacred that you selfishly wanted to keep to yourself. You liked the thrill of sneaking into each other's hotel rooms and flying city to city. You loved hushed voices during calls and seeing everyone ask him if he’s single and him answering no then wink at the camera.

Apart from that, you know your brother. You know he can be quick tempered and extreme, oftentimes overprotective as he believes it’s his duty as your older brother to look out for you. You know he’d make a bigger deal out of it than it should be and you’d really rather not have to deal with that.

The first two days before summer break and mid season, some of the drivers decided to go on a much needed joint ski holiday, renting out a massive cabin. It would only be for two days for the rest of them but you and Charles had already booked it for another week, telling Max some lie about meeting your friend in London or something of the sorts.

The drivers, consisting of Charles, Max, Daniel, Pierre, Carlos and George along with their girlfriends. Max hadn’t even wanted to come but you insisted under the false pretense of needing to bond with his ‘coworkers’. Thankfully, Kelly, your lord and savior at this point, more than happily backed you up.

And so here you were, tangled up in Charles’ room as the sunlight tickled in, the covers tightly wrapped around the mess of limbs the two of you had become. From downstairs, you can hear some of the others already talking among themselves, making you groan as you check at the clock. In your opinion, seven in the morning is far too early for the entire cabin to already be awake.

“How are they already up?” You complained, pressing your cold feet against his leg, making Charles let out a small gasp from the sudden chill it brought.

“Most of them probably trained,” he muttered, his arms around your waist pulling you closer to his chest. “Retournons nous coucher, ma chérie.” Let’s go back to bed, darling.

“Still can’t speak French, love, but I need to go back to my own room before Max comes barging in.”

“Let him.”

You smiled at his sleepy state, gently pushing his hair back. “As fun as that would be, I’d rather not he see me naked in your bed.”

A lazy grin pulled at his lips. “I think it’s a rather beautiful sight, do you not?”

“For you perhaps but I'm not in the business of traumatizing my brother.” You work to pull yourself out of his embrace, laughing as he groans. Grabbing the first shirt you find on the floor and your pajamas from the night before, you kiss him with a promise of seeing him later before sneaking out of his room.

You ran your hand through your hair, not bothering to go to your own room and instead choosing to have coffee first before breakfast. There you find Max, Daniel, Pierre and Carlos in their workout clothes dripping with sweat. Kelly and Isabel, Carlos’ girlfriend, are also there, still in their pajamas much like you are.

“Morning,” you greet, grabbing a cup of coffee as you take your place with the two women. “How are you guys up at this hour?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Isa mutters, complaining along. “We could all still be happily sleeping right now.”

“Is that your shirt?” Max asks, breaking the conversation as he eyed the oversize white shirt you wore, some french artist printed on it.

“It looks familiar, no?” Pierre adds, eyeing your shirt as well as he tries to remember when he had last seen it.

You try not to choke on your coffee as you swallow. “Oh, um…yeah, it’s my shirt. Found it in a thrift store in Monaco.” You’re quite proud of your quick thinking and spontaneous lie till Carlos spoke up.

“Really? I think I saw Charles wearing–”

At that exact moment, Charles entered the kitchen, completely shirtless. “Hey guys, did you see my lucky shirt? I think I left it here while watching a movie last night—”

He trailed off as he noticed everyone staring at him, your red face hidden behind a glass of coffee, his shirt proudly hanging off your body. The others were quick to piece it together, bursting out laughing.

“Think we figured it out, mate,” Carlos teases, placing a hand on Max’s shoulder. But your brother seems to be at a loss for words.

“Did you guys only figure it out now?” Daniel asked them incredulously. “Found them making out in a hotel hallway in Bahrain.”

“Leclerc,” your brother finally speaks up, glaring at Charles. “You have ten.”

Charles turned to you in question but you only shrugged. “Ten what, mate?”

“...nine, eight, seven…”

“Babe,” you call, unable to stop the grin pulling at your lips at the sudden panic in Charles’ face. “I think it’s time to run.”

“...six, five…”

Charles stared at Max for half a second as if asking him if he’s serious but when Max doesn’t stop, he decides it’s time to dash for his life.

“Mate, mate!” He screams as Max follows him, causing another round of laughter to erupt. “Let’s talk about this!”

“My sister?! Really?! How long has this been going on?"

From your seat next to the girls, you calmly drank your coffee. "About sixteen months."

Max's jaw fell, his face seemingly getting angrier. "Sixteen months?! Leclerc, you little piece of shit!"

"Oh trust me, there's definitely nothing little about him."

As the other drivers once again burst out laughing, Max and Charles froze on their spots, Max looking as though he wants to throw up and Charles staring at you in disbelief.

"Y/N!" He screamed. "Do you want me to die?!"

"Leclerc, you better hope I don't catch you or else zal ik je vermoorden in koude bloede." I will murder you in cold blood.

#charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagines #max verstappen fluff #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc x you #f1 imagine

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wtfwayne · 3 months

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There's no place I'd rather be than in your arms

Summary: Charles and Max crashes during a race, Charles ends up injured but despite that, he only seems to care about the other's well-being rather than his own.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Warnings: Swearing, blood, injuries (nothing graphic), hospital

Word count: 2.6k

Author's note: I'm very new to F1 and writing for this fandom, so please be kind. Also I've never written car scenes at all before lol. Also, I didn't intend for this to be romantic, but read it however you want.

Even away from the circuit, people are watching the race on TV. Some want Verstappen to win again, some have their bets put on Hamilton.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

30 minutes in, and the race is only getting more interesting. The cars zoom around the track and the audience is cheering on enthusiastically. The commentators are watching and pointing out every movement of every driver closely.

Charles has moved from fourth to second by overtaking Lando Norris and Lewis Hamilton. It's a quite cloudy day, he hopes that there won't be any rain. Rain only ever complicates things when it comes to Formula one. It's the classic British weather, gray and all. It's quite the opposite from last week’s race and location.

The Ferrari driver is trying his hardest to reach the leading Red Bull car by every passing second, pushing himself and the car to its limits.

When racing, it's like Max and Charles forget about any friendliness that exists outside of the track. Any of the nice moments together just vanishes. Now, their focus is solely on winning the Grand Prix and scoring points.

“Push, push.”

A voice comes through the intercom, Charles hears the man's voice loud and clear.

“I'm trying.”

Charles' accent is obvious, even through the slight static noises. His pressure on the gas pedal increases, and he accelerates. But everytime he seems to get a second closer to Verstappen, his rival speeds faster.

The man at the pit wall says something else, but the words go in through one ear and out the other. Charles is too concentrated to listen. He needs to pass Max, now.

As they get closer to a turn, he can picture the commentators yelling into their microphones about how Verstappen and Charles will be fighting for position any second now.

Any second.

“ …. Overtake, now!”

Charles turns the steering wheel, so does Max. It's a smooth turn, and the Red Bull driver can feel his own heartbeat quickening upon realizing how close the Ferrari is getting. Speaking of, Hamilton is catching up to them as well.

“Don’t let Charles pass you.”

Max quickly replies with a simple and straight to the point: “Understood.”

Everything around them feels like a blur when they speed down the straight, Charles getting closer and closer while Hamilton struggles to reach the two cars at the very front.

They're fighting for position, one front wheel almost touching the other’s. Charles adjusts his grip on the steering wheel for a brief moment, his hands holding it even firmer now.

Another sharp turn incoming.

The audience and every team member is holding their breaths at this point, just watching the scene unfold. The Ferrari team are intensely watching; praying Charles will be successful in his overtake. Meanwhile, Christian Horner and his team seem disappointed. They can't let anyone else but Max win this.

Charles swerves to the outside, keeping Max near the apex. The adrenaline is rushing through their veins, but everything comes to a sudden stop when The Red Bull car’s front wing touches the rim of the Ferrari.

Even the slightest touch can make these cars spin out of control.

There's not much Charles can do at that moment, the spinning is way too fast for him to regain control over the vehicle. As his breath catches in his throat, he accepts the fate he cannot escape.

The audience cheering comes to a sudden stop, and they collectively gasp when there's a loud crash being heard across the circuit.

Charles Leclerc has hit the barrier within seconds.

One of the wheels has flown off and the right side is completely wrecked. There's pieces of metal all over the ground surrounding the car. It's nothing a simple pit stop will fix.

The scent of burnt rubber fills the air, and the team members are yelling on the intercoms. No response from their driver.

“Charles? Are you okay?”

There's silence again, before Charles can be heard breathing. Fast but heavy breaths. Then, he groans; slowly coming back to his senses after those eventful five seconds. Everything happened so quickly he almost couldn't register it all properly.

“Are you okay?”

It's his team principal speaking this time, sounding very worried.

Charles blinks, opening his eyes and giving it another try to properly catch his breath. His vision is blurry, and there's a pounding pain in his body.

“Charles, say something if you can hear me.”

The commentators, audience and everyone alike is in disbelief of what's just happened. Everything is still, every sound reaching Charles’ ear comes off as muffled and distant. A hiss of paint escapes even when he tries to shift his sitting position a little.

Is he imagining things or is there blood running down his back? Maybe he doesn't want to know the answer to his own question this time.

Finally, the Ferrari driver speaks, and when he does, his tone is unreadable.

“What happened?” He sounds confused, disoriented if you will. He knows well he'd crashed, but maybe he's seeking reassurance before the whole reality of the situation settles in.

“A collision with Verstappen. I’m asking you again- are you feeling alright? … Are you injured?”

No immediate response besides from an audible ‘fuck’ coming from Charles. With a sluggish motion, he reaches his arm up to move the visor up.

“... Max? Is he- is he okay?” His own worries are making themselves clear in his voice, as if he's desperate for an answer.

The team principal sighs. “You’re not supposed to worry about him right now, Charles. The Marshalls and the medical crew are on their way over. Stay still and calm.”

The Ferrari driver lets out a strained breath, finding himself closing his eyes again at the ever growing pain. Pulsing through his muscles and bones, down his spine and his whole back.

“Is Max okay?” Charles asks again, maybe the conversation is just a distraction from the situation. Or, he really does care about Max Verstappen that much.

A moment of silence before another man at the pit wall speakers through the radio. “We’ve been told he's okay. A little shaken up, but no injuries.”

The Monegasquan doesn't get the chance to speak again, before a crew member does.

“Can you feel your legs? Your arms? Do you feel any pain?”

“.... Are you sure he's fine? He didn't get hurt?”

He really is desperate, he needs to know how his on-track rival is doing. He'd hate himself if they both got hurt because of all this.

“This isn't about Max. But, yes, we're sure. Please tell me if you're feeling any pain.”

It's clear from the start Charles isn't in the correct headspace to cooperate with the other members of the team. Even though he refuses to admit his own situation, the pain is seeping into his tone.

The team principal is just about to break the brief silence before Charles speaks again. All while the medical crew is getting closer. “Tell Max I’m not angry. I don't care that he crashed into me.”

“But- you're probably injured, Charles. For fuck’s sake-”

“Tell him that, it's all I want.”

“Fine, I will. Now-”

“How’s Carlos?”

“Carlos is okay too, he'll see you at the hospital once everything is over. Now, please, take a deep breath. I know you feel stressed and hurt.”

Charles gives in and he takes a deep breath, he can hear the medical team and the car in a distance now. “I want to see him, right now.”

“Who? Carlos?”

“Max.”

“That won't happen. Tell me where it hurts the most, Charles.”

It's a quick paced conversation, leaving little to no air between every exchanged sentence between the driver and the team.

“At the hospital, tell him… to come to my room.” It's getting more difficult to make the words come out with his usual ease, the pain eating away at him is getting in the way.

“With Christian too? Or just Verstappen?”

“Fuck no- Horner doesn't give a shit that I’m hurt.” Another quiet groan slips past his lips, though this time it might be his annoyance directed at Red Bull's team principal rather than anything else. “He just wants Max to win.”

“Stop talking about him for one second. Keep calm, that's all I’m asking you to do.”

“- Christian will find his way to blame the crash on us, even if I’m fucking bleeding.”

It all feels like a haze when the medical crew arrives by the crashed Ferrari, helping Charles out of the car as the driver struggles to stand and properly support himself. As he's being led into the ambulance, the overwhelming pain and anxiety might as well knock him out.

