readinguponstuff

[readinguponstuff]

revealing myself as the author of this kinkmeme fic & cross-posting here bc why not! romeo & juliet au

Shoving his way through the dancing bodies, Max searches for something to bring him relief from his pounding head, his sweating palms. The faces belonging to the bodies are all blurred, occasionally shifting into focus to reveal the gold-trimmed, bold-coloured masks that most of the partygoers have opted for in place of a real costume.

The metal armour of Max’s own creaks as he moves, but the noise is lost underneath the thrumming of the bass. It repeats only inside his head with every step he takes, the memory of it captured earlier in the quiet of Helmut’s drawing room as he and the boys had prepared to leave.

Don’t go making trouble tonight, they had been warned, but that had before the endless shots hand delivered by Gianni, the pill Martin had presented to him with a sly grin.

Let ’s have some fucking fun.

The fun burnt up just as fast as the ecstasy in Max’s bloodstream, until all that remained of the vibrant colours and wondrous elation was his pounding heart and the grinding of his back teeth.

Stumbling out from the crowd, he makes his way back to the same bathroom he and Martin had giggled their way out of only an hour or so earlier. With shaking hands he plugs and fills the sink, dipping his head underneath the gold faucet when it is only halfway full because he can’t wait a second longer to fill his burning throat with cold liquid. When it’s near the point of overflowing, he dunks his entire face into the bowl.

The cold has prickles erupt over his scolding cheeks, like a thousand tiny needles dancing on the surface of his skin. It’s a pleasurable pain, sweet relief followed quickly with a growing, then agonising discomfort. Lifting his head when he can take no more, he stares at himself in the jewel-framed mirror, watching the water slide down his face and drip from his chin as he pants.

His silver mask floats on top of the cool pool or water, but he doesn’t move to place it back over his eyes.

Let them throw him out; he’s ready to go home anyway.

He swipes a hand over his face, and then across his head. Hours ago he had a helmet as part of his costume, and he wishes he still did to hide his dripping wet hair. It’s long since been lost in the chaos of the evening.

Nobody throws a party like Horner. Max’s pupils are still dilated, his cheeks still flushed pink in testament to that well-regarded fact.

The flush of a toilet behind him disturbs his dissociation and has him pushing away from the sink. He means to make his way back towards the party, but his steps are sluggish and lingering, unsure of where to go. Gianni was his ride, but only a few moments before Max had escaped from the sweating mass of dancers he’d spied him at the bar, helping himself to a bottle of whiskey.

Away from the main hall, the music is quieter, a low murmur punctuated only by the vibration through the floorboards underneath Max’s feet. Every room he has seen has the same garish decor, crystal chandeliers glistening overhead, rich velvet drapes of royal red and forest green drawn across every window to conceal the depravity occurring inside from the respectable front the Horner family portray to the outside. This one, stuck between the place where they snort their drugs and the place where they dance them away is no different.

Showing off their new money Helmut would scoff, like he didn’t compete for the same back alley jobs as Christian, didn’t fill the same corrupt officer’s pockets, just on different days of the week.

To Max, a beautiful thing is a beautiful thing.

Glancing around with awe that would no doubt have his father disown him, something sparkles in the corner of Max’s eye, capturing his attention. Turning towards it, he sees it is the ripple of water trapped inside an enormous tank he didn't notice earlier. Fish every shade of the rainbow gliding through it with ease.

The colours are so bold that Max almost wants to rub his eyes again. To pinch himself, remind himself that it is time to wake himself up from his drug-induced stupor, but- 

As he steps closer to the glass with a small smile, eyes tracing the movement of the beautiful creatures, something warmer slides into focus.

Deep brown eyes tracing the same fish Max is, wide in a kind of wonder. Then, meeting his through the ripples of water, wider still.

Max’s breath catches in his throat, as he blinks the rest of the face into focus. In an instance, every extravagance of the evening fades into insignificance, becomes a poor imitation of the beauty held in the teasing curve of lips that the stranger offers him through the glass when Max cannot tear his gaze away.

There’s more than lovely eyes; dark curls, a proud nose and tanned skin. Against the white feathered wings that sit just above his shoulders, it looks the colour of honey and Max imagines would be just as sweet to taste. There is dark ink snaking across his bared collarbones like vines that speak of nothing angelic, and instead only of Max’s desire to consume.

Is this what it feels like, to fall in love?

Hello, Max mouthes almost helplessly through the layers of glass and captive ocean between them. When the man only raises an eyebrow, questioning, Max raises a hand and waves.

This gets him laughed at. Instead of embarrassment, it’s pleasure that has his cheeks burn as a giggle slips from his own lips, fogging the glass in front of him. He resists the urge to press his face against it to see the man better.

Instead, he steps to the left, meaning to move around the fish tank and see the man with only air and no water between them. Wants to move closer until there’s nothing between them at all.

The man seems to have other ideas. 

He steps quickly in the opposite direction to which Max walks, teasing. Max stops, raising his eyebrows in his own question, but the man only bites his lip as though trying to hide his grin. Around them, people pass by- or at least they must. Max hardly notices, as though the world has narrowed to only the two of them.

Max steps backwards and again the man evades by stepping back in the direction he just came. For a few moments, they continue like this. No matter which way Max moves, the man dances the opposite way, no longer trying to hide his smirk. Max finds that despite it being at his expense it is a smile easy to return, the way no other has been before it.

Finally, the man's face splits into joyous laughter that Max can just about hear. His body tumbles against the glass as though he has knocked himself from his feet with his own silliness, the palms of both his hands pressing against it. On several of his fingers, there are gold rings that the light through the water dances off.

Max finds himself laughing also, raising his own hands to touch the tank, as though he could press against the man's skin through it.

When the laughing has subsided, the man steps back, raising one finger to beckon Max to him. Max goes, powerless against his need to give this stranger whatever he wants. This time, he doesn’t move when Max steps around the tank until they are face to face with no body of water between them.

“Hello,” Max says again, and this time he doesn’t wave. His blood is hot from their game, thrumming in his veins. Now it is easy to see the rest of the man's costume, a white slip that meets the floor, the hem edged with golden thread.

It is normal at these parties, for men to go in women's clothing. Martin himself is tonight sporting a denim mini skirt and strapless, tiny top borrowed from Victoria for the occasion. This man's outfit is much more tasteful, of course.

A good girl, Max wants to say nonsensically, just to see if he could get the man to blush.

There is no modesty, however. Instead, there is a slit in the fabric of the skirt that travels all the way up to the man's hipbone, a plunging neckline. One strap is dangling just off his shoulder, and it would only take one nudge of Max’s fingertips to reveal his tit, his nipple that would no doubt be the same rose colour as his mouth. This knowledge feels particularly indecent to the lion prowling in Max’s chest, looking to devour.

Though raised to be classy in his own way, reserved and polite, his upbringing abandons him in favour of molten desire pooling in his stomach as he steps closer, and closer, until the man's back is pressed firmly against the wall behind him.

His fingertips itch with the need to touch, but is places them instead on the brick at either side of the man’s head. He’s still laughing; Max wonders if he knows how not to.

“A knight in shining armour,” the man says, eyes sliding from Max’s face down to his toes, in a way that makes Max want to strip it all from his body, lay his flesh bare for more of the same interested gaze. “Very original.”

The teasing edge to his voice is bolder than Max is used to from strangers, startling more laughter from him also.

“What, you do not like it?” He asks, placing a hand over his breastplate, where just underneath his heart is beating for a different reason than the drugs. “I suppose, of course, a fairy is much better.”

He lowers one of his hands to tug playfully at the feathered wing protruding between the man’s back and the brick wall Max has him backed up against.

It is the stranger’s turn to sound affronted.

“I’ll have you know, I’m an angel,” he insists, and he mimes looping a halo around his dark curls with an outstretched index finger. “I just lost my halo dancing.”

Max smirks, then presses a thumb to the man’s plush bottom lip. Immediately, his eyelids flutter shut and his mouth slips open. Hearing his breath hitch has Max’s cock- trapped inside his stupid costume- twitch with interest.

“How lucky,” he murmurs, leaning in so the words are half breathed across the angel’s parted lips, “that you fell from heaven, just for me.”

Girls in his position would usually swoon at Max’s interest, but the man laughs and throws his head back, his eyes still closed. It makes his curls fan out against the dark brickwork, makes his body arch up into Max’s.

“You need to get some better chat up lines,” he says, but his voice is breathy, like he cannot drag enough air into his lungs to make the insult land the way it should. Max silences him by pressing his hips harder against him, unable to help flick his gaze downwards, desperate to see where the man is pressed into Max’s body, wanting to know- Unable to feel because of the hard metal separating them.

If only he was wearing nothing more than an elaborate bedsheet, like-

“Tell me your name,” Max pleads, hand moving from the man’s lips to the back of his head, wanting to protect his delicate-looking curls from the rough scrape of the wall.

The man's eyes slit open again. It sends a thrill through Max, how the man can look him dead in the eye the way the women he’s had never can.

“Where would be the fun in that?” He asks. His hands have fallen by his sides, palms flat against the wall behind him, as though caught somewhere between surrender and submission.

Max makes a noise of consideration, before dropping his mouth down daringly to press against the ink on the man’s shoulder. This close, he can see that they are tiny rose buds in various states of bloom.

“I can think of other ways we can have fun,” Max counters, slotting a leg between the man’s thighs. He hisses, hips rutting against Max, as his lips continue to graze over the delicate skin of his throat. “I could have lots of fun with you, in my bed.”

He would be lying to say it didn’t give him some kind of thrill, taking something so beautiful for himself under the roof of his lifelong enemies, in front of their eyes, but at the same time- This was more. A treasure too precious to be shared.

Even so, Max’s hand snakes under the skirt of his costume, finding the deliciously smooth skin of his angel's inner thigh.

“Let me take you home,” he pleads again, nose brushing against his, as his fingertips inch higher and higher. “Just having this has ruined me for anyone else, I-”

There’s a flurry of noise behind him, the sound of shouts and a door crashing open. Still, it takes the calling of his name in Martin’s frantic tones to have Max dragging his face away from the strangers, looking over his shoulder.

“Max!” Martin says, his pleading face coming into focus, penetrating the light of Max’s personal heaven “Mate, we have to run. Gianni’s been found out, and-“

He pauses, looking between Max’s face and then his lover's. Eyes growing wide, Max is about to ask what the fuck the matter is when Martin is clutching his arm hard and yanking him away with a few forceful tugs.

“What the fuck!” Max spits, looking apologetically back to the man, except-

Except his own eyes are wide now, with fear. They’re fixed on the pendant that Martin wears around his neck, Helmut’s crest, which has slipped from underneath his costume.

“Really, Max, we need to- I don’t think you want Horner to catch you feeling up his golden boy,” Martin says again, desperate, and everything finally slots into place inside Max’s love-drugged brain.

“Daniel,” he whispers, glancing back at his- At the angel.

“Max,” is all he replies, something between salvation and despair. Then, pushing off from the wall and reaching as though to catch Max’s hand, he says firmer, “wait, Max-“

But Max is already running.

---

Later, in Gianni’s car, Martin doesn’t excitedly tell the story of how he caught Max nearly fucking the son of their enemy, the way he would had it been any other conquest. Some lines, in their world, are too bold and bloody to cross.

Instead, he sneaks quiet glances at Max as they drive away from the Horner mansion, as though there is a question burning on the tip of his tongue that he doesn’t dare to ask. It becomes so irritating that Max has to close his eyes.

