Original Picture :

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 :

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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.

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

HAPPY FERIC FRIDAY !!

inspired by the post of @hufflepuffhabs

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

How to love? -Cubyamal/Nyamal

(500 words )

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Yamal couldn't fall asleep, no matter how tired he was, but blue eyes probing his soul and the vague memory of a late-night call kept him from falling into the arms of Morpheus. He was looking forward to a new season with his beloved club, he was even terribly impatient, but it wasn't this feeling that kept him awake. Rather, it was the waiting. Slow and winding, it seeped through his veins like a devilishly effective poison. He'd tried everything: training, playing video games, endless surfing on the Internet, but nothing helped. The thought of football was like a leech on his psyche, occupying all the space in his brain that wasn't dedicated to soccer. Sometimes he feared it might become an obsession - it probably already was - but he preferred to deny it a little longer. Accepting it would mean he'd already fallen too far, and that even if he tried, he'd never be able to get back up.

This admiration mixed with pride and "slight" affection liked to disguise itself as love. A word far too terrifying for the adolescent Lamine. Not that he shunned it, or had ever known anything approaching it. It was rather the realization and acceptance that it had always accompanied his steps since he'd met those bluish irises, that made him frightened.

Did he love too much?

Or not enough?

Was it obvious?

Or perhaps too clingy?

Should he pull away to give himself some personal space?

Or get even closer?

Fortunately, he doesn't ask himself these myriad questions every day, or he'd go mad. But in these quiet moments, without the weight of trophies and titles on his shoulders, Yamal becomes a sentimentalist.

He's learned to despise, to detest, to hate.

He learned to weep, to lament, to regret.

He learned to covet, to leer, to envy.

But has he learned to love?

He's not heartless.

Far from it.

But when you realize that you've loved the same person for so many years without realizing it, it's overwhelming. He'd never felt that way with his exes, let alone his friends. A simple but brutal realization hit him in pre-season.

He had never learned not to love Pau.

Their relationship didn't slowly evolve from friendship to love. No. From the outset, it was an affection far too great and particular for them to fit into a box like "childhood friend". And it's fair to say that the love he felt for his friend was obvious, almost written into their destiny. A love that anyone would have seen, looked at, questioned. But that wasn't even the case, because Pau loved in silence, and Yamal followed only his own desires - which were often in line with those of the Catalan -.

This link, which had been the basis of his relationship with others and which he had never questioned until now, resembled a large ball of wool that now had to be untangled, each thread being a memory, a moment, an emotion.

But Yamal wasn't the thinking type, so he left that to his soulmate, the dark-haired man being smart enough for both. So he gently pressed the green call icon, the sound of the answering machine being the umpteenth wait until the object of his desire.

"Lamine? Why did you call me?" asked Pau with a growl.

A soft warmth enveloped him at the sound of the older man's voice.

Fuck....

He's really hooked.

- For nothing."

--

Inspired by my obsession around Cubayamal , the fic of @lecfoscism and his work in general. ( READ THEIR FICS ! )

I hope you liked it !

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.

PEDRI POTTER ! 🗣

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

My early Christmas gift 🎁 :

CHRISTMAS LETTER

Ship : Yukierre ( Yuki X Pierre ) and Charlos ( Charles X Carlos ) in background

Tag : Fluff

Word : around 2000 words

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Yuki scanned the 'thing' in front of him with fear and curiosity. There were no other words to describe what looked like a pile of biscuits straight out of a Ketamine workshop. The smell of burning made the Japanese man cough as he opened the windows, sending a quick apology to his neighbours who would have to smell this filth on New Year's Eve.

Now it was time to look for the culprit of this culinary crime, so he chose not to throw the biscuits away despite the nauseating smell, and went to investigate. The first thing he found was Charles gazing lovingly at his partner, Carlos, dancing to the applause and laughter of the other guests. The Monegasque wasn't the most skilful with a whip or a knife, but he knew how to manage a minimum, he wasn't at his boyfriend's level, but as the days and months went by, his level had increased significantly.

Nevertheless, Charles had never tried his hand at pastry-making, and where Carlos excelled, Charles excelled, golf being a perfect example of that. The Spaniard could pride himself on having made some magnificent swings, while his companion struggled to hit the ball, dropping it three quarters of the time into the water, which made him wonder whether he should become a diver instead of a pilot. So the question arose, and Yuki was definitely not known for his tact.

