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Galex - Blog Posts
something about galex gifting landoscar padel lessons hmmmmmmmmmmm
me when fated soulmates
Someone look at me the way George looks at Alex !!
F1 drivers and constellations I'm assigning them
2019 rookies - the Summer Triangle (ik this isn't a constellation just keep reading)
Lando Norris - Aquila (The Eagle)
The constellation is easy to spot, flying opposite the celestial Swan (Cygnus). It's located in the fourth quadrant of the northern hemisphere.
Its bright star is Altair, which forms the 'Summer Triangle' with the bright stars of Cygnus and Lyra.
Alex Albon - Lyra (Lyre)
Lyra is a small constellation that lies in the northern sky. The constellation was often depicted as a vulture or an eagle carrying Orpheus’ lyre in its wings or beak, and called “the falling eagle” or “falling vulture.”
Vega, it's brightest star, was the first star other than the Sun to be photographed.
George Russell - Cygnus (The Swan)
Cygnus is also sometimes identified as Orpheus, who was transformed into a swan after his passing and placed next to his lyre in the sky. The lyre is represented by the neighboring constellation Lyra.
Charles Leclerc - Columba (The Dove)
The constellation’s original name was Columba Noachi, meaning “Noah’s dove.” It was named after the bibical dove that was sent from the Ark to see if there is any dry land left after the Great Flood. The bird returned holding an olive branch in its beak, signalling that the flood was receding.
Lewis Hamilton - Phoenix
Ovid wrote in his Metamorphoses that the Phoenix lived for 500 years. When it reached the end of its life span, the phoenix would build itself a nest, then ignite it and meet its end in the fire. A new bird would be born from the ashes.
Daniel Ricciardo - Apus (Bird of Paradise)
Apus is a small constellation in the southern sky. It represents a bird-of-paradise, and its name means "without feet" in Greek because the bird-of-paradise was once wrongly believed to lack feet.
Max Verstappen - Leo (The Lion)
Leo represents the lion and is usually associated with the Nemean lion in Greek mythology, who lived in a cave near a town and set upon the local inhabitants. It could not be defeated because of it's impenetrable golden fur.
Carlos Sainz - Hercules
Hercules is the fifth largest constellation in the sky, but has no first magnitude stars. It is named after the Roman hero, who had to carry out a series of tasks, one being the slaughter of the Nemean lion. He only managed to kill it by trapping it in it's cave and strangling it with his bare hands.
Might continue this but I'm not quite sure what to put for the others so drop suggestions
To George, with love Alex
Summary:
To escape his Papa Seb’s matchmaking ambitions, Alex invents a lover named George whom he claims to have met during his travels abroad. He writes fake love letters addressed to “George,” a nobleman he assumes lives far enough never to receive them. But fate has other plans. Unbeknownst to him, the real Lord George Russell does receive those letters and starts replying out of sheer boredom… and then, curiosity… and eventually, something warmer, something deeper. Because if you're a Bridgerton, love will always find its way — even if delivered by accident.
The twenty-second time Lord Sebastian Vettel tried to match his son, Alex Bridgerton, to a duke, a viscount, a marquess, or a tolerably handsome baron, Alex did what any reasonable, slightly dramatic Bridgerton would do.
He lied.
“Oh, Papa,” he sighed, artfully flopping onto the chaise lounge like a tragic poet in mourning. “I simply can’t. My heart is already… otherwise occupied.”
Papa Seb, perched with a teacup and his spectacles halfway down his nose, narrowed his eyes. “Occupied by what? That box of macarons you keep under your bed?”
Alex placed a trembling hand over his chest. “No,” he said, voice laced with deep melancholy. “By a man.”
Cue stunned silence in the grand Bridgerton salon.
Carlos, who had been cooing to baby Ben while feeding him mashed peaches, froze mid-spoon. The spoon missed Ben’s mouth entirely and landed with a soft plop on his tiny nose.