In the darkness behind his lids, he sees Daniel again. This time, there is the shine of a halo above his head that illuminates the rest of him, bathes him in gold. The knowledge of who he is does nothing to sever the pull Max’s heart feels towards his, his only regret of the evening being he didn’t take more while it was so ripe and real underneath his fingertips.

“Max,” Gianni questions, but his voice sounds far away as though Max’s ears are in the water of the fish tank. “What has gotten you so mellow? Too much to drink?”

Martin scoffs, something pitifully knowing in his voice.

“He’s gone and fallen in love.”

#oh my gooood #daniel reaching out oh dear #absolutely amazing #fic rec #maxiel #max/daniel

[readinguponstuff]

#good god #indecent behaviour pls you're in public!!!!!! #screaming crying etc #thank you leah for such an accurate analysis #galex

[readinguponstuff]

hey al! I noticed bianca was wearing her glasses in the helmet during practice

I've never seen it before maybe it's just because they tend to get laser eye surgery if they do have glasses (even tho charles also wears glasses outside of race weekends sometimes) or lenses so I was wondering if you know about any rules or regulations around glasses while racing??

Hello,

You are allowed to wear glasses under the helmet if you need them

There just haven’t been that many drivers who have needed them

Jacques Villeneuve wore glasses - he actually had a prescription visor at some point

Sebastien Bourdais also wore glasses

Nico Rosberg wore contact lenses - you can see how red his eyes are after certain races

Nico Hulkenberg had his eyes corrected like 10 years ago or something- but he wore glasses before then

Then Alexander Sims wore glasses under his helmet in FE

There’s no rules prohibiting it but I guess they’d have to be careful about material and shape of the glasses - all of the ones I’ve seen have been pretty thin lightweight frames, I would assume that contact lenses are probably more comfortable to wear inside a helmet than glasses

#the glasses wearer representation we needed #a prescription visor fucks tho ngl #prev absolutely true

[readinguponstuff]

Saw some geese today and it made me think of your goose soulmate au (one of my favs)

🪿🖤🪿🖤🪿🖤🪿🖤🪿🖤

2.5k max/daniel -- max gets the goose this time!

The first time you kiss your soulmate, a goose will honk.

Well. If you are not so dumb that the actual goose needs to show up and violently escort you to your soulmate. Although Max guesses the goose would also honk then as well. More loudly in person, probably.

Years ago when Max first started dating Kelly, Daniel had asked him, “Did you hear honks?”

It was a personal question. Quite rude.

Daniel cares so much about the stupid soulmate goose. He kisses girls early, doesn’t let things get serious if they don’t hear the honks. The most he offers them is a friends with bennies situation, in his stupid words. It sounds worse than nothing, to Max. To have Daniel and not get to keep him.

Max had lied and said yes, he heard honks.

Daniel had stared and stared, had to shake himself out of it like it was a trance. He was jealous, maybe. Because he wanted to find his own soulmate so bad.

Max doesn’t actually care about soulmates. He wouldn’t let a stupid bird tell him who to be with. It’s an advantage, maybe, of knowing you’ll anyway never get to be with the person you want the most. You’re free. You can just be with who you choose.

So that’s what Max does. He chooses Kelly and it’s lovely and it’s easy and then a goose with shiny white feathers appears in their apartment and scares the shit out of the cats. It blinks at Max, tranquil. Leans against his calves.

It’s never a good sign for a goose to come if you are already with your partner.

Kelly looks crestfallen.

“Here,” Max says. He scoops the bird up into his arms and somehow doesn’t get bitten. He takes him out onto the balcony. “He can fly, right?” Max calls, holding the goose over the ledge. “He won’t get hurt if I do this?”

“You better not,” Kelly says.

“Well.” Max puts him on the concrete balcony floor instead, closes the sliding door to shut him out. The cats tentatively come over to peer through the glass, their little noses smearing the glass. The goose just stares back, big sweet eyes.

“Max,” Kelly says, like she’s already made up her mind.

“It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t care. He can lead me to whoever and I can kiss them so he goes away. Then everything can be the same.”

Kelly shakes her head. She said this before, how it would be over if either one of them got a soulmate goose. She believes in it. She wants her own soulmate; Max sees the way it eats at her, not knowing the when or if. She’d never want to take someone else’s soulmate away.

“I don’t care about them,” Max says. He doesn’t. Whoever this goose leads him to will just be a stranger–it’s not going to be–Max doesn’t want to start all over. Moving the Daniel pieces in his heart around like a sliding puzzle, always only just the one open space left to give anyone else. He gave that blank space to Kelly and he’s happy like this. Everything is fine like it is.

He kisses her, desperate, locks eyes with the goose. The goose stares back through the glass, shakes his head mournfully.

Fuck.

—

The goose doesn’t try to lead him anywhere for ten months.

He befriends the cats and even lets them lick his silky feathers with their sandpaper tongues. He sits with Max while he plays FIFA and lets Max cry into his feathers when he finds a little rubber ducky under the cabinet toekick. They’re still–he still gets to see them a lot. It’s okay.

Kelly gets a soulmate goose and finds her soulmate before Max’s goose has taken any more initiative than pecking at Max’s pantry door for his gross freeze-dried crickets.

Max just has a goose friend now.

Martijn lets himself in one day and catches Max sleeping snuggled up with his goose and laughs so hard he chokes on his own spit. He says he thinks the goose is Max’s real soulmate, advises Max to kiss him and see if he honks. Max kisses the goose’s beak and the goose just shakes his head sadly. Martijn has another laughing coughing fit.

—

The goose never goes to races with him. He likes it in the apartment, stays there for race weekends. Max knows soulmate geese can take care of themselves and they don’t even actually need to eat no matter how much this one loves crickets. But Max still hires people to look after the goose while he's away.

Max is glad he didn’t actually drop him off the balcony since he maybe can’t fly after all.

Martijn tells Daniel about the goose once, at Red Bull hospitality. Daniel gets huge eyes, keeps saying, “What?” keeps laughing all strange and peeled apart, saying he thought Max and Kelly were soulmates. He asks to meet the goose and Max laughs it off, feeling sick imagining his goose just eating crickets and looking at Daniel blankly.

Daniel buys the goose a little bow tie with honey badgers on it and gives it to Max. He says, “I wanna make a good impression, so he likes me when we meet,” and it for sure doesn’t mean anything. It’s how Daniel is, friendly and wanting everyone to like him. Even other people’s soulmate geese. But it makes Max feel like he’s the one falling off the balcony, hoping to fly, hoping Daniel will catch him.

Daniel tries to come over a few times and Max just gives him excuses.

—

It’s winter break when it happens. They’re in Monaco since the goose doesn’t like to do things and Max didn’t want to leave him home alone for the holidays. His family came to him. The goose goes from gently tolerating hugs from Max’s nephews to flapping his wings, urgently pulling on the hem of Max’s jeans with his beak. Max thinks it’s a freeze-dried cricket emergency, but then he’s hauling Max to the door.

“It’s happening!” Victoria screams. “I’ll get your bag.”

“Oh, oh, oh!” His mum starts snapping pictures.

Max says, “Oh my god.”

—

“I have my own plane,” Max explains for the sixteenth time.

The goose makes him drive to the fucking airport, makes them walk to the goose-height information display. It’s the busiest it ever is, surging crowds and glittering Christmas trees.

People see.

The goose pecks at a flight to Charles de Gaulle.

People photograph.

Geese never give you the courtesy of telling you your final destination. You just have to book all the stops as one-ways. They have a special goose price though, so that is at least not so rude.

Max wonders how his goose is going to fly alongside the plane the whole way when he doesn’t even like to run after the cats’ sparkly balls for exercise.

In Paris, Max’s phone lights up with messages from everyone who’s seen the photos of him. There’s one from Daniel. It says, Reckon your soulmate’s French?

Max replies, I hope not.

Word has gotten out and people are filming him the second he gets off the plane, surrounding his goose who is already waiting. He looks calm and unruffled like he maybe hitched a ride on the wing or something.

They go to the goose flight information display. Thank god.

Max shuts his eyes.

When he opens them, his goose is pecking Singapore.

Oh god.

Max maybe takes pictures with people and might respond to questions but he doesn’t know. He feels so scared he’s numb with it, heart beating hard like it’s trying to break apart the ice in his bloodstream.

It can’t be– It will be somewhere else and he’ll know for sure and he can start over with someone else. This person at his final destination or whoever else is okay with someone being supposedly soulmates with someone they don’t care about.

Max doesn’t hope.

Max can’t help but hope.

In Singapore, he picks up his significantly more ruffled-looking goose and takes him into the toilets. “Just tell me it’s not him,” Max says. “Please. Just tell me.”

The goose just looks back at him, big sweet eyes.

“Please.” Max is starting to cry now, brushing his eyes. The metal bracelet from his mum presses against his skin, cool and grounding. “It’s not correct to just let me hope and be sad–just. Fucking. Here.”

Max pulls up flights departing from Singapore on his phone, zooms in until one destination takes up the whole screen. He scrolls. And scrolls.

When it says PER, he stops scrolling. He waits. His hand shakes so much the bright letters smear. The goose doesn’t say anything.

“It doesn’t mean Checo,” Max whispers. “This one is Perth.”

The goose doesn’t do anything.

Max wants to throw up.

He scrolls more and more, faster and faster. He doesn’t care that he’s not giving the goose enough time to actually read them, he doesn’t fucking care. Maybe he will fly back home.

But then the goose pecks the screen so he stops and it’s–

PER.

Another one.

Max zooms out.

The goose pecks at the departure time and nods sagely.

It is good to leave time to buy their ticket.

“Fuck,” Max says, and cries and cries.

He has a text from Daniel: Singapore, huh?

Max doesn’t know what to say, how to be brave.

He buys his ticket online, keeps his boarding pass private and shielded. He doesn’t go to the gate until they make a last call for boarding.

He doesn’t see anyone take his picture, but he is about five fucking seconds from passing out, hasn’t remembered to eat or drink anything in hours and hours.

He hasn’t slept.

When the flight lands, his phone pings so much. Max can’t bring himself to check it.

He smells like the gross travel-specific kind of body odour, pits staining his polo. His mouth tastes bad. His hair is worse than balaclava-messy and his face probably looks like someone gave a zombie cocaine.

There’s a huge fucking crowd at the gate, so someone obviously caught him back in Singapore. Fuck. Daniel will at least have time to figure out how to tell Max his goose is fucking crazy, that they are both wrong: the goose for thinking it’s Daniel and Max for being in love with him.

Max is frozen, holding people up. His goose steps up next to him and tries to encourage him to go, a gentle press of his wing. Max walks.

Then: “Max!”

Lots of Australian people have been calling his name, people pressing in on all sides, but this sounded like–

Daniel.

Daniel, tanned and beautiful, in soft shorts and a lavender tank, big arm hole open where he’s waving a hand up high, showing off his armpit that probably isn’t disgusting like Max’s.

Max is in a fever dream for sure.

The goose urges Max along so he walks over to Daniel. He can’t hear anything, like maybe people aren’t talking anymore or maybe his eardrums have stopped working just like his brain.

“Hiya,” Daniel says, grinning so big and fond like it’s the best day of his life.

“Hello,” Max says, insane and fucked forever.

“Bought a ticket to Bali,” Daniel says. “I ain’t goin’.”

Max says, “Oh.”

“Aw, Max. He’s not wearing his bow tie!” Daniel laments. “Good thing I brought him another.” He sounds extra Australian. Brought ‘im anotha.

Daniel pulls a soft red bow tie out of his pocket, the colour of a kiss. The goose sticks his neck out, ready. Daniel ties it and the goose rubs his cheek against Daniel’s hand.

“Why are you here,” Max says.

