whatever souls are made of

his and mine are the same. and is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.

[youknowwhoiamperiod]

˖°𓇼🌊⋆🐚🫧 ariel [she/her]

...bathing in cliffside pools with my calamitous love and insurmountable grief.

about𓂃 𓈒𓏸 20. arab. infp. libra. daughter of poseidon. swiftie. jason todd's little mermaid. jason grace enthusiast. ocean and poetry lover. fork lady. multifandom+personal blog.

the sea does not like to be restrained...

currently listening to𓂃 𓈒𓏸 i love you, i'm sorry. gracie abrams

ⓘ DNI: basic criteria, racist, homophobic, mysoginist, antisemitic, islamophobic, generally disrespectful and hateful behaviour, etc. MDNI!!! i interact a lot with nsfw content without tagging, therefore my blog is not a safe place for minors. i make liberal use of the block button, don't take it personally please <3.

[wyatthazy]

OFF CAMPUS 1.04

[ciricearts]

he found a kitten!!

[cokalee]

Some Jason Snoopy stickers!

You can get them here: cokalee.etsy.com

[deanwinchestersleatherjacket00]

[sacr1ficialang3l]

⌖They all wanna take her out⌖

⌖ (but no one ever wants to take her home)⌖

SUMMARY: Dean has always been just along for the ride. Getting around town, flashing his fuck me eyes and feeling good for a night. When he's suddenly confronted with something real, he doesn't know how to act. 3.8k

WARNINGS: angst. john winchester's A+ parenting. mentions of parental abuse. dean's unhealthy coping mechanisms. hurt/comfort. using sex to replace intimacy. dean winchester is bad at feelings and incredibly traumatized. angst with happy ending.

now playing: fuck me eyes by ethel cain.

Dean Winchester learned from a very young age that love is conditional.

He would only ever be loved for what he could give, for what he might provide. If he ever was loved at all, that is.

Because, yes, Sammy loves him. But that’s because Dean made him dinner every night, kept him safe during cases, and read him bedtime stories. Dean would let him have the last bit of store-bought pie, and Sam would look at him with those shiny puppy eyes. He would calm him down after a nightmare and get him to fall back asleep, and Sam would smile at him a little more gently the next morning. Dean would save his life during a hunt while their father was busy chasing the monster, and Sam would press himself to his side during the ride to the motel.

Sam loves him because Dean provides for him, the way a son is conditioned to love a parent.

His father… he prefers not to think about that one too much. John loved him—Dean knows he did—in his own way.

And maybe his father only ever looked at him with anything akin to affection when Dean ganked a creature in record time. Maybe he only ever acknowledged him to order him around, to scold him, or to demand he take care of Sammy.

Maybe his father would come back to the motel rooms angry, his hand always fisted around a gun or a bottle. And Dean had learned quickly that his rage would soon be redirected toward him if he didn’t act fast. If he didn’t perform.

So he’d abandon his comic books, his cartoons and carton of chocolate milk, and he’d approach his father with careful steps—the way a dog approaches the hand that hits him. Dean would speak in a low voice, just a few sentences at first, testing the waters. If his father spat a “go to bed” at him or if his fist clenched, Dean would get up from the couch and go lay down on the stiff motel mattress.

If John closed his eyes or rubbed a hand over his mouth, Dean continued. He would reassure his father, try to comfort him. He had figured out exactly what to say to make him put the bottle down just halfway through it. He knew what not to say unless he wanted to get yelled at and find his father gone the next morning.

When he excelled at hunting, when he followed orders without questioning, when Sam was safe—that was the closest he ever felt to being loved by John.

Any mistake, any selfish request, any bit of his true self that slipped through his mask would make any warmth evaporate, and he’d be left frozen—sometimes with a bruise—and wondering why. What did he do this time?

So, yeah. Dean knows that love is conditional.

That’s why, when you came into his life, he didn’t know how to handle you.

There’s a lot of things Dean struggles with, but women have never been one of them.

He knows what they want, and how to give it to them.

From a very young age, women of all ages have looked at him a certain way. He quickly realized that he was attractive. Hot, even. Sexy. Women would approach him—his classmates in school, ladies at the bar his dad brought him to long before he was old enough to enter, witnesses during cases—and they all batted their pretty eyes at him, spoke to him in soft voices, and touched him with gentle hands.

At first, he would get attached. There was something in his chest, something snarling and salivating, that went crazy at their attention. At their affection. Some girl would run a hand through his hair, and Dean would already be wondering what their kids would look like.

Then he got old enough, and the touches became a little more lingering. Women would slide their hands up his arm, wink at him after pouring his whiskey, lean down until all he could see was their cleavage. They kept the soft voices, but now there was an undertone to it. Something sticky, sweet, and velvety. It would wrap around his brain and make him fuzzy.

The first night Dean woke up alone in a messy motel bed, he understood.

He would only be wanted for what he could provide. Girls would look at him with caring eyes as long as he made them moan and squirm in the sheets. They would caress his face and hold him close as long as their legs ended up shaking and their pupils blown out. They would offer him nice words, comforting him and complimenting him, as long as he could offer them a good hookup.

They wanted him—as long as he was gone by morning.

So when he met you, he knew exactly what to do.

Sam and Dean had already crossed paths with you in previous hunts. After the first time you almost stabbed him during a poltergeist case, the brothers called Bobby and asked if he knew anyone with your name.

Bobby’s voice had turned the most affectionate they had ever heard it as he told them about the time you came to him for help with a spell. He went on a little rant about you staying in his house after you got hurt and how he woke up to breakfast waiting for him on the dinner table and his fridge full of beer and fresh produce, before he realized he sounded way too fond of you and grumbled something about you being a good kid and to keep you safe if they ever crossed paths with you again.

And they did—over and over again. Sam bumped into you at a library in Nevada, and you joined them in a vampire hunt once in Massachusetts. Dean bought you a drink in upstate New York about three months after your first meeting, and he could never have guessed how it’d go.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” he grinned at you with his signature confident smile. You murmured a thank you and grabbed the margarita from his hand, your fingers brushing.

But the smile you gave him was a little too neutral, too actually grateful. You didn’t shudder at the touch of your fingers, and your gaze quickly returned to your phone afterward. Your words weren’t flustered or alluring—just normal.

Still, he didn’t give up. He slid onto the stool next to you, and the moment you turned to face him, he tilted his head and looked down at you in that way he knew would make his lashes look longer and his green eyes shinier. He added just the tiniest bit more arrogance to his lopsided smirk, and he even went as far as to wink at you.

But then you laughed—not flirty, not mean, just amused—and sipped your margarita as you turned around and shared some small talk with the bartender.

So you weren’t interested, then.

That was okay. Dean knew how to handle rejection.

But then you found Sam and Dean again later that night.

The bartender had ended up pulling some tarot cards from behind the counter, and you offered to give her a reading in exchange for a free drink. Dean had never seen anyone handle psychic bullshit the way you did—so effortless, so sharp. You joked your way through it, laughing as you laid the cards down, but your words still carried weight. Each sentence landed with the kind of quiet gravity that made people go still.

You told fortunes like you were spinning stories, your voice lilting between casual and cryptic. You winked at the girl behind the counter, did little sleight-of-hand tricks with the deck, and flipped each card like it had something sacred to say.

Halfway through it, five people were already lining up behind you, drawn in like moths to a flame.

You drifted through the bar like smoke the rest of the night—laughing, glowing, throwing back drink after drink without ever seeming sloppy. You didn’t take a dollar for your readings and kept reminding people not to take you too seriously, but it was impossible not to. Dean couldn’t stop watching you.

And then, you’d found your way back to the brothers, your cheeks flushed with tequila and your eyelids a little heavy. “I think I’ll call it a night, guys.”

“Let me drive you back to your motel.” Sam threw Dean a weirded-out look, and he could hear his little brother’s question in his head.

You’re leaving a bar, alone, before two?

Dean didn’t turn to face him, scared his real self would slip through his mask. Instead, he led you out of the bar and into the passenger seat of Baby, thanking the God he didn’t know if he believed in that he decided to stop after his first beer.

He didn’t let himself wonder why he stopped. Why the sight of you dancing around the bar, beaming at every client and being admired by everyone had suddenly killed his hankering for the one thing that had always been good to him in his life—even when it burned washing down his throat.

Dean was ready to drive you to your motel in silence, make sure you got in safe, and head back to the bar to get hammered. He wouldn’t try anything again, because he knew better than to push after being rejected.

“You know, you really saved my ass back there,” you murmured when Dean stopped the Impala in front of your room, turning to stare at him under the dim streetlights.

When Dean met your eyes, they were kind in a way he had never been on the other end of.

“Don’t mention it,” Dean said with what was meant to be a bashful smile, but he couldn’t help the way his chest puffed out. He was of service. He did something good. “It’s what we do—we have each other’s backs.”

You seemed to study him for a second, your eyes scanning every inch of his face. Dean squirmed in his seat, not loving the way he could almost feel you sinking in, making your way through his walls, analyzing him on an almost psychic level. Maybe you actually did know what you were talking about.

“Still. Thank you.”

This was the moment. It was dark, late at night, and the two of you were alone in Baby in some desolate parking lot. You were slightly buzzed, and he had just given you something. Had just performed.

Your eyes were still on his, and this was when you’d lean in and kiss him, or invite him into your room. He got ready for it, almost desperate for the gratification it would bring—for those few minutes he would finally feel fulfilled. Feel loved.

But then you chuckled, shaking your head slightly before opening the car door.

“Stay safe, Dean,” you whispered into the night, right before getting out of the car and walking into your motel room.

To this day, Dean doesn’t get it.

