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charlosvibesonly · 5 months

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Racing Hearts - Part 2

A Max Verstappen Imagine

Part 1

pairing : max x fem! reader/driver

the aftermath of their unexpected kisses is driving the racing world crazy. and y/n can't help but fall for him.

please lmk if you want this to be a series!

The night air was filled with anticipation as you and Max stayed there, lingering in the aftermath of the unexpected kiss. As days passed, you found yourself inexplicably attracted to Max in a way that surpassed the excitement of the racetrack. The articles and headlines about your growing connection were impossible to ignore, and soon, even you were caught up in the romance that they portrayed.

Snippets from articles read,

"From fierce rivals to unexpected lovers, Y/N and Max's story is straight out of a Hollywood script. Once a battleground, the racetrack is now the backdrop for their burgeoning romance."

"Fans can't get enough of the unexpected chemistry between Y/N and Max. Is it love or a strategic move to keep the competition on track?"

"In a surprising turn of events, the racetrack has become the stage for a love story that transcends the finish line. Can these racing rivals make it work off the track?"

The tabloids and fans alike speculated on the authenticity of your relationship, dissecting every shared glance and lingering touch. Amid it all, you found yourself genuinely liking Max, a realization that both thrilled and terrified you. The thrill of racing was now accompanied by the happiness of stolen glances and the gentle brush of hands during press events.

It was the Silverstone weekend. Y/N went to a club at her friends’ persuasion. The dim, pulsating lights cast a hazy glow over the dance floor, where bodies swayed.

However, the vibrant energy took a swift downturn when you stumbled upon Max. His presence stood out amidst the chaotic dance floor, his sleek black attire making him an unmistakable figure in the sea of people. Your breath hitched as you caught sight of him, his arms wrapped around another girl, their laughter blending with the bass-heavy music.

At that moment, the world seemed to slow down, the rhythmic beats of the music fading into the background. Hurt and blindsided, you felt a sudden weight in your chest, and a knot tightened in the pit of your stomach.

His eyes met yours, you could see the realization dawning on his face. Without a word, you turned away, determined to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

Max hurried after you, pulling you back.

"Where are you going?" he asked a mix of concern in his eyes.

"Somewhere I don't bother you and your date," you replied, your anger palpable.

“Must have been so fun right? Playing with me.” your voice breaking.

Tears rolled down your cheeks, and you left without giving him a chance to explain.

Arriving at the hotel, you retreated to the solitude of your room, hoping the night would make you hurt less.

It was race day. And you wanted revenge. Max and you were in a very close fight for the championship, this win could give you an advantage. And you wanted it.

Rain was forecasted. The downpour was obviously in Max’s favor. You cursed your luck. But decided to give him an equally tough fight. You weren’t the kind to back down.

As the cars navigated the treacherous turns, the rain intensified, challenging even the most seasoned drivers. The spray of water, illuminated by the headlights, created a dazzling display that added a layer of drama to the already high-stakes competition. The race unfolded like a dance between machines and elements, a battle not only against each other but also against the relentless forces of nature.

Amidst the chaos, Max executed a surprising move, a strategic decision that played a pivotal role in helping you secure the lead.

“Y/N wins the British Grand Prix!”

The noise was deafening.

But you weren’t celebrating. A thousand questions ran through your head. Your eyes searched for Max. Making your way towards to garage, you stood in front of him.

So many things you wanted to know, but all you could say was, “Why?”

"You stopped talking to me, Y/N," Max began, his voice cutting through the chaotic symphony of the rain and engines. His gaze bore into yours, seeking understanding. "You just went away. I wasn't playing around, and I certainly wasn't on a date. She was just a fan, a little too eager. You have to believe me; I'd never mess with you like that. I think I like you too much for it."

As he spoke, Max's emotions played out on his expressive face. There was a hint of regret for the misunderstanding, a touch of vulnerability in the admission of liking you, and a determination to set things right.

In the midst of it all, the call to the podium interrupted, leaving Max's explanation hanging in the air.

On the podium, with rain still pouring down, the fans eagerly anticipated a kiss. The scent of wet asphalt mixed with the sweet champagne hung in the air as you stood next to Max. Your racing suits, now drenched, clung to your bodies, creating a scene that echoed the intensity of the race you both had just conquered.

In that charged moment, emotions swirled within you like a storm. The recent hurt and confusion from the club scene were still fresh, an ache in your chest that begged for resolution.

