Mars.writes - Tumblr Posts

Coffee, Words and Fists

Characters: Roman, Virgil, Janus, Patton, Logan, Remus

Trigger warnings: a fair amount of abuse, toxic relationship, negligent parenting, some incredibly low self esteem, forced starvation 

Ships: toxic Prinxiety, not romantic Princeit 

Summary: Roman loves his chemically imbalanced Romance, but does Virgil love him back? Also Janus is a pretty important character. 

AO3 Link

Roman was sitting alone in his room. He was practically praying that Virgil wouldn't come into his room tonight. Of course, when the two began, all was well. They still argued but that was just par for the course for the embodiments of Anxiety and Creativity, but hey, they usually made up afterwards. Usually. But as Virgil became more and more part of the group, Roman found himself being pushed further out. This did nothing to help his already low self-esteem, but he held a brave face. The others didn't need to deal with his issues on top of everything else. Virgil, however, grew more confident as the weeks turned to months. He shared his thoughts more and the others would stand up for him if Roman dared call him any sort of nickname. So it seemed Virgil had noticed, though it was hard not to, and began giving Roman the exact same treatment the creative side gave him pre-accepting anxiety. The nicknames, the lot. It started off small enough, nothing Roman couldn't handle, but things never stay small when this was the way things were headed with the sides. Roman still loved the anxious side, his little smirk when he heard a pun, the way he blushed when Roman flirted with him, all those little things. So of course he could handle it, right? Right. He was a prince, after all. Princes handled far worse than a few nicknames. He thought over this as he cuddled his stuffed Simba plushie close to his chest. Then he heard the dreaded sound of the door opening. He quickly put the toy onto his pillow as he made eye contact with the smirking side who now stood in his room. 

"Really, Ro? A toy? Woulda thought you're too old for that shit." Virgil chuckled, closing the door behind him. "I-Simba's special, Virge. He was a birthday gift from Patton, you know that." the prince replied, almost stumbling over his words. His heart was pounding. "Yeah, I know. Just teasing, geeze, Princey." that nickname again. Princey. Why was it always Princey, and in such a mocking tone? Roman chuckled, though there was no joy to the sound. "I guess. So, uh, what brings you to- to my room, of all places?" he asked. Virgil flopped onto the large four-poster bed. "Aren't I allowed to say hi to you? You're such a jerk." he said in a tone that he couldn't tell if it was serious or joking. "Of course, love, I'm sorry. I would have gone to see you tonight, honest, I'm just in a bit of a state. You know, after that whole ordeal with Janus. It has me in a bit of a certain way, you understand?" he explained, reaching for his Simba once more. "You'd better not be interested in him, Roman." Virgil said, his tone soft and menacing. "No, I would never. You're the only one I could ever want." he replied, hoping that was what he wanted to hear. Virgil was silent for a moment. "I should think so." he said. Before Roman could object, the man snatched his Simba out of his arms. "If I see anything that suggests you might be second-guessing us, you're not gonna see this again, you hear?" he said, the lion held in a firm grip. That 'toy' was one of his most prized posessions. He gulped. "Y-yes, love." he said, his voice shaking noticeably. "Good. Sweet dreams, Princey." Virgil said, walking out of the room. Roman nodded, but knew he wouldn't be having any of the sort tonight.

He curled into a small ball on his large bed and, despite his attempts, could not stop the onslaught of sobs that racked his body. Those sobs quickly escalated, and this time there was no Simba to help him calm down. He buried his face in his pillows to attempt to hide his pitiful weeping, but it did little. He barely heard the sound of his door opening once more. Although this time, he could tell it wasn't Virgil. Virgil would have made a snarky comment on his sobbing. Instead, it was the voice of Patton. "Are you alright, kiddo?" he asked, walking over. Roman lifted his teary face out of the pillows. "Virge took my Simba." he managed to choke out. The father figure simply tutted. "Come on, Ro, that's nothing to be so upset about! After all, it's only a toy!" he said, pulling the creative side into an embrace. Simba wasn't only a toy, why could no one see that? Roman could do nothing but cry into Patton's shoulder. Maybe the father figure was right, it probably wasn't something to get so worked up about. He shouldn't get so upset over his simba. It was just silly and childish to get upset about a toy, even if that toy was pretty much the only thing that got him to sleep at night anymore. He pulled away from his father figure and rubbed the tears away from his now-red and puffy eyes. Patton gave him a smile. "Better?" he asked. "Better." the prince lied. "Goodo, well I've got some cookies in the oven so I'll catch ya later! Sleep well, kiddo!" the father figure beamed as he left the room. Roman felt the tears welling up in his eyes again. Darn it, why couldn't he just get over a damn Simba toy? He heard another set of footsteps in his room. Who was it this time, and why couldn't they just leave him alone? "You are aware, yes, that you are allowed to feel negative emotions about things you care about being taken away from you?" a familiar, smooth voice came. Janus. "Oh. I'm fine, you know." Roman replied, rubbing the stubborn tears out of his eyes. "Please, I am the literal embodiment of deception. You can't lie to me." the reptilian side stated softly, taking a seat on the bed. "I told you, I'm fine. If I wasn't I would be with Virge." he said firmly. Janus sighed. "Are you certain?" he asked skeptically. "Positively." the prince replied. Janus stood up once more. "Well then, I guess I can't force you to tell what's wrong. I won't be back, Roman." he said, sinking out. Roman grabbed a pillow and hugged it tight. It wasn't his Simba but it would have to do for now. He buried his face in it and fell into a restless sleep, waking up every so often thanks to the nightmares that now plagued him.