He saw you more often after that. Something happened to you—something ugly and tragic—that you wouldn’t talk about with anyone but Bobby. It left you morose, a little broken, and with a whole new set of scars.

Bobby called Sam and Dean the day you tried to put scopolamine in his beer so you could go on a hunt.

“She’s goin’ stir-crazy, but I’ll be damned if I let that girl go on a hunt alone after—that.”

So a deal was made. You could work on cases, but you had to go along with Sam and Dean. You seemed to actually like the brothers, because you only rolled your eyes once before accepting.

That was the moment everything went downhill. 

Because suddenly, he was trapped with you at every waking moment—during long drives in Baby, in every moldy motel room, in every library and morgue and graveyard. You became a constant in his life, in the way only his brother, his car, and his whiskey had ever been.

And Dean could’ve dealt with it, if you weren’t so goddamned confusing.

Because you patch him up sometimes, and your hands on his skin are delicate and soothing. You murmur reassuring words in the dark of night, brush his damp hair off his forehead, and ask him if he’s okay—and Dean actually believes that you care about the answer.

But you still don’t want him.

You stare at him with shiny eyes—wide and compassionate and beautiful—but you still take a step back if he tries to slide closer. You run toward him and cradle his face in your hands when he gets stabbed by a wraith, you keep his head on your lap the whole ride back to the motel, and you insist on holding his hand as Sam sutures the wound. Still, the moment he makes a suggestive joke, you roll your eyes and hand him another shot of whiskey to shut him up. You stay by his side that whole night—but you won’t let him touch you.

Dean doesn’t get it. He keeps waiting for you to leave one day—to get tired of this. Of him.

But you don’t. You keep complimenting him—and not just his looks. Maybe you sneak in one or two comments about his eyes, but you praise him. The real him. Not Sam’s parental figure. Not his dad’s perfect soldier. Not the playboy. Somehow, you glimpse beneath the mask.

“You care, Dean. Not a lot of people do. They pretend they do, they offer empty condolences and claim to have tried their best. You—you feel it, deep in your bones. I love that about you.”

“The way you talk to kids—you’re so gentle, Dean. You make them feel safe. You make your way into their hearts in a very special way. The way sunlight filters through the rocks of a cave. The way flowers bloom between cracks in the pavement. You have that effect on people. I love that about you.”

“You always put people before you, Dean. You’re so quick to jump into danger, to use yourself as a shield. You have such a big heart, no matter how much you try to hide it. You’re one selfless motherfucker, and it’s fucking annoying. I love that about you—but it’ll get you killed one day. Again.”

Caring. Gentle. Selfless.

Dean doesn’t fucking get it.

Because you’ve got his back during hunts, and you always find your way to the foot of his bed after a really bad nightmare, and you never get mad when he makes a mistake. You can see all the darkest parts of him—the ugly, scarred, putrid parts—and you look at him with so much… affection.

But you don’t fucking let him give back.

Dean doesn’t understand why. What did he do to deserve this? Why have you decided to give and give and give and take nothing? Why do you keep him around? Why won’t you just let him be of service?

He needs to offer something. Be of use somehow. Before he loses this. Before he loses you. Before you realize he’s no good when he’s not performing—and you leave.

But you’re so fucking impossible.

“I just don’t fucking understand why you won’t let me do it!” Dean yells, slamming Baby’s door shut.

“Guys—”

“Because it’s not fucking worth it, Dean!” you cut Sam off, getting out of the backseat and storming around the Impala to stop right in front of Dean. “The motherfucker is dangerous, okay? You can’t keep throwing yourself in the line of fire like that!”

“He hurt you,” Dean spits your name, eyes frantic and his grip on the revolver desperate.

Turns out, the demon they’d been hunting in this town happened to be the same one you encountered months ago—the one that left you cracked and weak.

Dean had lost it when he found out.

But the son of a bitch had formed a cult. At least a hundred demons, all following him around like starving dogs and hanging onto his every word like he was God—or Lucifer, Dean figured.

You three had barely made it out of that destroyed liquor store alive. The demons had cornered you, muttering something about sacrifices and “he’ll love some hunter blood, it’s his favorite.”

Then he appeared. Some long-haired guy with circular dark glasses and bell-bottom pants. Dean had wanted to snort, a snarky one-liner burning at the tip of his tongue—until he felt you.

At the sight of the John Lennon wannabe, your breath caught in your throat and your hand clamped around Dean’s arm tightly, nails digging into his skin like you were gripping a rope that was the only thing keeping you from falling into the abyss.

Dean had never seen you that scared—face pale, lips trembling. He didn’t need to ask. He knew. That was the bastard responsible for the scar down your spine you still tried to hide. For the nightmares that left you gasping in the backseat of Baby.

Dean was going to make him bleed.

If only the bastard hadn’t disappeared. He saw you, said something about still remembering the taste of your blood and how, “You’re still my favorite. A feisty one, huh? So let me do something for you. For old time’s sake.”

And just like that, every demon started vanishing. One by one, they melted into shadow. The demonic lost Beatle was last, still grinning at you in a way that made Dean’s skin crawl and blood burn.

Dean had grabbed the first blade he could find—a simple silver one, since Sam had the demon knife. It wouldn’t do shit. Would barely leave a scratch. But Dean had to do something. Anything.

So he charged, blinded by the pure-white rage pounding in his chest. He was close—just a few more steps—when you stopped him. You wrapped your arms around his middle and yanked him back.

The demon’s laughter still rings in his ears. And when Dean looked up again—he was gone.

Just the three of you. In a shattered liquor store. And once again, Dean had failed you.

“I know he fucking hurt me!” you say through clenched teeth, hands still shaking. They haven’t stopped since the encounter. Dean needs to do something. He needs to kill. He needs to perform.

“But he would’ve fucking incinerated you the moment you got too close!”

Your voice shakes. Dean tells himself it’s just from the memories. Just that.

Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “I know you still have nightmares about what he did! You need—I could’ve gotten rid of him for you. I could’ve made him pay!”

He’s yelling now. He doesn’t want to. He’s terrified he’ll scare you. If you ever flinch at him, he thinks he’ll lose what’s left of his mind. But he’s burning. Itching. Dying to earn it. To earn you.

“That’s not what I need, Dean!” your voice echoes through the parking lot. Somewhere behind you, Sam slips into the motel room.

He’ll find out how this ended in the morning.

Dean snaps. He slams his palm against the hood of Baby—because violence has always felt more comfortable than whatever the hell else is simmering in his chest.

Still, you don’t flinch. That makes it worse.

“Then what?” he screams, stepping closer. “Tell me—what the hell do you need from me?”

“Nothing!”

You break too. Arms flailing. Voice raw—raw in a way Dean’s never heard before. And just like that—he freezes. “I don’t fucking need anything from you, because my love for you isn’t transactional!”

Love.

Your love.

For him.

Transactional.

You both stand there in the dark, your breathing ragged from the outburst. He’s staring at you, blank and wide-eyed, frozen in place. He can’t speak. He can’t breathe. He can’t perform.

He’s waiting—for you to yell again. Or hit him. Or turn around and leave.

But instead, you sigh. Drop your head. Take a deep breath. Then step forward and cup his face with tender hands—and Dean shatters.

Something inside of him breaks. Suddenly. Gruesomely.

“I love you, Dean Winchester,” you say again, voice soft and balmy, coating every single one of his scars and soothing him. It hurts. It hurts so fucking good.

“And it isn’t something you have to earn. Or something you’ll lose. You don’t have to fight for it. And you sure as hell don’t have to kill for it.”

Dean doesn’t understand. His throat locks up. A pain unlike anything—not even Hell—explodes in his chest. His breath stutters. His mouth opens and closes, again and again. All his wit, his charm, his clever little lines—gone.

There’s a loud clatter, and when Dean looks down, he sees that he’s let go of the revolver. 

It lays there on the asphalt, lonely and shiny. Violence, pain, struggle.

You guide his face back up, cold fingers drumming on his cheekbones, and he meets your eyes. Compassion, softness, love.

His eyes sting, and a lonely tear slides down his cheek. He fights the urge to wipe it away, to pull back and hide his face, to break something. His father’s face flashes before his eyes—his anger at any sign of weakness, his usual “Pull yourself together, boy.”

His tough love.

But maybe love doesn’t have to be tough.

Because there’s nothing tough about the way you’re holding him. There’s not an ounce of harshness in your eyes. No disappointment in the way you wipe away the tear. No disdain when you kiss the wet stain on his cheek.

He leaves the revolver on the ground, pressing his forehead to yours instead.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers into the night, his eyes holding yours like they’re the only thing keeping him afloat.

“You don’t have to.”

And it’s as simple as that. It could be as simple as that—if Dean lets it.

And when you finally lean forward and your lips meet, it’s not lustful. It’s like two galaxies collapsing, two parallel universes crossing paths. Mystical, celestial—something Dean thought impossible.

There’s definitely something psychic about you, because you’re otherworldly.

Dean has met angels, demons, dragons. He’s met gods and the devil. He’s been to Heaven and Hell. But still, the most unfathomable creature he’s ever seen is this girl who sees right through him—who he would never be worthy of, but who still loves him.

“Come on, darling,” you pull him forward, away from his father’s car, and his guns, and his ever-haunting ghost.

That night, you two don’t have sex. You let Dean hold you through the night. You run your fingers through his hair, play with his hand, and pepper soft kisses all over his face. You don’t expect anything from him. It doesn’t matter that he lays there and lets you take care of him—lets you love him.

Because the next morning, you’re still there. Because the next morning, you still want him.

And he doesn’t have to perform anymore.

NOTES: can you tell that i love character studies? this is my favorite kind of thing to write. Ethel released fuck me eyes and y'all expected me not to write about dean??? anyway, I know i've been a bit MIA but I'm trying to find motivation to finish my WIPs.