Seizing the moment, you took Max's face in your hands. Your eyes revealed a mix of emotions – anger and hurt were there, yes, but underneath it all, a burning desire to set things right, to redefine the narrative that had spiraled out of control. The kiss that followed caught Max off guard.

Surprised by your sudden boldness, Max responded with eagerness. He pulled you closer, the racing suits sticking to your bodies like a second skin. Max lifted you into the air, clearly showing how eager he was. As you hung in his arms, Fernando, sharing the podium, grabbed a bottle of champagne and poured it over both of you. The kiss continued, undeterred by the rain, and crowd.

As you broke away, you realized that you were no longer rivals; instead, you were something undefined, something that went beyond the racetrack.

The post-race interview was a chorus of questions about your evolving relationship.

"Y/N, Max, can you confirm if this is a real romance or just a publicity stunt?" one reporter asked.

You exchanged a glance with Max, and laughing you replied, "It's as real as the rain pouring down on us."

Another reporter jumped in, "How did this happen? Weren't you arch-rivals just a while ago?"

Max, a playful smirk on his face, responded, "Well, sometimes, the best races happen when you least expect them."

The other drivers were caught equally off-guard. Charles said in his interview, ”I thought I was the only one with a surprising performance today, but clearly, I underestimated those two.” And he chuckled while watching their kiss being replayed over and over again.

During the interview, your phone buzzed with a text from Max, "Meet me at 9?"

Your smile was his answer.

Clearly distracted, a reporter tried to grab Max’s attention, "So, are we going to see more public displays of affection in the future?"

Looking at you Max answered, "Well, you'll have to wait and see. We're just getting started."

#max verstappen #charles leclerc #f1 #f1 imagine #max verstappen imagines #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 imagine #formula 1

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sinni-ok-sessi · 2 months

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Would love to hear any thoughts on the codification of the poet-persona over time? 👀

Ok so in the spirit of the ask game, I am not checking any citations on this whatsoever, but if you want those lmk (though they uh. largely do not exist for rímur-poets specifically, because only me and Hans Kuhn have ever cared).

This is going to require some context because, as established, the number of living people who know and care about medieval rímur can be counted on my two hands. Probably without thumbs. So, rímur are a poetic form that developed in 14th cen Iceland, which look kind of ballad-y, in that they often use four-line stanzas with ABAB end-rhyme, though actually the ballad tradition in Iceland is quite distinct (on which, see Vésteinn Ólason, The Ballads of Iceland). End-rhyme was very exciting for Icelandic poets because it was only previously a thing in some uncommon types of skaldic metres, but rímur (as their name suggests) have end-rhyme as a defining feature and rapidly become The dominant form of poetry in Iceland until well into the 19th cen.

There are two very distinctive things about rímur, other than their metres: 1) they almost never tell 'new' stories; almost all rímur narratives are attested earlier in other forms, usually in prose, which can sometimes lead to the fun cycle of saga -> rímur cycle -> old saga is lost, new version is written based on the rímur -> more rímur are written based on the new saga -> repeat until the heat death of the universe; 2) as the form develops, it acquires introductory stanzas known as mansöngvar, a term which elsewhere usually means 'love poetry', although that's not really what they're doing here.

Mansöngvar are verses, sometimes in a different metre to the rest of the canto they're attached to, in which the poet speaks directly to the audience. In the medieval period, they're pretty short and often don't say more than 'look, I made you some poetry', but as time goes on, they get more and more elaborate, and the character of the poet begins to develop some quite distinctive traits. What's interesting here is that rímur were (certainly in the medieval period; less certainly later on) performed aloud, presumably by the poet, so there's definitely some questions to be asked about how accurate the poets' self-descriptions are when presumably the audience could go 'you're not pining away for love, Jón Jónsson, I've met your wife!'