When dawn finally arose, he was thankful to get out of bed. He decided to wander down to the kitchen to find a snack. Patton had said he was baking cookies last night, where would those be? He pondered this as he wandered down the stairs. He entered the kitchen and quickly spotted the cookie jar on top of the cabinet. Being one of the shorter sides, he did have to use a step-stool to reach them but it was a small sacrifice to make for his delicious treasures. He took the lid off and relished in the heavenly scent for a moment before grabbing one of the treats and munching on it. If there was one thing Patton was good at, it was baking. He finished off his first cookie and started on a second. A second turned into a third, which in turn led to a fourth. He was in cookie heaven. Then he heard a voice he really did not need to hear this early in the morning. "You may wanna slow your roll on those cookies, you've been packing on a few pounds recently." the deep voice of Virgil came. Roman almost jumped. "Sorry, Virge." he said, putting the cookie jar down. Was he really gaining weight? Come to think of it, his frame did look a bit bigger when he looked in the mirror. "No 'good morning'? Rude." the emo said with an eyebrow raise. "I apologise again, I'm tired." he replied. A hot liquid suddenly splashed over his face. "Wake up then, Princey." Virgil said. Roman found it hard to be sleepy any more with the scalding coffee burning his face. He attempted to ignore the sensation and wiped it with his sleeve, which didn't do much in terms of easing it. "I will do better next time." he said softly. Virgil snorted suddenly. "Talk about creative burnout-" he said, falling into a fit of laughter. Roman cautiously chuckled with him, backing out of the room. As soon as he was out of sight, he began power-walking back to his room. As he was speeding through the hallway, he bumped into someone, knocking the both of them over. That someone was Logan. "Sorry, teach." the prince muttered, picking himself up off the floor. "It is alright, Roman. Perchance watch where you are going next time." the Logan said, straightening his clothes and continuing his walk in the other direction.