I love you all! hope you liked it<333

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @mimiimmii @scatorcciosbabe<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[deanwinchestersleatherjacket00]

[spn-incorrect-quotes]

Y/n: I’m kind of crushing on someone, but I’m worried about telling you who it is, because you’re not going to like it.

Sam: Just rip the bandage off.

Y/n: It’s Dean.

Sam: Put the bandage back on.

[pnglove]

[stefphe]

trying so bad to be nonchalant

[maxterclass]

for @maxtism 💗 - fav max pic(s) of all time 💌

[batsandbirdsandpiggybanks]

Damian Wayne, Whitewashing, Linguistics and the Use of Akhi in Fanworks

ok, listen. i say this with all the love in my heart, because i know it comes from a place of compassion, but i gotta level with you all:

please stop using akhi in your batfamily fanworks.

genuinely.

i don’t know who will actually see this or even care and i'm not even the first person to bring this up, but akhi is not a familial term of endearment.

full disclosure, i myself am nowhere near an expert in all Arabic dialects and while i do not have an extensive knowledge of all the dialectical terms for “brother” that serve the purpose you're looking for, i do know there are some out there.

however, akhi is not one of them. it’s not even an nickname. so please, please stop using it like it is.

fair warning, this will be a long post because there are a lot of layers to this issue and to understand why it's even an issue at all, you have to understand all of those layers. so stick around, i guess, if you have questions and feel like being interrupted in your daily tumblr scroll by a very specific rant (though i did try to break it up into sections so it's at least somewhat navigable).

otherwise, if you’ve gotten this far, you’ve already read my main request and hopefully taken it to heart which is what i really care about, so feel free to continue on with your day if you so please.

if you happen to be sticking around, let me first outline the linguistic issue for you:

yes, akhi does mean “my brother.” that’s really the best and most literal word-for-word translation anyone could possibly give you.

in more grammatical terms, it is the first-person possessive form of the word akh, which, you could probably guess, means “brother”. the -i suffix at the end is what denotes possession and who - in this case, the speaker - is in possession of the object.

another word you might be more familiar with is habibi, which means “my beloved”. habib is the object, the noun form of “beloved” and -i is the possessive suffix, the “my”. and that’s pretty much how the suffix is used - it essentially serves the same function as putting “my” in front of “book” or “cat” or “brother” in English. only, possession is indicated at the end of the given word rather than as a separate predicate. hence why phrases like “his akhi” are a whole mess of grammatically incorrect in both languages, because you’re basically saying “his my brother.”

it is also important to note that while akh and its various forms are sometimes used in colloquial settings when talking about one’s brother, it is a word that comes from and is used primarily in formal Arabic (Modern Standard Arabic), or fus7a. fus7a is used in a number of ways - you'll find it in the news, books, speeches, official documents, formal letters and whatnot and most importantly, in the Qur’an, from which it originates. but it's not used in everyday conversation. while the dialects share many basic similarities with formal Arabic, there are entire grammatical rules, words and conjugations in fus7a that don’t ever get used in colloquial Arabic. as such, akhi takes on several different meanings across the colloquial dialects that diverge from the literal meaning in fus7a. and even if someone is using it to speak about their actual brother, it's a pretty formal way to do so and it does not have the meaning you’re all ascribing to it. if you want an actual term of endearment, you’ll have to dig deeper.

and that's where i'll leave you to do your own research, because i’m not here to give you an Arabic lesson. that’s what WordReference and Reddit threads are for (just be on the lookout for bots).

but do yourself a favor and don’t just rely on those (and definitely do not go to Duolingo, i wouldn't trust AI with George Clooney's birthday, let alone the linguistic structure of an entire language). look up language guides and forums online. there’s actually some really good and reliable stuff out there from native speakers. fuck it, even Urban Dictionary is a better resource than wherever the first of you got the word akhi from - no, really, it actually contains several entries that define how it's used in certain contexts (none of which, you will find, include familial terms of endearment). and there are plenty of other Arab users on this site who have already talked about this and have provided detailed explanations of how it’s used in formal and dialectical Arabic. there are even entire blogs on tumblr that are dedicated to teaching Arabic. if you don't trust the internet, patronize your local library's language section (though they're unfortunately more likely to have books on just Modern Standard Arabic).

i promise you, however unapproachable internet and library databases might seem when it comes to learning languages, it is not as difficult to navigate as you think it is. the information is 100% there if you bother to look for it. and it’s free.

now, why am i making such a big deal out of this?

because if you actually gave a shit about writing Damian as explicitly and meaningfully Arab, you’d recognize that Arabic is not some accessory you can adorn your characters with however you like and hope no one notices you've put it on backwards.

Arabic is a real, living language that is used by real, living people every day.

and listen, i really don’t want to discount the good intentions so many of you have in using this word. i know that a lot of you using it aren’t intentionally using it incorrectly (or at least, i assume that’s the case), that you really just want to acknowledge what DC itself is shit at acknowledging. but i need you to understand that it is not enough. it's not enough to copy + paste from Google Translate and hope for the best.

the first and most important rules of linguistics will tell you that direct, literal translation is a discrepancy in and of itself. for example: if you put the Iliad or, idk, Proust through Google Translate, what came out would be pretty shitty and incoherent. it wouldn't entirely make sense. that’s why translation exists as a profession. to make sense of colloquialisms, grammar and diction that lack cross-language equivalents.

anyway, back to your good intentions: of course it sucks that many of DC’s writers tend to avoid meaningful engagement with the cultural backgrounds of the characters they write, particularly their characters of color.

of course it sucks that they tend fall into harmful stereotypes and tropes that could be avoided with just a little bit of intentional, respectful research. hell, they have the means to hire professional cultural and linguistic consultants if they wanted - they have absolutely no excuse.

and of course it sucks ass that many don’t treat Arab stories with care or compassion, especially considering that the very origins of the al Ghuls as DC villains are deeply rooted in the orientalist demonization of Asians and Arabs. that beyond that, they are also consistently whitewashed by both writers and fans alike. Damian and Talia in particular, when they are portrayed as morally good (and sometimes even when they’re not), tend to be drawn with lighter skin, which is a whole other level of fucked up. not to mention the majority of actors who have portrayed both Talia and Ra’s al Ghul are not Arab and, in fact, the only Arab actor to portray Ra’s al Ghul is Alexander Siddig (shoutout, by the way, to an absolute legend and cinematic treasure).

and before any of you folks crawl your way out of the woodwork to inform me that “actually, white and white-passing Arabs exist, you ignorant, uncultured heathen”, i’m just gonna cut you off at the pass here to let you know that i know. i should fucking hope i’d be aware of my own existence.

in all seriousness, though, wholistic representation of Arabs cannot center only those of us who are light skinned, white or white-passing. to do so stinks of Westerners’ tendency to fetishize, aestheticize and appropriate ethnic cultures while giving less than a rat’s ass about the people they come from, like a kind of cherry picked whitewashing, if you will. like, "it's okay to celebrate and take part in your culture, but if you do it while being dark skinned, you're either primitive and barbaric or some kind of noble savage." obviously, skin color has no bearing on the legitimacy of Arab heritage. but leaving dark skinned Arabs out of the picture erases the real and immense diversity of the Arab world. and it makes representation dependent on proximity to whiteness and palatability to white audiences, which is entirely antithetical to the whole point of representation.

yes, we need representation, too - Arabs are not a monolith. but the fact remains that dark skinned people of color are consistently underrepresented across the board - fans of color on this and other hellsites have been saying this for literal years. and if you don’t believe that’s true of DC comics, i'm sorry, but you haven’t been paying attention.

so, yeah. both the current canon and fanon, in many ways, leave a lot to be desired when it comes to representation. but that is exactly why diving headfirst into the now fandom-wide phenomenon of using akhi in your fanworks doesn’t actually do anything to counteract the harm done. frankly, because many of you have no historical, cultural or linguistic context for this and other words, it often exacerbates and replicates it.

and idk, maybe this all seems a bit over-the-top for a word that literally just means “my brother.” but because so many of you forego background research entirely and just parrot each other, the way you’re using it is harmful. because you’re completely disregarding all of that historical, cultural and linguistic context in favor of portraying what you perceive to be a more accurate Damian. which is especially damaging when many of you show no inclination or desire to examine just how enshrined racism and orientalism are in many canon and fanon portrayals of Damian or how your own headcanons might reinforce the stereotypes that fuel those portrayals.