Even baby Ben blinked at Alex in horrified confusion, as if he understood the weight of the announcement and found it... questionable.
Charles blinks.
“A man?” Lord Mark Bridgerton, ever the soft-spoken Dada, blinked and almost dropped his embroidery.
Daniel choked on his tea. “Wait. What man?”. Max rubs his back while looking at Alex confused.
“Yes,” Alex said, ignoring them all and shifting dramatically to gaze out the rain-dappled window. “We met during my travels. In the summer. Or spring. There were violets blooming.”
“You were in Dover for four days,” Daniel deadpanned.
“Well,” Alex sniffed, refusing to acknowledge this minor factual detail, “it was a very meaningful four days.”
“Does this person know about this love?” Kimi asked, not looking up from his deck of cards.
“Of course,” Alex countered.
Lewis, the eldest, pinched the bridge of his nose so hard one might think he was performing exorcism. “I cannot believe this is happening again. Are you seriously fabricating an entire love affair to get out of one dinner with Lord Halifax?”
Alex’s eyes fluttered. “I cannot stomach Lord Halifax’s sideburns, Lewis. They curl like malevolent tendrils. I should not be punished for having standards.”
Dada Mark was already pulling out the monogrammed stationery. “So… what’s his name, this tragic romance of yours?”
Alex paused. He scanned the bookshelves. Too literary. The globe? Too geographical. And then—a memory—a ball months ago, a man with floppy brown hair and aristocratic cheekbones. He remembered the name because he made fun of it afterward.
“…George,” he said with a flourish. “Lord George.”
“You made that up,” Lewis said flatly.
“On the contrary,” Alex said, already scribbling his first letter. “He’s as real as my love.”
………
That night, Alex penned the letter with the passion of a misunderstood poet and the flair of a man who had just evaded a scandalous engagement.
My Dearest George,
Though the violets may no longer bloom and the sea no longer sigh beneath our feet, my thoughts are with you always. How cruel the world is, to keep us apart. And yet, how sweet is your memory, tucked into every heartbeat.
Yours in eternal longing, Alex (P.S. Papa wants me to marry a baron with sideburns. I’d rather throw myself into the Thames.)
He handed the letter to the footman and smiled serenely.
He assumed it would never reach anyone.
It did.
……
George Russell, heir to the Earl of Woburn and reluctant participant in the London season, was enjoying the most ordinary of afternoons when a footman delivered the most extraordinary letter.
He blinked at the delicate, cream-coloured envelope with its dramatic cursive and overuse of sealing wax. It smelled faintly of bergamot and—was that… rose water?
“This must be a mistake,” George muttered, peering at the name again.
George Private & Confidential To be opened by none but he whose smile ruined me once by the violets
“…What in the hell,” he said, already concerned.
He opened it.
My Dearest George,
Though the violets may no longer bloom and the sea no longer sigh beneath our feet, my thoughts are with you always. How cruel the world is, to keep us apart. And yet, how sweet is your memory, tucked into every heartbeat.
Yours in eternal longing, Alex
(P.S. Papa wants me to marry a baron with sideburns. I’d rather throw myself into the Thames.)
George blinked.
Then he blinked again.
“…I have never even seen a violet in my life.”
He reread it. Slowly. In full. He laughed. Then stopped. Then laughed again. Then stared at the signature.
Alex
Just Alex.
No title. No surname. No context.
George Russell was receiving anonymous love letters from a poetic madman.
Worse—he liked it.
…..
He should have tossed it away.
He could have ignored it.
But George, bored out of his mind in a house full of aunts talking about gout and dowries, instead picked up his quill and wrote back.
Dearest Alex,
I regret to inform you that I have no memory of any violets, nor the sea sighing beneath us—unless you are referring to that dreadful inn where I once sprained an ankle.
That said, I find your letter… unexpectedly charming.
Do avoid the Thames if possible. The smell is truly appalling.
Yours, out of sheer curiosity (and mild concern), George
(P.S. Tell me more about this baron with the sideburns. I’m invested now.)