Roman slowed his pace and reached his room, and stepped inside. He shut the door and headed over to his beloved writing desk. He pondered what he should write, before settling on a play. He began brainstorming ideas on what to write about, and ended up deciding on a story of a prince and his quest to find true love. He needed that sort of energy right now. As he began writing what came to mind, his room shifted to match the setting of his play. He was now in a beautiful stone castle with sturdy oak beams and elegant furnishings. Through the window, the moonlight came streaming in, and his wooden desk was illuminated by a few wax candles. He always enjoyed this sort of setting. The more he wrote, the more detailed his surroundings became until he could almost see an entire village out of his window and beyond that, a great forest. Past the forest were tall, rocky mountains in which sat the dragon-witch's tower, the place the prince was reluctantly headed to. This prince was not a fighter, he was a lover. But little did he know that was exactly what he would find, but not in the tower and not anywhere else. For the prince did not know it yet, but this dragon-witch was not a hideous monster but in fact, a handsome man with dual-coloured eyes who, much like the prince, had no desire to fight. He had merely been cast out from the village as a result of his nature. Once the prince arrived at the tower, he was indeed greeted by this stunning man who did not mean him harm. Instead, the dragon-witch invited him inside and the two discovered something richer than victory or wealth or power. They found the one thing that could bring peasants and kings alike to their knees. They found romance. True romance. A romance so powerful, neither could deny they felt it. The prince soon decided to stay with the dragon-witch, this man who took care of him. And the two would live happily, forever after. Roman smiled as he went through the story a few times, it was a fine piece. It was always nice to write something he was truly proud of. "What'cha up to, Princey?" a distinct voice came from the doorway, snapping him out of his whimsy and returning his room to its natural state. He looked up from his work and saw his lover leaning against the doorframe. "Just some writing." the prince said, his voice infuriatingly quiet. Virgil stalked over to the desk. "Mind if I take a look?" he asked. Before Roman could respond, the gothic man had picked up the script and began flicking through it, his face painfully blank. Roman wished he knew what the man was thinking, hopefully good things but more likely judgements. That was just Virgil's nature, to be skeptical and judgemental, right? Right. The man occasionally would make a small 'hm' sound as he read, but apart from that he was expressionless. And honestly, Roman would have been less afraid if Virgil responded negatively as he read. But eventually, the man finished reading and shoved the script carelessly back onto the desk. "Eugh, charming." he said distastefully before taking a seat on Roman's bed. The malice in his words reminded Roman of his facial wound and re-lit the intense pain. He gingerly touched the wound, quickly deciding to retract his hand. He should probably ask about it. "Hey, Virge? Why'd you have to throw that coffee at me?" he asked. The man in question met his eyes with confusion and anger. "I didn't throw it, Ro. You accusing me of assault or something?" He snapped. "Well no, that's not exactly what I mean-" "Are you saying I'd just hurt you for no reason?" "No no, of course not! I just-" "You are accusing me! I would never without reason, why can't you see past your own ego for five seconds? You're pegging me as the bad guy again, you always do!" "I didn't realise I was, I'm so sorry Love, I would never intentionally." "Yeah sure. You keep believing that stupid bullshit. Great, now I need a break." the emo stormed out of the room with great haste. "Wait, no, Virgil-" but it was too late. The man in question had already slammed the door behind him. Roman looked over at his script with despair. Why couldn't he do anything right? Not his writing, not loving his boyfriend, not even his own job. Virgil didn't even like his script one bit, but was that really a surprise? After all, it was just a mediocre plotline partnered with sub-par writing skills. Of course he hated it, it was completely childish and far too fantastical and whimsical and unrealistic and who said those happy endings even existed in real life? It was everything Roman was. Oh goodness, it was everything he was. Virgil must absolutely hate him, and that conversation just earlier did nothing to disprove the matter. He picked up the useless script and shuffled over to the wall that he always kept bare. It was bare for a reason, he could do with it what he wished. And what he wished to do was summon a large fireplace with a crackling fire inside. It soon materialised, large and grand, and he threw the script in, leaving it to the mercy of the vicious tongues of the flame. He watched as hours of work was reduced to ashes in mere minutes, and while it absolutely tore him up inside to do so he would not show it. He sighed and returned the blank wall to its natural blank state, then climbed into his bed. If he got to sleep, maybe he wouldn't have to see anyone today. He could almost chuckle at how much he sounded like Virgil right now. Maybe the two weren't so different. He pulled his pillow into his arms and curled around it, and squeezed his eyes shut. He lay there for a good few minutes before he felt a gentle hand, rhythmically stroking his hair. He was tired and just wanted to sleep and besides, it was relaxing. So he let it continue. Whoever it was started singing a soft lullabye in french, which confirmed his suspicions that it wasn't Virgil. But who was it then? Patton could only speak english, Logan was in the process of learning Spanish, so it couldn't be either of them, right? Unless they knew something that he didn't. Remus knew a bit of french, but this definitely wasn't his distinct nasally voice. That left Janus. But Janus wasn't the type to do such a thing, right? Of course not, the man was a villain. So who could it be? Maybe it was a product of his own imagination. Either way, the voice was deep and smooth and rich, and had a certain honey-like quality to it. It was nice to listen to, at for the first time in forever he drifted off into a peaceful and nightmare-free sleep.

When he awoke, the person was gone. He felt a pang of disappointment that the figure was not there to bring him that relief he had felt last night, but he brushed it off. He was most likely late for breakfast, and Virgil was never happy when Roman was the one who overslept. He groggily climbed out of bed and realised he had fallen asleep in his costume, which was now horrendously wrinkled and stunk like he had worn it for two days straight. Probably because he had. He pulled off the suit and threw it haphazardly toward the laundry hamper, and opened up his closet. He picked out something comfy, in this case a red t-shirt and a pair of white sweatpants, and cautiously left his room. He shuffled downstairs and into the kitchen, where he noticed the other three light sides were already sitting and eating breakfast. His spot was set with a portion of Patton's famous chocolate chip pancakes, which he gleefully sat down to. "Morning, sleepyhead!" the father figure said playfully. "Good morning, Padre." the prince responded. Virgil cleared his throat rather obviously. "Of course, a wonderful morning to you, my chemically imbalanced romance," Roman added with a bit of a smile. He was in a good mood this morning. "Morning, Princey." the emo responded before returning to his breakfast. The prince picked up his fork and grabbed a mouthful of pancake. He was about to place it in his mouth when Virgil cleared his throat again, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. He put the fork down. "Are you not hungry, Roman? I did not see you at any of yesterday's meals." Logan stated. "I probably shouldn't, teach." He responded. The teacher looked at him with skepticism. "Just eat some. I do not wish to see you get too thin." he insisted. Roman sighed and picked up the fork again. His stomach was definitely growling. He took a deep breath and lifted the food to his lips. Swallowing seemed a definite chore. "Right, that's enough, Ro! Weren't you gonna do something today?" Virgil said louder than usual. That first mouthful of pancake only made him feel more noticeably hungry. "It's just one meal." he said. He couldn't be sure if he was talking to Virgil or himself, but nonetheless he took another forkful of the delicious breakfast. Virgil had gotten up and was walking over. The man's very gaze was enough to send shivers down his spine. "Roman, stop that." He said coldly. Roman glanced to the two figures sitting across the table, but they just kept eating and not paying attention. "It'll only be this one meal today, I promise." he said, putting the second forkful in his mouth. Virgil slapped the fork just as it reached the prince's mouth, scraping across his cheek. It wasn't that bad of an injury, nothing he couldn't take. He swallowed. That was when the emo had hit the last straw. He grabbed Roman by the throat and pulled him to his feet. Virgil was surprisingly muscular. He began throwing punches at the prince without relent, repeating over and over how he had been warned and he deserved this. The prince felt tears running down his face and called feebly for the other two to do something, only to be met with more reasons as to why he deserved this. Breathing was becoming a strain and he had to stop in order to preserve air. He squeezed his eyes shut as the blows got harder and faster, when all of a sudden they stopped. Although that could have been because his senses had numbed. He could tell there was talking going on around him, but he couldn't pinpoint who was talking. The tight grip around his neck ceased and he collapsed to the floor. More talking. Then he felt something unexpected. Two pairs of arms wrapped around him gently and one hand gently stroked his hair, much like the mysterious figure from last night. He so desperately wanted to lean into the touches, but that probably wasn't a smart move.

