Phone Case For The CHARLOS FEST 2025 !! :

May I request Brazil 2003 inspired fic where fernando's injuries were worse than it was and since mark indirectly caused fernando's crash he felt extreme guilt and worry as he tried to help fernando before the medic arrive?

"BRAZIL 2003 "

Word : around 1 K

--------------------------------------

Mark took a deep breath, his vision blurred, his limbs weak, he had to get out of here quickly before someone else crashed into him. Almost half the grid had crashed at turn three, the last survivors fighting in the Brazilian rain, Mark had been one of them before losing control.

He now found himself in the middle of the road, the wreckage of his vehicle surrounding him as he tried as best he could to get out of it. He felt gusts of wind whip past him as the survivors still in the race made their way across the minefield.

However, one of them didn't make it and Mark saw a car come into contact with one of the pieces of debris before bouncing off the railings, the front of the car completely destroyed. It all happened so quickly that Mark didn't have time to shout the Spaniard's name before he crashed. The deafening noise made the Australian grit his teeth as he hastily removed his seatbelt.

He only managed to do so after a few seconds of pure struggle, his hands trembling from stress not making the task any easier. His thoughts blurred as he ran towards the brunette, his legs loose, the Jaguar driver on the verge of collapsing. His torrent of thoughts had only one thing in common, tending towards the same point, a person to be precise.

Fernando Alonso

Guilt made his steps heavier, even as he hoped the Spaniard hadn't been too badly hurt. The dark-haired driver never stopped, the dopamine in his blood becoming his drug, the youngest unable to get rid of it, so if someone had told him to slow down, he obviously wouldn't have listened. His only objective was to overtake the one in front of him by any means necessary.

Mark knew that his crash could injure people, he sensed it himself, but now that he was in front of the carcass of Fernando's Formula 1 car, the Spaniard trying as best he could to get rid of it without succeeding, he felt like the world was falling apart.

Shit!

Why was he driving so badly! Fernando had been injured because of him, the Spaniard grumbling in his native tongue before stopping suddenly, staring at the Australian with a frightened look in his eyes.

"What's up? Nando, are you okay? I'll help you out!

- Mark.... My leg's stuck... I can't feel it...

The older man's heart rate suddenly increased, as he imagined all that could have happened as a result of this injury.

Was Fernando going to stop driving because of him?

The Spaniard was born for speed! And Mark was going to crush his dreams.... The brunette will hold a grudge against him for the rest of his life, he's sure of it. He'll look at him with a look of disgust, never forgetting the man he loved but who destroyed him.

At least that's what Mark hopes .... Perhaps Fernando will never want to speak to him again, quickly forgetting him and their life together, their time together, their stolen kiss, their shared laugh....

Mark never wanted to do that.... Damn it.... Why didn't he pay more attention? Why did he keep driving through the torrential rain?

Why did- Mark! Damn it! Mark, help me! shouted Fernando, bringing the Australian's thoughts back into focus.

- Shit, shit, shit," said the Australian quickly, "I'm so sorry Nando, I.....

He hastily removed Fernando's helmet, throwing it on the ground as he checked his condition, the younger man looked lost, his jaw clenched in pain, blood trickling down his left flank.

- Just.... Get me out of here, then we can talk again, the others are still driving, I thought I saw you dead as you ran towards me. Fernando said, his eyes fluttering with fatigue, his head spinning as he felt part of his body bleed to death.

Mark couldn't hear very well, too busy undoing the Renault driver's seatbelt, his trembling hands still failing him as his stress mounted.

- I had to do it, I wasn't going to let you get hurt in the middle of a race!

- You're more likely to die walking on the circuit than I am to get hurt! Fernando replied fervently, his raised voice creating a headache.

Mark preferred to ignore the Spaniard's comment, too busy trying to get him out of the carcass of the vehicle. A sigh of relief left his lips as he finally managed to remove the seatbelt, and he lifted the Spaniard up, but the latter cried out in pain, Mark putting him down immediately.

- It's my leg.... The Spaniard explained breathlessly, the pain making him increasingly irritable and unstable.