The helmet’s been removed along with the rest of the gear at this point; gloves, earbuds, balaclava. The medical crew is gently examining him, checking the blood and bruises at the side of his back and if he's injured anywhere else.

It was a hard crash, and it definitely left its marks on Charles. Before he knows it, he's been taken from the circuit to the nearby hospital. He’d passed out in the back of the ambulance, when he wakes up again the pain has lessened. It feels dull. He must’ve been given medications.

It's not the worst crash in the history of Formula One, but it will still be remembered.

The fluorescent lights are bright when Charles finally opens his eyes, becoming aware of his surroundings and the hospital room he finds himself in. White walls and gray boring floor. Plain looking chairs and a shelf which lacks any decorations. There’s only two books in there and a plant made out of plastic.

The room is empty, but there are distant voices coming down the hall behind the closed door. He prays that the press isn’t here, it's probably the last thing he wants right now.

He wants it to be just him and Max.

Just Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen.

The door opens, and a nurse comes in. Dressed in the usual hospital attire. The conversation is short lived, and he's barely paying attention.

He's injured, he was bleeding- blah, blah, blah. Where is his promised visitor?

“- Just let me know if you need anything, there's water on the side table if you need it. You do have two visitors, but after that I'd suggest getting some more rest.”

Charles gives a brief nod in response and the nurse soon disappears through the same door. A few beats of silence before steps can be heard approaching the room again. It's Carlos… and Max.

The two seem to whisper to themselves, as if to decide who would go into the room first. Carlos ends up staying out in the hallway, and Max steps inside. Closing the door shut behind him, before slowly approaching the bed.

“I heard you were really worried for me.” Max speaks up without any proper greeting, his tone is gentle and a little quiet. Far from the blunt type he'd usually be during race weekends. The Dutch man brings a chair over and sits down, Charles watches in silence.

Charles shifts, the movement itself doesn’t hurt as much anymore, but he’d be lying if he said his current situation wasn't uncomfortable, the way he’s still somewhat lethargic and the way his change of clothes feel against his skin.

He doesn’t want to be here, but at least Max is here… with him.

“I was- I am worried about you.” he replies, his voice coming out weak but the genuine affection doesn’t go unnoticed to the other. Max can’t help but smile; a mixture of sadness, worry and relief on his face.

Sad to see the fellow driver injured, but relieved to know he’s okay.

Max leans back in the chair and tilts his head slightly to the left. He lets out a quiet breath before saying: “But you’re the one in pain here, not me.”

“You’re right, but… “ Charles pauses, it’s unclear if he’s trailing off intentionally or not. “It doesn’t make me any less worried about you.”

A beat of silence, Max seems to think about what to say. Contemplating his choice of words as he fiddles with his hands. “... I worried about you too, a lot. Carlos too, of course.” He almost looks like he’s about to say something else, but he keeps his mouth shut.

The Red Bull driver doesn’t ask the words aloud, but the look in his eyes as their gazes meet says it all. His blue eyes glimmer in the bright light, as if to ask ‘how are you doing?’

“I’ve been better,” Charles says, trying to play it off like no big deal. “I think I’ll be out of here soon.”

“What about next week? WIll you be able to race?”

The questions are quite surface-levelled, but Charles can feel there’s an underlying tone to them, other worries that Max is not saying outright.

“We’ll see about that, but if I can’t do it, you’ll have to fight Carlos for a win instead.”

“It wouldn’t be as fun to race against Carlos” Max comments, looking down at his hands for a second. “It wouldn’t be the same thing, but- don’t tell him that.”

Charles raises an eyebrow, finding what he’d said a little amusing.

“I won’t let him know that you obviously think I’m the better Ferrari driver.” He can’t stop himself from chuckling. His laugh is more often than not contagious and Max laughs quietly too. The worries eyes and soft smile remain on Max’s expression, it don’t seem like it will disappear anytime soon

The air is light, and so is the tone of their conversation. As if it’s an unspoken rule of theirs to not get overly personal in moments like this, especially when they know someone’s standing right outside the door.

“Can I ask what Christian is saying about all of this?” Charles suddenly asks, his own facial features softening. He never takes his eyes off of Max. There are so many things left unsaid in the silence filling between them, but they never delve further into it.

“He’s pretty upset, … I don’t think you’d want more details.”

Charles slowly nods, and he doesn’t ask any more questions regarding Red Bull’s team principal.

Max speaks again: “I think Carlos wants to see you now, I’d imagine he’s still a little shaken up too.” He rises from his seat before the other man can even let the words register in his hazy mind. Max is about to turn and leave before he faces Charles again.

“I’m really glad to know you’re okay-” he cuts himself off as if to think about what to say next. “I just want you to know that.”

Charles smiles; brighter than before and shifts another time. Without a word, he reaches his arms out in a cautious manner.

“Just hug me already.” he says, but he only got half way through the sentence before he feels Max’s arms around him.

A careful grip - not wanting to hurt the other - but still one full of affection and care. Neither of them want to let go, and if one of them weren’t injured, Max would’ve pat his back too.

Nothing more is said after that, Max slowly pulls away from the hug. Knowing he should go so Carlos can get some alone time with Charles as well. The man lying on the bed watches as Max turns around and walks out.

From rivals on the track to close friends in a hospital room, without the constant eyes on them and the press watching their every move.

#lestappen #charles x max #max verstappen x charles leclerc #max verstappen #charles leclerc #fanfiction #formula one #elliot attempts at writing #f1 fanfic

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coentinim · 5 months

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I think a good voice in French for Jean-Baptiste would be deep, mostly monocordous but can do some harshness, and with a slight drag to his vowels, mostly as an accent (like, his step-dad was from Lorrain, and this vowel drag is associated with a more old-school old-fashioned element), and his voice gets less monocordous and more breathy as he's weaker and weaker from his paralysis. Like, each small movement demands a lot of effort from him. Although, I do like how he's voiced in the Japanese vomic: a deep, commanding voice that has a soft politness to it, that I quite like. His voice actor is by far the most well-casted. I think that sort of voice that was found with Tony Jay or Alan Rickman. Both of them Rest In Peace. This sort of stern, commanding presence that still manage to have this softness to it. Reading the lines: "Be a good boy, Charles." kind of makes me squeal everytime.

Aaaaa I get you! He also said it during torture, right? It's just so much better, I mean getting treated with pain and encouraged like this would break me. I had that when Soubise said something like "Come on, say oui" while literally burning Damiens' flesh off with hot metal, with the most smug face ever. I don't really think about him anymore but that small line had me in a chokehold I giggled like a middle school girl at the thought of being a fucking torture victim. What possessed me, I don't know. I should be concerned about such autodestructive fantasies but perhaps it's just me coping. I mean, I've had psychological problems but never self-harmed despite the temptation, so I guess catharsis works here.

I love the headcanons for his voice and I also imagined Jean-Baptiste talking like Alan Rickman! That's kind of Jean's whole appeal, the creepy vibes and him being eerily put together despite mingling with death and pain since an early age. I also think he stares into your eyes during a conversation, unaware that he's scaring you shitless. I guess it could be hot, such a piercing gaze. If he was real I'd probably get really fascinated by him but too intimidated to start a conversation.

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f1tyreslightmyfyre · 3 months

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We Go Together - Ch. 3

Series Main List

A Jedi!Charles x TIE Fighter Pilot!Max Star Wars AU

Ch. 3 Warnings: Explicit NSFW 18+ Smut (first-time, slight dub-con, frottage); explicit language; hurt/comfort; head wound; discussion of war and death; forced drug addiction (by the Imperial Navy) and associated withdrawal; family separation; Charles tries his hand at teaching and probably needs help

He doesn’t know why he’s still here. The storm broke in the day’s early hours, and even though thick grey clouds still blanket the sky, there’s nothing holding him here. Except… he doesn’t bring himself to move from where he sits on the green, grassy expanse that overlooks the churning sea below.

The grave of his fighter. And by all rights, it should be his grave, too.

But instead, he sits just outside the dwelling of the man who saved him, and the strong onshore wind fills his lungs with brackish air. He’s never given a second thought to small, suffocating spaces, but there's just… something about being surrounded by so much open wilderness. Something that whispers along his skin, something that surrounds him and scratches at his soul.

But maybe that’s also Charles’ fault. The man has been nothing but overgenerous, whether in his portions of food or procurement of clothing that fits his broader frame. Nor in sharing his wild theories about TIE pilots’ conditioned mental and physical states… nor in his inquisitive looks with those bright green eyes.

He doesn’t think that he’s ever seen their equal. Not... not that he’s ever thought to look before.

“I like it.” Charles interrupted gently, flashing a warm, appreciative smile. “It suits you, Max.”

His frown deepens. He still doesn’t know what to make of that name, either.

Max.

At least it’s simple and direct. And, loathe as he is to admit it, Charles’s rationale behind the origin of it does make some sense. But does he dare actually consider using it? Perhaps it would be helpful to ward against any anti-Imperial sentiments as he works his way back to the nearest outpost. Or perhaps it could prove equally useful to root out traitors and rebels and bring them justice.

A strange, uncomfortable feeling rots in his stomach at the thought. His jaw tenses with frustrated uncertainty as he stares harder out at the sea, watching waves crash into the jagged shoreline. Even with the worst of the supposed withdrawal behind him and the bandage removed from his head, he still doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

Why does he notice things that he previously hasn’t? Why does he have doubts that he’s never harbored before? Why is he so absent of that determined clinical drive and instead just content to sit here in the grass as the breeze ruffles his hair?

His hand clenches at his side in a rush of unbidden muscle-memory reflex. A stab of irritation lances through him as he glares down at it and forces himself to stretch out his fingers, to roll out the tense line of his jaw. He winces at the ache in his muscles and joints as if… as if they’d been locked in tension for so long that they don’t know any other way to exist.

Another sour wave rolls through his stomach and he swallows against a suddenly dry throat, darting his gaze back out over the midnight sea.

Maybe… just maybe Charles is right…

But that thought conjures other disturbing, more concerning questions. If Charles is indeed telling the truth, then just how exactly did Charles acquire this knowledge? How can Charles possibly know what the Imperial Starfighter Corps did to him when he himself didn’t even have a clue? He closes his eyes and tries to focus on what he knows about Charles, to find some hint that might betray him. But the only thing that comes to mind is Charles’ unusual, bewitching accent.

Now that he thinks about it, Charles' accent isn’t far from the elegant, rounded tones of Corulag. Indeed, wouldn’t Charles be the model Corulag Imperial Military Academy student all buttoned up in the severe uniform tunic with his unruly curls tamed by the boxy, standard-issue hat.

That would indeed explain how Charles knows so much.

His jaw tenses again as a wave of anger rises within him. He may have been at Charles’ mercy since crash landing here - but that’s all going to change. He refuses to let this rotten deserter succeed in abandoning his duty.

Maybe arriving at the Imperial Output with a worthless traitor as his prisoner will quickly help restore him to active flight status. That’s all he wants, really.

He isn’t dead. He will keep flying.

Staring out at the sea, he wills his ship to rise and ignores the disconcerting itch that grows along his skin in response.

Charles walks across the grass, curls catching in the strong onshore wind. It brings the smell of distant rain and ozone, promising another storm on approach.

He hefts his satchel, adjusting the strap on his shoulder as he crests the hill towards his seaside dwelling. While living at the Jedi Temple - in the middle of a city planet - his youthful fantasy of living on the coast of a sea had been nothing more than a far-fetched dream. But if there is one insignificant upside to exile and extinction, then maybe his cozy, seaside abode is it.

As he approaches the familiar dark outline, he sees the sharp figure of the pilot. Max sits in the grass with his knees bent, long arms resting atop the joints as he stares out at the rolling, dark blue waves.

Max’s face betrays his thoughts about the sunken fighter, as does the confused conflict mixed with a strange determination that rolls off him through the Force. No doubt, if Max could recover his ship, he’d fly away just as quickly as he arrived, and the thought piques Charles' curiosity.

Just how much does Max know about the Force? Does he know that such feats are indeed possible? Does he feel Charles' emotions buzzing along his skin with the same energy as he can feel Max’s? But even if he does, does he know what it means?