Daniel’s eyes get wide and he does that thing he does with his thumb gliding over each of his fingernails one by one. The goose pats his hand until he stops. “Came to drive you to meet your soulmate, hey.”

Max might die. “Oh.”

“No, Max, obviously I’m–” Daniel looks around at everyone looking at them, swallows. His cheeks are pink. “Like. You know why I’m here, right?”

“Is it because you want a picture with me?” Max asks, grinning because he’s maybe oxygen-deprived.

“Yeah, baby! A Max Verstappen was coming to a city near me, couldn’t miss my chance to–”

Max lunges forward and kisses him. People whoop and catcall and the goose honks and honks and honks.

Max pulls back remembering he smells fucking disgusting, but Daniel is just staring with big wet eyes, looking all wavy through Max’s big wet eyes staring back.

Daniel takes Max’s hand in his. “C’mon,” he says.

“Are we going to Bali, Daniel?”

“Nah. Got some people I want you to meet.”

The goose follows them out into the Kiss and Fly car park Daniel probably wasn’t supposed to use.

Max gestures to his goose. “Shouldn’t he be going away now that we kissed? He honked!”

“Aww, he got really attached to you, Max. He’s gonna miss you too much.”

Max climbs into the car, body feeling too big for his skin now that they’re somewhere almost private, now that he can maybe say all the things he wants, all the things he needs– “Daniel.”

Daniel climbs in too. “Yeah?” He stares. “Fuck, Max.”

“Daniel, come on. It says on the sign. Kiss and Fly. I have already flown so–”

Daniel kisses him. Kisses him hot and liquid, dissolves him and consumes him.

The goose honks low and quiet outside the windscreen like he doesn’t want to give away their position. They break apart just in time to watch him fly off into the blue sky.

“I’m a full stalker,” Daniel says, “I haven’t slept. I’ve been–I thought–I set up alerts for you and I’ve been tracking flights like a goddamn air traffic controller, Max. I’m fucking losing my mind. I always–like, I say I’m waiting for my soulmate but really I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Here I am,” Max says, dumb. He grins, big and stupid and real. They both crack up, delirious. “Where are we going?”

“Uh, that way.” Daniel points.

“Towards the goose?”

Daniel laughs, a honk like he’s a goose too. “Yeah, toward the goose.”

“We should stalk him until we find him a goose boyfriend too, you know. Payback.”

“Payback, baby!”

Daniel hands Max a Red Bull. It’s warm like he’s been here a long time.

Waiting for Max.

—

The goose meets them at Daniel’s parents’ house with his little red bow tie still on. He boops them both with his beak and follows them inside.

He honks every time they kiss.

thank you so much to @magicalrocketships for looking this over and making it better! red bow tie is from @fastestfrogs' gorgeous art. ♥️

#god I love this it's so good #always a treat to get soulmate goose au fic by em #he honks every time they kiss shut uppppp #it doesn’t mean checo made me laugh in the middle of tearing up #max/daniel #fic rec

[readinguponstuff]

continuation of my outsider pov fic i wrote a million years ago. maybe someone will enjoy! cw: medical drama

When Sophie comes back to the waiting room, Daniel is still sleeping. He’s not wearing the Red Bull Racing t-shirt anymore, her son’s she’s since realized, and has instead replaced it with a non-descript grey jumper. Only the oversized sweatpants have stayed, his top long enough to cover the tiny 33 stitched into the pocket.

Arms folded tightly over his chest, there’s a frown creasing his brow that gives away the tension that must be holding his body tight, even as he sleeps. The strange white-blue light from the vending machine opposite bathes his face, making him look more tired than he did earlier in the soft orange glow of Max’s kitchen. Their kitchen.  

It adds to the guilt twisting itself up into knots inside her stomach, the thought of waking him up, but he’s twitching, uncomfortable, and she wants somebody to talk to.

It’s late. Victoria is on a plane.

“Daniel,” she says, touching his shoulder as gently as she can. It’s enough to have him jerking awake anyway, eyes darting around the room before landing on her face. There’s a moment, a flicker of confusion, then-

“Max?” He asks, his voice cracked down the middle with sleep-tinged terror, and- “is he-”

“There is no change Daniel,” Sophie assures him quickly, “we are still waiting for him to wake up.” Then, because he’ll want to know, “the doctor has been though.”

His expression clouds, the sky before a thunderstorm.

“You should have woken me up,” is all he says, but she can hear the words he doesn’t speak.

I deserve to be involved.

Gone is the man who just hours earlier stayed home in Max’s clothes. Since being in the hospital it’s been all vicious demands for information, for medicines, for miracles. As though proximity and looking through the window into the hospital room they aren’t allowed to enter yet reminded him of his rightful place in Max’s life.

That, or fear.

“I- I thought you would like to sleep,” She tries, but it’s only a half-truth. Max is her baby, and she is not used to sharing him with anybody but his father, who has already flown home to his new wife, his two new babies.

She expects more of a fight, but Daniel eventually just nods, shoves his thumbnail into his mouth and starts to chew at it’s edges.

“Right, yeah, of course- Sorry,” he mumbles around it, eyes glancing between the door, the clock and the floor.

Standing over him, for a moment she feels lost. Uncertain of what to do, what to say.

“I brought you some food though,” she settles on, remembering what made her wander away from the room in the first place. She takes the two prepackaged sandwiched out from under her arm where she’s been squashing them. “You should eat something,” she adds in what Victoria calls her mother-knows-best tone when Daniel just stares at her. “I did not know what you would like, but I thought everyone likes cheese, yes?”

She holds it out to him, and to her surprise, that gets him to smile. Awkwardly, hand touching the back of his neck.

“Actually, um- I’m lactose intolerant,” he says like an apology with a shrug.

Of course.

“Oh.” Then holding out the other packet instead, “here. I have this one, also. Roast chicken.”

Something flickers over Daniel’s face, and for a moment she’s worried he’s about to tell her he’s a fucking vegetarian, when she realises it’s softness. The deep lines of his worry momentarily smoothing.

“This is great, Sophie,” he promises softly, taking it from her outstretched hand. “Thank you.”

She takes a seat beside him in the plastic chair, feels every uncomfortable ridge of it press into her skin. A constant, aching reminder of where she is and why. An inescapable reality. Daniel opens his sandwich, but the lead weight in her stomach makes her a hypocrite, makes her put hers down on the empty chair besides her.

There’s no one else around, it's long past visiting hours. She tries not to think about what that must mean, that they’ve let them stay sat in this purgatory. That no one has told them, ‘go home, there won’t be any change.’ There could be change, and they both know it could go either way.

There’s nothing. No nurses, no doctors, no priest in the hospital chapel. She already checked. Just the ticking of the clock above both their heads, driving her insane.

“Before you said, 6 years,” she plucks from the silence to stop it choking her. Beside her, she feels Daniel tense. “That is a long time.”

He takes a bite of food and chews for a long time in favour of answering.

“Yeah. It is,” is all she gets once he’s swallowed. She nods, turning her body towards him, to try to get him to meet her eye.

“And you are- You are happy together, yes?”

This time there is no hesitation.

“Yes.” As though it could be anything other than the truth.

He still won’t look at her though, staring instead at the crusts of the bread.

“Even- Even though you race each other?” She pushes, because even an argument right now would be better than silence. Would help each of them to feel less alone, give them somewhere to lay down a little of the hurt.

For a moment, Sophie thinks he isn’t going to answer. Then, Daniel dumps his food onto the chair next to him too and finally turns to face her.

“Look, it’s- It hasn’t been all smooth sailing, I won’t lie to you,” Daniel allows, after another beat. His eyes search her face, as though looking for permission to go on. She nods again, but doesn’t speak. “This, ah, this season hasn’t been great for me. It might be my last, but Max, he- He helps. He calls me on my bullshit when I need it, he- Well I would be a lot less happy without him.”

He cringes then, like he’s worried he’s said too much, then continues quickly, almost defensively-

“But I look after him too, I do. I do a good job of making him happy too, I-"

Shaking his head, he breaks off before lifting his hands to bury his face into his palms.

I look after him too, Sophie turns over in her brain, and isn’t that all she ever wanted for Max? How badly has she failed for him to question that enough to feel he needed to hide from her.

Whatever she was looking for, she hasn’t found it in making Daniel look defeatedly back at the floor.

“I am sure you do,” she promises, though there is a mountain of undeniable evidence against her having any idea. She reaches to touch his shoulder, tentative. “Max is not somebody to do anything he does not want to. I think you would not have lasted 6 months if you did not. 6 years, is- “

It’s a lifetime, when you are twenty. She knows people who have married, separated and divorced in less time.

“I’m glad he got to have that,” she finishes, words forced past the tightness of her throat, “if- I’m glad.”

Daniel's head snaps back around to look at her. For a moment, his face goes perfectly still, before awful realization crests over it.

“Incase-“ She tries, but she doesn’t get another word out. Daniel is jumping to his feet, coming to crouch in front of her. Hands on her knees he looks up at her shaking his head.

“No, no, no,” he says, firmer than she’s heard him be before now, “Sophie, no. None of that okay, I cant- I can’t hear that right now. Max is going to be fine.”

The taste of salt at the corner of her mouth surprises her. She’s crying. When she speaks again, shaking her head too, her voice is cracked.

“But-“

“He’s going to be fine,” Daniel interrupts, and she doesn’t know who he is trying to convince more. “In a couple of hours they’re going to take us to his room, and- And he’s going to laugh at us for being so worried, okay?”

She rubs her fingertips over her eyes, smearing her tears across her face. All she wants is Daniel’s words to be true. It’s all she wants in the world.

“You do not know what,” she says because it’s what makes him seem so cruel to her right now. How can he promise a mother that her baby will be fine when he knows nothing more than she does?

But when he hangs his head, hand still clutching her kneecaps, she feels guilty for trying to take his hope from him.

“I love him,” he tells the tiled hospital floor. “He has to be okay, Sophie, I- I love him.”

#i think about outsider pov every day #i love it so much #this continuation is EVERYTHING to me #fic rec #max/daniel

[readinguponstuff]

five days of Daniel: gone missing

this is SO inspired by the brilliant @officialmood writing cult!maxiel and then I just started thinking and here we are...

Day Five: Max meets someone he knows. (Daniel/Max, 2k)

“Yes, Max, go for a drive, you like to drive, you will of course be very happy,” muttered Max sarcastically under his breath, shoving his sneaker into the dry gravel as he tried - for the third time - to get his phone reception working.

He was on a highway in the middle of nowhere. This was extremely unusual, because Max didn’t make a habit cruising through the fields of whatever-fucking-American-state-this-was, but it had been a bad race. GP had been disappointed in him. Max had, undeniably, been a brat on the radio and to the media, and then GP had told him that a quiet road trip to the next race would help him clear his head. Christian had nodded in agreement. 

Max had thought it was a stupid idea, but he also wanted to apologise for throwing a tantrum, so he had taken the Mustang GT they offered him and only rolled his eyes a little bit.

It was not very logical to drive to the next race, instead of simply taking a two hour flight on his plane. But Max wanted to make GP happy and at least he would be alone on the road. 

He had actually been enjoying looking at the small towns flying past the window, the warm summer light dancing on fields of long grass, until the car gave a very ominous whine. 

And then a pathetic splutter. Then nothing.

When Max pulled over on the side of the highway, he was swearing even more than he had on the radio the day before, because of course this would happen. He should have said no to taking the drive. He had known it was a bad idea.

“This is America, how is it possible my phone does not work?” Max said to nobody. Like an idiot, he held it up to the sky.

He could already imagine the headlines. The best driver in the world stuck on the side of the road, with not a marshall in sight to help.