"Charles? Did you bring us biscuits? It's nice, but it was definitely not necessary. Asked Yuki, pointing to the experiment that boasts the name of edible food.

- Oh, that! It was already here when Carlos and I came, we hesitated to throw it out but we kept it here because of the note next to it.

Yuki frowned at the Francophone's explanation, there had been no words when he'd seen the pile of 'defective' biscuits, perhaps he hadn't been paying enough attention? Or looked carefully enough? He thanked the older man for his answer and went to check the kitchen again, looking for the overcooked biscuits.

After having to greet at least five people to get to his favourite room in the house, he was surprised to discover that the pile had disappeared! He would have said good riddance, but with it, the paper that had intrigued him had also magically evaporated.

So he resumed his little investigation, this time in search of the mysterious thief or gourmet, although he doubted it very much, who had stolen a note that was surely intended for him. After all, everyone knew that the kitchen was Yuki's territory, and those who had forgotten must have remembered to their cost. Daniel sometimes stroked his head, remembering the blows he'd received from the Japanese when he'd let his greed do the talking on New Year's Eve last year. It had amused the crowd, but it had also made it clear that if anyone entered this sacred place without the Asian's permission, they would receive his wrath or worse.

The only one who was guaranteed never to receive any physical punishment was Pierre, the Frenchman who enjoyed immunity thanks to his status as, and I quote: "Boyfriend of the paddock's favourite gremlin". This made more than one person smile, especially Pierre who enjoyed his privilege as he saw fit, having fun annoying the Asian while he was cooking, distracting him either by showing him videos while he had to watch the dough, or by incorporating new ingredients himself. Luckily Yuki was a real chef, the Asian redoubling his ingenuity to hide his partner's blunders, often making his dishes even more succulent. Definitely, the duo worked like clockwork.

Well, not necessarily, or at least not any more, given the Frenchman's smile of both laughter and regret as he ventured into his partner's realm. His eyes averted, he placed the object of the Asian's covetousness in front of him, embarrassment showing on his face. In the end, Yuki didn't need to make any enquiries, the source came to him, perhaps he had such a force of attraction that problems were solved as soon as he knew they existed. He'd talk to Lance about it, I'm sure he'd understand.

"So? Did you make his biscuits? he asked, looking frankly unconvinced by his boyfriend's cooking skills.

- It was supposed to be a surprise, but Esteban's just tasted them, and he's throwing up in the toilet right now. So I thought I'd take them out quickly before you discover them. Explained the Frenchman with a slightly proud smile. Definitely, anything that could make the life of his French colleague more miserable was beneficial to him.

- Don't try to cook on your own again! You're wasting ingredients for nothing. exclaimed Yuki, Pierre's face breaking down at his boyfriend's remark.

- Come on Yuki! I wanted to please you! I even wrote you a little note! Pierre defended himself, taking the Japanese man in his arms and quickly stealing a kiss. Yuki let out a quick insult in his native tongue and his cheeks flushed at the chestnut's amorous gesture.

The Japanese man, finally overcome by his partner's murmurs of love, took the pretty decorated Christmas card from the older man's hands. The many drawings on it surprised him as he opened it, seeing his initials and Pierre's, his name in Japanese and a whole bunch of other terribly useless but endearing scribbles, which framed his boyfriend's message.

"Dear Yuki,

It's been 3 years since we celebrated our Christmas together, I would have told you that it's only the food that has embellished these moments with you, but you surely know that there are many other things.

Here's a non-exhaustive list:

• Your little mumbles in Japanese when you're angry or thinking

• Your habit of talking while you sleep (you've already confessed to me 4 times like that)

•Your cheeks that turn red as soon as it's less than 5 degrees.

•Your addiction to fry chicken

• Your Christmas jumpers that are too big (I've bought you a new one, by the way, look on our bed)

•Decorating the tree is becoming a competition with you

•Your long phone calls with your family, while you cry because you can't see your nieces (there's something waiting for you there with the jumper)

•Your fear of Father Christmas (it's just because he's bigger than you, admit it)

•Your collection of collector's snowballs.

And many more, but I don't have the space to write them all down.

Every holiday I spend with you makes me want to celebrate Christmas every day, just to see your excitement over the presents and the look of pride on your face when you see someone enjoying yours.

I hope we can all celebrate together.

Pierre, your beloved boyfriend

To my favourite elf."

Yuki felt tears fall down her cheeks, her vision blurring as a result. His boyfriend was sometimes stupid, even very stupid, but he loved him and it was during these moments that he remembered him the most.