Shoving a hand in his pocket, Charles strolls over towards Max, careful to keep his stride open and easy. Every Force-sensitive nerve ending in him lights up as he stops alongside Max. “I’m glad to see you outside,” he says, looking out over the churning water. “The fresh air is good for you.”

“Even if it is,” Max sharply answers without looking at him. “I told you that I wasn’t staying.”

Charles nods for a quiet moment before speaking. “Where will you go?”

“The nearest Imperial Outpost, of course.”

"That will still be easier to do with a name, Max." He glances down tentatively. "Have you given that some more thought?"

The pilot's face is disconcertingly neutral as he gives a perfunctory nod. "It is serviceable."

It's a better answer than Charles has hoped for. A grin tugs at his lips. "I'm glad to hear that. Well, now that you have a name… you'll also need credits for a transport."

Max shakes his head tersely. “Any citizen of the Empire should do their duty to ensure that I can do mine.”

Charles bites back the wry edge of his smirk. "That kind of loyalty isn't always easy to find here in the outer rim.”

“Anyone who stands in my way is guilty of treason.”

Charles blinks down at Max in a moment of consideration before dropping his gaze to the grass and shuffling his feet. He pulls a hand from his pocket, rubbing a non-existent itch on the tip of his nose. “We used to have a garrison here. Some years ago." He says gently. "With full ground and air support.”

Max’s face visibly perks as he fixes his sharp eyes on Charles. In the muted, cloudy light, those crystal blue depths threaten to drown him and the Force whispers for him to dive in without remorse. A startling, primal connection to this man snaps in place, making Charles' blood run cold. It doesn't make sense - never before has the Force ever compelled him so strongly towards another person. But the longer he loses himself in Max's eyes - just as beautiful as the sea, and just as tempestuous - the more he realizes that the Force has brought Max into his life for a reason.

If only he understands what that reason is.

The silence stretches out, and with a sigh to calm his restless thoughts, Charles lowers to sit in the grass. He folds his legs underneath him as Max's hard gaze never waivers. It should probably be unnerving how much the pilot stares at him, but Charles has become accustomed to it.

Max’s curious voice carries on the wind. “What did the inhabitants of this planet do to warrant a full garrison? That’s a lot of firepower.”

Charles wets his upper lip, remembering those dark days all too well. “Rumor had it that they offered sanctuary to an exiled Jedi Knight.”

Max’s face hardens. “If they were indeed harboring an enemy of the Empire, a posted garrison sounds merciful.”

“Their ruthless hunt was anything but merciful.”

Max hums quietly, turning away in a moment of consideration before speaking. “I guess the rumors must have been inaccurate since the garrison detached and this world continued to survive.” He blinks back over at Charles. “Did you hear why the garrison left?”

Charles’ throat tightens. “Rumor was…" his voice trails off as he forces a hard swallow. “Rumor was that they found the Jedi Knight in question dead on another planet.”

“Master, this doesn’t make sense - please.” Charles pleaded, looking at the taller woman as she stuffed a satchel with food and clothing.

“I will not stay and endanger these people, Charles. And us traveling together will raise even more suspicion.” Her words were muffled by the clanking of metal tins filled with preserved fish as she packed her bag. “The Empire knows my name, and they know that I’m here. If they don’t know about you, then I would have it stay that way.”

Charles drew a shaky breath, still trying to make sense of the situation. “Will… will you come back for me?”

Her movements slowed as she turned to him with a hesitant, fond smile. “If the Force wills it, I shall return once it is safe to do so. But be honest with yourself, my dear Padawan - you’ve been ready to face the galaxy on your own for some time now.”

He fought back the rising disappointment and accompanying restless sigh, unable to deny the truth of her words.

Her smile filled out as she stepped closer. “I know that you’re disappointed, Charles. Any Padawan on the precipice of taking the Trials would feel the same. If it were my decision, you would already bear the title of Jedi Knight.” Her purple eyes sparkled with familiar, caring encouragement. “You’re more ready than you’ll ever know - and you're certainly a more diligent student and Padawan than I was at your age.”

Charles’ cheeks flushed. “Thank you, master. That’s… high praise. Especially considering that I… I may never be a Knight now, and I… I don’t wish to fail you.”

“And that’s how I know that you’ll stay true in the difficult days ahead.” She placed a supportive hand on his shoulder. “Remember your training and keep the Force as your guide. Grow with it, learn from it, keep it as your ally - and you will not have failed me.”

“Good.” Max’s voice jars Charles from the memory as the pilot nods sharply. “Traitors to the Empire don't deserve to live.”

Charles’ eyes narrow, but he swallows his bitter tone. “Traitors who betray their allegiance should be held accountable, but I have never believed that of the Jedi Order.”

Max stiffens, his face creasing with surprised displeasure. A thrill of satisfaction flares in Charles’ chest. If Max has indeed spent his entire life with the Empire’s dogma rammed down his throat, then he’s long overdue to learn the truth and gain some perspective.

At length, Max’s gaze turns decisively murderous. “Then, I would have to call you a hypocrite.”

Charles doesn’t see the pilot move, but the energy in the air tenses and shifts. Max’s solid weight crashes into him, knocking him over into the grass. The back of Charles’ head connects with the hard ground, a grunt punching from his chest as Max bears down on him. His thighs are bracketed on either side by the pilot’s knees as the broader man looms over him, a hand tight around his throat.

“You talk about allegiance,” Max hisses. “But you’ve overplayed your hand, traitor.”

Charles stares up into Max's mesmerizing stormy gaze, shaking his head feebly against the pilot’s grip. “I am not a traitor, mate.”

“I am not your mate.” Max squeezes a little harder, shifting to straddle Charles’ upper thighs and gaining leverage to better immobilize him. “I do not befriend fucking deserters.”

“Deserter…?” Charles repeats, voice rough and eyes wide. “Of all the ridiculous nons-” His words choke off as Max jerks his head against the ground.

“You know too much to fool me.” The words cut with ice, lancing shivers down Charles’ spine. “Or have you forgotten how you lectured me on the manipulations of the pilot corps? How you told me about the drugs in my air supply?”

The strong hand around Charles’ throat disappears, darting up to tangle in Charles’ curls and wrench his head back. Charles gasps at the sudden motion, his bared throat flexing on display as unbidden arousal slams through him. Coupled with the warm weight of Max’s body on his thighs, over his groin - he struggles to breathe, to will his growing erection into submission.

Max leans down low, hot breath gusting against Charles’ ear as he pulls on Charles’ curls. “Now I ask myself,” Max whispers low and dangerous. “How could you possibly know all of that - any of that - unless you have prior experience with it?” He screws his fingers tighter in Charles’ hair. “Now, tell me.”

Charles groans, fighting for control. He’s impossibly hard now and mildly surprised that Max hasn't commented on it given the pilot's pressure on his hips. He can admit that he’s made a point not to look too closely at Max’s body since his arrival, but he can’t deny that Max is strikingly handsome with a body that would tempt even the most celibate. And while Jedis are forbidden from attachment and most chose celibacy to deter it, Charles has never made that distinction. But after so many years exiled on this planet, Charles hasn’t been so close to anyone in so long. Let alone someone so handsome who finds the erogenous zone of Charles’ hair.

Oh, Force, he’s in trouble. He struggles to keep his hips from thrusting up, trying to find words through labored breaths. After all, hasn’t Max asked him a question…?

Another strong tug makes Charles bite his lip to stifle a moan, tasting copper on his tongue. Max’s words rumble against the shell of his ear. “Answer me, deserter.”

The stern command demands complete surrender, and Charles' control breaks, bucking his hips up into the solid heat above him. His breath catches at the pleasurable sensation as a new discovery dawns on him. Again, he rolls his hips, dizzy to find Max's erection just as hard and hot against him.

A growl tears from Max’s lips as his grip tightens. “Stop that… Charles-” His words dissolve into a moan as Charles thrusts their arousals together.

Charles groans in return, heart galloping. Is he really going to do this? Would it really be so easy to turn the tide with such a distraction?

Max abandons Charles’ hair, reaching for his arms and pinning each to the ground. The shift in leverage puts more downward force on Max's hips, leaving any less doubt about his arousal as he glares down at Charles, eyes dark with feral desire. “What-” Max grits through clenched teeth as Charles rolls their hips together again. “What are you doing to me?”

Charles freezes, his heavy-lidded eyes flying open with surprise. “What do you… you can’t mean…” Charles pauses, licking his lips as he fights for clarity through the fog of arousal. “You mean to say that you’ve… never felt this?” He rolls his hips languidly, pressing their hard cocks together. “Or done this… with another person?”

Anger flashes in the tempest of Max’s eyes as he jerks a hand back to Charles’ throat, hard against his raging pulse, and forces his head back to expose his neck. “You think you’re so clever?” Max hisses sharp words into his ear. “You talk about manipulation - yet here you are… manipulating my body in such ways.”

“Oh, mate - I’m not clever and this is no manipulation.” Charles forces a hard swallow against the pressure of Max’s heavy hand. “Your body is made for so much more than just flying and hunting… and if the Empire took that from you, too, to make you a better weapon of war, then you have my condolences. Truly.” He moves his free hand to Max’s backside, exaggerating a groan as he grips the firm muscles, finding leverage to thrust against. He bares his throat further, gaze heavy with intent. “Truly, there’s little else so enjoyable… so pleasurable. It’s… what's life without pleasure, hmm?"

Charles builds a slow, grinding rhythm and watches Max’s resolve crumble. Fuck, it’s such a gorgeous sight. Max’s cheeks turn pink, his eyes dark and wild with obvious conflict about the sensations in his body as Charles holds him close. The Force sings between the tight press of their bodies, a blissful vitality hot with electric current.

Maybe it’s wrong, but Charles throws the last bit of caution to the wind. It may have been more years than he wants to admit, but he still remembers how to move, how to sound, how to bite his lip and entice his partner.

“Charles, don’t-” Max groans, his hold on Charles’ throat loosening. “... Don't!” He shifts atop Charles, resulting in the long, delicious drag of their cocks, and white-hot want rockets up Charles’ spine.

“Oh, Force,” Charles moans, gripping Max’s backside harder. His mind spins as Max's hips thrust forward again, and the air sparks against his skin. “Oh, fuck… do it again.”

“Fuck.” Max growls, radiating unhinged desperation and raging frustration. The intense energy rolls off him, threatening to suffocate Charles with each push and pull of their hips.

The pleasurable coils at the base of Charles' spine wind tighter, and… oh, fuck. This is it - he's going to come in his trousers like a teenager all over again - but has it ever felt this good? Max’s ragged breathing hitches, choking off a blissful cry in Charles' ear as his hips stutter and stall. Charles' own release surges through him, intoxicated by the blinding satisfaction that permeates every facet of Max's being.

His mind floats in delirium as he blinks up at Max, watching the pilot gasp for breath. Max's face contorts almost painfully as the overwhelming intensity of orgasm fades to afterglow. Charles’ heart breaks, wanting to wrap Max in the tightest hug and whisper every reassurance he knows against the pilot's skin.

Slowly, Charles licks his lips and sighs with heavy contentment. “Well, that… that was quite the unexpected detour, but most… certainly most welcome.” He drifts a lazy hand up the curvature of Max's spine.

“I don’t… you just….” Max gasps for words as he slumps against Charles, still undone from the rush. A suffocating panic grows in the air, a distress that slices through the lazy sway of euphoria.

“Just breathe.” Charles coaxes, concern creasing his brow. “You’re alright.”

“No!" Max hisses, still panting as if he’s drowning. “No, it… this-!”

Charles’ heart pangs as Max’s distress grows. His instincts tug at him to reach out, to extend Max a wave of calming reassurance - but that feels like a manipulative betrayal. There's nothing that Max should fear about this, and he should be allowed to experience it all.

But in his hesitation, Max slumps against him with closed eyes. His breathing evens out and the anxious energy radiating from him fades. As Charles bears the heavy weight on his chest, he isn't sure if the panic is a lasting side effect of the pilot corps' drugs or if he simply just hyperventilated in the first rush of powerful emotion.