Mark bit his lip, a habit he'd had since he was very young, indicating his stress and fear. Fernando had laughed about it once, saying he looked like a lingerie model trying to look sexy.

- Hang on, hang on... I'm going to try something, it might hurt you.

He tried once more to pull the Spaniard, this time more gently, but it was no use, the dark-haired man always screamed in pain when they tried to pull him out of the Renault.

- Mierda", said the Spaniard into the wind, a small tear of pain running down his right cheek.

Mark's anxiety reached its peak, terrified of the consequences of this collision, which he had caused entirely himself.

He can't do it...

He can't help the youngest, even though he promised him.... Promised to be by his side, promised to help him despite their rivalry, promised never to harm him. These weren't promises made in haste, nor written on a contract to make it "official", but they were the basis of their relationship, a shared trust that seemed almost indestructible.

Mark could do nothing but watch the agonised cries of the man he loved as he was finally rescued by competent people, the Australian's helplessness tearing at his insides, a fish making his thoughts fuzzy and his movements slow, his only certainty being his inability to help Fernando.

"Sorry, Nando, sorry" he whispered to himself, as he felt the Spaniard's gaze on him, his eyes watering and his jaw clenched with pain. The Spaniard did nothing, apart from perhaps preventing Mark from looking at his bleeding leg, using his voice as a distraction.

"It's nothing, Cabron, just a scratch! The Renault driver assured him, before leaving for good with the medical team, who were carrying him and preventing the various cameras around and Mark from being able to see the damage caused to the driver's body.

Standing up to face the fruits of his deeds, Mark finally felt the rain stop, bringing this tortuous race to a close. The rain reminded him of a distant conversation he'd had with the Renault driver.

Shit....

He had promised a candlelit dinner after the race....

Having already imagined Fernando's smile when he learned that Mark had learnt some Asturian recipes just for him....

The hospital was the last thing on his mind.

But perhaps if he brought back a dish on the sly, the Spaniard would still be happy.

It was this glimmer of hope that kept Mark from collapsing under the guilt of his actions.

--------------------------------------

HAPPY WEBBONSO WEDNESDAY!!!

You made me laugh because I've already written about Brazil 2003 in one of my fanfics, and it was a webbonso

OK, I'll stop talking!

I hope you enjoyed the fic 🤗

For those who want to do a request too

Your Majesty Pedri

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64711093/chapters/166258837

SUMMARY :

"- So what? If I were a prince, I'd have allocated all the funds for culture to rebuilding the Camp Nou! And on top of that I'd have been called Sir! Just imagine! Sir Pablo Gavira, thank you for saving Barça, that's really stylish, isn't it? Gavi tried to explain with a conspiratorial air.

- That's not how it works, it would have been funnier otherwise. sighed the older, smiling at the younger's crazy ideas. And anyway, being a football player is better, they'd have called me Pedri instead of 'Prince' everywhere, and I could have stayed in the family restaurant with my brother and my parents.

- Mhmmm.... So, I don't think I can take you back to your parents straight away, but at least I can call you Pedri! "

Or Gavi, who falls in love with the most unlikely person in Spain, Prince Pedro González López, aka Pedri.

Because I almost screamed when I saw the news, you'd feel my despair :

He get jealous of euthanized dogs.

Word : around 500

Inspired by @allphatauri and his amazing fanart :

--------------------------------------------------

Yuki took the news calmly, knowing deep down that he would not be chosen once again. Liam had never played a full season, nor beaten Yuki in the qualifying rounds, let alone reached his level. But the cycle repeated itself tirelessly, and despite all his huffing and puffing, crying and bleeding, the seat seemed so far away. Maybe it wasn't worth it, he knew what was waiting for him, just a second seat that would never trouble Verstappen. He'd seen it with Ricciardo and Pierre, completely decimated by the Dutchman, he didn't think he was up to his level. But nonetheless, the observation was the same:

He get jealous of the euthanized dogs.