"Me too.... He whispered as he leaned his head against the chest of the man he liked to call his soul mate, he'd never tell him, it would give him too much of a headache.

The Frenchman's heart quickened at his boyfriend's words, he hadn't expected him to cry, Pierre wasn't the best at comforting. But his arms would always be there to support him, whether in moments of joy or sadness, after all it was his duty as his boyfriend. And he would never fail in this task. Because Yuki deserved it, he deserved this tenderness and this love, and the Japanese man had to realise this sooner or later, because the Frenchman would remind him of it for the rest of his life.

- Is that all? I expected more, given everything I've written. Pierre commented with an amused smile, a lack felt deep inside him as he felt the youngest leave his arms.

- I've already complimented your shopping list enough! replied Yuki, trying to sound annoyed, the tears in the corner of his eyes making him lose all credibility.

Pierre laughed at his words, his hand taking the younger man's, leading them towards their bedroom where a gift wrapped on their bed was waiting, the Frenchman's apprehension growing as he saw Yuki quickly tear open the gift packet, his eyes lit up with curiosity.

These were soon extinguished by the tasteless garment in front of him. A picture of a shrinking man with the phrase "I love my PETIT-ami* " and the usual Christmas motifs in the background. He changed his jumper, however, putting on the new one, which was once again too big for him. He was sure that Pierre was now deliberately bringing back one size larger, but he was giving him the benefit of the doubt, after all he had taken the time to write him a letter.

While he was putting on his top, he saw some plane tickets at the bottom of the gift packet. Pierre had prepared a trip for them? But there were far too many, the date on the tickets had expired, and the destination was Italy. And just as he was about to question his boyfriend, the latter covered his eyes with his hands, whispering to him to turn round and wait a few seconds. Yuki hesitated to bite him, Pierre deserved to be bitten for the jumper, and was about to do so when Pierre took his hands away from his eyes, letting him see several people in front of him shouting "Suprise! ".

His vision finally clear, he recognised his niece running into his arms, her expression shocked as he turned towards Pierre who was smiling lovingly at him. The amazement in his eyes as he heard his family talking to him.

"It's not thanks to me, it's thanks to them. Pierre whispered, pointing to his nieces as he left to let Yuki enjoy her time with her family.

- Your Prince Charming took us on a tour of Italy! exclaimed the youngest.

- How did he do that?

He'd often complained to Pierre about not being able to see his nieces because of the time difference, or even the shopping schedules that never coincided with their school holidays.

- He called Mum on 3 November to talk about our trip. It took a while, but we managed! explained the taller of the two.

Yuki had felt hurt when Pierre hadn't wanted to spend the night with him after the victory, but that was to prepare his Christmas surprise.

The hours passed like that, his family and friends mingling under the mistletoe, the smell of gingerbread and the fir tree towering above them. Finally came the time to say goodbye, his close friends returning home while some of his family stayed in the many guest rooms.

And as he cradled his youngest niece, he spotted Pierre admiring them from the corner of the door. He finally finished his story over the snores of the youngest, and joined the one he could now call 'mine'.

The two whispered a sweet phrase to each other, close to falling into Orpheus's arms.

"Joyeux Noël Yuki"

" メリークリスマス Pierre"

End.

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

* Petit-ami = boyfriend in french and literally " Little friend ".

* Joyeux Noël = Merry Christmas, same for Yuki.

I'm reluctant to write another little one-shot like this, I had to do it for the Yukierre because I love this ship and it doesn't get enough attention. I hope you enjoyed it.

meet the alonso (not really) || 4.3K

“That way I can officially introduce you to my parents”

“I've already met your parents Fernando,” Mark said with a frown, making Fernando shake his head.

“Well, you've met them as Mark Webber, F1 driver, you still haven't met them as Mark Webber, their son's boyfriend”

" Dépaysement "

Ships : Lance stroll / Esteban , background: Webbonso

Chapter : 1/?

Tags : emotional hurt/comfort , slow burn , Not traditional ABO

Word : 3.3 k

Summary:

Dépaysement : French word to describe the emotion felt when changing habits or environments. It often refers to the feelings associated with immersion in an unfamiliar environment, different from the original one.

"However, there was still one problem in Lance's life, a problem as annoying as it was addictive, always at Lance's side and terribly vital to the Canadian's routine. This problem came in the form of a person, a driver to be precise.

Esteban ocon"