Arabic is a heavily racialized language in the West. the choice to use it in your works as non-Arab creators is one you make in a world full of stigmatization for people, languages and cultures that do not meet standards of European whiteness. the fact that the maximum level of effort English speakers are barely required to put into including another language in their work is to open the most laughable language resource on the internet and copy + paste is indicative of the imperial system that requires the rest of the world to be multilingual while the majority of those for whom English is their first language hold fluency in only one.

multilingualism is far more common outside of Western centers of imperialism because the system in place is designed to keep it that way. and the West’s xenophobia ensures that we view it as a kind of liability, rather than the strength that it is. and on top of that, the racialization of certain languages further reinforces that xenophobia by wrapping them up in a mess of simultaneous fetishization and denigration. which is how you end up with the expectation that immigrants do the cultural, intellectual and emotional labor of bridging language barriers. in other words, writing something even as innocuous as “Damian missed his akhi” in your fanfiction because you saw someone else do it without doing any research of your own is a privilege of ignorance that native Arabic speakers do not have. i wouldn’t be surprised if more than half of you English speakers using it don’t even know how to pronounce it properly because you’ve never been forced to learn the phonetics, much less the alphabet, of a language that isn’t your own.

again, i understand where it’s coming from. i understand the impulse to expand upon what DC has given us and actually explore Damian’s cultural heritage. i understand the desire to do his Arab roots justice. i wish DC was better at the job they literally gave themselves, too. seriously, i get it.

but by not doing the research necessary to understand what you're putting in your fanworks, you’re just repeating the same irresponsible mistakes that DC’s writers make. and not only is that reductive of the Arab character you’re trying to honor, but from a viewer’s perspective, it’s indicative of a lack of creative integrity. it’s just sloppy writing. it says that you’re not actually committed to creating accurate or compassionate Arab representation with Damian. you just care about making him believably Arab to a primarily non-Arab audience. and continuing to do it even after being informed tells me you don’t actually give a fuck about Arabs or our representation because you don’t respect our language enough to learn how we actually use it.

and i hope i can trust you to know the difference between an honest mistake and willful ignorance, here. i completely understand if this is your first time learning about any of this. but again, all the information you could possibly want is available 24/7 on the very same device you’re using to write your fanfiction and create your fanart. you know, the one you’re using right now to read this post?

if you have the time to write a 100k word fanfic you have more than enough time to learn how the word akhi is actually used.

and if you did your research, you would see that there are so many actual, beautiful terms of endearment you could be using instead. Arabic has no shortage of them - there are so many i couldn’t possibly provide you with a full, comprehensive list of them all. but i will give you a tiny bit:

khayye is a Levantine term usually reserved for a close brother - i could actually see Damian calling Dick this and it means the same thing as akhi, just more affectionate. and of course, there are plenty of other terms in other dialects, but i’m not as familiar with those yet and really, you should do your own research. i also mentioned habibi before, which is a very popular term of affection and it’s often used casually even with strangers as it’s not strictly platonic or romantic, though i personally don’t believe Damian would use it towards his family, at least not frequently or without sarcasm (which is the best way to use it, imo).

and there’s also more poetic ones like 3ayouni (my eyes), hayati (my life), qalbi (my heart, though don’t get it confused with kelbi, iykyk), ruhi (my soul), najmi (my star), nouri (my light), azizi (my treasure/precious one). and hundreds of others that are dialect- and family-specific.

there is so much to work with that y’all have left virtually untouched. don’t be afraid to get creative! that’s what fanfiction is all about, right?

that said, if you do choose to use Arabic in your fan works, remember that language doesn’t exist in a vacuum. use it as a character study. use it to ask those questions DC doesn’t. like:

does Damian speak Arabic?

why does Damian speak Arabic? and what dialect(s) does he speak? because yes, there are regional and national dialects all over the place. don’t limit yourself in your research.

was Arabic the primary language he spoke back in the League? and if it was, how has living in Gotham, a predominantly English-speaking environment, changed his relationship with the language?

does he experience culture shock at all and how has that effected his experience of Gotham?

does he use it around his Gotham family? why or why not? does his Gotham family use it with him? why or why not?

does he have different terms of endearment for each of the people he cares about in his life? do they each have terms of endearment for him?

what does Talia call him? some of DC’s writers have her call him “my heart”, which i have written in romanized Arabic above. you’re welcome.

does he also speak any Chinese dialects? and what role does that play in his life and identity? you don’t have to focus on just his Arab roots. Damian’s heritage is a combination of multiple ethnic backgrounds - do better than DC and find ways to make your work reflect that. as a canonically mixed character, Damian and mixed readers like him deserve to have that respectfully represented. though, as per the main point of this post, please do some conscientious research before using any Chinese dialects.

what’s his favorite Middle Eastern dish? shoutout to that one artist i saw (whose name i can’t remember, i’m so sorry) who drew Damian and Jason sharing a pot of mjaddara, one of my personal favorite easy meals to cook when i’m missing home.

does he read any Arab poetry and who is his favorite poet? does he prefer the classic poets or the modern ones? i personally think he might enjoy Imru’ al-Qays but i’m biased because we had a cat named after him and i kinda like the idea of Damian being a fan of one of the most notoriously sappy and melodramatic romantic poets history has to offer.

has he been able to use Arabic around other Arabic-speaking folks in Gotham? and on that note, where are Gotham’s Arab populations from and what dialects do they speak?

endless avenues to explore!

or, you know, if you truly, madly, deeply do not give a single flying fuck (though if you’ve made it this far into my rant and still don't care, i'm... impressed?): how about you try this nifty thing i like to call not using Arabic in your work at all?

i can’t imagine you’re anywhere near your wits’ end if you’re using Google Translate as your linguistics consultant, but you know what takes even less effort? not using it. which is perfectly fine. you don’t have to delve deeper if you don’t want to. i’m not gonna hunt you down and force you to study Arabic grammar.

but using a language that isn’t your own, especially if English is your first and only language, comes with a responsibility to do it justice. no one is forcing you, dear English speaking fanfic writer/fanartist, to use a language you don’t speak. and i mean that quite literally. the world is already built to save you the inconvenience of having to speak other languages. so if you’re gonna go in, go all in. don’t needlessly embarrass yourself, habibi.

if doing any further research just seems a bit too daunting for you, remember that language isn’t the end-all-be-all of cultural ties. it can be a bridge, a connector, at times a vessel and often a reflection of culture. but culture is more than the language(s) tied to it. people and their relationships to their culture(s) are more than the languages they speak. it’s entirely possible to write meaningful Arab representation without using Arabic.

and let me be so, so clear: language is, for many reasons, a very important part of preserving, nurturing and restoring culture, particularly for the world’s Indigenous and diasporic communities, of which Arabs are a part. but it has also been weaponized against those very same communities by imperial and colonial powers. including a random Arabic word in your fanart or fic, the meaning of which you have only a vague understanding, is not the ultimate signifier of Damian’s Arab heritage some of you seem to think it is. and i know most of you just use it as a cute little nod to his cultural background in your headcanons, but it means nothing without the context behind it, especially the way i see it used with reckless - albeit mostly well-meaning - abandon.

honestly, it’s just really fucking annoying to see so many people constantly misuse your language and be unwilling to correct themselves. kinda feels like you’re losing your mind, sometimes. which is a bit how i feel making this post.

look, i’m not asking you to do college thesis level research on the Arabic language before you make the art you create for zero financial compensation in your own free time. that’s not what this post is about.

but i am asking many of you to examine why you want to have Damian or Talia or whoever speak Arabic in your non-Arabic fanworks in the first place. as non-Arab fans and creators, determine what preconceptions of Arabs you might hold, question why they’re there and where they come from and do your best to learn about how they might influence your portrayal of Arab characters like Damian. if you’re desperate for a jumping off point in that regard, i recommend checking out TV Tropes’s pages on the al Ghuls.

again, language doesn’t exist in a vacuum and it’s irresponsible to treat it like it does. if you want to make meaningful content of Arab characters, i encourage you to go out there and build your creative integrity by doing enough research to at least feel confident that you understand what you're putting in your fanworks.

and, lastly, if you do choose to use Arabic in your work, please use it with respect.

.

anyways here are some resources to start off with for anyone interested:

Free online dictionaries - Spanish, French, Italian, German and more. Conjugations, audio pronunciations and forums for your questions.

TV Tropes

TV Tropes, the all-devouring pop-culture wiki, catalogs and cross-references recurrent plot devices, archetypes, and tropes in all forms of

Khallina – An open source website for teaching and studying Arab culture.

[milowing]

the father (dolly parton), the son (sabrina carpenter), and the holy spirit (miss piggy)

[superboyprimed]

[luvrodite]

STARBOY | LIGHTS OUT (1)

It's been five years since you stepped foot at a Grand Prix. That life had long been discarded, buried beneath the depths of your memory, painful to part with, a burden to bear. Your return is ferried by the hopes that your years away have given you the strength to bear what ghosts you'd left behind and the memories they'd stir up again. Gaz had always been single-minded about pursuing his ambitions. The multiple championships under his belt had only served to push him further. Restless and unsatisfied, it takes a single moment for everything to fall into place. Now, you feel keenly what it's like to be on the receiving end of his pursuit. Fool were you to hope he'd let you go again.

chapter tags: alternate universe - formula 1, fem!reader, possessive kyle garrick, past relationship, original character/reader, dubious morality | word count: 7678 | definitions at the end of chapter!

series masterlist | read on ao3 | next part >>

MINORS, BLANK AND AGELESS BLOGS: DO NOT INTERACT

Melbourne is warm. 

The air is thick with heat and almost glimmers before your eyes as you move through the park. Bad enough to be here during the height of summer, worse still that the humidity is relentless. Sweat gathers at the nape of your neck, beading at your temples beneath the bill of your cap. It offers little shade in comparison to the Australian sun, a measly covering that keeps the glare out of your eyes and no more. Salt dots your upper lip and you press the back of your hand against it, blotting your face pathetically, knowing it’s futile. 

Only 9 in the morning and the day is expected to grow warmer. The fabric of your thin shirt clings to your back already and you grimace, peeling it away as you move forward, further away from the closed space of the hospitality suite and out into the stifling, warm open. Once more, you mutter a curse under your breath, reaching for the pendant around your neck. The small metal horseshoe rolls between your forefinger and thumb, its familiar worn edges pressing against the tip of your fingers.

Trust Niki’s team to be unprepared – trust you to slip so easily into the role of a supportive girlfriend again. 

You cringe when you remember the all too eager way you’d volunteered to track down one of the team’s media interns, a university student you’d only briefly met in passing who had seemed more interested in drinking his way through the season than doing any actual work. A harsh judgement maybe, and you might have been less inclined to hold it against him if not for the agitation in the garage as a result of his absence. Agitation you’d compulsively sought to soothe, voice pitching before you could think, in false brightness, unable to resist donning the skin you’d shed so long ago. You’d thought so, anyway.