How was this his fault? He'd been promised this seat since his arrival, he could die in it if he had to, the driver who took it having to force the steering wheel off Yuki's lifeless body. Christian knew, Helmut knew, everyone knew. Alpha Tauri had never really been his home, he'd performed for one purpose and one purpose only, that damned Red Bull seat. But in doing so, he had created his own gilded cage, become indispensable to the team, and needed to find a replacement if he was to finally have the chance to achieve his goal. But that wasn't up to him, as the phrase kept repeating in his head:

He get jealous of euthanized dogs.

He was still full of life, or so he hoped, he could still chase that batton he was told to catch. But in the back of his mind, he hoped he'd finally be able to rest, euthanasia was a rest like any other after all, it had the particularity of being eternal, that's all. He could already feel himself shuddering at the sting, his last ounce of life extinguished when he hadn't even been able to achieve a victory. But at least the deathbed he'd find himself on would be comfortable, bloody red, pinching yellow and deep black, as if to taunt the next puppy waiting his turn to die painlessly. But he wasn't there yet, the same blue-and-white blanket enveloping him as he watched his pairs join the destructive machine one by one under the bull's banner. His eyes attentive to every process, the desire to join him as soon as possible, but always with the same taste in his mouth:

He get jealous of euthanized dogs.

He knew one of them intimately, and Pierre made him believe he'd escaped the sweet breath of death. He didn't last long, his lifeless body quickly returning to the soft, warm blanket he'd once abandoned. Despite his ardor and eagerness to conquer all, there were times, in the dark Italian nights, when the scar of an injection adorned his shoulder, a constant reminder of who he was. Yuki had never dared touch her, even when the two of them were wearing their simplest clothes after a wild night out. The Frenchman never spoke of it, his eyes always gazing at Yuki with tenderness, knowing that he had yet to taste his slow, sinuous destruction by a team that would suck his talent down to the marrow, discarding him after his body had run out of energy, with only a swift, gentle and painless death to save him. Yet Yuki continued to huddle against his right flank, where he wore his death like an ornament, the Japanese man's eyes always pointed towards the mark he wanted to wear one day. After all:

He get jealous of euthanized dogs.

--------------------------------------------------

I hope Yuki gonna have his seat in RB a day , but now I need to scream or cry , or both.

" His husband "

Chapter : 2/3

Words : 5500

Summary :

Tag : fluff , domestic fluff , misunderstanding

Daniel had thought it was a dream when Max had called him that, but had he really just said that? A beatific smile formed on his lips as Max fell asleep, oblivious to the impact of his words.

Or 5 times Max inadvertently calls Daniel "his husband" and once he says it knowingly.

F1 + Pride month + Barça = Perfection

Happy Pride Month from Ferric going on a date to the Spanish GP ❤️

I actually write a fic , but idk what type of student would be Eric Garcia:

My honest reaction....

AHHHHHHHHHHH

SO FUCKING PERFECT !!!!!

I can die in peace

You are Enough - Maxiel

Daniel thinks he’s not good enough for Max. but Max disagrees

Not just on bad days. Not just after a rough race or a brutal media day. It's a belief that's etched into his bones now—quiet and constant, like background noise he can't quite mute no matter how loud he turns up the music.

He doesn’t say it out loud, not to anyone, not even to himself most of the time.

But he feels it. In every stumble, in every misstep, in every look from the paddock that lingers just a little too long with pity.

The world reminds him of it daily.

He opens his phone and the comments are waiting for him like vultures. Max deserves better.

Why is he still with Daniel?

He’s just a washed-up has-been clinging to a golden boy’s coattails.

Some are cruel, some are subtle, but they all sink their claws into the same bleeding spot inside him. His failures are on public record—every DNF, every broken contract, every gamble that didn’t pay off. And even when he smiles, even when he pretends it doesn’t bother him, there’s a part of him that agrees. That maybe they’re right.

Because Max is Max.

Fast, ruthless, brilliant. The reigning champion, the name etched in record books, the face splashed across every screen and billboard. Everything about Max screams excellence. A machine on track. A phenomenon. A living legend before thirty.