Either way, he cards a comforting hand through Max’s soft hair and brushes a kiss to his brow. “Rest now, mate.” He breathes against Max’s overheated skin. “It’s alright.”

#f1 fanfic #f1 rpf #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fanfic #max verstappen #max verstappen fanfic #charles leclerc x max verstappen #lestappen #star wars au #jedi #tie fighter #f1 fandom

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jaytoons7 · 1 year

Text

Incoherent rambles about Crusher and stuff

I realized that you guys don't actually know much about his backstory and what happened to him post death.

Rambles under the cut (TWs: Mentions of murder, Toxic family, Gun violence):

General info

His real name is Richard Hughes (Only a small handful of people are allowed to still call him that). His nickname Crusher came from his general strength.

His age and birth year would be different depending on the universe (Although that can be said about most of my characters). In my timeline at least, He was born in the 1970s.

His birthplace and childhood home was in New York City (He still has a slight NYC accent).

Childhood

His family had been part of a powerful mafia for many years. His parents were very powerful people within it.

With that said, Crusher was basically robbed of a normal childhood. As soon as he was old enough to properly hold a weapon (At about 10), His parents immediately began training him to his limit.

He first killed someone when he was only 13, His parents practically forcing him to. Due to the trauma of this incident, Crusher refuses to use melee weapons, Since he used a knife to kill said person.

A year after that, Crusher's parents were killed by Toppats. Wilford found him afterwards and after seeing the shit he had to go through at such a young age, He took Crusher into the Toppat Clan.

Toppat Life

A lot of what happens during his time as a Toppat varies depending on the universe. So I'll just say some general stuff.

Crusher discovered he was gay at about 19, Considering he didn't have a lot of time to discover himself back at his old home.

He gravitated towards pistols as his main weapon. He even learned a few tricks while using them (Like twirling them in his hands).

He tended to downplay his own pain, Which Wilford grew more and more concerned about.

He was always welcoming and patient towards new and young Toppats.

He always gave his enemies a fair fight if they deserved it. He always tried to be an honorable opponent.

Although he was a generally calm and fun person to be around, He was the last person you'd wanna piss off. He could be really scary if he needed to be.

Relationships

He admired Wilford a whole lot. He saw him as a father figure of sorts, Although he's a bit too embarrassed to admit that.

His relationship towards Terrence was complicated, And also different depending on the universe. In Shifted Timeline, He's indifferent towards Terry. In Captured!Charles, He despises Terry.

He was extremely close to Right and Slice. He saw the two like little brothers and always tried to help them out in any way he could.

He was also fond of Reginald and Carol too. In the CC universe specifically, He tried to stick up for Reginald as much as possible.

Crusher was also friends with some OCs, Mainly Brutus and Morgana (Who belong to @smoresthehalloweenqueen )

When Crusher first met Danny (Who belongs to @capturecharlesau ), I wouldn't say it was love at first sight, Although he did definitely think Danny was cute. Overtime, Their relationship developed and the two started dating.

Deaths

Crusher actually has two canon deaths.

In Shifted Timeline, He was killed in a raid gone wrong. He was out helping some other Toppats before he got ambushed. He eventually succumbed to his injuries before he could be brought back to the airship.

In Captured!Charles, He was killed during the rebellion against Terrence. Terrence had grabbed Reginald and was about to run off with him, But Crusher stood in his way. Terrence responded by shooting him straight in the chest. He succumbed to his bullet wounds shortly after Reginald killed Terrence. Some Toppats think he died in the crossfire though.

Technically, Both deaths were caused by Terrence. The main difference is whether he was directly involved (And whether he actually meant for him to die or not).

Post Death

No matter what universe, Crusher ends up stuck in the ghost realm (Think where the dead leaders kinda are).

Nobody in the living realm can see, hear, or touch him unless they have the power to see and communicate with ghosts.

He wanders around to keep an eye on the Toppats, Especially Danny.

His tie back to the living realm may slowly be growing stronger...

#the henry stickmin collection #thsc #thsc oc #thsc au #thsc shifted timeline au #captured!charles au #thsc crusher #sir wilford iv #terrence suave #danny felizima #brutus dan gerbreaker #morgana price #jay rambles

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charleslebatman · 10 months

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Salut bestie, ça va? That's pretty much all the french I know hahaha. I wanted to ask you if you could tell us if Charles has an accent when speaking your language? Like, does he have a Monegasque accent (if it exists)? Or does he sound like the way people speak in certain regions of France? How would you describe it and why? Thanks! My first language is Spanish, but French to me is sO fascinating and sophisticated that I plan on studying it once I finish leaning Portuguese.

Coucou (a variant that's nicer) bestie. So really, it's an interesting question. Yes, he has a Monegasque accent. There are lots of accents in France, especially in the south. They vary a lot. Near Monaco there's the Nice accent, but it's not really the Monegasque accent. The Nice accent is stronger and more pronounced.

Charles has a slight Monegasque accent, but he quickly loses it when he's annoyed or irritated in an interview. It's fascinating. 🙃

Then, when he's amused, as in the famous video of the monkey chasing him, he had a strong Monegasque accent.

I'd even add that I think he gets confused in his head with English, when he speaks in French. I think that when he does one interview after another in English, he must know his Monegasque accent better. 😂 So you get the impression that he's forcing an accent or some kind of tone close to English. It's quite peculiar.

Anyway, that's my certainly shaky analysis. But seeing Charles speak in French is fascinating, because you can feel his Italian, which also wants to take over sometimes.

If you need help for french I’m here bestie. Difficult language even for the French themselves often. 🫣

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darklydeliciousdesires · 2 years

Text

Beyond the Blood Tie - Chapter Four.

Eh, have another chapter! I was going to be sparing in how I rolled them out, but a few of you seem to be really enjoying it, so I’ll be charitable! Especially since it’s already written and I’m just having to go back and edit it here and there. I’m also now considering writing a sequel, but we’ll see.

Anyway, y’all ready to meet vampire EZ? ;)

Previous Chapters - One Two, Part One Part Two Three

Words - 5,680

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Minors DNI!

EZ's POV

"Hey, what's wrong with you?" The girl, Anna I think her name is, currently astride me asks, coming to a stop from bouncing on my cock.

"I think I fell asleep for a few moments. You bore me, go home," I reply bluntly, pushing her off me and getting up off the bed to put my jeans back on.

"You're fucking rude!" she snorts, while I just look at her with slight distain.

"And you've outstayed your welcome on my dick, so fuck off." Moving at speed to the door in a second, opening it and gesturing through with my hand, I stand expectantly for her to take the hint that I’m done. She pulls her dress and her underwear back on, picking up her purse and shoes before matching out haughtily.

“You’re a fucking cunt!”

I hum a chuckle. “I know, sweetheart. And you’re a mediocre lay. Bye.” Following her down the stairs, I shut the front door behind her gladly. She was good for five hours, at least. I don't know, perhaps screwing every human female I like the look of just isn't fun now I don't have Angel here to taunt with it. He ah, doesn't indulge in living flesh. There is a reason, why his libido is only satisfied by vampire women. It's up to him to tell you why, though.

"Good bloody lord, what on earth is that perfume she was wearing? She smells like something used to ward off insects!" Charles asks me as I wander shirtless and barefoot into his sitting room. He and Ursula have one each, but they can usually be found together in here at some point in the night. She's over in hers at the moment, talking on the telephone with a vampire friend in Galway, where she's from. Her Irish accent is very soft now though, since the accent of a vampire does change, depending on where he or she spends their time. I have noted though, Charles has been exempted from that for the entire time I've known him. His accent is British upper class. He speaks very properly.

"Something that smelled like it was created pre-disaster. I made her shower too, but not even washing could completely remove the cheap stench," I grumble in reply as I sit down on the couch adjacent to him.

"I must say, she was a cut or three below the usual calibre of female you bring back, my boy," he notes, raising an inquiring eyebrow in my direction.

I shrug, nonchalant. "I was seduced by the enormous boobs. What can I say?"

"Ahhh, the treasures of her chest, I think I can perhaps forgive you that," he chuckles, the fire making his pale blue eyes glint.

"Her blood was palatable as well, but other than that I grew tired of her at a much faster rate than I usually would have.”

He nods, placing his book down and turning to me. "Indeed. I have had quite the surprise in recent years, seeing a female enter your bedroom one evening and then exit it two evenings later. You're doing well, so well that I'm wondering whether it'll be one century or two that shall pass before one stays here for a whole week.”

He knows me too well. "You know my feelings towards anything even bordering on monogamy, it doesn't interest me.”

"I wouldn't expect it to either, especially not with a mortal. Some vampires find interest in it, some do not as you know. In some vampires, like Angel to use a perfect example, it does work well to settle them. We both know that isn't about to happen with him, though, not with a breather, at least. You though, my boy, you've settled into your vampirism like no other I have ever known. You have and continue to make me an exceedingly proud creator in how you conduct yourself." These words, they make me smile in return of his praise. I like it that as an offspring I have been textbook perfect, as Charles and Ursula say, that I've made my creator proud and settled into my death without much issue. It can go either way when you're turned.

Of course, every vampire requires a significant adjusting period when first turned. You have to get used to the fact that suddenly, you're dead but still there, your body begins eliminating needs of the living and you have to adjust to the fact you crave blood like an addict craves cocaine, a lust for blood that at first you cannot control. I remember one of the biggest infant mistakes I ever made was over my reluctance to give up the sunlight. 'Really, how bad are we talking? A burning sensation or will I burst into flames?' I remember asking Charles, about a week after I was turned. 'Why not go out in it for yourself and see? You shan't burn up, but you will be injured and no, it is a little more in feel than a burning sensation, as you word it' was his reply to me. So, I did. I never saw the sun after that. One ray hitting my cheek and scorching my skin off was enough for me to see his point.

After a few years, I began to settle into it with ease, Charles telling me I was the absolute model blueprint for a vampire because of how well I had settled and adjusted. For Angel, though... he's still getting there. He was a diva who hated being told what to do in life and not much has changed in his death. I'll give him this, though, he is a lot better than he was before he turned one hundred. He's been gone for two days now, and I'm thankful Ursula is settling down a little more. I found her sobbing in the kitchen yesterday at around 10pm before I headed out, crying that she could feel he was in pain as her bloodied tears stained her face. Ursula is the strongest, most formidable vampire I have ever met because of her age, but where we are concerned, she has a tremendously large soft spot. Not so much for me, but with Angel, well he's like her baby. She adores him.

I have to say, I miss him being around, even though he only recently went. I don't blame him at all for how he acted against those two humans who attempted to drain him; in fact, I'm proud of how he handled it. Drainers should answer to us only, not the humans. It isn't them who are at risk from these parasites, it’s us. I firmly believe all vampire misconduct should be addressed and handled by our own authorities too, just as many others do. Why must the mortals interfere? I'm not too fond of humans, if the truth be known. I see them as things to feed on and things to fuck and that’s about it. I do understand the points on human and vampire socialisation and co-existing that Charles and Ursula constantly enforce to both Angel and myself, but we do struggle more than they.

They're ancient and have both found some of their humanity again, we struggle because we are young and still finding ours. Well, Angel is more than me. I can control myself around mortals, he can't. They make the point that our presence has pissed off a hell of a lot of people in the world, regardless of our work in helping the humans deplete the number of the reanimated, post-disaster. 'The balance must be kept at an even keel, they are our food source and with so many of the secret keeping families wiped out after the disaster, it is imperative to have good relations with them. Respect must be shown, and if they show none to us then it proves what we all know already, that we are superior' Charles often says to me. Even though they both enforce the good relations speech, Charles and Ursula, like all vampires, still consider our race superior to the humans, because there is absolutely no denying that we are.

We're stronger, smarter and faster. Also, ask a woman who has bedded both a human man and a vampire who she prefers. Nine out of ten will tell you that we win. What can I say? We're old, we've picked up a lot on sexual prowess over our existences, and we can fuck for hours on end. Oh, and the speed we move at? Well, imagine that a little more localised in regards to certain parts of our anatomy making contact with yours. Ladies, did you just clench your thighs together? I bet you did. Bearing that in mind, what's not to like?