……..
When the letter arrived—delicate cream paper, the seal slightly crooked—Alex Bridgerton nearly fainted.
But instead, he took a long sip of tea, turned to his family at breakfast, and with the serene calm of a man about to spontaneously combust, said,
“Oh. That must be from George.”
Carlos, spoon halfway to baby Ben’s mouth, froze. The spoon trembled. The mashed apple plopped sadly onto Ben’s bib.
“George?” Carlos asked, voice climbing three octaves.
Ben blinked at his father. Then at the apple. Then at his other dada, Charles, and held up his chubby arms in betrayal.
“Your son prefers to be fed by emotionally stable people,” Charles muttered, plucking Ben into his arms.
Lewis put down his fork with the finality of a man preparing for war. “You’re telling me—” he said slowly, glaring across the table, “—that your imaginary lover has written you back?”
“He was never imaginary,” Alex said loftily, tearing the envelope open with a butter knife and way too much flair.
Daniel spat his tea. Lando choked on a croissant. Kimi didn't react, but quietly reached for the brandy.
Max, Daniel’s husband, who hadn’t spoken in ten minutes, muttered, “I knew something was off the moment I saw the handwriting. That's not the script of a man with a sound mind.”
Alex unfolded the letter with trembling hands .
Carlos did drop the spoon this time.
Lewis: “YOU REALLY HAVE A LOVER?!”
Daniel: “Okay but wait, this is gold.”
Lando: “I still refuse to believe this.”
Alex, somehow smug through the panic gripping his lungs, said, “As you can see, our love story continues to blossom.”
Ben, chewing thoughtfully on Charles’s finger, offered a soft, “Bah.”
Charles replied, “Exactly.”
…..
“To my dearest, most infuriating George…”
Alex wrote, at midnight, by candlelight, in a full robe, like the tragic heroine of a gothic novel.
He paused. Nibbled on his quill. Sighed dramatically.
“I saw a violet today. It made me think of the way you say ‘ankle injury’ with such disdain. I fear I am incurably attached to your sarcasm.
Yours, hopelessly, Always Yours.” — Alex.
He sealed it with trembling fingers and absolutely no plan for what to do if George ever asked to meet.
…….
Meanwhile, across town, Lord George Russell, who’d never intended to reply to the first letter, was now halfway through one of his own.
“You call me yours so easily. It should alarm me… and yet it doesn’t.”
He tapped his pen thoughtfully. “Who are you?” No surname. No address. Only the letters. Dozens now.
Some romantic. Some teasing. Some so poetic that George had once gone on a walk in the rain, just to feel the heartbreak properly.
He didn’t know who this “Alex” was. But he knew how “Alex” wrote about him.
And damn it all, he liked being adored.
……
Back home, Alex’s lie had become an unstoppable force.
Carlos had created a color-coded timeline of this fictional relationship on the drawing room chalkboard. Charles had edited the grammar in all the letters. Lando had re-enacted several dramatic readings with Ben as George.
And Daniel had declared, “If this becomes a scandal, I want front-row seats and my own Whistledown column.”
Lewis remained in a constant state of unblinking suspicion.
And when Alex received a pressed violet with the next letter, Daniel screamed: “OH MY GOD, HE’S IN LOVE WITH YOU.”
Alex: “He doesn’t even know who I am!”(Yes, he revealed it after very thorough investigation by his brothers) Carlos: “Yes but he’s in love with the idea of you, which is worse!”
Ben, sitting on Charles’s lap, clapped. Unclear if in support or despair.
…….
💌
"Shall we meet, then? At the Masquerade Ball this Friday. You’ll know me by the violet on my lapel. Wear a violet on your lapel too. Yours (terrifyingly so), —G."
When Alex read those words, he dramatically fainted onto the divan. Dada Bridgerton (Mark) stepped over him. Papa Seb muttered, “I knew this would happen.” And Ben, nestled in Carlos's arms, dropped his rattle in horror.