And Daniel? Daniel is the joke people whisper when they talk about comebacks that never quite came true. He’s the punchline in too many think-pieces about missed opportunities and faded stars. He tried to carve out something more, something lasting—but the glitter faded, the cameras moved on, and he was left in the shadows with nothing but a grin stretched too wide to hide the cracks.

So he asks himself, every damn day, why is Max still here?

It doesn’t make sense. Not in any logical, sane way.

And yet—

Max looks at him like Daniel hung the moon. Like he’s the one who built the world Max stands on. There’s no hesitation in Max’s gaze, no second-guessing. Just that same quiet intensity, that same infuriating, grounding certainty that Daniel used to carry himself—back when he still believed he was someone worth believing in.

Max holds his hand when they’re alone, and more importantly, when they’re not. He kisses him soft and slow, like they have all the time in the world. He smiles at him across rooms crowded with cameras, in garages humming with tension, like none of the noise matters. Like all that matters is Daniel.

And when Daniel falls apart—because sometimes he does, silently, in the dark, in the moments when his breath catches and his insecurities press down on his chest like a weight he can’t lift—Max is there.

No lectures. No fixing. Just presence.

He touches Daniel like he’s something fragile but not broken. He whispers into his skin,

"You’re more than enough. You always have been."

He says it like it’s fact, like it’s gravity, like it’s so obvious he can’t imagine why Daniel would think otherwise.

And that’s the thing.

Daniel wants to believe it. He wants to hold onto those words and build something around them—some kind of safety, some kind of truth. But the doubt is insidious. It's not loud, it's not sharp—it’s slow. It’s a creeping, sinking thing. Years of public failure, of watching others rise while he stalled, of standing beside Max and wondering if he looks like a mistake.

And yet, somehow, Max makes him forget it.

At least for a moment. When Max cups his face and presses their foreheads together, when he brushes tears from Daniel’s cheek like they’re nothing to be ashamed of, Daniel thinks—maybe. Maybe I am enough. For him.

It’s terrifying.

To let someone love you when you’re not sure you love yourself anymore. To be seen—truly seen—and not run.

But Daniel stays. He stays because Max keeps choosing him, over and over, in the quiet ways that matter. And one day, maybe Daniel will be able to choose himself the same way.

But until then, Max’s belief is enough to keep him breathing.

To keep him hoping.

To keep him alive.

......

The hotel room is quiet. Dim light spills through the half-drawn curtains, catching on the edge of the bed where Daniel sits, hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands gripping his own hair like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. He steps inside gently, the door clicking softly shut behind him. No shoes, no words, just the sound of his socked feet padding across the carpet.

Daniel doesn’t look up.

His shoulders are shaking.

Max’s heart squeezes in his chest.

He crosses the room slowly, crouching in front of Daniel, lowering himself until he’s eye-level. Still, Daniel doesn’t lift his gaze. Max reaches forward and gently pries one hand from Daniel’s head, lacing their fingers together, grounding him.

“Hey,” Max says, voice low and careful. “Talk to me, liefje.”

Daniel huffs out a bitter laugh, one that cracks halfway through and turns into something else—something broken. “What’s there to say?”

“You’re upset,” Max says simply. “So I want to hear.”

Daniel finally looks at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped together with the remnants of unshed tears. His lips part like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. Just another shuddering breath.

“I just…” Daniel whispers, looking away again. “I feel like I’m dragging you down. Like you could be—like you should be with someone who shines like you do.”

Max frowns. Not angry. Not upset. Just hurt that Daniel could even think that. He brings their joined hands up and presses a kiss to Daniel’s knuckles, slow and deliberate.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” Max asks.

Daniel doesn’t answer, but he leans in, just a little.

“I see the man who taught me how to laugh during the worst years of my life. Who believed in me before anyone else did. I see the driver who fought like hell on track, even when the world kept stacking the odds against him. I see the person I love.”

Daniel’s breath catches, and he blinks fast.

“I don’t care about the noise,” Max continues, cupping Daniel’s cheek with his free hand. “I don’t care about stupid fans or journalists who think they know us. I care about you. You, Dan.”