The main objectionable reason I've heard is because we're stone cold, but if you put us next to a heat source we will actually warm up, but not all over. Imagine if you put a stone in front of a roaring fire, it'd warm up where the heat hit it. We're much the same. For example, the human I kicked out earlier warmed the parts of me her body touched against while she slept beside me, but as soon as you remove the heat source, we go cold again. Also, the other reason I've heard countless times is the fear that is associated with us. Many humans fear my kind, with good reason to as well. But if we decide we want to fuck you, we're not going to kill you. Well, some of us won't. Others of course I cannot speak for.

After spending some time with Charles, I head over to the other side of our large house to find Ursula. I wouldn't usually bother, but I know she hasn't coped well without Angel being here. Seems she can sense just that, too.

"Checking up on me again, are you?" she asks me just as I've opened the door.

"Of course," I state, arriving behind her at her desk in a blink and watching her sketch.

"Since I can't see his face, I'll just draw it instead. I'm sure I'd be mocked by others of our kind, my pining for him, especially at my age. Him being in pain also, I can only just tolerate it," she explains, when I view the pencil sketch she's currently working that will be Angel when she's finished it. Only a quarter of his face is shaded in at present.

"You've become in touch with more of your humanity at your age, and Angel is the only vampire you've ever made who still walks the earth.” Adeline and Ivan were the only two others she ever turned, and both perished long before Angel and I were made immortal. Ivan met the final death in a vampire war, and Adeline exposed herself to the dawn and burned after she lost her human companion of eighty-five years. I think this is perhaps why Ursula is finding being away from Angel hard. She is reminded of the pain of losing vampire children before. "He will come back to you, you know this.”

"I do, you are quite correct. I shall adjust and steel myself to it more.” Going back to her sketch, she begins to add more pencil strokes across the paper, before suddenly shuddering. Vampires seldom have physical responses like that, but I know exactly why she just as. She felt Angel's pain. "I shall do better than that the next time." She then adds with a small smile as she stands and turns to me, reaching up on her tip toes and kissing my cheek.

"What was that for?"

"For being you, and at least I still have that. I have you and Charles, and the comforting thought of imagining ripping the throat out of whoever is hurting my Angel whenever I feel it happening to him," she replies with a little wink, making me laugh quietly through my nose. You must never forget that past the amiable nature, Ursula is ancient and barbaric. I've seen her enraged many times. She can strike terror on the same scale as a tsunami.

"Does it physically hurt you, to feel it?"

"No, it's more of a flare that goes through me, accompanied with a feeling similar to when we felt nausea as humans. When you eventually become a creator yourself, I hope you never have to experience it." I nod, and then leave her to it, heading out to enjoy my night in all the ways we vampires do. I'll let you use your imaginations, exercise your little human brains over what it is I could be up to.

Edie's POV

"That's a fucking terrible song, you know." The vampire tells me while I plug in an earphone to my mp3 player and blast some Jane's Addiction. They're about the heaviest thing I listen to. I have quite the eclectic taste in music, though. I think I need to spray his throat again. I much prefer him when he’s silent.

"And what would you know of Jane's Addiction?" I snort. I'm two days in, and I've given in to some of the things he asks me, some I haven't. I'm being unpredictable with what I choose to answer and ignore. It's working really well in him not being able to work me out, well, so far so good at least.

"They’re a band from my time as a human. They weren't bad, I saw them a whole bunch when I followed the Ozzfest tour one summer as a teenager, but the song you're listening to I don't care for. Then again, I wouldn’t expect someone who willingly does what you have to their hair to have any other kind of sense over what constitutes good taste.” Yeah, I got bored and decided to tone my blonde hair violet. I love it, I think it looks so pretty. Apparently, the dead dude doesn’t agree. It isn’t his hair, though, so he can piss off.

Rolling my eyes, I shake my head at him. “Insulting my musical choice and hair colour? Lame, dude. Real lame. Can’t you think of anything better than that? I care not for your opinion on either, now be quiet, or your vocal cords get a nice rinsing out with silver again.” Lifting the silver headed lump hammer within my grasp, I then swing it straight into his stomach, the vampire softly grunting in pain. I've broken several of his ribs with it already this evening, watching how his body is getting slower in recovery as his bleeding, rib punctured lungs cause him to cough up blood - and spit it out at me, several times - until he heals again after a time.

"Pardon me if I’m a little less creative in my insults. Having a chest pooling with blood will do that to you, though,” he states, through grumble of pain, actually adapting a sincere tone. He does this, swings between talking to me like an equal, talking to me like I'm trash, and then spending much of his time insulting my appearance, even though he's said quite a few times that I've a nice ass. The change in the colour of my hair is just one of many things he’s picked at so far, attempting to discover a weak point, a chink in my armour.

Ahh, crap. I just realised I slipped up there. I asked him a question and then told him to be quiet. Even though it was asked in sarcastic retort, I still did it. Retort, that's my word of the day. I aim to learn and use a new one each day. My word of the day ritual is something Aileen decided to help me with. One of her daughters is a spelling bee champ, and she regularly competes against kids in other schools. She's at a very high level with it, very large and tricky words have to be spelled. Aileen jots them (the words Sophie has to learn) all down in a tiny little flip pad for me with their meaning on the back, adding other smaller words here and there from the dictionary as well. She's been a great help to me. If you let her though, Aileen with mother you in her own little way. You should see her attack Ahmed's hair with a brush and detangling spray.

Anyway, back to my slip up. I have to watch myself more with that, I really do. I don't ask him anything more, and instead keep walking around him in circle and beating his bare upper body with the hammer. I think I know what is getting to me, what is making me slip up a little bit here and there, even though we're only two days in. It's the fact I know he's learned and wise; he's existed beyond a century and no doubt seen so much my eyes will never behold, experienced so much I never will. The little interesting facts he shares, like following that Ozzfest tour he just mentioned. I’d love to ask him about that.

Sure, vampires have always made me feel a little uncomfortable and nervy, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find them fascinating. I remember years and years ago, I had a nice chat with a lady vamp I met in a bar.

She immediately whispered 'you're not old enough to be in here, are you?' to me (I was sixteen at the time, but passed for twenty-one, incredibly enough) and a conversation was struck up because she was intrigued by my tender age. She confessed she was virgin hunting, as the blood of a virgin is not only sweeter in palette to vampires, but it gets them absolutely shit faced. Something about the purity meeting the impure. Either way, they get loaded.

I had to let her down gently by telling her I wasn't one, but she stuck around at my table and chatted to me. She didn't stay for long before going to pursue other might-be virgins, but we did get to talking about a book I had in my bag, detailing the accounts of people left stranded and desolate after the disaster, and she sat and informed me of everything she had seen as she'd travelled Europe at the time. She was Swedish, and absolutely gorgeous. If I had any attraction to vampires at all I'd have asked her if she'd have been up for sex. Yes, I like women as much as I do men. The last person I was in a relationship with was a woman, in fact.

I don't really find vampires sexually attractive, though. I like my flesh warm. But anyway, back to the Swedish vampire. She fascinated me on a level I've never been fascinated on before. She didn't tell me much about her life because of course, they never do, unless they trust you and few do. She did tell me about the many things she'd seen, though, and it was just so interesting.

I was enthralled by her tales of the world, of a world I'll never know, how things used to be once upon a time. She still made me feel uncomfortable, though, even though she was friendly. It's that dead void in them I can pick up on. Wilson, Joe and Max look at me in a 'what the fuck?' kind of way when I attempt to explain it to them, but Aileen and Ahmed both get me. They can feel that same deadness about them, that empty void where the sparkle of life once glittered.

I find as the hours pass, and as he plays more and more head games with me and I with him (or at least attempt to) the more I find it difficult not to be interested and curious over some of the things he tells me. It isn't him specifically, I just find myself drawn to intelligent people since it is something I'm so unconfident in, my own intelligence, or lack of it. It's my fault I was hardly ever at school, I can't blame my shitty home life on it or the fact I had parents who really didn't care if I was educated or not. I'm not going to blame my own shortcomings on theirs.

I could have gotten to school completely under my own steam, to the little church hall we were all educated in, since there weren't enough children in our small town to necessitate opening and running a school to educate us within. That's different now though. I used to use my parents as an excuse back then, but now I'm grown and older I see that my own youthful petulance, being angry at the world because I had shitty parents, I see that I could have helped myself a lot more in attending my classes, bettering myself above both of them. Because they didn't care, I didn't care, though.

The only time I actually attended was when they called to inform my mother of my many absences, because of what she would do to me afterwards. My mom used to enjoy the drama with my dad, she practically thrived upon it, the wild, bad tempered, alcoholic slut. My father I suspect wasn't my real father, as you know, and I think he also knew that only too well. That's why he never helped or defended me when she flew into a rage and beat the shit out of me. She was clever with it though, she never struck me where people could see, unless she punched me in the side of the head or the nose. ‘If anyone asks what happened, you tell 'em you got into a schoolyard fight, you hear? You tell anyone this was me and I'll make you sorry, Edie Larissa Bailey' is what she used to yell at me, so I never did tell anyone. Not even Vic until years after.

No sympathetic, sad little faces over there either, guys. I don't want anyone's pity. It happened, and I got over it. Well, I say I'm over it, but I have a few lingering issues because of her. I’m not quick to warm to people, for one, and because of the fear of rejection I have thanks to both of them, I can’t truly say I’ve ever let myself fall in love with anyone. So, yeah. I’m somewhat emotionally stunted as a result of being an abused child.

I’m glad that she's dead, and the man I did believe to be my father is long gone, too. Being away from them has helped me form healthier bonds with people. I don't know where my dad went, he left when he came home and found her dead, and then packed up his things and walked out, telling me 'you deal with it, I'm done with the pair of you' while pointing at her body as he'd found it on the kitchen floor before he shut the door behind him and left my life for good.

God knows who my real father actually is, he could be any of the locals from a long-ago burnt-out bar and club called Rochelle's here in Vegas, where all the seediest, grubbiest town folk congregated. I knew she was a cheap slut; I witnessed her leading men who weren't my dad (or maybe one of them was and he'd come back for seconds?) into her bedroom when I was little. I don't miss her at all. There's nothing to miss, because she was never a real mother to me. Anyway, enough of all that bullshit, because it doesn't even matter to me now. My life is a happier one for not having them in it.

"Wow, she shows me another expression to her face other than undiluted rage. What are you thinking about?" The vampire asks me, snapping me from my thoughts, which all involved imagining it’s my mother I'm bludgeoning with a hammer rather than him. I do channel a little of that anger over how she treated me into my job. I find it quite cathartic.

I ignore the question put to me and instead bury the hammer in between his shoulder blades, hearing him growl in pain and take a deep breath. It's spooky, seeing him go from still to breathing. I still have to remind myself that breathing is just a bodily response they don't really control in moments such as this. "Whoever it is, they anger you. I can feel it in your blood." he then tells me, as I walk back to the table and choose what I will hurt him with next.

"That'd be you, dead man," I mutter absently. Hmmm, knife or morning star? Decisions, decisions...

He’s sharp in his retort. "It isn't me, don't lie. This anger you have within you, it's old and it's been with you for a long time. Someone you cared about really fucked you over at some point, didn't they? Not that that's particularly hard to do with dumb shit Vegas trash, such as yourself. Whatever they did, you probably didn't even see it coming, did you?" His choice of words, they further make my insides burn with anger. More mind games here. Sounding genuinely interested over what or rather who angers me at this precise moment, and then insulting me spitefully the next. He's right in what he said, though. I most certainly didn't see it coming when my mother first raised a hand to me and smacked my butt with a leather belt so hard and for so long when I was three, that I actually couldn't sit down afterwards.

"Ahhh, it must be something pretty big, since you're only getting angrier and flat out ignoring me. I know you ignore and speak to me when you choose to, because you think you're playing some kind of mind game with me, but you're not. Don't forget, you'll never be sharp enough to outsmart me, and you'll never be smart enough to do it to anyone else, either.” More goading. Don’t rise to it, Edie. Do. Not. Rise. 'Stupid little piece of shit, I wish I'd never have kept you! You're nothing but an inconvenience!' Those are the words of my mother filling my head, yet another memory of her I wish I could erase completely. Whenever anyone reminds me of my intellectual inadequacy, I'm often reminded that my mother thought much the same.