…..
The Bridgerton brothers immediately held an emergency strategy meeting.
Lewis, exhausted but determined:
“I’ll be behind the curtain. If he proposes anything indecent, I jump out.”
Daniel, sipping brandy:
“I’ll be by the punch table. For emotional support. And snacks.”
Carlos, rocking baby Ben:
“I’ll blend in with the orchestra. Ben will wear a tiny top hat for camouflage.”
Kimi, unbothered:
“I’ll be napping under the buffet table. If anything happens, just scream.”
Lando, casually loading a fake pistol:
“I’ll be in the garden. Just in case we need to bury any evidences..”
Papa Seb, reading a newspaper upside down:
“This is the most entertained I’ve been in years. Proceed.”
…..
The moment Alex stepped into the ballroom of Lady Tsunoda’s Spring Soirée, his pulse stuttered. The air shimmered with candlelight, the swell of strings, and the press of high society — but all he could focus on was the man standing by the French windows with a violet in his lapel.
Tall. Dressed in emerald green. Honey-brown curls kissed by the chandelier’s glow. That had to be him.
George.
Their eyes met — two strangers who had been lovers in ink before ever meeting in person.
Alex walked forward, each step measured, his heart thrumming a sonnet against his ribs. George turned, his expression polite at first… and then slowly warmed, the realization blooming in his eyes like spring’s first crocus.
"You came," George said softly.
Alex gave a lopsided smile. “I did. And you… you look nothing like how I imagined.”
George blinked. “Oh?”
Alex leaned in slightly, teasing. “You're far more gorgeous.”
George laughed, and it sounded like wind chimes on a May afternoon. “And you… you’re ethereal.”
Their fingers brushed — accidental, electric. A song started. Neither spoke. They simply moved together, seamlessly, like a dance they’d been practicing their whole lives across parchment.
“I must ask,” George murmured mid-waltz, his palm resting at Alex’s waist, “was it really Dover? With the violets?”
Alex chuckled nervously. “Let’s just say… the violets were real, even if Dover wasn’t.”
George arched an eyebrow, amused and intrigued. “Then I suppose we are both liars… in the best way.”
They twirled once more, the world narrowing to just two hearts that beat in perfect measure. When the music ended, neither stepped away.
“May I court you properly?” George asked, voice quieter now. “With less ink. And more dances.”
Alex, cheeks flushed and chest full, nodded. “Yes. Yes, you may.”
And from the corner of the ballroom—
Carlos dropped Baby Ben’s spoon again. Daniel screamed. Kimi had climbed into the floral centerpiece to hide better. Lewis was already reaching for his dueling gloves. And Baby Ben? He turned to Charles, raised his arms, and silently demanded a less dramatic family.
…….
Lord Whistledown’s Society Papers
“An Ethereal Union: The Wedding of Lord Alex Bridgerton and Lord George Russell”
Dearest Readers,
In a turn of events that has melted even the coldest hearts of the ton, the mysterious “letter lover” match has blossomed into the wedding of the season. Lord Alex Bridgerton and Lord George Russell exchanged vows beneath a canopy of wildflowers, their courtship no longer confined to ink and parchment but flourishing in joyous matrimony.
The ceremony was nothing short of ethereal—an intimate gathering that balanced Bridgerton flair with Russell’s understated grace. Siblings were seen dabbing at their eyes, Baby Ben clapped enthusiastically, and even the ever-skeptical Lord Lewis appeared genuinely pleased.
One can only wonder what tales will follow this union, but for now, the ton raises its glass to a love that transcended letters and bridged hearts.