The noise around him faded and he felt the familiar sensation of rising up. The arms were still around him, which was odd. Usually only one or two people could rise up at the same time. "You can open your eyes, Roman." that smooth as honey voice said softly. Slowly he peeked his eyes open, and noticed he was in an unfamiliar room. This room was a darker, more comfortable brightness and shifted gently around the edges. The arms wrapped around him were scaly and clad in a yellow sweater. "I don't apologise for taking you out of the mindscape but my room is safer." the voice said. The prince turned his head to see who his rescuer was, and was shocked at his discovery. The man was none other than Janus, the disney villain. Wearing a sweater with a snake on it. The villain gave a small smile. Well, it would have been smaller and softer if the man's mouth on his snake half did not reach right across his cheek. But it was a surprisingly soft gaze nonetheless. Roman sat there in that embrace for a good minute, attempting to think of something to say. "Why did you stop him?" he managed to ask. "Stop who, Virgil?" the snake asked in a curious tone. "Mmn. I deserved all of that." the prince responded. "Listen to me, Roman. That was abuse. You do not deserve abuse, and you do not deserve to see your so-called family stand idly by while you are being physically and verbally assaulted. Why did you never tell anyone?" Janus asked, his spare sixth hand raised with the thumb and pinky tucked in to show he was not lying this time. "I tried at first. It was always my fault." Roman said, his body shaking again. "I mean someone who cares, dear. Like Remus and I." "Neither of you care about me though." "Of course not, I rescued you out of pure spite." "Well Remus hates me, at least." "Remus wishes more than anything that you could be friends with him again." "He'd probably murder Virge." Roman stated. Janus chuckled. "I suppose that is true. But neither of us think ill of any of you. Well, perchance there is some spite aimed at Virgil. But my point is, we are here to help you." he said with a wide, fangy smile. The door suddenly swung open and a certain duke bounded in. His eyes drifted immediately to the prince in Janus' arms. "Roro, who tried to murder you?" he asked, launching at his twin with open arms. "No one you should worry about." Janus said softly. Remus pulled his hug back and began examining his brother for notable injuries. He scanned the face and squinted. "That's not good, you look like Jan but worse!" he noted, eyeing the burn mark. Janus cleared his throat. "Maybe do that later, Rem." he said. The duke sat back on his feet. "Oki then." he said, his stache twitching. "Now listen here, Roman." Janus said softly but firmly. "You will always be safe here."

How Sweet It is to be Loved by You - LN4 x reader:

Mars’ Notes: I’ve never ever written anything like this before, but after rambling at @love-belle for a stupid amount of time, i thought why not? surprised it ended up being for lando and not charles but if this goes well i might j start writing a bit more!! anyways, i’m excited, please lmk what you think <333

Warnings: None!! super super fluffy :)

Description: Lando comes home to you, and everything is ok again.

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Lando was exhausted. He loved his job, the roaring of engines, the loud shouts that always seemed to accompany the mechanics as they made any pre-race adjustments to his Mclaren, the screams of fans in the grandstands and during fan stages, but god, sometimes all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around your waist, bury his face in your neck and never leave. You were his peace, his moment of quiet in an otherwise hectic day. He missed you, and you were his rock during race weekends. He had spent the last week wishing you were with him and cheering him on from your spot in the garage.

“Lando? You ok, mate?”