"I hope you realise by the time you're done with me, I'm going to have mentally broken you for this," I’m then told, turning back to the vampire and folding my arms.

"Why do you even care so much, about mentally breaking me? If I'm just Vegas trash to you, just some insignificant little human, as I remember you've labelled me as before, why are you even wasting the little energy you have on fucking with me, Angel?"

"That's the first time you've ever actually spoken my name, and I liked the way you said it. Say it again.” Raising my eyebrows, I keep my arms folded, staring at him with apathy. He laughs immediately. "Ahhh, she seeks an answer to her question. Sorry, I suddenly don't feel much like talking any longer.” He casts his eyes away from me, looking all around the chamber thoughtfully. Despite himself, after a few seconds of silence, he raises his eyebrows, making a small ‘hmm’ sound in the back of his throat.

“Interesting,” he whispers, more to himself than me. Alright, what the hell has he seen in here, or picked up on that’s gotten him so curious?

Despite myself, I cannot help but inquire. “What?”

He points at the ceiling, walls and floor. “The materials used to construct this entire chamber were fabricated pre-disaster. Everything within is made by Burlen Steel, and they ceased trading back in 2001. I damned fucking knew I was right. This place used to be a bank, didn’t it? This what we’re in right now, it’s a vault. It’s had additions added to it, AC, steel floor, etc, but yeah. This was used to house valuables in its original incarnation, not detainees.”

He’s the only detainee to ever notice that. “How do you have so much precise knowledge on steel?” Fuck. Shouldn't have asked. Damn me and my stupid thirst for answers.

“I used to work with metals, among other things. Knowing steel companies is something I have ingrained to memory.”

“Among other things? What, Jack of all trades and master of none?” I cannot help but spit snarkily.

His eyes fix on me, one eyebrow fluttering a little. “Never you mind. If you won’t tell me who makes you so venomous, I ain’t saying shit about my former life. Except here’s the thing, I will find out who it is, and I will use it to break you with.”

I do wonder why it matters to him so much to break me down, though. It’s something I can’t reconcile, so ask for advice from another over it later on in the night.

"It doesn't matter to him, not at all. He's just trying to intimidate you, chicken. Trying as best he can to make you feel like you do right now, full of questions he ain’t about to give you an answer over. He's trying to take you down to his level because despite the things he tells you, you've got the upper hand. You're the one in control and he doesn't like it one little bit. Don't take it personally," Aileen tells me over a few post-work whiskies later on. The guys have all gone to a twenty-four-hour nightclub to ring in their weekend in style. I'm tired, though, and Aileen refers to herself as 'too damned old' for nightclubs. She's only fifty-two, so that's not exactly decrepit. Decrepit, my word of the day yesterday, and I managed to use it again today. Go me! "Oh, and what happened to ignoring him?"

"I tried being selective on what I chose to answer and what I didn't, to try and keep him guessing. Didn't work though," I sigh, lighting a cigarette after offering her one she accepts.

"It never will either, Edie.” She’s likely correct, shaking her head as she leans in to use the light I offer her.

"I know, I know now that it'll never happen. It's scary though, what he picks up on now because of this stupid blood tie. I'm two days in and I'm sick of him already. There are only so many times I can silver his throat and mouth because of the stupid rejuvenation regulations, so at most I can only shut him up for half a shift or less. I tried ignoring him but... it just doesn't work. I think that's because despite myself, despite the fact I dislike him, I do find some of the things he says are interesting.” My explanation is met by her nodding in understanding.

"I get that. They're very interesting beings because of how old they are, all they've seen and experienced, and I know you like to surround yourself with clever people because you don't think you're smart. He's just a detainee though, Edie. He's no different from the rest. You have to remember he's there to punish, not to get to know.”

"I don't want to get to know him!" I splutter, nearly choking on an ice cube as I empty the contents of my glass into my mouth.

"Oh, I think you do, going on that flustered reply. At least admit he intrigues you, which is what he's trying to do, by the way. They like being show offs, or at least I reckon he does.” He’s definitely a show off, very full of himself.

"I really don't, and sorry but what does intrigue mean?" I inquire.

Her smile is soft in the wake of that. "It means he makes you curious, buba. Also, your reply there was a little bit like you're trying to hide something else as well," she begins, but trails off when she stares at me for a few moments, like she's working me out.

"Stop staring at me like that," I demand lightly, feeling my cheeks prickling. I think I might have been a little too defensive in my reply to her just, when I stated I didn't want to get to know him.

"You’ve got the hots for his cold, dead ass, don't you, girly?" Oh god, I hate being put on the spot.

"No!" Hmm. I might’ve mustered a little too much conviction there.

"You do, I can see it in your face, you want his cock!” she accuses. Oh, no!

"Aileen, fuck off!" I shout, aghast in the face of her giggles.

"Oh, I was right! Edie got it bad for the vamp! That's the other thing, what I was hinting to over your reply. You're finding this tough because you think he's a hottie, oh hell no, girl!" she cries, bobbing her tongue between her teeth before putting her whiskey down to slap her hand repetitively off the table as she howls.

"I don't!" I find him attractive, but I don't want him. If I do state that to Aileen though, she'll just rip it out of me even more.

"You do! S'alright, sugar, I ain't gonna tell no one. But one thing, just you make damn sure you never let that on to him, that you like what you see, because if you do, you're done for. Mark my words."

I still protest it; I don't even want to admit it to myself that I think he's gorgeous. I don't like finding people attractive when they loathe me as much as he does, the feeling in this case being more than mutual. Also, I don't even find vampires attractive. The thought of his cold skin against mine makes me shudder with mild repulsion.

Nope, Angel fucking Reyes does absolutely nothing for me. Nothing. Nope. Not a single thing.

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nicklloydnow · 7 months

Text

“North, slight and pale, sits behind the wheel wearing jeans with holes at the knees and a t-shirt adorned with a Mount Rushmore of Communism: Lenin, Mao, Marx, Stalin, and Trotsky. His stringy hair is dyed black, like it was back in the early 2000s when he played guitar with a pack of rabid Hollywood wolves called the Icarus Line and then toured the world with Nine Inch Nails for a few years starting in 2005. Small red blotches dot his face, a reaction to the antidepressant Lamictal, one of a half-dozen or so such medications he’s on. He cracks his knuckles nervously at stoplights, plays his muddy Stooges bootleg CD loudly, and speaks in a ceaseless rush of words. It’s been a while since he had an audience.

“This over here,” he says in his trembling California-dude accent as we creep past an armpit of a bar, “that’s where Charles Bukowski used to drink. He’s one of my favorite writers — him and Henry Miller. I had a Kerouac phase after I quit music where I thought I was going to drive around and write all the time. See the back? See the carpeting? I figured I’d sleep in my car. I did that, but I never really did the Kerouac thing. I should’ve written three books by now and I haven’t finished one yet, so what’s the fucking point? That’s just how my brain works. Okay, we’re coming up to where David Bowie and Iggy Pop used to cruise for teenage girls. I’m obsessed with those kinds of facts. I can’t get enough of them. It’s like, ‘This is what happened.'”

North knows that undisputed facts are luxuries afforded the stable, sober, and dead. Over the last few years — to varying degrees of his own dismay — he’s struggled to achieve any of those three states.

(…)

“Aaron was the best, most entertaining guitar player I ever saw,” swears Queens of the Stone Age bassist Michael Shuman, who briefly played with North in the latter’s ill-fated post-NIN project, Jubilee. “He had this wildness to him onstage. He would scare you in a mind-blowing way. Everyone I knew in L.A. wanted to be in a band with him.”

And now? Shuman exhales deeply. “I honestly haven’t heard from him in forever. I don’t know if I want to get into it. We had some problems and then he sort of vanished. I hope he’s doing okay.”

By most standards, Aaron North is not doing okay. He’s 34 years old and, by his estimation, has the body of a seventysomething. When he looks in the mirror, he sees a “junkie-looking motherfucker” — despite, he says, having been straight-edge for a decade. In order to pay for his various medications, he draws the maximum amount of state welfare. He tells me that his treatment was a nightmare of incompetent doctors and labyrinthine bureaucracy, but now he feels like he’s finally found the right prescriptions. He uses an EBT card to buy food and attends group therapy multiple times a week.

Sometimes, North says, he sleeps at his mom or dad’s house. (His parents are divorced.) His grandmother is ill, so occasionally he goes to her home to help care for her. There was a period when some fans let him crash on their couch for a while, and he has a rental storage unit in Redlands, California, 70 miles east of Hollywood, where he keeps his musical gear, some of it still in road cases bearing the Nine Inch Nails logo. But the space has also doubled as a place to spend too many low and lonesome nights.

That is his situation, as he tells it, and it is actually far better than it once was. Up until about 18 months ago, when he hit upon a sustainable combination of medications and behavioral therapies for his bipolar disorder and severe depression, North had abandoned contact with nearly all his former best friends and musical partners. He has not played music in public since late 2008. His Internet presence petered out around 2011 — strange for someone who was a key contributor to a website, Buddyhead, that once drew millions of readers. His seclusion was so total that in the spring of 2012, an Icarus Line fan page posted an image of a milk carton with the words “Have You Seen Me?” written above the guitarist’s face. North, a sort of L.A. rock Zelig who counted Trent Reznor, Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme, and Tool’s Maynard James Keenan among his friends and collaborators, had been a beacon. Then he went dark.

“He was one of the only motherfuckers I saw when I first got into making music who was killing rock and raping roll,” says Eagles of Death Metal frontman Jesse Hughes, who means that as high praise and who, like so many others interviewed for this piece, warily counts himself as a “former” friend of North’s. “He had courage at a time in rock when it was real easy to talk big but demonstrate cowardice. He did unbelievable shit.”

Onstage with Icarus Line and later with Nine Inch Nails, North radiated a scarily intense charisma, stabbing his amplifiers with his instrument, spewing psychedelic guitar sleaze, and giving himself over to the thrilling don’t-give-a-fuckness that signals authenticity in rock’n’roll and a severe problem everywhere else.

(…)

I ask North when he realized there was something wrong with him, something that couldn’t be attributed to being a Black Flag fan in a white-flag world. “I would have these rages,” he says. “I remember one time in high school this teacher’s-pet motherfucker locked the classroom door on me five seconds before the tardy bell rang. I lost it. I smashed my hand through the classroom window. I felt like I was in the right, but I knew my reaction was not appropriate. I knew something was wrong with me. That’s the first manic episode I consciously remember having. But I just figured they’d eventually go away. I didn’t want to think there was something wrong with me, so I never tried to get help.”

(…)

The high (or low) point of the band’s performing career occurred at a 2002 gig in Austin, Texas. In the middle of a set at the Hard Rock Café during that year’s South by Southwest, North used his mike stand to smash a display case holding a guitar that once belonged to Texas blues legend Stevie Ray Vaughan. The incident was widely reported, the stories often depicting North as some sort of rock’n’roll black knight who’d pulled a magical sword from a phony corporate stone. “I wasn’t trying to liberate that guitar,” North says, cracking his knuckles again. “We were playing a show we didn’t want to play at a shitty club. People were spitting on us from the balcony. I snapped.”

He shakes his head. “Everyone said it was great. It wasn’t great. I had a meltdown, and I was championed for it. I was having a fucking manic moment in public. That’s why I did all those things I used to do: serious mental problems. But I kept thinking it would get better. I never told anyone what was wrong with me, so who knows what other people thought about why I behaved like a fucking maniac sometimes.”

Accordingly, the true nature of North’s behavior was hard for others to gauge. “We’d be in the studio, and there’d be a little technical problem, and Aaron’s pupils would go from little dots to grapefruits in seconds,” Sidel remembers. “He’d start shaking. We were like, ‘Calm down, it’s an easy fix.’ And he was like, ‘I can’t help myself.’ I thought it was perfectionism, you know?”

(…)

At the same time that the Icarus Line were whipping themselves into a frenzy onstage, North was doing the same to readers online via Buddyhead. Started by North pal and Idaho transplant Travis Keller in 1998, the byline-free site mercilessly skewered what it saw as a rock scene fat with talentless poseurs — and did so in a bombastically judgmental proto-Twitter tone. (“You’d have to smoke crack for this to sound good,” began one review of the Libertines’ 2004 self-titled debut.)