Daniel’s eyes flutter shut at the sound of his name in Max’s voice. It’s so rare—Max always calls him other things: “mate,” “babe,” “liefje.” But Dan feels raw. Real. Intimate in a different way.

“I know it’s hard,” Max says. “I know you hear them. But I need you to hear me more.”

Daniel leans into Max’s touch, his forehead pressing against Max’s. “It’s just… exhausting, you know? Pretending I don’t care. Pretending I still have it together.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Max murmurs. “Not ever.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Daniel crumbles.

Quietly, but completely.

Max pulls him in without hesitation, wrapping his arms around Daniel and tugging him off the bed and into his lap on the floor. Daniel clings to him, face buried in Max’s shoulder, breath hitching against his neck. Max rocks them gently, one hand stroking up and down Daniel’s back, the other still wrapped around his hand.

They sit like that for a long time, Max humming something under his breath, fingers tracing circles over Daniel’s spine. Just presence. Just comfort. No expectations.

When Daniel’s breathing finally evens out, Max presses a kiss to the side of his head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Always.”

And Daniel believes him.

Not because the noise stops. Not because the doubts are gone.

But because when Max holds him like this, like he’s something precious—not a mistake, not a burden—it’s the only truth that matters.

....

It starts on a podium.

Daniel’s not even racing that weekend—he’s just there, part of the team, part of Max’s world. He keeps a low profile, tries to melt into the background even though the cameras always find him anyway. The whispers are constant, same as always.

“What’s Daniel doing here?” “Does Max really need the distraction?” “Why is he still hanging on?”

Daniel hears them, even if Max doesn’t.

And Max… he’s done pretending not to notice.

So when the race ends, and Max wins (because of course he does—he’s Max), he takes the usual path up to the top step. Trophy raised. Anthem played. Champagne sprayed.

But this time, as the photographers crowd the front of the podium and the interviewers line up with their mics and questions, Max does something else.

He takes off his cap, runs a hand through his hair, and glances past the crowd—eyes scanning until he finds Daniel, standing off to the side in the team gear, clapping, smiling that soft, quiet smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Max steps forward.

Down from the podium. Off the stage.

Straight toward Daniel.

And before anyone can process what’s happening, Max reaches for him.

One arm around his waist. One hand cradling the side of Daniel’s neck. A soft, sure look in his eyes.

Then Max kisses him.

Not a peck. Not a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing.

A real kiss. A statement.

And for the first time, the crowd falls silent.

The cameras flash. Dozens, hundreds, a thousand lenses pointed at them—but Max doesn’t care. He leans in like the world isn’t watching, like he’s doing it just for Daniel, but everyone sees.

Daniel freezes, overwhelmed, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. When Max pulls back just a little, eyes still on his, he whispers, low and sure:

“Let them talk.”

Daniel blinks, stunned.

“They don’t know a damn thing,” Max continues. “I love you. That's what matters.”

It’s not just the kiss. It’s everything after.

Max answers every press question with Daniel’s name spoken like it’s sacred. He posts a photo later that night: just Daniel, curled into his side, captioned simply: My win, every day. He brushes off reporters who try to bait him into controversy. “He’s not a distraction. He’s my peace.”

And it works.

Not because the world suddenly becomes kind.

But because Max doesn’t flinch.

Because he keeps holding Daniel’s hand on the grid. Keeps pulling him into frame for photos. Keeps choosing him, again and again, in front of the world.

It doesn’t fix everything overnight. The noise is still there. But it starts to shift. A few headlines soften. A few fans change their tone. A few of them finally see.

And Daniel?

For the first time in a long time, he believes it.

Because Max didn’t just say it in the dark, with no one around to hear.

He said it in the light.

Where it mattered most.

Where the world had to watch—and listen.

...................

Check out my other works in:

Unexpected Cupid – George x Max ft. Kimi Antonelli

Fake love -Lestappen

Paper rings - Maxiel

WE ARE IN THE FINALS VS BROCEDEEEESSSS. Please VOTE MAXIEL FOR THE WIN PLEASE 🦁🍯🦡

PEDRI POTTER ! 🗣

( i'm gonna do the Gavi version later , after all they come as a pair )