Danny’s voice broke him out of his stupor, bringing his mind back to the private jet he was currently sat in, accompanied by the older driver. Just three more hours, and you can hug her all you want, he thought to himself.

“Yeah, fine, mate. Just wondering what’s for dinner.” he said, a smile on his face.

“If you say so” comes the reply, accompanied by a bright, dimpled smile.

————————————

After a hectic run through security and the throng of fans that were waiting diligently for him at the gate, Lando had finally made it home, his hands trembling at the prospect of finally kissing you again as he pushed his key into the lock of your shared flat.

“Lando? Is that you, my love?”

Your voice floated through the hallway, and he visibly relaxed - he was finally home, he was finally with you, and there was nowhere he’d rather be.

“Yeah, sweetheart, it’s me. Were you hoping for someone else?” he teased, seeing you emerge from your bedroom, clad only in one of his favourite Quadrant hoodies, and fluffy socks, your hair falling around your face in messy waves, silver wire-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of your nose. You padded over, soft footfalls echoing, until you were stood in front of him.

“Oh shush and hug me, you muppet.”

He closed the gap between you, and wrapped his arms around your waist, melting into you.

“God, I missed you”, he said, his voice muffled by your neck. You giggled and reached up to hug him back, carding your hands through his hair and leaving sweet kisses wherever you could reach.

“I missed you more, love. Would you mind helping me with something quickly?”, you mumbled into his hair, “I know you’re tired, and it’s been a long day, I just think my brain’s gone to mush and I can barely read what I’m writing.”

He lifted his head, and simply smiled at you, brushing his thumb against your cheek, “That’s what I’m here for, remember? Moral support and grammar police” he said, winking at you in an effort to make you laugh. You looked stressed, and he could tell you had been working away at your essay for far too long already, the pressure weighing heavily on your shoulders. “I’m assuming it’s another essay for class?”

“Mhmm, the professor decided it would be a good time to assign a stupid essay two weeks before midterms.” Your eye roll and answering nod was all it took for Lando to toe his shoes off, leaving his bags and coat by the door before he dragged you back into the bedroom, dramatically flipping into the double bed that occupied the corner, landing amongst the multitude of stuffed toys that had migrated to his side of the bed in the short time he was away.

“Right then, Ms. L/N, get your pretty arse over here and read me this essay.” he said, posing and putting on his best posh British accent, earning a laugh out of you. This was what Lando lived for, these quiet moments of domesticity where all he could hear was your laugh and he could revel in the fact that it was him, him who made you laugh and him who had the pleasure of hearing it.

You grabbed your notebook from the desk you had set up opposite the bed, claiming that you worked better when you knew Lando was close to you, and walked over to the bed, climbing in and placing his head in your lap.

A reporter had once asked him a question along the lines of “If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?” He had, of course, answered with the typical “on a race track”, the answer that wouldn’t have the Mclaren PR team screaming at him post press conference, but if he really had to pick, he would say with you. Anywhere with you was where he wanted to be, but he felt so at peace here, in your bedroom, with his head on your lap and your hand in his hair, your voice soft and sweet as you read him the opening paragraphs of your midterm essay.

Lando nuzzled further into your thighs, your nails now scratching across his scalp in a way that made him feel boneless. He could feel his eyes slowly slipping closed, the warmth and comfort lulling him into a peaceful sleep.

———————-

You were three paragraphs in when you stumbled on your words, struggling to understand a sentence you’d written.

“See, that’s the sentence I really don’t get. It just sounds so chunky and I really have no idea how to make it flow more, you know? I know it needs to be technical, it is an engineering essay after all, but it just sounds so hard to read and I don’t know how to make it sound better.”

You waited for Lando to tell you that you’d made a silly grammar mistake, or that you just had to split the sentence in two to make it more digestible, but you were met with silence. Looking down at your lap, you saw Lando asleep, smile painted on his face, a hand placed on your thigh, grip tight as though he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t move.

Lando had come into your life in the most unexpected way you could have imagined - cliché, but unexpected. You’d been waiting in line at a coffee shop, needing your daily dose of caffeine before your 9AM university lecture, and he had walked straight into you, a steaming hot Americano cradled in his hands, which had eventually made quick work of staining the cream bodysuit you had chosen for the day. He’d apologised countless times, turning back to grab a stack of tissues, even going so far as to attempt to rub the stain off, but had only succeeded in making it worse. You’d simply laughed, and told him that he really should go order another coffee, before the morning rush took over. He’d stared at you, open mouthed and speechless, before stammering through an affirmative and walking away. The next 5 minutes were spent throwing glances at each other through the crowd of people occupying the store, before he broke and asked for your number, stating that he at least owed you a new shirt, and perhaps even a date? It had been natural, and felt right from the moment he picked you up at 8 the following Friday, dressed in a suit and armed with roses.