“There was so much bullshit in music, and no one was being honest about it, so we decided to speak up,” says North of the site’s mission. “Limp Bizkit were talentless assholes, so that’s what we said — over and over.”

Keller and North (the latter of whom quit the Icarus Line in 2005, and Buddyhead in 2008) were also fed salacious celebrity gossip: Who was fucking whom, using what, fighting when. And if confirmation was what you desired, the dirt often came attached with a phone number for the celebrity involved. This was good for attention — the site reportedly was earning as many as 12 million page views per month — and a steady source of income for lawyers.

“We were constantly getting cease-and-desist letters,” says Bryan Christner, Buddyhead’s attorney in those days. “I have a bunch from Courtney Love. I actually pulled out one of those not that long ago because I needed to see an example of a highly aggressive cease-and-desist. It’s a good thing that litigation is so expensive, otherwise they’d have gotten in a lot more trouble than they did. I helped them because I thought what they were doing was brilliant, and it’s a shame Aaron went away, because he was the one behind it with the pen full of poison.”

“The reality,” says Dillinger Escape Plan guitarist Ben Weinman, speaking on the phone from his home in New Jersey, “is that Aaron North is a hard person to believe.”

North and Weinman were close once, having become friends when the Icarus Line and Dillinger toured together. “When he joined Nine Inch Nails, it was the perfect scenario — it was like the good guys won,” Weinman recalls. “He never kissed ass to get somewhere. He didn’t drink or do drugs. He was this lone-wolf person who didn’t fit in anywhere but found really amazing creative outlets. But Nine Inch Nails didn’t work out. It made him obnoxious: ‘Yeah, I fuck models now — go piss off.’ He’ll blame his situation on this, that, or the other, but he’s not always telling a straight story. His resume alone should’ve allowed him to keep being in good bands. So why isn’t he? It can’t just be because he’s mentally ill. That doesn’t make sense.”

But how could it? North says that after signing up for NIN in ’05, he was squeezed by a relentless touring schedule, under pressure to be at his wildest night after night, frightened to tell others about the demons in his head. He claims he did not have any addiction problems, and that those with damaging things to say about him are interested in revisionist history or simply have incomplete knowledge. Painkillers were necessary at times — canceling shows was not an option — even if they would counteract what he calls his “crazy pills.” So maybe he wasn’t so nice to his old friends all the time? If that’s a punishable offense, just about every human who suddenly earns fame and money should be up against the wall.

“Aaron North is different things to different people,” says Buddyhead contributor Tom Apostolopoulos. “I never had a problem with him. I love him, but there was also a time when I couldn’t deal with the kinds of things he’d get involved in.”

Like what? “I’d rather not get into it. You should talk to Travis or Joe.”

I tried to, and was shut down. North’s two closest ex-colleagues —Buddyhead’s Keller and the Icarus Line’s Cardamone — refused to speak to me for this story, other than to express disgust over the various shady ways in which their former comrade caused them pain. They were clear, though, in sharing their belief that writing about North was a misguided waste of time. He’s a destructive force, they told me, and he shouldn’t be rewarded with attention.

Theirs was not an isolated reaction. Others would speak about North only on condition of anonymity. I was told that he skipped out on debts and spread hurtful lies, and that he was not a victim. I was told that he was a manipulator who prided himself on being clean while gobbling painkillers, then explained his actions by saying the pills were necessary in order to ease back pain caused by years of sacrificing his body onstage.

(…)

Still, suspicions persist. “I’d be careful about giving him the most empathetic possible understanding,” said a former running mate of North’s who wished to remain nameless. “Whatever situation he’s in now, I’m telling you right now that there is no fucking way that it’s possible he’s clean. Clean and sober is not merely being off of street-illegal drugs. When someone is telling you about how many medications they’re on or how suicidal they are, are they doing it because they really need help, or are they manipulating you and trying to get you to be sympathetic?”

(…)

From their perspective, North brought “a certain chaos to the band,” Reznor tells me now. “That live incarnation of Nine Inch Nails was an amazing, unpredictable thing. He helped make it that. I just don’t know that he was equipped to handle it in the long term.”

“Aaron brought pay-offs onstage to the band,” adds drummer Josh Freese, whose time in NIN overlapped with North’s. “He would trash his guitar or give it to someone in the crowd at the end of a show. Or he used to drag his cabinets into the security pit and throw them into the audience. We used to joke around and say, ‘We’re having an off night. Go ahead and trash some gear, Aaron.'”

But, adds Freese, “He’d go too far.”

North’s voice, already thin, recedes into a whisper as he shares an unintentional moment over the edge. “It was at a show in Wisconsin,” he says. “I know I didn’t do anything wrong on purpose. It’s too chaotic and loud onstage for the techs to see you or hear you if your microphone breaks. So there are these drop zones that you’re just supposed to drop the mike stand into, and someone would bring you another one. And this security guard is standing in the drop zone. The zones are marked with neon tape. People are told specifically not to stand in the drop zones because it’s dangerous. I just dropped it down.” He cracks his knuckles. “These are custom mike stands, and they’re fucking heavy. This security guard was standing there. The stand knocked him out. It scalped him. I felt so terrible. He sued me and the band [in 2006]. It got settled, but I was like, ‘I’m just getting worse.’ I wasn’t supposed to even be in the band that long. I’m six kinds of crazy, state-certified crazy. I couldn’t deal with it.”

Reznor also says that North’s offstage antics eventually began to mimic his onstage unpredictability. “He started behaving erratically. It got difficult to have him around. I was still somewhat newly sober at the time, and basically just went to my hotel room and closed the door after the shows, but later I learned that there was some stuff going on that maybe explained Aaron’s behavior.” He leaves it at that.

This notion of an explanation is problematic. Did Aaron North have a drug problem? He says he didn’t. Was he mentally ill? Clearly. But regardless of the cause, he was clearly suffering, and so were the people around him. “There was so much pressure,” he says, recalling the circumstances that led him to finally leave Nine Inch Nails in 2007. “I was picking the opening bands,” he claims. “I was making sure everything was going smoothly. I was trying to work on music with Trent. I had all this money that I didn’t know what to do with. There was the lawsuit. It was all too much for me. I didn’t have a drug problem; no one else knows what was happening with me. It was manic depression, manic episodes, and I feel terrible about them and the trouble they were causing. That’s why I left the band. You don’t just leave a band like that lightly. I’m still bummed about what happened with Nails. I have nothing bad to say about Trent Reznor. He’s a great guy. I’ve dealt with a lot of fucking assholes who used to be my friends. He was never an asshole.”

I ask if any of his old friends or admirers or bandmates have reached out to him lately, to see if he’s okay.

“You’d think so,” he says. “Wouldn’t you?”

(…)

The broken band returned to play a disastrous Christmastime gig at the Hotel Café in Hollywood on December 21, 2008. North spent endless time tuning, and the set derailed. He calls it his “Syd Barrett meltdown.” Not long after, he stopped working on recording Jubilee music. He says he tried to play guitar a few times in the ensuing years, but medications had dulled his talent. “It’s like my hands were always too late for what my head was telling them to do,” he says.

Following the miserable holiday show, North disappeared into the apartment we’d stared at from the street. He says he stopped phoning his friends and didn’t return any calls. He stayed inside for months at a time, reading books about music. His money drained away. The entirety of the first Obama administration is a blank, he says. He was alone and he wanted to die.

(…)

“I should be dead,” he says. “I used to walk alone in Watts or South Central trying to pick fights with gang members to try and get killed. I’d think about walking into traffic all the time. Then I finally decided I’d kill myself by jumping off the bridge. I didn’t think anyone would be sad for me, because if they were sad, they should’ve been sad for me years before I actually did it. I was gonna jump from either the Golden Gate Bridge or the Vincent Thomas in San Pedro. The day I decided to do it, I was driving, and I got to the ramp and thought, ‘If I go north, I’ll jump off the Golden Gate, and if I go south, I’ll do it in San Pedro.’ Then I realized that the ramp is the same one I used to get on to go visit my mom in Cucamonga, and I didn’t do it. I still wanted to die, I just didn’t want my mom to deal with it.”

(…)

We come to a stop beside a rolling green park perched on a steep slope. “A year and a half ago,” says North, getting out of the truck, “I thought, ‘Either I need to kill myself or do something about things.’ I don’t want to play music anymore. That lifestyle and those people — I can’t get involved. That’s why I’m working on a book about what’s happened to me. There shouldn’t be a stigma about mental illness. There’s like a macho thing against it, which is bullshit. And being on government assistance: I’m here, I’m doing it, it’s okay, fuckers. Maybe one person out there would benefit from reading that. It’s a reason to at least try.”

(…)

“I’m not saying I’m more special than anyone else,” North says as we walk up a steep embankment. “My life was wild enough. Why would I make anything up? I never tried to tell anyone that I felt like I was being applauded for my mental illness. I never tried to tell anybody, because they’d never understand. I’d go on tour and run out of anti-depressants, and trying to kick that shit is harder than kicking heroin. I was in an impossible situation.”

North explains that he knows he’s let people down, that he’s caused pain and offense. He also says he’s been misunderstood.

“If I wanted to be a woe-is-me guy, I’d put it like this: I was good to people. I made good music. I feel terrible that people had to deal with my shit. I know people can’t forgive me for some of the things I put them through, and I know people have hateful feelings towards me. But I don’t want any fuckers feeling sorry for me. If I die, it’s okay, because I lived. I got to travel the world. I got to play music.””

“I don’t really know how to answer your questions about “career paths” or “the music industry”, etc. I haven’t played music in over a decade. When I did, it wasn’t because I was trying to make a career out of it. I played in bands when it was enjoyable and stopped whenever it wasn’t. I never made any decisions based on how they’d affect me financially. If my goal had been to “make it” as a “professional musician”, I wouldn’t have turned down offers to play with the Marilyn Manson’s, Queens Of The Stone Age’s, Chris Cornell’s, etc. As different as it is, my approach to standup is no different. I’m not trying to make a career out of it or appeal to everybody.

(…)

When I said I didn’t understand or agree with the premise of some of your questions… I get the impression that your viewpoint on what you’re asking me about is skewed. Or just plain wrong. I feel like most of the information you’ve based certain opinions on is hogwash. Anything concerning my departure from The Icarus Line would be included. The story those guys have believed and perpetuated over time is that I quit The Icarus Line so that I could go join Nine Inch Nails and make a lot of money and be famous or some horseshit. Couldn’t be further from the truth. I suppose that would soften the blow for them, or make it easier for them to understand why I left or something? Naw… in the weeks after quitting the band I was furiously filling out job applications for nearby fast-food restaurants. The truth was that I quit because I didn’t like some of the people I was in a band with anymore, and would have rather flipped burgers to pay my rent than have to stand next to them on stage even one more time. The Nails thing happened some time later and had nothing to do with any of that. Anyhoo, post whatever ya want. Stay outta trouble.”

#aaron north #icarus line #nine inch nails #trent reznor #joe cardamone #josh freese #buddyhead #dillinger escape plan #queens of the stone age #mental illness #music #art #punk #depression #meds #crazy pills

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beloyaltowhatmatters · 1 year

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Sean's Bio

" Why don’ I try fittin' me boot up your nose you snotty old bitch. "

Sean was born in Ireland (presumably Donegal) and spent his early childhood there. Sean's father was Darragh MacGuire, an infamous Fenian outlaw who fled to America with Sean, before being hunted down and killed. The young Sean was sent to a reform school, but it did little for him.

Sean first met Dutch and Hosea at a bar somewhere in North Elizabeth. After seeing a fancy pocket watch that Dutch had, Sean followed the pair into the dark alleyway and threatened them at gunpoint. Much to Sean's surprise, both Dutch and Hosea simply laughed and dared Sean to shoot them, which he did. It turned out that the pair had spotted Sean first and silently taken the bullets out of Sean's gun. Instead of killing him, Dutch and Hosea decided to give Sean some food and inducted him into the Van der Linde gang.