Niki had begged and pleaded you with such a vengeance it had taken you aback. It had been hard enough telling him no, when he’d widened his eyes so dolefully, clasped your hands in his warm ones and asked it of you.

The others will have their partners there. I just want you to support me, you know you’re my lucky charm. 

You’d wondered, not for the first time, just why you’d chosen to date a driver again. A cruel thought that you’d banished as quickly as it had come, guilt making you squirm when you looked at the man before you, vanquishing his pride to ask a feat of you that anyone else would have accepted without thinking. But you could not. Would not.

And then, the off season. 

He’d travelled back and forth between your home and his without a single complaint ever passing his lips, never sour, never cold despite his disappointment. He’d smiled at you, that first morning when he’d surprised you, a day before he’d been due to arrive. Standing on your doorstep at six in the morning with tired eyes and a handful of flowers he’d filched from your next door neighbour’s garden, Mrs Burns’ prized hellebores had gone straight into a vase on your kitchen counter and you’d admitted it to yourself; you could not deny him. No matter how terribly your stomach knotted at the thought of stepping foot on a race track again. 

God, hadn’t his smile made you ache when you’d told him. The world, offered to your boy on a platter, the beginnings of something new within reach. And you, by his side through it all.

It had been with the taste of bile on your tongue, and a silent promise to yourself that you’d boarded that plane. Things would be different this time. This was Niki – sweet, beautiful Niki, patient as he was ambitious. And you – you were older, wiser than the last time you’d known this world. The years away had taught you better, had given you a clarity you refused to gamble, too precious to let slip through your fingers again. You would enter this season entirely re-made, and unscathed you would leave it.

But 9 o’clock in the morning on race day and you’ve already reprised the role you had put down – you’d thought forever. You cling to hope that you’ll be able to keep your word.

Grumbling, you pick up your pace. The paper fan you’d packed in your purse comes out next as you make your way to the bar, but all it does is weakly push waves of hot air into your face; someone passes by with one that’s electric and you eye them enviously. You spot the signature blue cap soon enough, lanyard hanging around his neck. There’s a can in his hand and the boy chats to one of the patrons next to him, a flush on his cheeks that you’re willing to wager isn’t entirely heat-induced. 

You come to a stop next to him with a snap of his name and he turns to you quickly, surprise colouring his face. Jabbing a thumb over your shoulder, you tell him flatly,

“You’re wanted in the garage.” He startles at the mention of his job and you sigh. “Keep your ringer on next time, mate. I don’t think the team will be too happy if there’s a repeat of this.”

“Yeah, course, sorry,” he mumbles, setting the can down. The guy next to him turns away to offer him the decency of making an exit with his pride somewhat intact, but the shake of his shoulders tells you he’s trying not to laugh out loud. 

You wish you could share that. The race goers around you are bearing the heat much better than you, loud chatter and laughter filling the air in the lead up to the main race. But at present, you find yourself more concerned with returning to the enclosed, air-conditioned space of the lounge above the garage away from the sun-dried lawn beneath your shoes, dust and dirt settling in a thin layer over your flats. A terrible choice, one you’re regretting now as you kick up a small cloud with each step you take.

You shoot a message off to Niki’s manager, who you imagine will give the intern an earful as soon as he steps within the bounds of the paddock. It’s vindictive, but you find little sympathy in your heart for him. The heat – and the discomfort you’re determined to ignore – makes it hard to feel anything really, pressing down into every inch of your exposed skin unforgiveably. 

As you come within range of the paddock, you’re stopped. In your hurry, you collide into a passerby and a startled apology flies out of your mouth hastily, gaze flying up in alarm to make sure you haven’t hurt the other person in your rush.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I-”

“Sorry-”

The apology dies on your lips. Even through the tinted lenses of your sunglasses, you’d know those blue eyes anywhere. You’d spent half a decade in their company, after all.

Johnny Mactavish stands in front of you, mouth gaping as he takes you in. Briefly, you wonder stupidly whether you’ll manage to get by unrecognised, but your shades and cap prove to be a poor disguise when he says your name.

“Is that you? It is,” he says, voice pitching in surprise. You have no time to anticipate his next move and before you can blink, you’re wrapped up in a bear hug from the man, the smell of his cologne filling your nose. 

“Hi, John,” you murmur, reaching up to hug him back tentatively.

He scoffs, letting you go. “I haven’t seen you in fuck knows how long and that’s how you greet me? You know how to make a man feel special, love.”

That makes you crack a grin, wariness sloughing off easily in the face of his easy humour. It always had been hard to remain closed off around Johnny, too good-natured to ignore. You squeeze his arm in apology. “How are you?”

He smiles broadly down at you and your heart pangs a little under the force of it. “Can’t complain. Jet lag’s fucking killing me, though. Think I’m getting too old for this.”

You bark out a laugh. “Old!”

He nods solemnly, though his grin never fases. He tilts his head down, offering you a look at the top of his mohawk. “Aye, can’t you see the greys I’ve got now? Maybe it’s time to get some work done. You know any good places?”

“Stop it, Johnny,” you chide softly, snoring. “You’re just fishing for compliments now.”

“You caught me,” he agrees, straightening up with a chortle. “How’ve you been, lovely? Been too long.”

Your stomach dips at the reminder, and you look away, uncomfortable. “Yeah, yeah it has. I’m – I’m good, trying to avoid getting heatstroke.”

The pitiful laugh you tack on at the end to sell how good you’re doing goes unnoticed – or, the ugly, more likely truth, knowing Soap, gracefully unaddressed – in favour of dragging you into a spot of shade.

“Get you out of the sun, there,” he says. And then, casually, he says the words that make your breakfast (a meagre assembly of oats and fruit, too queasy to keep anything else down so early in the morning) threaten to make an appearance. “Garrick’ll be fucking thrilled to see you. He know you’re here?”

He looks around as though he’d be able to spot him and your legs feel weak. “I’m sure he’s around here, somewhere. He’s got an appearance in a bit, though, so-”

It’s the first mention all weekend of the name that had kept you away from this place. Absently, you wonder how you’d managed to make it this far without someone bringing him up to you. What little calm you’ve managed to gather dissipates in a cloud of smoke, vapourising in the heat and raising that old question once more – is this really worth it?

Old hurts had been something you could bear in the solitude of your home, fary from prying eyes, far from the one who’d given them to you in the first place. But now, on the same ground, you’re unsure whether your sutures will hold. The weight of all that has been rests heavy on your shoulders and for one awful, beautiful, moment, you think of brown eyes in the sunlight. Champagne arching over golden skin and kisses pressed to visors amidst a roaring crowd.

Garrick, Garrick, Garrick.

There’s a phantom weight that cuffs a finger on your left hand, metal you recall glinting under artificial light, clear cut and worth more than you could imagine. Your stomach flips and suddenly eager to get away from this conversation, you cut off his musing. “Um, no, he doesn’t know. I’ve got to go, though. It was really nice seeing you, Johnny. I’ll see you around or something, okay?”

His brows furrow in confusion and he stares down at you, thick arms crossing in front of him. For a moment you wait, frozen under his gaze, before his face softens and he shakes his head. “Ah, come on, you’re not avoiding him, are you?”

Avoiding him.

He says it disbelievingly, as though memory has failed him and rewritten the past to a world where you have little reason to not reunite with Kyle Garrick. Like a silly squabble is all that stands between you and the man. 

But you recall how it had been in the end, and common sense – and the girl that lives in your heart still, 23 and grieving – begs you to hold onto your reluctance, however silly it may seem to the man in front of you. You are avoiding him. But you’re not about to admit that to the man’s mechanic, especially not on the first fucking day of the season. 

“No, Soap,” you sigh. “I’m-”

“He’d be glad to see you, love, I know it,” he insists, then, and you feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. Resisting the urge to pinch your nose, you nod.

“I’ve really got to go, I’ll see you,” you say firmly, and without waiting for a response you turn on your heel. Moving out of the shade you’re hit once more by the sun and the skin on the back of your neck begins to heat. It makes you regret not wearing something more concealing. 

When you make it back to the lounge there is sweat dripping from your temples and your neck is very unflatteringly damp. Niki spots you as you enter, standing nearby talking to his manager. His grey eyes light up and he moves towards you. 

“Where were you!” He takes a look at your expression and offers a sympathetic laugh, reaching for a tissue from a nearby table and dotting it at your face gently. “Poor thing, you’re melting.”

“Tracking down one of your interns,” you mutter, closing your eyes under his ministrations though all you’re  certain he’s doing is smearing the vestiges of your separating makeup. The smell of Niki’s cologne and the cool lime air freshener circulating through the room is a comfort at least, a distraction from the mess of nerves you’ve worked yourself up into. When you sigh, he snickers and pulls the now damp tissue away from your face. 

“That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid,” he tells you and you open your eyes. His dark hair curls forward into his forehead, a faint flush settled across his cheeks and nose. The slant of his smile is boyish, sweet in an innocent way. You’re struck with the urge to press forward into his space and hide yourself there, in the cradle of his arms, but you know it would never last long enough before the rest of the world came knocking.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. He stares at you for a moment, thoughtful before taking a step away. 

“I’ll get you a drink, alright?” 

You can only offer him a pale smile in response.

It’s a singular moment. A breath, in and out, is all it takes. Really, you ought to have expected it. Niki steps away and no sooner than he’s left your eyeline does the lounge erupt in a flurry of activity, the once quiet buzz of conversation reaching a new pitch. Excitement ripples through the room and you, at the very farthest corner, feel your palms begin to sweat.

You know it before you even see him. 