The sun was hot on his cheeks and Max was debating which way he should start walking, when another car appeared in the distance. The heat mirage eventually cleared to reveal an old blue truck, slow and probably terrible for the environment.

Max hoped that he was not about to get murdered by some American who did not like Europeans or gay people. 

He was suddenly very aware that the watch he was wearing was worth over a million euros.

The truck slowed and Max watched it with a wary expression. He hadn’t asked for help, but he knew the situation was quite obvious. His flashy car wasn’t meant to be sitting still on the pale concrete, with faded fast food wrappers beside it.

“Howdy,” said the driver of the truck, window rolled down. He didn’t sound American, and that strangely made Max relax a little. “You need a hand, mate?”

Australian. He had thick dark curls and a big nose, and he was familiar. Max stared at him and almost forgot to reply.

“The car, it’s stopped working,” replied Max, gesturing vaguely at the shiny blue metal. “My phone is also not working.”

“Yeah, sounds ‘bout right,” laughed the man, like Max’s situation was funny. He looked bright-eyed and delighted. He was wearing worn blue jeans and a baggy blue shirt. “We’re in a bit of a black spot out here, for phones and stuff. Need a ride to town? It’s, let’s say, 20 minutes, maybe a bit less.”

Max debated it. He didn’t really want to leave his car. He was - despite his best efforts - not just some guy and there were risks involved to simply trusting this man to drive him until his phone worked again.

He needed GP in his ear, telling him what the correct strategy was.

“I promise I don’t bite,” said the man, gentle. His eyes were wide and golden, and Max couldn’t help but think he looked like…

“Okay,” said Max, surprisingly himself. “Thank you.”

He got into the truck, awkwardly pulling himself up and settling on the warm seat, having to kick aside some dirty boots that were sitting on the ground. It smelt like dirt and animals, and Max reached for the seatbelt. He couldn’t remember the last time he was in a car so old.

“Did you lock her?” checked the man, nodding towards the Mustang. “She’s a beauty.”

“My cars are not girls,” replied Max, before realising that might sound odd and squaring his shoulders. “And yes, I of course locked it.”

“Neat-o,” and they began to move. Max’s stomach gave a worried little clench. “I’m Daniel, by the way.”

Daniel. Daniel. Daniel.

Charles had talked to him about it at the gala last year, both of them a bit drunk and a bit bored. They were scrolling on their phones, tucked away at a back table to hide from the sea of people who wanted a piece of them. 

“Did you see the article about Daniel Ricciardo?” asked Charles, his thumb pausing its scrolling. “In the New York Times. It said they might make a television show.”

In the dimness of the function room, the guests moved like shimmering shapes. Diamonds glinted, but the faces were hard to make out.

“Why would they do that?” asked Max. 

“I don’t know,” shrugged Charles, head tilted a little as he thought about it and found the words. “Maybe because it is true crime and also a big mystery, and Formula One is what people like to hear about. He was very nice. Did you meet him?”

“In karting, I met him once when he came to see us,” replied Max. He remembered Daniel being nice. He remembered his laugh, loud and too much, but not in a bad way. 

“I only met him a few times, but he was very nice,” repeated Charlers. “He came third in the championship, in his rookie season. He beat Sebastian.”

“I remember,” pointed out Max. He had watched every race that season. “When he disappeared, there were of course many articles. We talked about it, probably.”

There had been a few months when all anyone could talk about was the fact that Daniel Ricciardo was gone. Completely disappeared off the face of the planet. His apartment untouched, his family confused, and RedBull left without a driver. 

It had made international headlines for weeks. Then a new season had started, and other stories had begun to appear above it. 

People didn’t really talk about Daniel Ricciardo anymore.

The unspoken conclusion was that he was obviously dead, and whole truth of it would never be known, like Stonehenge or other things like that. 

Once, Max had found Daniel’s trophies in the RedBull centre. They were tucked at the back behind some of Sebastian’s, as though people didn’t want to look at them.

Three race wins.

Then nothing. 

The sky of the American mid-west was clear and the radio was playing Ed Sheeran. Max was sweating in his white t-shirt and tried to stretch out his legs, while also sneaking glances across at Daniel.

His fingers were tapping on the wheel, off-beat and casual, and Max noticed the scars on his hands. Fleck of white on his knuckles and down towards his wrists. It was hard to tell under the shirt, but Max thought he looked lean. His skin was golden and his hair was longer than Max remembered from the television; short at the sides with curls falling down across his forehead. He looked much older, with his strong jaw and wrinkles around his eyes.

There was a patterned thermos tucked between his thighs and he glanced down at it when he caught one of Max’s looks.

“Chamomile tea,” he smiled, shrugging like it was a bit embarrassing. Max knew his voice, he recognised it now. He had watched all Daniel’s interviewers, imagining them being teammates at RedBull one day. “You want some? We grow it on the farm ourselves, it’s the real deal.”

“You live on a farm?” asked Max. He tried to sound relaxed, normal. He tried to sound like he didn’t have a thousand questions trying to burst out of him. This was Daniel Ricciardo, in the middle of nowhere, drinking tea from a beaten-up thermos.

“Yeah, a ways back there,” replied Daniel, jerking his head backwards. “We’re pretty off the grid, but turns out people get real shitty if you don’t have toilet paper.”

He guffawed loudly at his own joke, and Max laughed a bit too. 

“It… it is probably very nice, your farm?” asked Max, knowing he was the worst person to be asking these questions. He was not good at stupid word games. He wasn’t good at pretending.

“Sure, we do okay,” nodded Daniel, but his fingers had stopped dancing on the steering wheel. “Scotty has made a nice place for us to land, like, it’s hard work, but we’re grateful to have the opportunity. It really teaches you about sacrifice, when you have to work for everything yourself. You have to do your part. Scotty explains it really well.”

“Scotty?” croaked Max. There was a feeling of unease creeping over him. Daniel chatted easily and he felt so familiar - even though Max didn’t actually know him - but there was something about the way he talked that Max didn’t like. Too intense, while his eyes were distant. 

Another car passed them, going fast, Daniel attention flicking to his mirrors. Max just stared at him. He had seen Daniel race, had replayed his overtakes a hundred times and tried to mimic them in his own driving. 

“You’re Daniel Riccirado,” said Max. He couldn’t stop himself.

There was a clear reaction: Daniel’s lips parted in shock, his wide eyes flashing towards Max. He unconsciously flinched, but then a moment later he relaxed and the easy smile slid across his face again. It was a warm, sunny day and Daniel rested an elbow on the open window, hand outside above the door. There were cows in the field sliding past outside. 

“Wow, can’t believe a kid like you would recognise me,” he laughed, clearly flattered. Max thought he looked a bit flushed, genuinely shocked. “You must really know your cars.”

It annoyed Max, for some reason. It wasn’t even ten years ago that Daniel had won three Grand Prixs. People didn’t just forget that. It… mattered.

“I also drive,” replied Max, and he had rarely needed to say these words out loud. “I am a driver too, for Formula One.”

And again, Daniel’s eyes darted to him, searching and surprised.

“What, for real? You… who do you drive for?”

His voice was sharper, the Australian accent was stronger. Max couldn’t believe how glad he was to hear it. He hadn’t even realised how dreamy and loose Daniel had sounded until he was greeted with the alternative. 

“I drive for RedBull.”

“Fuck, really?” said Daniel, and he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Max. Luckily the road was straight and empty. “Are you any good?”

“Yes,” replied Max. He wanted to say, I am two times the World Champion, but it was too strange. How did Daniel not know who Max was?

Daniel was still gazing at him. He was biting his lip and Max felt a guilty little rush of desire for him. He had watched all of Daniel’s races.

“Max,” said Daniel. “Max, you’re Jos Verstappen’s son. We met, like a million years back.”

The rush of pleasure Max felt made his cheeks burn. He shifted in his seat. Daniel remembered him.

“Yes, we did,” nodded Max, smiling. 

Then Daniel was turning back to the road, because there were houses around them. A couple of paddocks and mechanics attached to a petrol station, and Daniel was slowing down. He flicked on his indicator, pulling his arm back inside, and for a moment Max thought he caught sight of bruised skin poking out from the loose collar of Daniel’s shirt.

Max didn’t want to get out of the car.

“Not sure what the odds are of me finding on that road, but they feel pretty damn low,” said Daniel, and his body language was angled away from Max. 

It was hard to define what had changed, but the excitement from moments before had gone sour. Daniel looked nervous. He couldn’t quite meet Max’s eyes.

With reluctant fingers, Max opened the door and slid out onto the side of the road. He wiped his hands on his jeans. 

“Perhaps I can see your farm, one day, to try the tea,” offered Max, but it was the wrong thing to say. Daniel looked sick for a second, chest stopping in the middle of a breath. He didn’t say anything, teeth indenting his lip as Max pushed the door closed. 

“Thank you for driving me.” 

“No worries. See ya round,” replied Daniel, and his muscles seemed locked for a moment. Then the truck rolled forwards and Max was already pulling his phone out, before Daniel’s car was even past the edge of the mechanic.

Christian picked up after six rings.

“Max,” he said, and there was the sound of kids screaming in delight in the background. “How’s the road trip? I hope you’re enjoying some pancakes.”

The truck was out of sight now.

“Do you remember Daniel Ricciardo?” asked Max.

The sounds on the other end of the phone changed. The children faded, a door closed. Silence. 

“Of course I remember Daniel.” Christian voice was soft, tight. 

“Good, okay, because I was just speaking to him. I met him. I…”

Rarely was Max lost for words. He was fighting the urge to start walking, to start running, to try and see the blue truck again.

“You- Max, where are you? Tell me where you are.”

“I don’t know. My car broke down,” Max glanced around as he talked. There were no signs. 

“Max, find out, quick as you can, please.”

“I’ll ask,” and Max began to walk towards the propped-open door of the service station. They were playing music over the speakers. “Christian, I don’t think… Daniel didn’t seem so right. It was strange, to talk to him. ”

There was silence, and Max stopped. He could smell oil and fuel, and it was welcomingly familiar.

He wanted to close his eyes. He knew he would see Daniel if he did. 

“His mother still calls me every month, every single month,” came Christian’s quiet voice. 

“I will find out where I am, and I will call you back,” promised Max. He hung up the phone and searched for someone to help him. 

#oh oh oh #this is amazing #i love it #fic rec #max/daniel

[readinguponstuff]

Maxiel + Westworld 🤠 (or just normal wild west if lifelike robots isn't your cup of tea)

maxiel + westworld 🤠🤎

“You can’t fuck him,” Victoria says.

Max laughs, rolls his eyes. “I don’t want to–”

“Please, I saw you giving him a look.”

“Yeah, I saw it too,” Martijn traitorously agrees. Max shoots him a double palms up what-the-hell gesture, but Martijn just laughs.

“What look.”

Victoria gingerly inspects the inside of a cowboy hat like a parent who’s had too many brushes with head lice. She says, “The look of a 6-time World Champion divorcé-- who rented an entire theme park of sex robots because it’s easier than coming out-- laying eyes on the smoke show robot he wants to ask to take his gay virginity.”

“Is it gay if it’s a robot?” Charles asks.

“And does it count as losing your virginity if it’s with a robot?” Alex adds. “That sounds more like masturbation.”

Max’s face heats up. His head itches under his own cowboy hat from watching Victoria inspect hers for nits. He says, “Shut up, I wasn’t–I’m not. I wouldn’t invite you here if I just wanted to do that only.”

“Only being the key word here,” Alex points out. "It's on the table."

Max fiddles with the brim of his itchy cowboy hat. “Fuck off.”