You took one last look at the essay in your hands, and made the incredibly easy decision to call it a day. You placed the stack of papers on the bedside table, shifting in order to reach, only to have Lando grip onto you tighter, a mumble of “stay” escaping his pouted lips. Your heart clenched, and you couldn’t help but coo back that you weren’t going anywhere, my love, go back to sleep. You cleared as much of the bed as you could without disturbing your boy, and leaned back into the pillows you’d stacked behind you earlier in the day, Lando nuzzling further into your stomach, whining until you bring your hand back to his curls. As you shift, Lando reaches out to wind his hands around your waist, pulling you closer even in his sleep. You smile to yourself, and turn the small lamp on the side table off - your boy was home, and everything was alright.

Electric Love - CL16 x reader

mars’ notes: First off, wtaf??? i’m so so so happy that you guys liked my lando blurb that much, i was half distracted and incredibly anxious when i wrote it, so the fact that so many people like it is absolutely insane to me jnfruncr - anyways, here’s a cute little (not so little) Charles fic i had bouncing around in my head :) thank you @love-belle for listening to me ramble!! please please lmk what you think, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated <333

summary: 4 times Charles almost told you he loved you, and the one time he did.

warnings: none!! super fluffy (again)

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The first time Charles almost let those three precious words slip from his lips was during an unassuming pasta date the two of you had planned. You had gone to the grocery store earlier in the day, and had remembered the old, silver unused pasta maker that was stashed in the back of yours and Charles’ kitchen cabinet, and decided that it seemed like a good day to finally teach your boyfriend how to properly cook the Italian staple. You’d come home in a flurry of excitement, bags dangling from your arms and a bright smile on your face, stating that you were going to teach him how to cook so well that he’d rival Yuki Tsunoda, teasing that maybe that way he’d be able to get Pierre over to his house for a dinner date as well. He’d smiled, grabbed the bags from your hands and set them down on the kitchen counter, before winding his arms around you and kissing you softly, telling you that he missed you and couldn’t wait.

You were too full of excitement to wait any longer, turning on the old radio in the corner of the kitchen, the sound of an old 1950s love song filling the space whilst Charles got two glasses and a bottle of red wine from the rack in the living room. Once your glasses were full and your hands had been washed, you’d dragged him over to the kitchen counter and thrust a “kiss the cook” apron into his hands, instructing him to put it on so he wouldn’t get flour all over himself. He’d asked whether you had a matching one, to which you replied that you’d done this far too many times to spill any flour and that your outfit would be ruined with it. He’d let his eye roam your figure, taking in the sweatshirt you’d stolen from him yesterday, claiming it smelt like him, along with the cute giraffe print pyjama bottoms you adored so much; your hair clipped back messily, sleeves pulled up to your elbows, and Charles swore he’d never seen anything as beautiful.

He was elbow deep in dough before he knew it, hands sticky with egg yolk and flour, the substance sticking to his skin despite how hard he was trying to pull it off. You were standing next to him, your own ball of dough perfectly rolled and kneaded, hands free of any lingering blobs of dough. A piece of hair had fallen into your face, and you’d used your shoulder to attempt to push it back behind your ear again, huffing when it returned to block your vision. Something had just felt so right - he could imagine doing this after a hectic race weekend, coming home to you making a fresh batch of pasta to go with his favourite white sauce, love songs in the background and wine glass in hand. He thought of you standing at this very kitchen counter, flour smudged on your face as you taught a mini version of you how to knead dough, and how to use the pasta machine that he knew was going to come very close to sucking in his fingers.

“Charlie? You ok, my love? Pasta isn’t that hard to make, baby, you just need more flour.”

You’d looked over to catch him staring at you, cheeks red and eyes glazed, and it took everything in him to not spit out how much he loved you. He wanted to scream it from the rooftops, post it on every social media platform, say it over and over until your heart was beating as fast as his was. He watched as you leaned over, sprinkling more flour onto his hands, and all he could do was smile.

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The second time Charles almost confessed the inner workings of his heart was during a race weekend - Spa, to be exact. Spa was a race that was heavy with memories, good and bad. Antoine’s ghost still lingered at every corner, and the cheers of the 2019 crowd still rang in his ears during his track walk. It was a weekend that stirred up a plethora of emotions, contrasting and deep, and it weighed on him. He’d made it a point to leave flowers for his friend every year, joining Pierre alongside the track when they went to pay their respects. This would be the first time you would be by his side, at your insistence. He’d told you countless times that it was he was perfectly fine with just Pierre for company, that you didn’t have to drag yourself out there with him and get soaked, but you wouldn’t back down.

“I don’t care whether it’s storming or if people are passing out from the heat, Charles Leclerc, I’m coming with you, whether you like it or not. You’ve gone through enough on your own, and I’m not letting you do it again, not while I’m here.”