He’d always been magnetic, it doesn’t surprise you in the least to see that he’s learned to wield it even better over the years. Easy charm, a reputation to precede him, Kyle Garrick knows how to command a room. The suite clamours, bodies surging forward in tentative waves, lapping at the edges of his space in eager attempts to gain his attention. Even the haughtiest stakeholders, rich business men who before had been more invested in the grazing tables set out and shaking palms with competitors and investors alike, turn their faces to him, seeking out the brightest light in the room. 

It’s difficult not to give in. You stare hard at the glass pane overlooking the track, stare at the carpeted floor beneath your feet, stare at the tissue you’ve begun to tear in your hands. You will for some semblance of composure.

But in the end, you’re no better than the rest. It takes a singular moment, in which Niki leaves, Kyle enters and you look up, locking eyes with your ex boyfriend for the first time in five years. 

He stands in the centre of the lounge, looking every bit the star you know him to be. Countless eyes are fixed on him but his gaze pierces through them all to where you stand, brown eyes widening in poorly concealed disbelief and stealing nearly all the strength from your legs. 

Kyle has little to say to the entourage that circles him at a distance, only ducking his head politely and cutting through the crowd. In only a few steps, he’s standing in front of you, eyes lighting up. Your throat tightens in kind and you clutch the shredded tissue in your hands tighter.

In his face, in his parted lips and sweet honey gaze, you see, aching, traces of the boy you’d known all those years ago. A sincere, open gaze soaks you in, as though he can’t believe you’re standing in front of him. 

The great heartbreak of your life stands before you, carrying so much fondness in a single look you might have believed you’d never been separated a day of your lives since the moment you’d met, if it weren’t for the cutting pain in your chest. Your name tumbles from his lips and you draw blood, you’re sure of it, by the sting in your palm. 

“Hi,” he says, breathless. His gaze is rapid, darting from your hair to your face to your eyes, your clothes, your shoes. You’re swallowed alive by his stare, hungry, eager, and you’re certain he’ll find you wanting, the mess that you so obviously are, but all you find in his gaze is heartwrenching awe.

“Hi,” you murmur back. 

“You’re here,” he says dumbly, faintly. You get the feeling he isn’t even speaking to you when he repeats himself, blinking rapidly. Then, as if realising, he shakes his head. 

The years away have been good to him, you can admit to yourself with some reluctance. When you’d seen him last, at 23, he’d still carried the softness of his youth in his face. He’s since shed that skin, manhood settling comfortably over him and bringing with it a solidness that you linger over. Most different of all, he keeps his hair cropped close, a five o’clock shadow dusting across his jaw and over his upper lip. You recall a younger man, natural curls a little longer and bare faced, shaky smiles covered by a veneer of false confidence. 

The man in front of you needs no falsity. 

“You look beautiful,” he says genuinely. It’s unfair, you think, how easily he manages to say that. Like there isn’t an age of unsaid words between you, years of history that hangs over your heads, vengeful and tainting all that it touches. 

It is nothing, for Kyle, to tell you this.

To you, it threatens to take everything you’ve worked for in turn. How funny, that three little words should be so daunting, that time has passed and you’re only now realising the weakness of your resolve.

You open your mouth – to say what, you have no idea. What is there to say? What can you say, when faced with such a ghost of your history? But you’re quickly diverted as your name is called and the smell of clove fills your nose.

“They only had sparkling water, so I had one of the staff run out – sorry I took so long.”

You watch as Kyle’s face shutters, eyes slicing over your shoulder to where Niki has yet to notice him – or perhaps deigns not to altogether, slight disdain at being interrupted giving way to realisation.

It’s difficult to place why you feel guilty, turning into Niki’s arms and pressing your face into his chest briefly. When you peek over his shoulder, Kyle is still standing there, lips pressed together tightly. He lingers for a moment, before he retreats. 

You do not see him again for the remainder of the weekend, but the feeling in the bottom of your stomach stays. 

It twists you out of shape, leaves you with a sour taste on your tongue and a restless, distracted spirit. You catch yourself looking over your shoulder as you move through the lounges and paddock, eyes searching through the crowds for something you can’t place. An absence of that something gnaws at you, leaves you picking at your nails until they’re bloody.

When Niki’s car pulls into the pit lane after the final lap on Sunday, you’re so frazzled it takes you a beat before you’re able to push forward and receive him, lips pulling up stiltedly to press against his. High on his performance – third place, you realise, belatedly – you only feel worse. Hoping he can’t taste your apology, you clutch him tighter and tell him you’re proud of him. 

The only palpable relief you get is from the conclusion of the weekend. 

It’s easy enough to excuse yourself from the festivities. Niki pouts when you tell him you’re feeling poorly from the heat but he lets up soon enough when you tell him quietly, 

“I’d rather just celebrate with you, Ace.”

He carves out a space in you that night, tucking his head into your neck and whispering praises you don’t deserve. There’s a dull sting from the stretch that he might have balked at, if you told him, but it grounds you in a way, the pain bringing your free floating thoughts back down to earth. ‘

Back to the smooth rustle of the hotel sheets beneath you, the sweat dripping off Niki’s brow and the lovesickness in his eye. Away from brown eyes and a past life long laid to rest.

It’s still early in the evening, enough so that you urge him to catch up with his team when he rolls off you and begins to fidget. So full of energy, even after he’s left you winded and gasping for your breath. Your stamina had never quite held up, where these athletes were concerned. 

A phantom laugh skitters over your bare collar after the door closes behind Niki, and you flinch back into the sheets, brushing away once more the film reel of race night memories, of celebrations that had overturned your life, had left grooves in the floor and teethmarks on the softest parts of you.

Distance from Kyle stretches your uneasiness thin, fat taffy strings pulling into spiderweb-like threads. It gives you room to think, unfettered by agitation, by condemning memory. In your cocoon of sheets you reason outloud to the empty room, words you convince yourself you’re capable of telling him face to face.

“I found someone that loves me,” you stress, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders tighter. Niki had ordered room service for you before he’d left, throwing you one last look as if to ask if you were sure you wouldn’t come out. You’re sure the hotel staff have seen worse sights – have left rooms in worse states – but you make sure you keep your voice low anyway. “He wants me. I’m with him.”

Sticky date pudding and rich, salted chips dipped in aioli serve as the boost of encouragement you need. Through vicious bites of your snacks, you make up your mind. 

It had only been a momentary lapse. Come next race weekend, you’ll be back to rights and Kyle will be placed firmly in the back of your mind, along with your history, where he belongs. 

Here, and now, the tipsy boyfriend that makes an early return to spend the rest of the night watching trashy reality TV while trading bites of pudding for kisses – this was what mattered.

Niki falls asleep, slumped against your chest with a hand curled around your waist and you look down at him. Pressing a kiss to his brow, you lean over and turn the lamp off.

There’s a look that Kyle gets in his eye before each race. When he’s lowering himself into the cockpit, helmet visor still flipped up as the garage begins to pick up with activity as it grows closer and closer to race-time. You stay by his side as long as you can (he’d laid it down the first time anyone had attempted to tell you otherwise, firm in his instruction that you would be here or he’d find another team less willing to argue) before you’re inevitably ushered off back to the lounge above the garage, or hovering against a back wall next to his publicist, nodding as the woman goes through the mile long list of media obligations he still has to fulfil. She’s only really speaking out loud to herself but you nod anyway. With Simon and Johnny preoccupied with the mechanics and Price at the helm, bending down to run through he and Kyle’s last minute race notes, you’re left to your own devices. 

When he’s in the car, you watch something slide off him, like flecks of paint dissolving beneath a stream of water to reveal the polished surface beneath. He’s Gaz, then, no longer simply Kyle. A decorated driver with four championships beneath his belt already, adored and loathed by the masses alike. To parse out the man who brings you water in the middle of the night and sneaks out of meetings to steal you away for a lunch date is a feat in itself. 

In the cockpit, there is only the car and its master. He flexes his fingers, rolls his shoulders as much as he can in the enclosed space. Soft brown eyes harden, warm honey solidifying. From their depths, you witness the embarkment of something greater, his determination manifest. 

Like Kyle, the car itself takes on a quality beyond its wrought metal and carbon fiber. The paint glimmers, something thrumming beneath the coating, a quiet promise in the powerful hum that reverberates through the garage when Soap flips the control switch. You can feel it in your teeth, edging through the seam of your closed lips and slipping beneath your gums, wrapping around your molars. 

The cars take their places on the grid. Amongst the sea of bright blues and reds and greens, Kyle’s car – a sleek, jet-black beast, ribboned in abyssal midnight blue – is the one that you search out. This afternoon, he’ll be starting in fifth place, a setback he’d groused about the night before at length. Qualifying hadn’t gone as he and the rest of the team had hoped – Soap, in particular, rioting when the penalty had come through following Kyle’s attaining pole position. The celebration had soured quickly after that as he’d dropped down from first place. Even as an accessory to the team, you’d found yourself unable to escape the taste of disappointment watching Kyle’s face face. 

The loss had hit him hard. Though he’s well past his rookie season, there’s this burning need that drives Kyle forward in this life – this compulsion to prove himself, to be the best. A great, lumbering hunger lives within him that swallows all that steps into his path. 

Kyle drives with a singular goal in mind, uncaring of who or what might bear the fallout. 

You’ve seen it before and now, 15 laps in, you see it again, watching with poorly contained horror as Kyle cuts sharply in front of another driver. There’s a hair’s breadth of distance between his front wing and the other’s as the man is forced to steer his car off the track to avoid a collison. Kyle on the other hand, adds another to the two places he’s risen since the lights turned green. 

Only one stands between him and the prize. 

Looking around the garage, you find that nobody else seems to share your disconcertion. 