“How did you even get a blue hat, Max?” Charles demands. “They are making me choose white or black, good guy or bad guy. It is so dumb for me but not as dumb as you look.”

Max shrugs. “This is my favorite color, so.”

Alex grins. “Surprised you didn’t ask for Red Bull sponsors on it too.”

“Not to sound like George, but can we, like, circle back?” Lily asks. “Why can’t we fuck him?”

Alex’s eyes bulge. “Excuse you! We?”

George says, “I don’t even say that very much, honestly.”

“It’s a literal meme,” Victoria says, gesturing to the guy. “He’s the hottest person in the park and he’s unfuckable. He’s just here for our tutorial or whatever. There are entire websites dedicated to collecting data on what people have tried, how badly it failed. He has different ways of rejecting them every time, too. Most of these hosts have the same 20 recycled lines. Not Daniel.”

Max says, “Daniel?”

“Yeah baby?” Daniel asks, smirking and swaggering over.

Max wants to die.

Daniel’s smile probably cost half the park’s budget. He says, “My ears were ringing,” and makes little old fashioned phone ringing sounds, wiggles his ears. He cackles, honking.

He sounds Australian, which isn’t even Wild West. It is so dumb. Why would they choose someone with the hottest features and hottest accent and make it so no one could even have sex with him. Why would they make him laugh so stupid and so sexy for nothing. Probably it is only just to make people want to all the time come back, to spend more money.

Max leans forward and pretends to answer Daniel’s ear. He says, “Hello? Oh yes, this is Max speaking. Sure, I can take a message. Yes, I will tell him that was a very bad joke.”

Daniel is delighted, bouncing on his heels. “It’s not a joke? It was, like, an expression. With an audio-visual accomplishment.”

“Accompaniment?” Alex asks.

Daniel snaps his fingers, laughs. “That’s the one.”

Why would they make him say the wrong word.

“Are all of these hosts like you?” Max asks.

“Oh, uh. Nope. One of a kind, baby! That’s what I’m gonna talk to you guys about? So, yeah. Sit down, buckle up, baby.”

Max sits on the floor and Charles comes over to assist him in buckling an imaginary six point safety harness.

Daniel looks a little stunned and a lot charmed. He grins at Max and Max grins back. Max’s cheeks hurt.

Some security guard clears her throat.

“Oh, yeah. Got a job to do and all,” Daniel laughs strangely. “Coolio, okay. All righty, I got this. I’m gonna nail it. Welcome to Westworld!”

—

Part of Daniel’s job is programming the hosts to be more human. Feeding them funny lines, quirky mannerisms. He ventures into the park a lot, even has a place to stay the night.

It started off as a joke, not correcting guests when they thought he was an android. Daniel was flattered that his good looks were, like, host level hot. But then it became a money-making huge fucking thing. They scrubbed his internet presence, assigned him personal security, started paying him the big bucks to continue the illusion of being Westworld’s charming and unfuckable host.

It’s a lonely life, having to be a pretend pretend person.

Daniel’s gonna quit.

So like. It would be okay if he got fired instead, probably.

That’s what he tells himself when he follows Max’s group into the park, wondering if he should stage some kind of mildly perilous situation to prove he bleeds real blood. Will jizz real jizz. He wonders how many hosts he’ll have to send back for maintenance if Max flirts with them. He hopes Max won’t flirt with anyone but Daniel.

He skips up behind Max, swaps their cowboy hats. He says, “I infected you with all my lice cooties, Maxy.”

Max’s eyes crinkle when he grins sunshine-wide. Daniel wants to program every last host in this place to smile like that. He also doesn’t want this park to have any bit of Max to keep for its own.

Max’s sister asks, “Why did you say that? About the lice? How did you know I was worried. I didn’t say.” Her eyes are narrowed. He saw her with the weapons earlier. Maybe Daniel won’t need to stage a mildly perilous situation for bloodshed after all. Victoria looks like someone who’d kill an actual person in the name of her brother’s honor and then plead I-thought-they-were-a-host ignorance.

This is a shit plan. Daniel’s gonna leave, gonna quit. Gonna get the hell out of here.

But then Max swaps their cowboy hats back. He whispers in Daniel’s ear, “It is not correct, you know?”

“Huh?”

Max pulls back, rubs his own shoulder. His sharp cheekbones are flushed petal pink. He says, “That you so much flirt with me but won’t sleep together with me.”

Oh fuck. Daniel swallows. His heart thump thump thumps. “You didn’t ask me, Maxy.”

Max bites his lower lip on a smile. “I know better than to ask. You will say no, and then you will stop.”

Oh god. Daniel is so fucked. He breathes in and out, in and out. He wonders how the realest thing he’s ever felt could exist in this forged fantasyland. He says, “Try me.”

Max grins. He thumbs along the brim of Daniel’s black cowboy hat. “Now that is not very good guy of you, Daniel.”

#how do you do it #take a world i didn't even know existed and write such a compelling story #the way max is the only one daniel wants #max/daniel #fic rec

[readinguponstuff]

9. rude, maxiel:)

i know there are normal ways to answer this question but for some reason i could only think of this horrible song, the worst song of all time. sorry lol.

Daniel asks his parents to come for hs first race back at Red Bull. He used to feel guilty about asking them to fly out places; they were getting older. He shouldn't need them. But now, their prescense seems like another thing to enjoy while he has it.

It's after FP1. He's left his mom in his trailer to cool down and relax. His dad has wandered off, and he's not answering his phone.

"He always does this," his mum says, with a sigh. "His phone is always dead. I'm sure you can send someone to find him."

"It's ok," Daniel says, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll track him down." As much as he wants to spend time with her, he's full of adrenaline, bouncing on his toes. A walk will be good.

Plus around every corner is another person smiling at him, clapping him on the back and saying good job Daniel, we missed you, we're so glad you're back, great job out there. It feels good, not hiding. Not shrinking or putting a good face on things. His cheeks hurt from smiling.

He's done a loop of the place, and is heading back towards his trailer when he pauses. He can hear his dad's voice, from around an odd corner at the back of the Energy Station.

He's about to call out when he hears Max's reply, harsh.

"That is not your business." Is Max angry? Max loves Daniel's parents. Besides, he's never angry these days, always smiling and laughing, generous with his smile and his time.

Daniel creeps towards the corner and listens. Just - he'll grab his dad in a second.

"Of course how Daniel feels is my business," his father says. "I'm his father. I wouldn't expect you to understand that but -"

Max cuts him off. Daniel sucks a breath in through his teeth. Bad move, dad, bringing up Verstappen Senior. Never goes well.

"He belongs here at Red Bull," Max says, insistent. "There's no other team that's good for him." Daniel's chest feels warm, hearing that from Max. How sure he is. Even if Max is borderline yelling at his dad.

"He belongs somewhere that will value him," his dad says. "Not use him in a power play, again."

Daniel can exactly picture them, his dad with his hands on his hips, mouth set, stubborn. Max with a pink flush rising on his cheeks, gesturing.

"That's not -" Max cuts himself off, his words bubbling out of him. "He's the best teammate for me, of course, but he's the best for the team too. And he's not going to leave for somewhere else, or of course retire, because he can still win. And he will win with me - with us."

He can hear his dad take a deep breath in and out. When he speaks again his voice is softer, kinder.

"I hope so," his dad says. "I'll see you around Max."

Daniel doesn't know why he ducks behind another trailer until his dad is passed, then walks around the corner, to where Max is.

Max is still there, standing as if frozen, looking at his feet. He looks up, and when he sees Daniel his whole face shifts and opens.

"Daniel," he says delighted, as though it's been ten years instead of ten minutes since they saw each other in the debrief. As if he wasn't just yelling at Daniel's dad about - about his future. He claps Daniel on the shoulder.

"Hey Max," Daniel says. And then Max is off, hands flying, talking about how good the car felt in free practice, don't you think Daniel? But maybe some changes to the set up - his shoulder pressed to Daniel's as he walked Daniel back through the rows of trailers.

#oh godddd #this song has no business with such a good fic lol #love love love #of course max will be rude to anyone that thinks daniel does not belong right next to him #max/daniel #fic rec

[readinguponstuff]

starry, for galex??

Alex finds George outside, sitting on the pavement with his back to the wall, hunched in on himself.

"There you are, Russell," he says. "Was wondering where you got to." He keeps his voice light.

"Just getting some air," George says. It's a horrible lie, so Alex slides down the sit next to him. It's only the second week of term, the warm tail end of summer. Not the worst night to sit in the grass of the quad. Alex stretches his legs out and leans his neck back, looking up at the stars. There are so many more out here than the surreal orange glow of London's night skies. He wishes he'd brought his beer outside, to have something to do with his hands.

"Party was that bad, huh?" he asks, after it's clear George will sit there silently all night.

"No," George says. "It was." He shuts his eyes and Alex can see the shadow of his lashes. "I think I just got a bit too drunk, that's all. You should go back in."

Alex hums a noise that isn't agreement or disagreement. He knows George had a bit of a shit summer, and that Alex could have been around more. It was hard, when he's staying with his mom and his younger siblings, and doing his internship. They were supposed to have hung out more, in the city, but then he met Lily.

"Sorry," George says. His voice sounds bleak. "I'll." He hauls himself to standing, his long legs unfolding under him, and then reaches out to pull Alex up.

Alex is trying to think of a way to ask George if his dad did something predictably awful this summer, or maybe a way to diplomatically recommend therapy, when the door opens, light and sound spilling out into the night.

"There you are!" Lily says, brightly. "Come on Alex, we're up for beer pong. You can't let Max beat us this time." She's laughing. Alex pauses for a second, torn.

"Go," George says, "I'll be right in."

"We'll talk later, yeah?" Alex says, and takes Lily's hand in his, lets her pull him back inside.

#no words. #okay maybe two words #sad and beautiful #obviously a million other words i just can't write them #galex #fic rec

[readinguponstuff]

the bear galex au! 🔪👨‍🍳🍽️

thank you so much to @lights-out-go for reading this and giving me the world's nicest comments! 🥹

Alex still can never get over the way George looks now, prim and proper and tall, bright white t shirt against his smooth tan biceps, his shoulders so tense it looks like it must hurt to move. 

There was a picture of George in the paper once, when he got his star: arms crossed, white chef coat buttoned up to the base of his long neck, face so deadly miserable Alex had thought, for sure, I'm never going to see him again.

But then there he'd been at Christmas a few months later. Alive, slapping Alex on the back and saying hey, mate, dressed in this hideous sweater, the cuffs ending an inch above the knobs of his wrists just like his sleeves always had when he was some normal kid from the same block as Alex.

He'd helped Alex's mom in the kitchen, chopping herbs so loud and fast Chloe made fun of him for showing off. Tasting a spoonful of soup Alex's mom held out to him and swallowing while everyone watched him, like he was ever going to say anything besides, Even better than I remember. 

Getting tense and still when Mikey finally showed up and sat down across from him. Flinching so hard his knife made a sharp noise against Alex's mom's holiday China when Mikey said, So, they have enough dicks for you to hoover in New York, Georgie?

It feels mostly, like, unmanageable, being in the restaurant with him again. Alex can feel himself being horrible, bitchy and territorial and like George wasn't his best friend for most of his life. 

There are just all these stupid moments when they're trying to get through a shift, where Alex will see something that's exactly the same as it was ten years ago, that he's seen a thousand times since George was here last and not thought about once, but then out of nowhere they'll make him remember something so intense and pressing he can barely concentrate on what's happening in real life, in the present.

George steps into the shitty little office with his hands careful and contained behind his back, his neck shiny with sweat, and Alex swivels on the chair to look up at him and say something, and then all he can think about is sitting exactly here when they were 17, George bright and high after this insane rush, standing in the doorway and blinking at Alex's lips. 