Forever your faithful gossip, Lord Whistledown
i aspire to be like george russell. imagine going:„yeah so this guy was annoying me real bad so i kinda crashed out and committed several crimes bad enough to warrant a drive through penalty and now i‘ll make the guy i committed the crimes against buy me dinner about it“
and the other guy actually doing it? incredible. what an absolute diva.
wait why i am becoming a galex fan i’m lowkey obsessed with them and their dynamic
REQUEST ARE OPEN :
1. Only F1 RPF / Football RPF
2. Only Driver X Driver / Footballer X Footballer ( ❌ X OC or X reader )
3. Not smut / nsfw ( okay for some innuendo but nothing explicit )
4. I write about specific ships , if your ship is not here so I don't write it ( they can be a Background ships ) :
✓✓ : it's a ship I KNOW
✓ : it's a ship I know we'll
~ : it's a ship where i'm not sure to write well
• : It's a ship where I don't read a lot of fic
| : Only in a platonic way
-- F1--
- Maxiel ( ✓)
- Brocedes (~)
- Yukierre (✓)
- Lesteban (✓)
- Webbonso(✓✓)
- Landoscar (~)
- Charlos (✓)
- Hulknussen (~)
- Galex ( ~ )
- Simi(•)
- Versainz ( | )
- CarCar ( | )
--Football--
- Gadri ( ✓)
- Eric Garcia/ Ferran ( ~ )
- Cubayamal ( ✓ )
- Cressi ( ~ )
- Serard ( ✓✓ )
- Jude / Mbappé ( ✓ )
- Bravertz ( ~ )
5. I'm okay with any type of trope except those who are illegal/immoral ( Mafia Au ✓ / Brother-in-law or Step-brother ❌ )
6. I give myself the right to refuse requests
(I'll often give an explanation but I won't force myself to do it if I don't see the point)
7. I only write in the third person , I don't care if it's a pov omniscient, internal or external ( like you want )
8. I can write in English or in French
That's it !
You can ask me in " Writing request/ ask "
Bye ! 👋
GALEX : area codes <3
edit idea from my dear friend @sunrisespeedway <3
Post race debrief feat. albon
Based on this tweet <3
An attempt was made
"I'm still livid," George says, as though he hasn't tucked his lips between his teeth to keep from smiling.
Alex nods with all the gravitas he can muster. George's eyes dance. "Same, of course. Blatant disregard for the rules," he adds, like he hadn't twitched in the seat when he'd realised. He's going to take the penalty. Got properly hard, uncomfortably so, when the drive through had come down and he was back in front, promised points and George's glorious, gorgeous fury.
Or something like it. "Dangerous driving," George answers. The corner of his mouth jumps before he gets it under control. "Erratic."
He doesn't sound angry, when the tiles of the Café de Tresor bathroom bounce his words around. It must be the echo, making them both sound so amused, so soft.
It's their favourite restaurant in Monaco. Not for the food - the food is meal-plan compliant, and the less said about that, the better. But there's only room for a dozen covers, so it's easy to book out for a bit of privacy. And if a gentleman over six feet puts his shoulder against the bathroom door just so, it'll jam, and provided they don't take the piss (literally), no one will ask any questions.
George is still curling his lips in, barely under control, so Alex slides his thumb between them, presses the pad into the hot wet muscle of his tongue. George's jaw opens too easily for him; he doesn't even have to dig his fingertips into the line of the bone. "Your worst race of the season," he goads, and there, finally - a flash of ire, a quick scrape of teeth around the knuckle of his thumb. Only somewhat undermined by the way George starts suckling on it, the soothing sweep of his tongue around the bite.
Fuck, but George looks good with something in his mouth. When Alex manages to get a grip on himself and extract his thumb, it's shiny wet. He presses it against George's bottom lip, gentle as a kiss.
George has gone heavy-lidded and sweet again. It's too easy to fall into well-worn grooves; Alex feels his weight sway forwards, ready to push George up against the mirror and snog him like every other time he's had a frankly disappointing Caesar salad here for the privilege of making George pick up the bill.
He just catches himself in time, avoids George's open, panting mouth and grazes his ear instead. "Twenty laps up my arse and you couldn't get past me-"
"I-” George's word is more like an exhale, shivery against Alex's neck.