He’s crowned winner in the end. Of course he is. The FIA have little to say after the brief investigation into the incident with Bernardo – you flinch at the memory of his voice cursing Kyle out over the radio, something the broadcasters report on with no little amusement – and you watch from the pit lane as the champagne sprays over him. He’s beaming, dripping sweat and alcohol and the flashes are going off in front of you. 

They coax him into an impromptu interview, later, as you’re heading out. Kyle’s arm hangs heavy around your shoulder and he’s practically buzzing, teeming with the high of his victory. There are promises being whispered into your ear, far too crass to be made in public and yet here is your boyfriend, laughing when you pinch his side in embarrassment after he hints at something involving that thing with my tongue you like. He’s still grinning when he comes to a stop in front of some fans, taking a marker and signing some posters and hats.

You’re, admittedly, musing over his promises with some anticipation when a reporter approaches. For the most part, your lover avoids the press where he can, unkind in his opinion of the reporters that follow the every move of the grid. After a summer spoiled by a headline dragging your family into the limelight by association, you can’t say you’re too fond of them either, preferring to distance yourself whenever they’re nearby, a decision affirmed by Kyle’s protectiveness following that particular incident. 

You eye the lanyard hanging around their neck, offering a polite smile but staying silent otherwise.

“Brilliant performance out there today, mate,” the man says and Kyle thanks him easily. You spot the faint flush that sits beneath his skin, pleased at the commendation. “You made up for that grid place penalty almost effortlessly. I just wanted to ask about that overtake in turn 3, with Bernardo – you were cutting it pretty close, there, what were you thinking in that moment?”

He looks down at you for a moment, before sighing. It’s content, a weight off his shoulder – until the next weekend – and he’s ready to luxuriate in it. 

“I guess it was a bit risky,” Kyle agrees. “I took a calculated risk – I needed to get by him if I wanted P1, you know, and I knew he’d fold. At the end of the day, I’m here for the world championship, I’m not satisfied with second or third.”

“You knew he’d fold?” The reporter prompts, clearly intrigued.

Kyle nods. “Well, yeah. He’s got a wife and kids at home, it’s harder for him to give it his all when he’s got that to consider, too.”

The man’s brows raise in impressed awe at his gall, trying to hide his discomfort at those words. You try to keep your own in check as he looks over to you, gauging your reaction to Kyle’s response. It’s a product of that ruthless drive, that which makes him so desired by the grid, that which allows him to deliver on his promises on the track. 

It doesn’t mean you’re always able to stomach it.

“Right, thanks man,” he says and steps aside. “Congratulations, again. Have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too,” Kyle says, and then you’re moving again. 

You wonder, if in his journey to be the best, he’ll swallow you too.

Suzuka, Japan.

Niki is drunk.

Everyone in the VIP lounge knows it. The red flush that’s settled over his face gives him away, and the way in which he teeters on the edge of rowdiness, laughing too loud and doling out affectionate hugs  to anyone passing by as easily as breathing. It’s something they look on with amusement at, endeared by the display of sincere excitement, so at odds from the muted, mild smiles you’d receive from the other drivers were they in his position.

P2. 

Second place was, according to the current drivers’ consensus – a group of equally ambitious perfectionists – nothing to write home about. Often it made that defeat all the much harder – so close to first place, beaten by mere milliseconds. The prospect of what could’ve been rang that much louder. If only they’d pit the car earlier. If only they hadn’t pit him when they did. If only the pit crew had been just a few seconds faster. If they hadn’t gone for plan B when plan A had seemingly failed to perform. 

But Niki does not share that misery now, unencumbered by the weight of the loss. P2, and his teammate’s success in third place, has brought his team a few spots higher on the championship. A feat they now celebrate by getting extremely drunk. 

From across the room, you watch the two with no small amount of entertainment. Your own glass remains untouched in your hand, the flute sweating drops of condensation that roll down your wrist. The slightly sweet notes of your drink from the single sip you’d taken linger on your tongue, cloying, with the promise of a headache in the morning if you have any more. 

“He’s enjoying himself.” 

You close your eyes in silent defeat. 

Of course. Fool were you to think you’d seen the last of Kyle fucking Garrick.

Quiet, musing, you tense when the man, who you’d seen no sight of around the paddock the last few weeks, comes up behind you. You spare a look at him through the corner of your eye and Kyle doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s interested in Niki’s antics. 

He’s sharp in the loose jacket he wears, the collar skewed slightly enough for you to catch a glint of silver around his neck. Your breathing goes tight as he shifts towards you and you get a clearer look at the chain – still with the scuff around the clasp, which has slipped forward just below his collarbone. The sight of it involuntarily brings forth the memory – freshly twenty, a little box passed shyly over a candle-lit table. What had ensued after…

When you clear your mind enough to detach from the necklace and meet his eyes, there’s a knowing glint in them you don’t like the look of. 

“He’s got a reason to,” you say, a touch more defensively than you mean to and the heat rushes to your cheeks when he raises his brows just a touch, coolly reproaching. You clear your throat, looking back at Niki. He catches your eye from across the room and beams, tilting his head, puppy-like in his sweetness. “P2 isn’t easy.”

“It’s not first, either,” Kyle says neutrally and your lips press together, straining under the effort it takes you not to snap back. There’s still this instinct in you, you find, a remnant from the years you shared together that begs to make him see your way, so convinced if you just talked louder, found the right words –

“Three places higher than you, though,” you murmur quietly, instead. It’s petty. It’s vindictive. It isn’t the appeal you would have given him at 23. You’re something much meaner now, you’ve come to realise. Still, you relish in the way he stiffens. 

“That’s why you’re with him?” 

You burn, indignant, lips parting in defence of yourself. “Kyle –”

He leans forward, plucking the flute from your hand and depositing it on the table beside you. And then, for the first time in over five years, he touches you. Your chest strains to draw in a breath as he lays a hand on your arm, cradling the bare flesh and skimming his thumb over the skin of your forearm. It’s more tender than he has a right to, and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. 

“I know,” he begins, slowly, as though he has thought this out for a very long time. You are too stunned to do anything but stand there and listen. “I was wrong, for how it went down. I know that now. But you deserve better than –”

He looks back over at Niki, now dancing with Markus. Or rather – at him, fist pumping and incorporating some sort of footwork into his clumsy movements. Kyle’s face tightens with disdain as he looks back to you.

“I’m not having this discussion with you,” you tell him in a voice too faint to be yours. “Not now, it’s too late.”

He shakes his head, resolute. “It’s not.”

“It is,” you insist, your throat tightening. An onslaught of tears threatens to drown you alive if he keeps talking. “We’re over, Kyle, it’s been done for a long time.”

He sighs and you flinch, ever so slightly, despite your best efforts to contain yourself. “What do you call this, then?”

Your brows draw together. “What do you mean?”

He gestures over his shoulder at your boyfriend. The room begins to take on a sweltering temperature suddenly, the atmosphere stifling. You’re seized by the sudden urge to run, but the hand around your arm squeezes, gentle, and yet brutal in its reminder – you can’t leave. Not now, not yet, and Kyle intends to use it to his advantage. He will be heard, whether you like it or not. Now, he uses the single-minded drive you’ve seen reserved for the track and you feel rather like you’ve stepped into the path of a predator.

“I haven’t seen you in all this time, suddenly you show up with a boyfriend who’s – can we be honest? I’m not being mean, darling, but –” his brows raise pointedly. “He’s a piss poor imitation of me.”

Your jaw drops. Your grief is quickly forgotten, swallowed but by red-hot anger.

“You think –” you splutter, trembling with acute rage, “you think I’m dating Niki to pretend he’s – you’re crazy.”

He tilts his head emphatically, as though imploring you to come clean, as though he’ll forgive you for the fib if you just come out with it now, and it only stirs the pit in your stomach further. Any and all hope of making nice flies out of the window in an instant, your hopes of remaining civil through the championship dissolving before your eyes.

“You forget,” you lean forward, meeting his eyes coldly, “I’d been part of this life long before you ever came into the picture, starboy. My dating life has, and will never, have anything to do with you.”

As much as you had hoped he would, he doesn’t flinch. Only leans forward and it’s pure stubborn will that keeps you from stepping back, unwilling to lose face in front of him. He smiles easily, eyes equally flinty now as he nods.

Flatly, “That’s why I haven’t seen you around then paddock for the last five seasons, then. Right.”

“You’re fucking deluded,” is all you can manage to say. Because isn’t it true, that your breakup had run you out of this world and into the corner furthest from the likes of it? You’d breathed racing before, had loved the lead up to the season, had followed it to continents so far from your London flat it had made your head spin with the jet lag. 

The two of you had joked, so many times, that if anything were ever to happen to Kyle, they’d strap you in –

The shameful truth weighs on your chest – though you’d held some reservations about returning to the paddock to support Niki, there’d been an undeniable relief the moment you’d passed through its threshold. It’d been here, in this world, amongst the dirty air and sharp scent of ozone that you’d seen through the worst and best moments of your life. The breakup had splintered more than just your heart.

And Kyle, center of it all, is well aware of it.

“Am I?” he asks. “He’s never going to give you what you need.”

“And you are?” You laugh quietly at the thought.

“Yes,” he says, so firmly it makes your head spin. 

You close your eyes, opening them again. He’s still standing in front of you, still wearing that damned chain, still looking at you as though he doesn’t intend to let you go. As though he never had in the first place.

His hand on your arm burns. There is nothing to shield you from the dry warmth of his hand, bleeding from his palm into your unsteady arm. Across the room, your boyfriend accepts a flute of champagne from his teammate, laughing bashfully as the man claps him on the back, another congratulation on their shared success today.

You should be there. You should be standing next to him and agreeing about how proud you are of him, for how far he’s come. 