Or Alex finds George on a ladder in the women's bathroom, his whole torso stuck up into the ceiling where he's shifted a tile sideways, and Alex freezes with his eyes level with George's crotch, and remembers George catching his hand outside the door to the men's, his cheeks flushed bright pink, telling him, The ladies' is cleaner. The way George had come on his tongue in like two minutes, and then asked Alex what it tasted like, breathless and wide eyed like he'd die if he didn't know. 

But then, also there's, like. The one outlet in the kitchen that stopped working years ago, that George keeps trying to plug things into, slamming something into the counter when it doesn't work. The way George uses words no one else knows, like he's forgotten the normal way to say, like, chop this into little pieces. How he'll try making a new dish after closing while Alex mops the front, will give Alex a spoon to grab instead of just holding it out for him to eat off. How the thing will be like, the weirdest, best shit Alex has ever tasted, and then when George takes a bite, he'll grimace like it's terrible. 

How he keeps finding George leaned over, one arm propped against the wall after a rush, breath heaving like he's having a panic attack, right at eye level with the brick Mikey sharpied his signature onto years and years ago. 

It was always going to happen, probably. 

They're Alex and George, and this has kind of always been part of it. The build of tension, like getting rocked again and again and again in a wave pool, and then finally letting yourself get sucked under, drug along the rough paint at the bottom. Or whatever. That's a stupid metaphor. 

The point is, when Alex shows up with blonde hair, he's, like, mostly expecting it already. 

George looks up at him already talking, and then looks away almost as soon as he sees him, like he's pulling his hand off a hot pan. 

Alex knows it's a good look on him. The few times he did it before, picking up was so much easier than normal it was, like, honestly concerning, but Alex wasn't going to try to, like, break down race-based beauty standards with Jeff from Pilsen when he could just get his dick sucked instead.

With George he doesn't have to think about it even that much. He was already into Alex plenty before.

Alex figures it's just kind of the same way George's new scars are for him. The deep, roughly healed line on his thumb, the dull red burn on his forearm. They're the only parts of George Alex hasn't touched. Once he thinks about it like that, it's like a puzzle with one piece missing. Alex can't not want to fix it. 

He goes into the office after everyone else has left for the night. 

George still gets migraines, apparently, so he has just the desk lamp on, soft warm light. He's combing his fingers into the hair above his forehead over and over, tilting his head into the touch of his own hand while he frowns at Mikey's useless fucking logbook. 

"Think you're gonna suddenly figure out what any of that means?" Alex says from the door, and watches George jump. 

When he spins around, his hands settle on the tops of his thighs, just above his knees. Polite. Patient. 

"Want a blow job?" Alex asks him, carefully casual. 

It has to be casual, even if it doesn't feel that way. Alex had this whole lecture with himself last night with his head hanging upside down over his bathtub, cool water against his burning scalp, blood whooshing in his ears. There's no universe where George stays here. A year, maybe, but that's it. George can't stand it here, and Alex never wants to live anywhere else. There's no point in fighting it again like it's ten years ago and they're stupid and think they're soulmates or something.

George doesn't flinch again. He nods, quick but with no expression on his face, and then he shakes his head, barely. 

Alex steps all the way into the office. Shuts the door behind them so there's not even the spill of the fluorescent lights in the kitchen, so they're boxed in together. 

"Wanna blow me?" Alex asks, already knowing. 

George's hands stay flat and precise on his knees for five seconds, like he's counting, and then they reach for the fly of Alex's jeans. 

#pretty sure the show is not even half as good as this #i wouldn't know #but goooodd is this yummy #galex #fic rec

[readinguponstuff]

5 days of daniel: ❤️two💙

Day Two: A Hotel Room in Mexico (Daniel/Christian, ABO, based on this)

cw potentially dubious consent

Christian had a policy to never be alone with the young omega drivers. Before they were signed and he was simply appearing at their races - making hope and wonder blossom in their eyes - he always ensured there was a chaperone.

He didn’t want there to be any rumours that he was inappropriate.

Once they were in the family, he tended to be more relaxed about where his scent ended up and even enjoyed it, perhaps, if an omega ended frozen in the presence of such an senior alpha. A quick, gentle squeeze on the back of the neck would make them melt, and Christian’s ego was nicely stroked with the thought they might be touching themselves later to to the memory of the moment.

Daniel wasn’t young anymore.

But he was acting like he was twenty again, standing in Christian’s hotel room and watching him with careful, tired eyes. Each of his movements studied, with no hint of excited gesturing or the way he’d often swagger into Christian’s office with a cheeky grin waiting to break out.

It had been a long time since Daniel had been quiet in Christian’s company. His cheekbones a sharp cut on his face, his shoulders slumped and an aura of exhaustion surrounding him like a cloud.

Broken was the word Christian couldn’t seem to shake.

He wanted to blame someone, but he also knew that he was part of a system of bad decisions and bad luck that had left Daniel so unrecognisable. Even Ferrari had never managed to leave Sebastian so beaten down; perhaps the memories of the success Christian had given him were an insulation against the ravages of self-doubt.

It was clear, seeing Daniel now, that he had no such protection. All of Christian’s alpha instincts were flaring up with the need to begin repairing the omega he had scented and touched and nurtured into being the peak of sexual desirability.

“Oh, Daniel,” sighed Christian, and for once his displeasure was all genuine, nothing added for show. He knew Daniel could smell it. “Come here, for goodness sake.”

For a moment, Daniel rocked back and then forward, all of him still wrapped tight in the frayed strings that were holding him together.

Then he almost fell into an obedient trot, crossing the room quickly and barely hesitating when Christian patted his leg encouraging.

He was taller than Christian, but absolute skin and bones as straddled Christian’s thighs. His face ducked instinctively into Christian’s offered neck and he breathed in noisily, devouring the alpha scent like a long-awaited drink.

Below him, Christian tutted and rubbed along Daniel’s spine, unhappy to feel the dips of it under his fingers. He focused instead on the warmth against his chest, his legs. It was familiar and pleasant weight, and Christian was a possessive man. When he decided an omega was his, he never really let them go.

“You’re going come back home,” he said, direct, but careful to give Daniel space to object. He knew how to treat omegas, steering but letting them keep some control. Other alphas on the grid didn’t understand how to get the best out of them.

“Yeah,” breathed Daniel, and his voice was raspy. Embarrassed. “Yes, please. I’ll work for it.”

“I know, darling,” said Christian, his hand moving in soothing circles. Daniel was unwinding against him, taut muscles slackening under the comforting touch of an alpha. His smell was stale, disturbingly faint.

Christian’s hand slid lower, giving Daniel’s ass clinical exploration. There was less to squeeze than he remembered.

Against him, Daniel’s breathing was still even, he hadn’t reacted at all. If anything, he shifted closer, burying himself more into Christian’s scent.

“How are you? Your heats?” murmured Christian, now gently kneading Daniel’s behind. He was rewarded with a weak, nearly inaudible coo.

“No heats,” said Daniel. His voice softer now, relaxed. He sounded nearly intoxicated, and Christian wondered how long it had been since he felt safe. Cared for. Had been given what he needed. “Can’t even get wet.”

And Christian hummed in sympathy, running his nose along Daniel’s pink-tipped ear. Both their scents had thickened, gradually flooding the room with pheromones, and Christian couldn’t deny the satisfaction he got from the idea of being the one to put Daniel back together.

“I think I can help you with that,” he said, fingertips nudging at the waistband of Daniel’s soft, white shorts. Obediently, Daniel began to pull them down.

#oh the tenderness and care and dubious consent of it all 😵‍💫 #fic rec

[readinguponstuff]

for the prompt game: maxiel + all of them ? 😙 jk

but maybe no. 47? reminds of the time a few of the drivers were stuck in a lift together but this time it’s just them

maxiel - stuck in a lift

Max’s sweat smells the same.

It’s something Daniel only notices after they’ve been sealed in the elevator for a half hour, like fruit ripening and softening in tupperware. He smells like five years ago. He smells like meetings in stuffy rooms, like podiums, like that time on his couch when Daniel unzipped his fly and took his dick out of the slit of his boxer briefs because he thought it would be less gay if he didn’t see Max’s balls.

He wants to say, “Remember how I jerked you off half a decade ago and we didn’t talk about it until now?” or “Hey, funny story. Every time I see a new dick, I compare it to yours.”

Maybe it’s cabin fever. Lift fever.

Max speaks before Daniel can say something psycho, thank fuck. He says, “It is very nice having you around again, Daniel. It makes me happy, you know? Just to know that I might run into you in the paddock. To know that you’re in your car behind me.”

Daniel laughs. “Or in front of you, before you lap me.”

Max grins too. “Everything is nicer, knowing you are there, that you are close.”

“Aww, shucks.” Daniel taps his shoe against Max’s bare foot. Max has stripped down to just his boxer briefs. They’re the same kind as that time they don’t talk about. He’s sprawled with his back against the wall of the elevator, thighs open. It’s probably what’s making Daniel psycho, even more than the being trapped thing.

Like, not just cabin fever. He’s got thigh fever.

He’s keeping all his clothes on.

Max laughs at the footsie game, traps Daniel’s shoe between his feet. When Daniel tries to wiggle out of it, his foot slips out of the shoe and his sweaty no-show sock rolls down.

His feet probably smell disgusting. It’s really hot in here and he’s been on his feet all day. Maybe his foot funk will cover up the smell of Max’s sweat and then he’ll stop thinking about shit he shouldn’t be thinking about.

Max presses his foot into Daniel’s, curls his toes around the tips of Daniel’s toes.

Daniel laughs. “Freak.”

Max laughs too. He fiddles with the metal bracelet he’s always wearing.

“A gift from the missus?” Daniel asks, stupid. He thought saying it would be better than saying her name, but it turns out it’s worse because then he’s picturing Max marrying Kelly.

Max grins, crinkly-eyed. Ouch. “Yeah. You know she tried to give me this crazy one with all these gem things? It was too much.”

“Ha,” Daniel says weakly. Since he’s got cabin/lift/thigh fever anyway, he goes for it. It’s part of his dumbass resolution to be more authentic or whatever. To tell someone on the grid. He figures the guy who jizzed all over his fist in 2018 is a safe enough bet. He says, “Yeah, like. I’m kinda seeing this guy who did some modeling for the clothing line, yeah? And he must have taken one of these beaded Enchanté bracelets we have, cause he was, like, wearing it when I came over? And it was hot. So. Like, I get it. She wants to give you the old razzle dazzle, Max. You should let her.”

Max’s jaw has dropped open. He looks, like. He looks gobsmacked.

Fuck.

When the first and then-only guy Daniel had ever kissed came out as gay in 2008, Daniel felt fucking ill. Like Tyler had made the entire no homo incident homo as fuck. He deleted every picture containing Tyler off his digital camera and removed him as a Facebook friend.

Maybe that’s what’s happening to Max right now. Maybe Daniel is homoing their no homo.

“I’m bi?” Daniel says, rushed and insane and like it’s a fucking question.

Max’s lips finally shut, but they go taut and hard, angry.

“I sleep with women still,” Daniel adds, desperate to salvage this. “Don’t love pussy any less, hey. Gigigigi!”

He’s lost his fucking mind.

Daniel thinks about how they play elevator security cam footage on those fucked up true crime documentaries. Victims always seem to take an elevator 20 minutes before their untimely demise. If Daniel dies from this, they’re gonna play elevator footage of him talking about being bi and loving pussy.

Max takes out his phone again, gets up and paces around the small space, climbs up on the rail and lifts it up high.

It’s useless. No service.