He’d stood in silence, gaping at you until your expression faltered and your hands fell from their resting place on your hips. You were halfway through stammering an apology, explaining that you just didn’t want him to be going through that alone, that you were always there for him when he surged forward and kissed you, hands cradling your face.

He was so overwhelmed in that moment, thoughts of Antoine floating through his head, a tiny voice in the back of his head telling him that it could be his turn this weekend, that he’d never get to tell you how he feels. He pulled back, thumbs brushing over your delicate cheeks, lips forming the words, when suddenly,

“Charles! You have a press conference in 5! Get a move on!”

Fred’s voice broke through the bubble, and you both jumped, startled by the shout. A weight settled in his chest, Charles desperately looking back at you, hoping that what he didn’t have a chance to say was evident in his eyes. You smiled back at him as if to say “me too”, and that was the end of that.

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The third time was during family dinner. His mother had invited the two of you, along with Arthur, Lorenzo and their respective partners, over to her cosy house in Monaco for an evening meal. You had spent the last thirty minutes stressing over whether or not you looked good enough to meet “the woman who gave birth to the prince of Monaco” and thirty minutes before that stressing over which wine to take, if any. Once a good enough Chardonnay had been chosen (a 20 year old bottle you had been gifted by your boss and had deemed too fancy to just open over a plate of pasta at home), and your hair curled and make up painted to perfection, you turned to look at Charles, smiling, shooting him a “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” and he couldn’t help but laugh.

The drive to his mother’s house was fairly uneventful, with him humming along to a French song playing on the radio, one hand on the wheel and the other situated on your thigh, slipping in between the slit of cherry red, silk dress you had chosen for the occasion. The windows were down, the wind whipping through your hair, and you were smiling and singing along with him, a pretty picture of contentment.

You had calmed down by the time the two of you had reached the front door, confident enough to greet his mother with a hug and a kiss to the cheek, laughing when she said that you looked “absolutely amazing, chèrie”. You had bantered with his brothers, giving as good as you got, helped set the table and pick the music, and had even taken over Arthur’s babysitting duties, spending time playing dolls with his little nieces. Looking at how well you fit in with his family made Charles’ heart beat out of his chest. He felt a hand on his arm, and turned to see his Maman standing next to him, a light smile on her lips.

“She’s the one, my boy.” she said, and all Charles could do was nod in agreement, quietly saying the words,

“I think I love her, maman.”

Pascale simply smiled, and turned to walk back to the kitchen.

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He actually got through the first word and a half the fourth time. It seemed like whenever Charles actually got the opportunity to tell you he loved you, something or the other interrupted him, and this time was no exception. He never thought he would end up here, in a dingy club bathroom, wine stain on his brand new white shirt, and you standing by the sink laughing at him.

He had just won the Australian GP, Carlos coming in a close second, and Daniel stealing the third step of the podium. The season had started well for the team, and in natural Ferrari fashion, they had all gotten dressed up and found their way to the nearest club. Drinks flowed, partners were found and dragged to the dance floor, sweaty bodies pressed so close that it was hard to figure out who was who. He had been walking back from the bar, his and your drinks in hand, making his way back to his fellow drivers and you in a pretty black dress you’d picked out earlier in the day, when someone had bumped into him, wine spilling and staining his shirt. You’d turned at the noise that escaped his throat, an embarrassingly high-pitched squeal, and had kept a straight face for all of three seconds before you were laughing.

You’d taken the now empty glasses from his hands, set them down on the table and looped your arm through his, pulling him in the direction of the bathrooms.

“You know, now might not be the best time for a quickie, mon ètoile, my shirt is soaked.”

You had simply looked back at him, and told him that that was “even more reason to get that shirt off him”, your tone insinuating that you wouldn’t be doing anything of the sort. Once in the bathroom, the door locked and lights on, you’d beelined for the tissues, soaking them in a little water and soap before turning back to him with a determined look in your eyes. Instructing him to hold still, you’d taken to trying to scrub the stain out, armed with tissue that was on the verge of disintegrating. He knew the stain wasn’t going to budge, a voice that sounded like his mother’s telling him that he’d need hydrogen peroxide or vinegar at the very least, but he let you grip his shirt regardless, perching himself on the lip of the sink and pulling you closer to stand in between his legs. His eyes roved over your face, taking in the slight crease in between your eyebrows, and your teeth biting at your lower lip. There was something so endearing about the way you looked trying to rub something as stubborn as a wine stain out of his clothes that made him want to never let you go.

Tell her now, you idiot, who cares if you’re in a club bathroom, it’ll make for an interesting story to tell your kids later, he thought to himself.

“Ma chèrie?”, he waited for you to look up from his shirt before continuing, “I lo-“

“Charles! Did you manage to get that wine out yet? We’re waiting to order the next round of shots, mate, hurry up!”