So anyway, these mansöngvar are often linked to the medieval German Minnesänger tradition (er. The actual German word might be slightly different because I still don't speak German despite my PhD supervisor's pointed remarks), which is more overtly love poetry and which sometimes features the poet as an abject and despised lover of some cruel lady. This is something rímur-poets from the later medieval period and onwards have an incredibly good time with. You may be familiar with the story of Þórr wrestling with Elli, the personification of old age in the form of an old woman. There are at least two medieval rímur poets who have a whole extended passage about 'oh alas, when I was young I was a terrible flirt but now I'm old and no women like me, except oh no, I am being courted by this ugly old giant lady; Elli is the only ladyfriend for me now, wah'. it's very playful, it's very fun, it's drawing on this general sense that the poets put forward that they're poetically gifted, but romantically unlucky, which is kind of a Thing for poets across a lot of European literature (and probably more broadly, but I don't know much about that), and is especially pronounced in the earlier Icelandic sagas about poets, which usually feature poets failing to win the love of their life for various reasons (sudden attack of Christianity; sudden attack of magic seals; sudden attack of Other Guy With Sword; etc). So in evoking this, rímur-poets are situating themselves in this existing Image of the Ideal Poet, but doing so in a way that ties them into the specifics of the Norse literary/mythological tradition as well. Poets are also frequently old and tired (same, bro), and a statistically improbably number of them are also blind (although that might just be two guys we know about who were really prolific; most rímur are anonymous so it's hard to say. But it is perhaps convenient that this also links them to A Great Poet of Old, namely Homer).

The other thing that rímur-poets really like to bring up in their mansöngvar is the myth of the mead of poetry, which I will not recount here except to say that Óðinn nicked it from a giant, and also that some dwarves used it to buy safe passage off a skerry once, so it's poetically termed 'ship of the dwarves' because it's the thing that brought them safely across the sea. Every single medieval mansöngur, if one exists at all, refers to this myth in some way, even if it's just by having the 'I made you some poetry' bit use a kenning for 'poetry' that references the myth.* And poets have a lot of fun with this too! Iceland's a coastal community, they know about boats, so you get these extended metaphors about poets trying to board a boat to sample the mead of poetry and finding only the dregs because other, better poets got there first. Or they will describe the process of poetic composition in terms of ship-building: 'Here I nail together Suðri's [a dwarf name] boat'; 'Norðri's ship sets out from the harbour [= I'm about to start reciting the main bit now]'; 'the fine vessel has now been wrecked on the rocks [=I'm going to stop reciting now]'. They'll also speak of poetry as smíð, which means a work of craftsmanship, usually physical craftsmanship (obviously cognate with smithing in English), and of brewing the ale of Óðinn, so they're really into metaphors of physical craft when it comes to the intellectual craft of poetry, which I think is really neat.

*kennings = poetic circumlocutions, e.g. 'snake of the belt' is a sword because swords are vaguely snake-shaped and hang from a belt. Common poetry kennings are '[drink/liquid/ale/wine/mead] of [any of Óðinn's literally dozens of names]' e.g. 'Berlingr's wine', and the aforementioned 'ship of the dwarves' - poetic Icelandic has literally dozens of words for different kinds of ships and also literally dozens of dwarf names, so you can get a long way without repeating yourself.

So all these things that I've mentioned that poets like to bring up - old age, unluckiness in love, poets as craftsmen - become more and more tropified as time goes on, which in turn leads to these imaginative and extended reworkings of the metaphor. No longer can you just say 'I'm old and no one fancies me', no, it's 'My only assignations now are with Elli, wink wink, here's a long description of our date'. So you end up with this very codified image of The Ideal Rímur-Poet as an old man,* ideally blind, ideally unmarried, incredibly self-deprecating about his poetry, and because that's how everyone else talks, it's self-reinforcing.

*there is one (1) known female rímur-poet from the medieval period, the poet of Landrés rímur, who unfortunately didn't write many mansöngur stanzas but is doing her best with the 'unlucky in love' bit, although her lover (male) seems to have died rather than ditched her, which is a novelty.

Anyway, it's cool and weird and fun and as I say, only me and Hans Kuhn care, academically speaking.

#lol 1260 words here. which is. maybe 10 minutes of actual speaking time but OH WELL #asks I have answered #if there are bits that I haven't explained well lmk. I have a warped idea of how much the average person knows about Norse literary history #because I *am* on my Stan Rogers Wife Guy kick at the moment please imagine Jón Jónsson holding a guitar #also. lol. I am extremely fucking doxxable every time I talk about rímur so if you do know my full legal name. keep that shit to yourself.#but also. go read my phd thesis. if you like the shit jokes in this post you'll love 70k of them concealed in academese

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seancamerons · 5 months

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13, 15 for the writers asks!

13. What fic was the easiest to write?

I had a big year of writing and I'm actually proud of myself for seeing through, and in the new year, I can only hope to write more.

I think I've had the easiest time writing Where Are You Now?