Not a super reassuring sign that his bisexual confession was met with Max doubling his escape efforts, hey.

After a while, Max thrusts his phone under Daniel’s nose. “This is him?”

Daniel takes the phone. It’s a screenshot of the Enchante website.

“What–you got service?” Daniel laughs, giddy. “Oh my god, use it to call someone, you maniac.”

“No, I. These are just in my texts with Victoria. I was asking to her which one would look better on me.” Max frowns. “You don’t send out the ones this fucking guy wore, do you? To customers?”

Daniel wrinkles his nose. “Max, I wouldn’t ship off sloppy second clothing. What kind of business do you think I’m running?” He crosses his arms. “You know you can’t, like, catch gayness, Max. Jesus. Don’t be a fucking asshole.”

Max’s face goes flat. His eyes are still mad, though. He says, “What.”

“Did you really buy something?” 

Max’s never worn it around him, not like Lando or George. Probably for the best, so he won’t be tied to Daniel’s gay brand or whatever the fuck he thinks.

Max’s face flushes deep red. “It must be so surprising to you that people who look regular can wear your clothes as well, Daniel. That we are not all models, like these people you are dating.”

Daniel doesn’t know what his face is doing, but it’s something strange that hopefully conveys, what the fucking fuck?

Max scoffs.

Daniel says, “Well, this fucking sucked.”

Max bangs on the elevator door like they were doing a half hour ago. He tries to pry it open with his bare hands. He shouts, “Hellooooooooo!”

Daniel says, “First person I come out to outside my inner circle and he’s a fucking homophobe.”

Max whips back around, face shocked and hurt. “I am not in your inner circle?”

“That’s the part you’re worried about? I’d think you’d be, like, grateful to be in an outer ring of my gay ass solar system, Max.”

“I’m not a homophobe,” Max waves a hand through the air in sweeping motions like he’s physically dismissing the thought.

“Sure, Max.”

“Does he even know about racing, this guy?” Max says guy like other people would say bacterial infection.

“Bisexual people can enjoy racing, Max. Fucking case in point.” Daniel gestures to himself in tight, snappy motions.

“Obviously. What do you anyway have in common with him, Daniel?”

“Well, we both like dick, for one.”

Max starts throwing his clothes back on even though the elevator is like 40 fucking degrees. He’s Jolly Rancher red.

“Wow, Max. Wow. You don’t have to worry about me perving on your body, Jesus. Don’t worry, you’re not my type.” It’s Daniel’s turn to pound his fist into the elevator door and holler his vocal chords out.

When he turns back around, Max looks fucking devastated. He’s pressing his lips together so hard they’re white, but they’re still wobbling a little.

“Uh, Max? What–huh?”

“Fuck you.”

Daniel’s eyes feel tarsier-wide. “Huh?”

The elevator kicks back on in one lurching movement that feels like Daniel’s stomach right about now. It travels for a few seconds and then the doors open up to an empty hallway. Max takes off.

Daniel steps the fuck out of the elevator. He realizes too late that his shoe and sock are still inside, but he ain’t goin back in.

He goes to check if he has service, but he’s not holding his own phone. It’s Max’s, still. And it’s still open to that Enchanté screenshot, maybe because Daniel’s thumb has been trembling and smearing across the screen this whole time.

He swipes the screenshot away. The message thread with Victoria comes up.

He shouldn’t read it. He wouldn’t, but, like. It’s about his clothes. And he sees his name.

He has to copy the messages into a translator which makes the whole thing about 50 times more creepy and violating.

Daniel does it anyway.

From: Victoria Are you for real You’re so embarrassing

From: Max It’s not weird. Lando and George have things

From: Victoria They’re not in love with the company’s founder who gay-panic ghosted them and broke their hearts 5 years ago Well probably I don’t really know their love lives And I don’t care please don’t tell me

Daniel's fingers shake and he can’t bring himself to translate what Max says back. Cause like. It’s gonna be a denial. It’s gonna reveal that the whole thing is a joke. That Max isn’t in love with Daniel. That that’s just as fucking crazy and untrue as it sounds.

He types each Dutch word into his own phone one by one, doesn’t want evidence of him, like, texting it to his own phone like the snoopy stalker deviant he is. He plucks the letters into his phone with one pointer and continuously touches Max’s screen with the other pointer so it doesn’t lock him out before he knows.

He leaves with one shoe and one bare foot.

It’s not until he’s back in his hotel room that he finally works up the courage to paste the words into Google translate. He does it and snaps his eyes shut. His hand shakes.

Here it comes. It’s gonna say, of course I don’t love him or haha very funny or yes we have 4 little babies together that is why I need the clothes for them.

Daniel’s ready.

He opens his eyes.

From: Max So should I get the green

thanks to @lights-out-go for looking this over and being so nice about it 🥹❤️

#heartbreaking #soul destroying #absolutely life changing like everything tumblr user powerful-owl writes #max/daniel #fic rec

[readinguponstuff]

summer of cum day 14 - prostate massage (george/alex, a/b/o)

Alex notices it when he wraps his arms around George to congratulate him after Brazil. There’s a singed edge to the smell of him, his sweat.

Alex laughs. “Winning put you over the edge?” he asks. “Bit of a cliche, Georgie. Were you that close already?”

George makes a face that would come accompanied by a blush, if he weren’t dead pale under the sheen of champagne and perspiration.

“I’m fine,” he says. “It’s not—it always takes a few more days.”

He’ll be home, then, Alex thinks. With whatever he usually uses to get through it. His routine, precise and planned, like George always is.

He leans in to hug him again and tries not to think about the one time he hadn’t been; the two of them so much younger, confused and fumbling, Alex probably no help at all. They’ve never talked about it, really.

In his arms, George’s muscles feel tight. His pulse pounds against Alex.

“Congrats,” Alex tells him, and lets go.

***

He gets the call that night. He’s already in a car to the airport. Over the line, George’s voice is slurred. Drunk, yes, but also—

“Okay,” Alex says. He gives the driver the address of George’s hotel.

***

“Alex,” George says when he opens the door, like he’s surprised Alex really came. He looks worse now, feverish but nearly gray in color. His hair is wet, limp against his temples. He keeps shivering.

He’s still dressed, like he couldn’t manage anything else. Alex undoes the buttons of his shirt, one at a time. When his fingers brush George’s skin George sucks in a breath. His hands are clenched at his thighs.

“Tell me what you need,” Alex says, and George closes his eyes and says, “Make me come,” and then, broken, “please—”

***

Alex hasn’t done this before. Not unless you count George, that other time: their shared hotel room back in Formula 3, waking up to the salt and metal smell of come. George locked in the bathroom. Alex had had a rut before; George never had.

“You can use my—here,” he’d said, shoving the fleshlight he’d bought through the door once George finally unlocked it. Lying back on the bed, his eyes closed, trying not to listen to the wet sounds of George using it or think about what it must look like, George’s cock and knot fit into the same place Alex’s had been. George’s face as he came, once and then again; again.

Except that—

“I can’t,” George had said. He was pale, glassy-eyed. There was a towel wrapped around his waist but it was barely disguising how hard he was, his cock jutting forward. “It’s not working, I—”

“Jesus,” Alex had said. He couldn’t think. “Show me,” he told George. “Maybe you’re—“ he swallowed. “Doing it wrong.”

He said, “maybe I can help.”

***

George should have called someone else, Alex knows. An omega. Probably the team has them on retainer for exactly this reason. He’s gotten George off twice now, once with his mouth and once after slowly working the first inch of George’s cock into himself, too tight for anything else, his heart pounding with a strange sick arousal at the intrusion. Now he’s slick with come, the feeling of it between his legs odd and unfamiliar. George is still hard, painfully swollen, his knot not even half-popped yet.

Last time Alex’s hand had been enough. He can remember the huge shocking swell of George, forcing his fingers apart. The noises he made. How much he came, buckets of it, flowing down Alex’s wrist and forearm. He can’t fit that inside of him.

Beside him on the bed George is rocking a little, moaning. His hips thrust against the mattress. Alex, useless, strokes his back a little bit. George moans again.

“Wanna fuck me again?” he asks. He could do it, maybe, if that’s what George needs. “Or would something else—is there anything that would work better.”

George says something into the pillow. Alex can’t hear him, quite, until he says it again, and then it takes him another second to understand.

“Fuck me,” George is saying. Asking. Moaning, really, over and over, now that he’s found the shape of it in his mouth. Alex didn’t—he thinks of how he feels during rut and can’t imagine it. But George is saying it again and again, and Alex finds himself nodding and promising: yes, Georgie. Okay.

***

George comes again on his fingers, shocked-hot, seizing up. Begging Alex not to stop. It’s his third since Alex got here but it lasts longer than the first two, so that the mattress is wet when he shifts his hips. His cock is shiny, some come still dribbling from the slit. The swell of his knot is obvious now, waiting, the skin around it taut and painful-looking.

He comes a fourth time when Alex’s cock sinks into him. George is on his back, his teeth digging into his own shoulder. There’s no relief in this one either; his cock blurts against his stomach all a once, his stomach muscles cramping visibly. Alex wraps a hand around the nearly-there bulge of his knot.

“Come on,” he says. “Let it go, yeah? You’ll feel so much better.” It’s hot in the hotel room. He can feel himself sweating. George’s scent is sharper, like biting into metal. He thumbs at George, urging, suddenly wanting the grotesque swell of it more than anything: a lump in his throat, his chest.

“Come on,” he says again. “Where’s your knot, Georgie, huh? Give it up for me.”

George shakes his head. The bite mark in his shoulder fills in white and then red when he opens his mouth.

“You,” he says. “Yours. Yours.”

Alex’s vision wavers for a moment. He’s never—George isn’t made for that anymore than he is. He’ll hurt him. He’ll mess it up. He can feel his body seize with the desire for it, his own sudden swell, the helpless thrust of his hips into George at the very thought.

George moans. Another spurt of come leaks from him. He’s looking right at Alex with his glassy eyes. There’s a little drool at the corner of his mouth. As Alex watches, George tries to lick it away; swallows.

“Please,” he says. “I like it, it’s what I—what I want.”

His voice is shredded, wrecked. Alex puts together the words and then all at once thinks, horribly, of George doing this with someone else, of letting them inside him this way, liking it—

He barely has time to warn George before his knot is swelling, pulsing; too big, too much, and George’s cries go up in pitch even as Alex starts to fill him. He should have worn a condom. It’s too late now; he’s still growing, pushing against the space inside of George, grinding against his hips as though that’ll help make room.

George is talking, babbling, broken and painful-sounding, and it takes Alex so long to realize he’s saying thank you, over and over; that he’s coming again, in long wet pulses that streak up his abs and chest. It pools in the lines of his stomach and drips down his sides. His knot has popped, finally; red and angry, urgent. Alex reaches for it and George makes a wounded, flinching noise.

“Too much,” he says. The pulses of come have slowed now but he’s still so swollen, huge.

“You have to,” Alex says. “Let me help.”

George shakes his head. “Just—“ he says: he rocks his hips, moans. “If you stay inside me.”

Alex thinks; oh. He grinds his knot into George, against him, and watches wet gather and then drip onto his belly. Does it again; again, and then there’s a rhythm, like he’s working the come out of George, slow and easy, emptying the painful visible swell of him.

George starts to shake again halfway through. He makes punched-out noises each time Alex grinds in, sloppy and thick in the still air of the room. Alex’s own knot is beginning to go down. Already it’s lasted longer than he’s used to. Now, as it shrinks, his own come gets fucked out of George and adds to the mess between Alex’s own thighs. The sheets under George, around him, are soaked through.