The banging on the door, combined with his teammate’s voice, had interrupted him, the moment well and truly over. He grumbled to himself, something about never having a moment of peace, before looking up at you, nodding his head towards the direction of the door.

There was always next time.

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It had been a quiet moment, just you and him somewhere on the coast of Monaco, yacht rocking with the waves, peaceful. The day had started the way it usually did, the sun streaming into his eyes as you curled into his side, screwing your eyes shut in a vain effort to try and sleep a little longer. He’d kissed you, slow and soft, before whispering a hushed good morning, smiling when he got a sleepy mumble in response. He’d pushed himself up to lean against the headboard, with you whining as he jostled you, only quieting down when he pulled you back into the warmth of his arms. The two of you had stayed there for another half an hour, drifting in and out of consciousness before your stomach rumbled, effectively declaring that it was time to get out of bed and start working on breakfast. Charles knew you didn’t usually like to eat in the mornings, claiming that it made you feel slightly nauseous, but that you were an absolute sucker for a good cup of coffee and waffles, so he set out to make exactly that whilst you were in the shower.

It was not going well, to say the least. He’d even pulled up a waffle recipe on his phone, specifying to Google that he needed one that was beginner friendly. It had started out well, with him grabbing all the ingredients listed, even going so far as to grab the measuring cups you used when you baked the vanilla cookies he loved so much; and then he actually had to start putting everything together. He’d ended up cracking the first egg with far too much force, causing it to spill all over his hand, with slivers of the shell ending up in the bowl below. Once he had fished out the infuriatingly small pieces out of the egg mixture and added the milk, he got to work measuring out the flour, only to misjudge how heavy the bag was, and spilling it all over the counter and himself. He was stood stock still, face stuck in disbelief when you had walked in, freezing as you took in the scene unfolding in your kitchen.

“Oh, my love” was all you’d managed to get out, before you were making your way over to him, brushing your thumb across his cheek and saying “You’ve got a little something there.”

Once the breakfast disaster was cleaned, and you had taken over to make edible waffles, the two of you had migrated to the living room, curling up on the couch under your favourite fluffy blanket, armed with snacks to start a movie marathon. Sundays during summer break were reserved for snacking on salted caramel ice cream and brain-rotting romcoms, and it was tradition for you and Charles to bicker over which movie was put on first. Charles knew he would give in after the first minute of arguing, when you pulled out the big guns and flashed a sweet smile at him, and today was no different. He was glad it was no different.

The day had passed in a haze of kisses, sweet fruit and good wine. The weather was beautiful, wonderfully warm with a light breeze, and Charles had stated that it was the perfect night for a picnic under the stars on his yacht, ushering you in the direction of your room, telling you to get dressed. He grabbed a few more bottles of the wine you had been loving in the last couple of days, cutting up fruits and cubes of cheese for your impromptu picnic, before packing it all up into a small basket you could take with you. You’d come out of the bedroom in a white summer dress, and Charles felt his heart stop at the sight of you. You looked ethereal, like his own personal angel, and he told you as much, before gently taking hold of your hand and leading you to his car, picnic basket in hand.

You had been out on the water for an hour or so when you had leaned into Charles, your head resting on his shoulder, arms wrapped around his. He’d looked down at you and smiled, all dimples and warmth, before leaning down and kissing you softly, his lips just brushing over yours. You’d settled in and were sharing your second bottle of wine, looking up at the stars and talking about everything and nothing, the topic of your conversation ranging from who could find the most constellations to new recipes you wanted to try out the next time you had the chance. Charles was watching you ramble about a new cake recipe that you’d seen (or was it pie? He was hardly paying attention, too caught up in the way your eyes lit up and the way your cheeks flushed) when he just blurted it out.

“I love you.”

You had stopped midway through your sentence, words suddenly sticking to the inside your throat as you gazed up at him. He was looking at you with glazed eyes, the stars reflected in them, and panicking because what if you didn’t say it back? What if he had misread the situation so badly and had ended up ruining a perfectly good day because he couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself like-

“I love you too.”

And just like that, the breath was knocked out of his chest. You loved him. Him, Charles Leclerc, you loved him. He wanted to hear those words every single day, every morning when he woke up, every night before he went to sleep, every day for the rest of his life.

“Say it again”, he begged, needing to make sure you were really saying that you loved him, and this wasn’t just some sick, twisted dream, a figment of his imagination. You repeated it in hushed whisper, again and again, watching as the dimpled smile you had come to adore grew on his face, before pushing yourself up and kissing him again.

Yes, today had been the perfect day.

i wanna write so bad but uni is already looking so so long 😭😭 send me requests for any f1 drivers so i can write blurbs!!! i’ll write anything :p mwah love ya!!

OK IVE GOT SEVEN (7) REQUESTS TO WRITE LETS FUCKING GO!!!!!!!!