They Should Arrive To The Paddock Like This One Day

Hi why is no one talking about this? Someone sedate me pls

Never ever letting this article rest.

Alain still got these dreams, from time to time, about the past, about him...

bgm: 李琦 - 金玉良缘 & The Dø - Dust it off

If we had to do it all again, I think I'd say to Ayrton, 'Listen, we're the best, we can screw all the others!' With a lot of intelligence, it could have been such a good dream.

—— Alain Prost (in 1998)

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

10 + botapinto 😁

brargentina yaoi served fresh.

Franco is only ever available when he’s bored. 

A 2am ‘u up?’ text and a quizzical emoji, sometimes a kissy face, sometimes a devil. Gabriel considers ghosting him, but Franco sends a pic, shirtless in a bathroom with droplet stains all across the mirror. The waistband of his shorts dips below his adonis belt, a trail of hair getting lost in the nether. And Gabi is only a man…

wanna come over

The question should get a no for an answer. It’s tiring being the casual hook up, the one night stand for the boring weekends. But Gabi stares at the picture again, thinking of the warmth of his mouth, the hunger of his body. His cock twitches in sympathy and he texts ‘only if you pay the uber’. One e-transfer later and he’s pressing the little call up button to let Franco know he’s downstairs, a buzz, a door opening and then two flights of stairs. 

“What took you so long?” Franco asks as he opens the door, naked save for flimsy boxers and white ankle high socks. 

Gabi doesn’t have time to answer, the door closes behind him and Franco’s mouth is on him, a desperate chase of lips and tongue, a hand cradling his neck, another reaching for his ass. 

The zipper of his jeans falls and so do his pants with them, his underwear is already strained, and Franco makes him take off his shirt with nails that feel like knives at his back. 

“God you are so hot,” Franco says before he’s leaning in, dragging teeth down his chest, kissing, licking, biting every inch of skin he can find. Franco’s painfully hard, his erection rubbing against Gabi’s thigh. He’s so fucking desperate, it’d be sort of pathetic if Gabi wasn’t so fucking turned on by it. 

“Let me fuck your mouth,” he blurts out, breathless by the sight of Franco’s flushed chest. 

“Another day,” Franco winks, taking Gabriel’s hand “I already prepped, come on.” 

The bedroom smells of vanilla air freshener and axe deodorant. Franco pushes Gabi to the bed, shrugs off his underwear like it’s on fire and climbs over him.  

“Are you even clean?” Gabi asks. 

Franco looks at him with a frown, deeply offended. “I’m not a prostitute, mate,” mate… you are trying to ride my dick and you are calling me mate, alright. “I’m clean as a fucking plate, you could eat off my ass.”

Gabi grimaces. “I’d rather not.”

He rolls his eyes, fumbling diva catching his breath before a performance. “Shut the fuck up.” Franco places Gabriel’s hands on his waist before he settles in, hand reaching for Gabriel’s cock, guiding it into the heat of his puckered hole bit by bit. 

Every time they do this, Gabi wakes up feeling like the world's stupidest clown, honking nose and all. But this is all he ever wants, this warmth, Franco crying out his name as he bounces on his cock, desperate, wanton moans as precums leaks out of him. Gabi kisses his neck, the column of his throat, the scar across his collarbone, takes into his mouth the silver cross he always wears and sucks as he tries to jerk him off while Franco loses track of himself, mumbling and cursing and shouting. 

Gabi wonders how soundproof the walls are, how likely they are to get an angry neighbour pounding on their door, how likely someone is to be jealous, to want what he has now. He’ll regret it in the morning, but for now his lips part and his teeth sink into the junction where shoulder meets neck and Franco shouts, leaking all over Gabriel’s stomach. 

The bite was deep enough to draw blood. Gabi comes from the sight of it alone.

if the lego car race had happened in 2024...

merry christmas, please don't call - brocedes

at the end of the day i can't really judge people's charles ships because i don't ship him with much of anyone. he doesn't have time for all that he's trapped in a haunted house. stop looking for romance route dialogue options because there are none we are trying to escape the dungeon and i think i can hear something moving behind that corner. the only other human presence here is "DON'T WASTE IT" smeared in blood on the wall as environmental storytelling. like why would he concern himself with kissing someone when he's trying to decipher the vague whispers of The Ancient Beast