But you’re here, standing in a corner away from the party, letting the biggest hurt of your life once more slip its way past your defences to make you crack. To anybody else, Kyle’s genial smile and the loose grip he has on you would look innocent. Nobody bats an eye at the both of you. Not Niki, too drunk to see straight and too trusting to foster suspicion. Not Kyle’s former partner Russo, now a shareholder for Niki’s team, whose eye you catch. He winks at you playfully before he moves into the crowd. 

To everyone else, you are only two exes, amicable now in spite of a disastrous breakup that time has dulled the edges of. The pain is blunt and heavy now, bruising. Those that had been there to witness the destruction you and Kyle had threatened only look on with momentary relief, happy to not worry about a redo.

“I don’t believe for a moment that you’re capable of that,” you whisper and it leaves a bitter taste on your tongue to realise the knowledge brings you more sadness than you had thought it would.

“You know very well what I’m capable of,” he murmurs. “I don’t think anybody knows me quite so well as you do.”

“I thought I did, once,” you agree. Niki has begun to look around but you are tethered to this spot still. “That was a long time ago.”

Kyle shakes his head, brows drawing together in a tight, insistent frown. “You knew me then, and you know me now. Maybe I’ve changed some, but the bare parts are still the same. You’ll see it soon, even if you won’t have me right now.”

You look at him then, through a blurry gaze. In the smudged light, he looks no less striking, eyes sharp and promising, posture relaxed. You had worried, all those years ago, about getting in his way. Never had you anticipated what it would be like to be his end goal. Standing under the weight of his gaze now, it sets your teeth on edge.

Kyle leans in, full lips curling up into a smile. It’s a faulty, pale version of the grin that had charmed you all those years ago, pure steel and teeth instead of the lighthearted, easy humour he’d always offered you. 

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve,” you breathe out, looking up at him. “Thinking I’m going to take you back.”

He shakes his head. “No. Not think.”

“You’re insane. You’re absolutely insane, do you hear me?” you say, barely able to keep your voice down. Your fingers have begun to curl into fists by your side and part of you longs to lash out and strike at him, to leave a nasty little mark down the side of his face. 

By the look in his eye, you think he’d only laugh with the blood dripping into his collar.

“That’s not a no. You let your little date touch you,” he murmurs, and your skin begins to heat at the warning threaded into his tone, “I’ll make sure it’s his last fucking season. You hear me?”

“You wouldn’t,” you mutter through your teeth, breathing hard. He only tilts his head a little, as if to say, wouldn’t I?

You’ve seen him on the track. You recall Silverstone, 23 years old and biting your nails down to the stubs for the entire 52 laps. You recall the scream that had soured on your tongue, frozen to the spot as you watched him approach a bend, too close to an opponent to continue without crashing, unrelenting in his pursuit for first place. And then – at the last minute, the other had pressed on the brakes, pulling away to avoid a collision. 

Making another driver’s life on the track difficult was nothing to a man with little to lose. 

“He’s my boyfriend,” you hiss. It’s a last ditch attempt to stand up to him. You should know better. 

“He doesn’t know what to do with you,” he shrugs. He glances over his shoulder then, surveying him thoughtfully, amused. “Neither did I, I guess, but the difference between me and him is that I do now. You don’t need him anymore.”

“You…” you breathe, appalled. When words prove difficult to find, you rip your arm out of his grasp and push away from him. The table near you rattles but you’re crossing the room hastily, cutting through the crowd to where Niki is.

When you rejoin your boyfriend, he pulls you into his side and you have to force a smile up at him. You’re sure the guilt must be written plain as day on your face for everyone to see, but he only squeezes your arm – right where Kyle had touched you, you have to fight not to flinch away from it – and boasts, proudly, when someone commends him again for his performance,

“I couldn’t have done it without my good luck charm.”

You flush when the group coos, ducking your head. You don’t deserve a bit of his praise. More, you’re discomforted by the pandering that comes out whenever he’s with an audience, like this need to hold court arises in him that almost always sees you pulled in under its tide, too. 

He pulls away from the group then and you’re led over to a less crowded corner. He looks down at you, cheeks flushed with happiness.

“P2, baby,” he breathes out. “Can you believe it?”

Your shoulders slump, misery twining itself around your spine. “Course I can. You’re brilliant, Ace.”

“Pole next,” Niki promises.

You laugh at last when he nods, grinning down so goofily at you. His hands circle your waist, resting on the small of your back, drawing you closer until you’re resting your arms around his neck. 

“Pole next,” you agree, quietly. Grey eyes twinkle under the lights and your heart aches. Movement over his shoulder catches your attention and you inhale shakily when you meet Kyle’s gaze, leaning against a far wall with a flute of champagne against his lips. His gaze is dark, promising.

When Niki murmurs your name softly, you realise you’re no better than Kyle. Not looking away, you bring your mouth to his. 

Across the room, his smile hardens. 

Game on, then. 

author's note:

We are so back divas…

It’s been longer than I thought since my last post on ao3, so I hope this makes up for it. I know I typically write Jason Todd fics, but I hope you’ll give this a chance anyway. For some incredibly sinister and evil reason (one really good fanfic) I was pulled into the COD fandom over 2024 and 25 et voila…

I’ve been working on this fic since March 2025 (after the disaster that was the 2025 F1 season opener…I still don’t want to talk about it) and I’d hoped to finish it before the season ended (not a happy camper about how the WDC turned out.) so that each chapter could come out on a race weekend but life happened (nothing so awful as the author’s curse thankfully) and I ended up extending my mental deadline several times before discarding it altogether. It’s okay, we ball!! And good things take time, so hopefully that logic applies to this, though I’m still unsure haha.

One thing F1 drivers and those COD guys have in common: none of them are all that right in the head. Idk why you’d expect anything less when you put the two together unfortunately and I do find it entertaining to write and read. I am trying my best not to have this fic read like those y/n x CEO stories but I’m aware that’s probably a given when you’re writing bullshit about super rich, super egotistic, super crazy men with dubious ethics. He drives a rocketship at lightning speeds okay there’s no reasoning with him. 

But also I think there’s something really attractive about that sort of drive (pardon the pun), how all consuming it becomes when you fall in too deep – how it quite literally becomes life or death and you’re skating on that razor thin line between the veil. There’s such a greed in ambition that, sue me, I find soo delicious. I hope I manage to do it justice.

DEFINITIONS:

PADDOCK: a sort of backstage area/village behind the team garages at races that "caters for VIP guests and team sponsors, offering luxury dining and superior views at Formula One Grand Prix events." super expensive, super exclusive and super great at reminding you how poor you are if you get general admission and get stuck in the rain like a peasant in your raincoat and poncho instead of linen button ups and cute co-ords because why would you worry about rain when you'll be indoors! 

PIT LANE: the crucial service area alongside the track where teams perform rapid tire changes and aerodynamic adjustments during a race. garage spots are placed alongside the pit lane in order of the previous years' team championship standings (constructor's championship)

QUALIFYING: qualifying is divided into three parts, in which the starting positions for the race are determined by the drivers' fastest lap times. the first qualifying session, Q1, lasts for 18 minutes, and all drivers are allowed to participate. the five slowest drivers are eliminated at the end of Q1, and their starting positions for the race are determined based on their fastest lap time during the session. the second qualifying session, Q2, lasts for 15 minutes, and the remaining 15 drivers are allowed to participate. again, the last five drivers are eliminated in the same manner. the final qualifying session, Q3, lasts for 12 minutes, and the remaining 10 drivers are allowed to participate. the driver who sets the fastest lap time during Q3 starts from pole position, with the rest of the drivers lining up behind in descending order of their lap time.

POLE POSITION: a pole position is the first starting spot on the grid for a Grand Prix race. a driver can achieve pole position during qualifying. Also referred to as P1 (other places would follow in the same order, P2, P3, etc.)

FIA: The FIA is the governing body of motor sport and the legal owner of the Formula 1 championship.

GRID PLACE PENALTY: A grid penalty will see a driver forced to drop a number of grid positions at the next race weekend they participate in.

SILVERSTONE: The British Grand Prix is held at Silverstone Circuit in England. One of the highlights of the season.

[youknowwhoiamperiod]

EEEEEEEEEK IT'S FINALLY OUT AND I'M HOWLING!!!!! i'm proud to have been here since this was just a little idea in that pretty head of yours...

i'm soooo obsessed with how this is lowkey giving midnight rain like. he was everything you wanted, the center of your world, the one thing you couldn't live the rest of your life without, but he you weren't enough., he needed more, he needed to taste glory to realise that it wasn't all that great without you in it, and even less so when he sees in the arms of his rival, who's just a softer version of him. the f1 persona fits gaz sooo much cause it just highlights his competitiveness and very subtle well hidden rage. i'm so so so so excited to see how this will fold out!!!!

[luvrodite]

STARBOY, a visualiser

It's been five years since you stepped foot at a Grand Prix. That life had long been discarded, buried beneath the depths of your memory, painful to part with, a burden to bear. Your return is ferried by the hopes that your years away have given you the strength to bear what ghosts you'd left behind and the memories they'd stir up again. Gaz had always been single-minded about pursuing his ambitions. The multiple championships under his belt had only served to push him further. Restless and unsatisfied, it takes a single moment for everything to fall into place. Now, you feel keenly what it's like to be on the receiving end of his pursuit. Fool were you to hope he'd let you go again.

content tags: alternate universe – formula 1, race car driver kyle garrick, exes to lovers, possessive behaviour, slight manipulative behaviour, dubious morality, gaz plays dirty, infidelity, manipulative gaz, female reader insert, smut, angst, dubious consent. minors do not interact, you will be blocked.

masterlist

[deansnoodle]

spreading the biker jason agenda