"On track," Alex reminds him, and if he has to clench his fist to keep from kissing the spot where George's hairline is starting to sweat, that's his own business. George, at least, remembers the name of the game. His shoulders tighten.
"Oh, right, the track," he drawls. If they weren't honestly attempting to have much-vaunted angry sex right now, Alex would be twitterpated by it, how obviously George hates the Monaco GP and its frankly godawful layout more than he could ever actually resent Alex. All that history and glamour and prestige, nothing to a man who should've stopped seeming cooler and wiser half a decade ago at least.
But then: "I'll tell you something about the track,” George starts, and Alex has to give his waist a quick squeeze, stop him before they end up in another hour-long discussion of Mariokart innovations to prevent another insult to racing.
"George," he interrupts, too fond by half. "Be a good boy and get on your knees."
George, entirely missing the point again, does. Folds like a paper crane, right there in front of the sinks, not even trying to move them to a stall.
Alex groans as quick fingers work his belt buckle. "You really are a little exhibitionist."
George rolls his eyes. "If I had my way we'd have done this in parc ferme." He cups Alex's balls like he's assessing limes at the grocer; it is, unfortunately, effective. "Might have had a shot at getting you ruled underweight," he adds. Alex tries to focus on the cheek of it and not the heat flooding out from his pelvis. Parc ferme. Bloody hell.
"Filthy cheat." Weak, it's weak, but Alex cuts off any comeback by guiding his cock into George's mouth, a slow firm push that only just gives him time to arrange himself and open his throat. It's still ridiculous every time, to Alex, how the sharp, hard lines of George's face give way to flesh and sinew. He looks like he should be all bones, strong but light and brittle, hollow like a bird's. Instead he's warm and soft and wet, happiest choking himself on cock, heavy with wanting.
Alex has been hard, to varying degrees, for basically three hours now. What had been a dull throb for the pantomime of dinner becomes the shake of an engine now; a few seconds in the clutch of George's throat, balls still in the squeeze of his long fingers, and he's gasping. He has to get both hands on the sides of George's skull to even feign face-fucking him; even then, he's only yanking him backwards, mouth spewing nonsense like your face and close your eyes and, damningly, baby.
His aim's a little off. The first splash of cum gets George's curls where they fall over his forehead. Serves him right for keeping his hairline, Alex thinks, before he's distracted by the stripes of white across his cheeks, his mouth, his tongue. The orgasm keeps shuddering through him, on and on and on, and George doesn't even twitch, face upturned and smooth and dripping with it.
His breaths rattle off the tiles. Slowly the noise of the restaurant starts filtering back in; an ostentatious clang of pots and pans. George swallows; opens his mouth-
"If you say anything about another three second performance," Alex warns. The corner of George's mouth twitches under the stroke of his thumb.
"Wouldn't dream of it." He eases up off his knees in one sinuous, practiced movement. "But I'd like to table revisiting twenty laps up your arse."
Alex must do a poor job of keeping his face steady; the fact that the bathroom and George's smug face disappear for a second and he has to pry his eyes back open is fairly conclusive evidence. He has to play dirty to make up lost ground and drag the back of his knuckles against where George is straining the front of yet another pair of white linen trousers. "I don't think you've got two laps left in you. You look just about ready to come in your knickers."
George mewls. He shakes his head; the tracks of cum across his face veer back and forth across his skin. "Can't. M'not-”
Alex comes dangerously close to tearing fabric as he jerks George's trousers - and just his trousers - open and down to his knees. His cock is blushing red against his stomach; Alex has to ruck the thin material of George's shirt up out of the way to avoid an incriminating stain. George's abs jump under his hot palm. Looks like two laps was optimistic.
"You absolute whore," Alex murmurs. He's not even trying to be mean now; it's awe that drops his voice half an octave. George tries to cant his hips into Alex's grip.