MacGuire is said to be a cheerful man who enjoys spending his time telling stories at the gang's campfires, particularly about his family history. He loves being a part of the action, but he is relatively inexperienced and often overestimates his own abilities. At Clemens Point, he playfully tries to poke fun at Arthur, calling him 'English' and 'King Arthur'. He is perhaps the most talkative member of the gang, as Charles remarks that he speaks incessantly, and Arthur is mildly aggravated by his constant teasing at times. However, he is also somewhat lazy, literally falling asleep during guard duty multiple times, drawing the ire of Hosea.

Sean appears to have a positive relationship with Lenny, who once tried to teach Sean (who is illiterate) how to read. The two are often seen conversing, and Lenny tells Arthur at one point that he likes Sean. By contrast, Sean often expresses his dislike of Micah.

Sean has a generic, very much stereotypical Irish accent. Unlike Molly O'Shea, who has a distinct Dublin accent, MacGuire's is harder to pinpoint.

Sean has shoulder-length ginger hair, and green eyes and is slightly unshaven. He appears to be missing a few of his upper teeth. MacGuire usually wears a jacket of light bluish-grey color over a dirty white union suit and a red and brown patterned vest, accompanied by blue jeans and a green bowler hat. Unlike most members, this is the only clothing he wears, with only slight variations.

When Sean is rescued from Ike Skelding's Boys, he is shown wearing black jeans held up with suspenders, along with a grey shirt buttoned at the top with a black square shape on the front going from the shoulders to the chest, as well as black cuffs.

#✷Bio✷[Sean MacGuire]#✷✷Bios✷✷

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ben-the-hyena · 1 year

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HOLY SHIT

THAT'S WHY, SINCE I WATCHED MARIO IN FRENCH, I THOUGHT MARIO AND LUIGI'S DAD HAD A WEIRD ACCENT. I SUPPOSED IT WAS AN ITALIAN ONE BUT NOT QUITE

IT TURNED OUT IT WAS A SLIGHT AMERICAN ACCENT BECAUSE HE WAS PLAYED BY CHARLES MARTINET HIMSELF !!!

CHARLES MARTINET IS TRILINGUAL SPEAKING ALSO SPANISH AND FRENCH, AND I DON'T KNOW FOR THE SPANISH DUB BUT IN THE FRENCH ONE HE VOICED AGAIN THE DAD AS WELL AS GIUSEPPE

THE FACT THAT EVEN US GOT MARTINET, THAT THEY PUT HIS POLYGLOT GIFT TO USE AND THAT IT MEANS I GOT TO HEAR HIM SAY (WITHOUT KNOWING IT WAS HIM AT THE MOMENT) IN THE END WITH EMOTIONS LIKE AMERICANS "I'M PROUD OR YOU MY BOYS" TO THE 2 CHARACTERS HE HAS ANWAYS VOICED MAKES ME EMOTIONAL

#spoilers #no special tags because spoilers #mario #moi #français #english #spanish #language #voice actor #voice

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frienderbender · 2 years

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ok ummmm hi hi um. i haven't ever publicly posted about him before but

this is ilya, he's the great grandson of an unnamed tribunal member initially sent to mordhaus as a spy. he wasn't very good at it due to his inability to lie and was quickly caught; he was to be executed but charles spared his life on the condition that he become his occasional stand-in (after defecting the tribunal, he never really wanted to work for them anyway). he performs all of the more menial duties charles has, but can never be seen with dethklok in public. to the outside world he is essentially dead. to them, an intern of sorts.

he experienced a very large amount of (Catholic) religious trauma in his youth; one such event caused the stigmata scars on his hands. due to this trauma, he is very mild-mannered and obedient, but not to the point of total submissiveness. his tone of voice is smooth, with a very slight accent. dethklok considers him to be the slightly more "fun" version of charles; that's likely because of his age, his willingness to join in on their antics, and the fact that he has no real power over them. growing up around so much violence lead to him becoming fascinated by human suffering; it also contributed to his burning hatred for god, since he believes no true god would allow such a thing to happen. after the initial intimidation of charles and dethklok, he quickly grew accustomed to the environment and found it to be the perfect place for him.

ilya gets along well with dethklok for the most part, but he's especially infatuated with nathan. his air of confidence and larger-than-life ideals were an instant draw aside from, y'know. being very attractive. the two barely speak to one another in the beginning aside from what's necessary, but they soon strike up their first conversation over the history of human torture methods. ilya graduates from calling nathan "mr. explosion" to just "nathan" within less than a month. an emotional one night stand brings them much, much closer together.

other notable relationships between ilya and members of dethklok include pickles playfully treating him like a little kid, and he and toki filling coloring books together. his associated animal is a plover: the birds known for cleaning crocodiles' teeth (-:

flops on the floor. sorry to drop his whole bio into your ask box but i figured this would be an appropriate time to finally write it all down

what a lovely guy! thank you so much for sending him in, i had a really great time reading all about him.

i think the tribunal is so underutilized when it comes to mtl OCs so this was really fun to read about. i’d love to hear more about him if you feel like it; i think he’d interact really interestingly with dio v, plus i’m just curious on his dynamics with other canon characters.

#asks #thank you for sending him in! he was fun to draw

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meinbamf-archive · 11 months

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« brenton thwaites, 28, he/him, comic » ∙∙ loading case file for KURT WAGNER. known aliases, if any: NIGHTCRAWLER. current location: NEW YORK, NEW YORK. current occupation: DRAMA TEACHER/MUTANT ACTIVIST. he has been known to be FIERCELY LOYAL and STUBBORN, so proceed with caution. their current alliance: UNDECIDED.

SHORT BIO

abandoned at birth in bavaria, kurt was adopted by a circus fortune teller who found him as a baby. with his unusual velvety blue fur, yellow eyes, and prehensile tail, he was an instant crowd favorite: people came from all over to see the flying fiend and his acrobatic tricks. when he was 16, the circus came under new management and the new owner attempted to sell kurt to a freak show. he fled from the one home he ever new, pursued by an angry mob. he was found hiding in a church by charles xavier, who promptly took the young mutant back to america.

he found a new lease on life in new york, surrounded by fellow mutants in a safe haven. he’s settled well, finding his place as the heart of xavier’s ragtag team of mutants. though most of his focus falls to teaching and campaigning for mutant equality, becoming a poster child for non-human mutants everywhere.

BASIC

name ... konrad christian szardos wagner

nicknames ... kurt, fuzzball, elf, blue

date of birth ... june 15th, 1995

zodiac ... gemini sun, capricorn moon, aquarius rising

mutation ... oh man... right off the bat he's blue and covered with fine hair. he's got three digits on each hand, including an opposable thumb. 2 toes on each foot. uhhh a prehensile tail that can support his full body weight. he's got canine fangs and is prone to biting his tongue when he speaks. also got a weird spine! he can do all sorts of stuff that would break a regular person's spine!

powers ... his main ability is teleportation! he teleports by traveling thorugh the pocket brimstone dimension, which leaves a cloud of smoke that smells like brimstone and sulfur whenever he teleports. there are a lot more specifics to this power that i will get bored naming off.

alias ... nightcrawler

nationality/species ... german/mutant ( homo superior )

languages spoken ... fluent in german, english, french, and italian. was telepathically implanted with the ability to speak russian and japanese.

orientation ... bisexual, with a slight female preference but he really doesn't care

pronouns ... he/him

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

height ... 5'9" ( 1.75 m )

body build ... muscular, especially in his upper body. he's been a a trained gymnast/acrobat since he was child.

eye color ... solid yellow, they glow in the dark :)

hair type & color ... he got thick, wavy black hair. its darker than the fur that covers his body. he keeps it on the shorter side, hair in his face is one of his biggest pet peeves.

face claim ... brenton thwaites

distinguishing marks ... see mutations above

voice / accent ... german; despite living in america for a number of years now, his accent remains fairly strong. he has a tendency of switching between english and german when speaks.

clothing style ... kind of basic to be honest. its hard to find clothes that account for long tails. he's a fan of button up shirts and slacks, sometimes he spices it up with a fun pattern. he doesn't wear shoes often when he's not in costume, not a lot shoes on the market for his weird feet. but who needs shoes when you can teleport everywhere???

PERSONALITY

good traits ... loyal, kind-hearted, eternal optimist, faithful, honest, jovial

bad traits ... none <3 stubborn, hard on himself, insecure, struggles with very black and white thinking

personality type ... infp

archetype ... the lover

goals / desires ... to be accepted. he's very aware of the gawking and staring that comes naturally with his appearance, just once he would like to walk into a room without his image inducer and have nobody bat and eye.

fears ... dying. like every good catholic boy, he was instilled with the fear of the almighty power of heaven and hell and wondering where he'll go in the end is a thought that keeps him up at night.

what would throw this character's life into complete turmoil ... losing the x-men. kurt has never been an independent, solo act. teamwork and found family is all the guy knows, he would not survive 5 minutes having to do something alone.

character's soft spot ... babies, also grumpy ageless canadians

hobbies ... fencing, writing, pulling pranks, flirting with people

habits ... he will randomly start doing contortionist tricks, maybe its to show off, who knows? don't be surprised if he just randomly starts walking on his hands and then does the most gnarly looking back bend to stand back up.

PAST

hometown ... somewhere in the bavarian alps in germany. exact location is kind of murky, his father's castle was burned to the ground shortly after a demon baby ( kurt ) was born in its walls.

childhood ... was abandoned at birth due his physical mutation. adopted by a fortune teller in a traveling circus where he perfomed as an acrobat for most his early life.

dream job ... if he wasn't too busy fighting villains and for mutant rights, kurt would want to be an actor in hollywood.

education ... was homeschooled on the road with the circus, but got a full high school/college education at xaviers

FAMILY

mother ... raven darkholme / mystique

father ... baron christian wagner

relationships ... i choose to ignore the retcon about his father actually being a demon. he never met his father and honestly that doesn't upset him much anymore. as for his mother... they have a very strained relationship, its one thing to be abandoned at birth, its a whole other can of worms when your mother comes back and is constantly trying to ruin your life further. they've reached an uneasy peace. a bonus member of this is irene adler, mystique's wife and kurt's other evil mother -- we love a guy with evil lesbian moms

adopted mother ... margali szardos

relationship ... more mommy issues incoming. kurt can't catch a break with the women who raised him. she took him in when no one else would and raised him like one of her own. part of him will always love her... even if she was the one leading the mob as he was chased away from the one home he ever knew.

adopted sister ... jimaine szardos

adopted brother ... stephen szardos ( deceased )

foster sister ... anna marie / rogue

relationships ... he doesn't truly know how many siblings he really has. jimaine and stephen were a staple part of his childhood, loving him like a brother regardless of the fact they weren't biologically related. the last time kurt was in germany, stephen died by his sword. there is a deep set guilt that's kept him away from his adopted family ever since. rogue and kurt met later in life, bonded by the trauma that is having mystique for a mother. he cares about her a lot.

'child' ... pickles the bamf

relationship ... bamfs are a race of tiny teleporting pests accidentally made from kurt's dna. while most of them were banished back to their home dimension, pickles stayed around. kurt feels bad for the little guy so as the only one able to communicate with them, he kept him around.

PRESENT

current location ... westchester, new york, united states of america

currently living with ... the x-men at the mansion! just a simple teleportation commute into the city

pets ... pickles is technically a pet i guess

religion ... catholic :) he's a devout catholic ( almost became a priest once! ) racked with religious guilt!

political affiliation ... tends to lean more leftist. he is very much a 'stick with the mutants, humans come right after' kind of guy.

FAVORITES

weather ... kurt loves sunny days! sunlight warming his skin, a soft breeze blowing through his fur is when he's at his happiest.

color ... purple

music ... truly the definition of will listen to anything. though he has a soft spot for 60s and 70s music.

movie ... oh he is such a sucker for golden age of hollywood movies. he has watched every errol flynn movie multiple times, his favorite being captain blood (1935). kurt loves old adventure movies.

sport ... baseball ( only when the x-men play ) and competitive gymnastics

beverage ... was recently introduced to starbucks frappuchinos and he's a changed man. but has been known to out-drink even wolverine when it comes to german pale ales.

food ... such a soup guy, doesn't matter what kind or time of year he loves soup.

animal ... if you ask him, he'll just say birds. no specific kind, just birds.

#394.intro

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