I have myself on a strict deadline (Christmas) and the story has been an absolute labor of love, and feel genuinely good about it. I can bang out chapters like no shaboggle, no lie. 😉

14. Rec a fic you wrote or posted in 2023

So the fic Imma discuss that I wrote is Faking it, since I'm sure my moots are sick of my most recent Where Are You Now? which I've been more focused on lately because it's a seasonal kind of story. Now, Faking It features a lot of the same characters used in WAYN but is less au, set in the high school era, mainly around the season 5 mark. By contrast, WAYN is canon to s3 around Holiday, and then it changes and is set years later in adulthood. There are vignettes to bridge gaps, that's why they exist if you do read it and don't know.

The best way to describe it is like a fake romance au. Emma wistfully and even pathetically crushes hard on the new kid in school, Peter Stone, and is too cowardly to tell him. It's worth noting that this version of Peter isn't that important and is just a distraction, but s5 drops out of canon and is a bit over the top, follows the HS years and has differences making its own storyline.

Sean is newly returned to Degrassi and has his sights set on winning back Ellie's affection, but she won't give him the time of day and is angry with him for how he left her with the rent and everything else, overall is in a better state of mind. So Sean and Emma join forces to get what they both desire just as friends posing as lovers or whatever. It gets complicated when Sean learns of Jay and Emma's secret tryst in the ravine, and some lingering feelings they'd been denying make them question if this is what they want anymore, in turn they draw nearer to each other, and it blurs the line between their friendship and more and other storylines relate to that. I have quite a bit done with that one, and then I kind of got a bad case of writer's block and left it alone but I started around April of 2023 for that story, and do plan on seeing it through in time after I finish with my current WIP.

Where are you now? is based on music and such a commentary on superstardom and grief, family, friendship, loyalty, trauma, and the question (rhetorical), can money buy happiness, or love? The answer is obvious. Loosely based off of the song Lucky by Britney Spears, and titled with era album-mate Where Are You Now? It is a love story against the backdrop of Christmas, present day.

Okay, here is a link from a03 to Faking it, and here is a link to Where Are You Now? ✨

💌thank you for the ask! if anyone wants to send more lmk.

#asks #tht70sblog #writing #writing tag #fanfiction #fic rec #fic #fic writing #💌 tysm for the asks #i love talking about this!#where are you now?#faking it #degrassi fic #semma #semmafic #degrassi #emma nelson #sean cameron #cranny

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honorbound-to-the-pen · 5 years

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The Three Lovers

It’s me, back at you with another short story for characters that I haven’t explained yet ;) (I’m sorry, I promise I’ll get to it...at some point...). I think I said I would post this one 2 weeks ago so. Sorry about that. But here we go! Reminder that this is just a first draft, so I’m really sorry if the quality isn’t very good. I hope you enjoy! (Lmk if you want to be on a taglist when I post things and all that.)

Bex shivered, ice-cold fear running its nails down his neck. He stood motionless, despite the blood that was pooling at his feet and seeping into his through the soles of his shoes. The man he had been dueling moments before lay bleeding out just feet away on the frozen ground, sliced open by the supposedly dull weapon that hung limp in Bex’s left hand.

The man on the ground, his dark curls splayed out in a dark halo, groaned and rolled weakly onto his side, coughing up globs of dark phlegm. The noise was sharp against the shocked silence that permeated the air, until the tension snapped and the small crowd that encircled the two fighters roared to life.

A small mouse-like man toting a bag almost overflowing with pill bottles and bandages scurried between the crowd and Bex, going to the bleeding man on the ground. Bex watched the man apply pressure to the section of the gash that lay across the stomach of the wounded man.

Bex jumped as a hand connected with his shoulder, jolting him out of the numb haze he had entered. He blinked as he turned around, confused as to why the world around him was a watery blur. He put his hands to his eyes and only when they came away wet did he realize he was crying. He was shaking too, shaking so hard as the adrenaline worked its way through his body, endless energy screaming at him to move, run, fight, anything.

“What are your crying about, Bex? Buck up, he’s just another one of the guards. They’re easy to replace. You were going to win anyways, and now he gets some time off.” Matthew Blest Goodwyn smiled winningly, and already Bex could feel some of his panic abating. But nevertheless..”I might have killed him! These were supposed to be dull swords, we weren’t fighting to kill.”

Matthew nodded sagely, golden curls bobbing. “Well, it was more interesting this way, wasn’t it? And he’ll be alright, the wound doesn’t look fatal.” He looked over to where the man on the ground was weakly sitting up with the help of the doctor and curled his lip in distaste. “I didn’t quite expect the wound to be that bad. We’ll have to have the field cleaned up and a replacement found for him.” He nodded absentmindedly, his attention already on something else.