"Wait." He grabs George's shoulder, spins him round to tuck himself up against his back. His dick's still soft and spent, but it makes his lungs warm to feel how snug he fits up against the swell of George's bare arse. They're opposite the full length mirror, so he can look past the line of George's panting profile and see all of him on display, tan skin and red tongue and white knuckles all together.
George doesn't try to fight him on the move, pliant and desperate in his hands. Alex will have to try harder at home if he wants to get the grappling and biting he hoped for. Say something about Carmen, perhaps.
He can't blame George entirely for it. Even as he gets his hand around him and squeezes, he can't find it in him to make it hurt. His other hand tracks up George's chest, over a hard nipple and up to his neck. Featherlight.
At least in the mirror they look cruel to each other, Alex's big palm wrapped around his throat. Their reflections look fevered, unhinged. More normal than they've ever managed to be. The love beating a hole in Alex's chest - that can't be seen.
He refocuses on where George's cock slides on his grip, slippery with need. George's head drops back to his shoulder. There's a line of cum, Alex's cum, sliding over one of his cliff-edge cheekbones; Alex licks it up, heedless of the bitterness. It might be that more than the loose strokes that sends George over. His cum pulses weakly over Alex's knuckles.
For a moment the frame of the mirror captures them like a portrait: George, wrecked. Alex behind, holding him like a saint cradles a martyr. And then they meet each others' eyes and Alex couldn't say who grins first, only that neither of them can stop.
They lurch towards the sinks in perfect lockstep. George has to duck his whole face down, scrub at his hairline. Alex takes the opportunity while he's distracted to lick two fingers clean, before shoving his hands under the tap.
When George looks up again, his curls are damp and his eyes are bright. Alex catches his eye and he makes a face, absurd eyebrows raised, mouth pouting, conveying absolutely nothing except the general ridiculousness of George William Russell. There is no excuse for Alex laughing so hard he ends double, except that George follows him over, and it's as they're straightening up that Alex decides, sod it, and kisses him, open and soft and long, catching George's laughter like sunlight on his tongue.
It's a pathetic attempt at hatesex, to be honest, 0 out of 10, and Alex is going to be embarrassed when Carlos asks about it, given his effusive recommendations. But he can't bring himself to care.
Besides. It's a triple header. There's always next time.
f1rpf race roll
roll two 20-sided dice 🎲
watch the race (and the grid positions that match your rolls) 👀
the drivers who place as your numbers are your ship 💋
write a ficlet, sketch something, weave a web, make a gif, etc ✨
For anyone who has never seen the video behind the Portugal throat infection, here it is:
I am a supporter of screwing everyone over in a really mean and petty way if it means George and Alex have makeup sex afterwards.
I remember first getting into f1 and the first things I learned about the drivers. I learned that Max Verstappen was the youngest driver to ever be in f1. I learned that Charles Leclerc has the longest contract in Ferrari history. And the first thing I learned about George Russell and Alex Albon is that one time they pushed their tiny beds together and gave each other a throat infection.
the best of: George Russell and Alex Albon Take On The Compliment Challenge
Do you see the vision?
blah blah blah put kimi antonelli in the williams and move carlos to mercedes blah blah blah
YOURE ALL WRONG
put kimi antonelli in the williams of ALEX ALBON and move alex up to mercedes.
brocedes 2.0 except theyre nice to each other and they care about each other and its not really brocedes even though theyre besties since childhood and in silver mercs.
because galex would be nice to each other. anti-brocedes. the opposite of brocedes would happen to them i think. and that would just destroy brocedes because that means for them that nico and lewis just did not have to do all that shit and were more willing to sacrifice themselves and their love for each other than race wins and it was all for nothing in the end.
it would be fun i think. loscar should do it too but they should unlock some secret third ending (im delusional abt logan sargeant redemption arc with cadillac. IT WILL HAPPEN PEOPLE) because loscar is just like, some other beast all together.
absolutely wild that alex keeps making insinuations about loscar as if he isn’t the one who has allegations with george made on sky sports