It's An Endless Cycle.

AU:Model industry part.2 (part.1)

Pecco wants to do A LOT of things to his ex best friend aka childhood crush Alex Marquez (idea)

FUCKING EXCUUUSE ME?? I DIDNT KNOW THEY WERE FORCED TO TALK ABT IT??? IM GAGGED?????

rosquez x car’s outside

how marc hugs and interacts w/ other riders vs w/ Valentino

Why did I do this to myself-

kind of cooking with the rosquez fic I’m writing rn

we’re at ~ 5,500 words and I really like it so far

DORIANE DORIANE DORIANNEEEE

sapphic category 5 event

Dude I loved your fic, it was so good!!

Alex being so concerned for Marc, Marc causing trouble even if he's half awake. Valentino actually showing up. So good!!

(Also, someone save Alex, bro is going through it)

akdhdishdishdjks thank you so much!!

Marc’s a gremlin, he’s incapable of not causing trouble/giving both Álex and Vale aneurysms at any given moment

and yes Álex really is going through it, joint trauma from both Marc and Franky hitting him smack in the face. But dw, he definitely has a cuddle date scheduled with Franky for after he’s done checking up on Marc <3

It’s Easter (one of my fav holidays ❤️), OP is a 3 time race winner this season, he’s now leading the championship, we got an Oscar-Max-Charles podium… yeah, life is good

truly insane behavior

(on max v george)

lando: "oscar told me he had some interesting opinions on it."

oscar: "being teammates with you is so fun."

peak f1

“Anonymous Rose” — Sharks n’ Roses — 900 words

The way every last muscle in Pedro’s body aches feels impossible. Every step feels like opening a door with hinges that haven’t been oiled in years, and he can practically hear the creak his bones make with every footfall. It’s a little ridiculous; he had only just gotten done with FP1, for crying out loud. It didn’t bode well for his weekend that he was already feeling like this.

He keeps his head down as he walks back to his garage, having just discarded his leathers and not wanting to meet anyone’s eye in the event that he might be dragged into a conversation. Distantly, he wonders if he might be getting sick. It would certainly explain a lot.

He almost gets stopped several times on the short walk, but he manages to dodge team members and non-team members alike until he’s safely in his garage, mentally preparing himself to go through the data from the practice session.

It’s just then that he hears a voice from behind call, “Pedro!”

Briefly, he considers not turning to face whoever it is who wants his attention now, but he quickly decides against it. It could be something genuinely important, so he turns to face the mechanic that called for him. The mechanic smiles. “An anonymous fan left this for you!”

Pedro is just about to snap at him for the unnecessary interruption, but then he catches sight of what the mechanic is referring to.

His eyes fail him.

No, his entire body fails him. Every muscle in his body tightens into one big, wound-up coil, his fight or flight response triggered in a split second as he desperately tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. He can’t move his eyes away from that outstretched hand, from what’s in that outstretched hand, can’t speak.

He only just manages to tear his gaze away to see who’s even holding it. It’s one of his mechanics, still smiling wide like he’s delivering great news, like he’s not reframing Pedro’s entire reality in a handful of seconds and even fewer words. Because in his hand… right there, right in front of him, is…

“Where,” Pedro whispers, swallowing around a dry throat, “did you get that.”

It’s a rose.

It’s a beautiful, fresh, red rose. The kind of rose he hasn’t been given since several years ago, before he’d made the decision that the championship was the most important thing he could ever have in his life, that it was worth giving up every other good thing he already did have. Back when it wasn’t a strange occurrence to climb into his truck and see a random rose sitting on the dash, a beautiful smile coming from the passenger side to go along with it.

He doesn’t have that smile anymore. Hasn’t had it for a long time. Maybe that’s why it feels like his lungs are collapsing inside his chest.

The mechanic gives him a strange look, but Pedro doesn’t particularly care how shocked he looks or how blanched his face is or what kind of rumors are going to go swirling around his garage after this. He just needs to know where that awful, lovely flower came from.

It must be visible in his eyes, the need to know, because the mechanic finally opens his mouth—albeit with furrowed eyebrows.

“Uh, well,” he begins, and Pedro gets the feeling that he isn’t going to like where this is going, “we don’t really know. It was anonymous, remember?”

“Then who gave it to you?”

The mechanic shrugs. “One of the track marshals. Said that someone told her to give it to you, but she didn’t say who. Just that it was an anonymous fan who payed enough to make the trip here worth the bother.”

Under his breath, Pedro curses everything north, south, and sideways.

“Of course,” he mutters.

The mechanic gestures with the rose. “Just take the flower, Pedro. Someone wanted you to have it because they’re a fan, it doesn’t matter who. It’s just a nice thought.”

It’s with no small amount of reluctance that Pedro reaches out and plucks the rose from his hand. He hates how even after all this time, the weight and feel of the flower is still familiar, hates how it brings back memories that he’s tried hard to bury because he thought that it was necessary. The right thing to do. The smart thing.

He’s too busy staring down at it to notice the mechanic walking off with a bewildered shake of the head, only seeing the rose and the way its petals spiral tighter and tighter together the closer they get to the middle. His eyes are drawn outward, to a petal on the edge that catches his attention. It’s drooping over, clearly past the point of being fresh, and he’s reaching a hand up to pluck it off and dispose of it when he stops.

Pauses.

Reconsiders.

Maybe he doesn’t actually want to get rid of that petal.

Maybe he wants the petal to stay there.

Maybe, just maybe, he wants to keep it.

He thinks of fresh and dead petals, the things he’s kept and cut out, of a rose on the dashboard of a truck and a blinding smile at his side. Of an anonymous fan giving him a rose.

Pedro stares and stares and stares.

He’s not so sure it was a fan.