Bex was about to ask what Matthew meant by “didn’t expect”, but he was distracted by a call from off to his right. From the other side of the crowd, and bobbing black head of curls could be seen, standing out against the sea of blonde hair and white skin. Matthew was already smiling widely and moving towards his chief adviser, the group parting around him. Bex shook himself again, trying to get rid of the horror that was wrapped around him like a dog ridding itself of water. He plastered on a shaky smile and followed Matthew before the crowd could close around him.

★ ★ ★

Bex closed the door quietly behind him, not wanting to disturb the discussion going on in the room. He turned and walked down a hallway paneled with dark wood to a lavish sitting room filled with black furniture trimmed in metallics. Matthew and Malcolm were sitting opposite each other around a square, glass table with a map (presumably of the city) spread out on it. Their blonde and black curls fell across their faces as their heads almost touched, hunched over as they were. Bex allowed himself a soft smile before clearing his throat quietly, not wanting to startle either of the men. They both looked up, startled but not scared. Matthew’s face broke out into an easy smile, his body immediately relaxing. Bex walked over and sat down on the black leather couch that Matthew reclined on, shooting a smile at Malcolm, who sat on the edge of a black leather armchair. Malcolm smiled sweetly back, quiet and shy.

Matthew put his arm around Bex’s waist and pulled him close as he sat down beside Matthew, touching him with an easy confidence shared by no one else, not even Malcolm. Bex leaned into the touch, turning towards him like a flower towards the sun. He lightly rested his hand on Matthew’s leg, turning to look at the map on the table, which turned out to be displaying one of the various precincts of Chromeckothaun. “What’s this for?”

Malcolm leaned over the table, onyx curls falling in front of his face. He placed his finger in the middle of the circular city, tracing a line through the streets. “Some soldiers have gotten a bit farther into the city than anyone likes, so we’re just making sure they can be contained.” He looked up, catching both Matthew and Bex’s gaze and blushed. Bex smiled slightly while Matthew huffed in amusement and reclined further back into the couch, once again pulling Bex closer. Bex finally relented and relaxed into Matthew, arm around his neck, heads leaning together.

Bex was still stiff, still not used to the soft touches and romantic closeness that he shared with the other two. It had only been a few months since the start of their relationship. It was all in secret of course, the sovereign of Chromeckothaun was of a very strict mindset: men and women belonged together, one of each, and nothing else. Much of the country followed his example, either out of fear or actual opinion. Needless to say, three men in love and sharing a bed on many occasions did not fall under the things the sovereign approved of.

Bex shifted and sat up straighter, moving out of Matthew’s arms and directing Malcolm and Matthew’s gazes to him. He stiffened, anxiety prickling through his system as his thoughts picked up speed. “We shouldn’t let our guards down like that. What if your father finds us, Matthew?” Bex shifted towards the door, his guard up as he searched for any kind of sound.

Matthew got up from the couch, his movements slow as he approached, his hands up and outstretched slightly like Bex was an animal he didn’t want to frighten into attacking. His smile was gentle but weary; he knew how vicious Bex could be when he got it into his head that someone was in danger.

“Sorry about the fight, doll. I know you’re still all shaken up by it. We didn’t mean for it to end like that, just wanted a bit of fun. But don’t worry, no one is in danger, we’re not getting found out.” Matthew’s voice was soft and reassuring, confident and strong. Bex tensed further, resisting the call he felt to press into Matthew’s warm safety and let himself be enclosed in his muscled arms.

Bex barely suppressed a yelp when he felt a warm presence lean into his back. He twisted and reared back, coiled and poised to strike. His agitated gaze met Malcolm’s fathoms-of-shadows eyes, soft and concerned. Bex slowly lowered his fist, still clenched hard enough to dig his nails into his palm, to his side. Malcolm wrapped his arms around Bex’s waist, and after a few seconds Bex relaxed and hugged him back, even though anxiety still thrummed through his veins. He let himself be led back to the couch and settled onto the cushions, his back against Matthew’s chest and Malcolm’s head in his lap.

Slowly, his heartbeat slowed and his pulse returned to normal, but over and over in his head his anxieties paced and nagged at him. When would they be caught, and what would happen?

#writeblr #writing #amwriting #mywriting #my writing #am writing #WIP #short story #the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune #the slings and arrows #slings and arrows #TSaAoOF #bex #malcolm #matthew

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