When he’s too soft to stay inside Alex puts George on his hands and knees and pushes three fingers into him. George’s knot is smaller now but still visible. As Alex rubs against him come dribbles down his shaft. His arms are shaking.

“Needed this?” Alex asks. “This what you want every time?”

“Yeah,” George says, too gone to be anything but honest. “I—oh, god—”

“Next time you tell me,” Alex says. His motions are calmer than he feels, even and regular where everything inside him is roiling. He wants to sink his teeth into the pale skin of George’s upper thigh. Wants to make George promise to let Alex fuck him next time Alex ruts; wants days of it, knotted inside him, George’s body making space.

“Okay,” George says. “Alex—promise.” He’s almost soft now but he’s still dripping a little, not thick and white like his come was at the start but translucent, thin. Alex thinks he could get hard again, maybe. Push back into George and work him dry, until the only come inside of him was Alex’s.

“Good,” Alex tells him, and then he lets his fingers slip out. Beneath him, George collapses onto the ruined mattress. His hole is wet and open like an omega’s, his cock finally small and soft. His scent is worn down along the edges. Alex thinks his rut is probably over. It takes days, usually. He doesn’t know whether to feel proud or bereft.

Finally, he says, “You can’t sleep here.” He rocks George’s shoulder until his eyes open, then says it again.

“But it’s my room,” George says, stupid and sad.

Alex wonders what else it is George needs and waits for his body to ask for without permission.

“Stupid,” he says. “I meant that bed. You’ll go all pruny.”

He has to help George up. The other bed is right there, dry and clean. Instead, he leads George into the bathroom. George’s body is heavy and confused against his; Alex puts one arm around him, to keep him up, and turns the shower on with his other hand. He feels the water to make sure it’s warm enough, and then he helps George into the gentle spray.

#hot hot hot #galex #i cant handle this

[readinguponstuff]

“My friends get annoyed by how much I talk about you sometimes” for the prompt thing ❤️❤️❤️

lil max/daniel soulmate au for you :)

Max’s soulmate says, “My friends get annoyed by how much I talk about you, sometimes.”

“They maybe should try having your voice in their heads and then they will not complain so much.”

His soulmate laughs, rich and infectious. “Yeah, baby? We just get one hour a day and you’re sick of me already?”

It has been 2,837 hours. 2,837 days since Max turned 18 and the soul bond opened up inside him like a portal to somewhere warm and safe and lovely. Max doesn’t say it though. He always would say how many hours they had talked but it started to make his soulmate sad when it got to 1,000 and they still had not met in real life. Now it is almost three times that.

After the 1,000th day/1,000th hour benchmark, Max’s soulmate tried for so long to break the rules. To share something identifying about himself so they could cheat, meet. For days his voice through their bond was just fits and starts, a declassified government document with every third word redacted. He’d waste their only allotted hour sounding like a blank Mad Libs book.

It was very annoying.

Much more annoying, Max is sure, than whatever his soulmate is saying to his friends. They are lucky to be with him for real, to see him. The way his face moves and what he does with his hands. When Max tries to picture him, the lines are fuzzy and indistinct like an ad for someone who needs glasses. His soulmate’s friends should shut up and eat their food.

Max of course did not tell his soulmate when it was the 2,000th day of their bond, but he still celebrated. Around the time they usually talk in the evening, Max pulled himself to the edge of an orgasm and stayed there until his soulmate tugged on their bond. Max opened it up and it only took one hard tug on his dick to orgasm, to push all the fireworky feelings into their connection so his soulmate could feel them too.

And Max felt the way it hit his soulmate, the hot-horny-desperate shock of it all. Heard the, “Oh fuck, did you mean to do that? Please tell me you meant to do that, holy fucking shit. Please, I need to—oh my god—” and felt the lightning fast, brain short-circuiting response of his soulmate’s own orgasm when Max said, “Yes, yes, I meant to, please.”

So now that’s something they do as well.

When they come together it feels like a supernova.

Max kind of thought they would meet after. Now that this last part of it, the horny part, is settled.

They are perfect for each other in every way and there is nothing left to do but meet.

Max says, “I could never be sick of you.”

“You better not, sweetheart. The real me is gonna be full on. A 24/7, 3D, 5 senses experience, baby!”

Max pictures it. He gets hard.

“Oh fuck, that did it for you? Picturing me if I were there with you right now? What I would do to you?”

Max bites his lip. “Yeah.”

“You’re gonna fucking kill me, oh my god.”

Max’s hand is already wrapped around his dick.

On the 2,265th day of their soulbond, Max won his first world championship.

It was not as good as this.

But the best day will be the 3098th day of their bond.

In the middle of the Albert Park paddock, Max will get a tug on his bond, hot and urgent. He’ll freeze.

It won’t be a good time, but Max will answer.

“Hey baby, mind scratching your nose for me?”

“What.”

“Your nose, yeah? Give it a scratch.”

Max will frown. He’ll scratch his nose.

“Holy fucking shit, I knew it. Oh my god, oh my fucking god. You’re so hot, you’re so sexy, what the fuck! Why didn’t I start watching this sport ages ago?”

Max’s heart will pound. His palms will sweat. “What.”

Then the hottest guy Max will have ever seen will walk up to him, paddock pass swinging, perfect smile beaming.

He’ll say, “You sick of me yet?”

#god your mind!!!!! #i love it so much

[readinguponstuff]

1200 words of de-aged Max, you say? From a larger Max/Daniel story I'm absolutely not writing, you say?

Sure, here you go:

Max at seven years old is red cheeked and mutinous, sitting in the corner of Charles' driver's room with his arms folded and his grown up race suit falling off him. He won't talk to Charles and he won't talk to Christian and he doesn't want any chocolate or anything to drink or anything to colour with. He doesn't want to watch anything on any of their phones and he doesn't want to swap his grown up clothes for anything of Charles'. He doesn't seem to want anything.

There is a hushed, desperate conversation happening around the doorway, as everyone tries to run through all their contacts and find anyone with a private plane or a helicopter anywhere close to Monaco who can get Daniel here sooner rather than later. Daniel is on the other end of the phone telling someone whose job it normally is to provide hospitality to extremely rich businessmen that they need to find a tin of tomato soup and some bread and butter if they want Max to eat anything at all, and to put the soup in a cup because baby Max doesn't approve of spoons.

It's a good thing that Max— under normal circumstances —is a two time World Champion, because this version of Max refuses his specially bought tomato soup and his specially cut up sourdough bread and butter, and stares at the wall with sniffly red eyes and a frown.

Eventually some favours are reeled in and Christian promises a selection of paddock passes and photo opportunities, and Daniel is on someone's helicopter and he's on his way, which is good, because Max has graduated from mutinous silence to shivering because he's still in his champagne soaked race suit and won't take it off. Someone remembers seeing a blanket on one of the merchandise stands and that's how Max reluctantly agrees to accept a green Fernando Alonso blanket, curling up on Charles' sofa looking for all intents and purposes like a very sad, green orphan.

Christian pinches his nose and can't help but hope this doesn't go like the last time Max turned up aged seven instead of twenty-something, which is to say: it fucked up their driver and constructor points for the entire year and lasted weeks. Going small is relatively normal, all things considered. It usually lasts a couple of days, it's generally suggested that keeping to normal routines is the best way to age up the quickest, and most people cycle their way through the process by a mixture of sleeping and leaping between ages with alacrity. Max, however, had woken up aged seven, turned up on Daniel's doorstep, and then promptly stayed seven for just short of three months. It is relatively rare for it to stretch over such a period without becoming permanent, and it's also relatively rare for it to happen more than once.

Max, in general, is apparently relatively rare across the board, and if he was this difficult for the whole three months Daniel looked after him, Christian probably needs to pay Daniel more. Charles looks exhausted, but at least he's sitting on the chair by the sofa with his phone propped up on the table, and Max occasionally shoots glances in its general direction, which may or may not mean that Charles' choice of Disney's Cars was a good one.

But then, finally, finally, Christian gets a message to say that Daniel's made it through paddock security, and that's got to mean that they can hand this whole sorry situation over to him and get the hell out of Ferrari's team rooms. He's overheard at least one person saying this whole thing was staged for espionage, and quite frankly, if Christian was to pick any team to steal from, it wouldn't be fucking Ferrari. Max can be difficult and quiet with Daniel, and—

Daniel pushes the door open and Max sees him, and his face transforms. He throws himself in Daniel's general direction, tripping over his too-long race suit and stumbling into Daniel's arms with a squeal. Daniel is equally enthusiastic, scooping Max up and into his arms and kissing his cheeks and his forehead and his nose so that Max is giggling and burying his face into Daniel's neck.

Christian is fairly sure he hears Max badly whisper I wished for you, Danny into Daniel's ear, but refuses to think too much about it, particularly as Daniel is too busy telling Max how much he's missed him.

"Why are you dressed like you want to be a giant when you’re only a little bee?" Daniel's asking Max, as Max squirms in his arms to get comfortable. It can't be that nice to be dressed in a champagne-damp and grown up-Max sweaty race suit, but there was no getting it off him.

Then Christian has to listen to a very little Max explaining that no, Daniel, he is not a giant and he is not a bee, and Daniel is listening very carefully and nodding in all the right places, and disappearing into Charles' bathroom with a squirmy Max and the backpack he'd brought from Monaco.

Charles and Christian are left looking at each other with matching incredulous expressions. The expressions do not change when Daniel and Max emerge from the bathroom ten minutes later with a freshly scrubbed Max with damp hair and a little hoodie with Pikachu on and matching Pikachu sweatpants and socks. He is holding Daniel's hand and clutching a very well thumbed book about flags and his Fernando blanket. He refuses to let go of Daniel's hand or sit anywhere that isn't plastered to Daniel's side, but he does concede to eat some bread and butter and drink his cup of tomato soup this time around. Daniel wipes soup off his chin afterwards, because Max is too busy telling Christian a list of facts from his flag book to notice that he missed his mouth.

Christian feels a little bit like he might be going mad, which seems to be how Charles is feeling too, given his expression.

"I knew Max when he was little," Charles says to Daniel, in an undertone. Christian lets Max show him first the Australian flag page ("This flag is Daniel's,") and the Italian flag page ("This flag is Daniel's as well,"), "and he wasn't like this at all."

Daniel is looking at Max like he's the most important thing on the planet. Christian can't help but wonder if he's remembered that other people can see him looking like that.

"Well," Daniel says, letting Max press himself into Daniel's side. "Maybe this is just what he's like when he's happy."

"Who is happy, Daniel?" Max asks, looking up at Daniel.

"You are," Daniel says, and Max beams at him, complete with little red cheeks. "Do you want to go home?"

"Yes, please," Max says, and Christian thinks: this better not fuck up the points again.

Max is clearly tired out and doesn't want to walk, so Daniel ends up carrying him out, Christian walking behind.

"Can we get my cats?" Max whispers loudly.

"In the morning, baby," Daniel says, kissing Max's hair. "We'll bring them home in the morning."

Christian watches Max settle himself in Daniel's arms, flag book in hand.

There goes the fucking championship, Christian thinks, and lets out a breath.

&&&

thank you to lena @stolemyhheart for making sure it read okay, and to em @powerful-owl for spending multiple hours talking about this verse with me, worth it.

#oh how i love me some de-aged max #flagbook fernando blanket daniel tomato soup 🥹 #< could be my shopping list #wonderful read #“'There goes the fucking championship' Christian thinks” plsss

[readinguponstuff]

Time travel

max/daniel + background george/alex

Daniel’s future son is young and small and adorable and he time travels into the center of the paddock with a soft pop.

This is the kid Max has been waiting for. He does not even for sure realize it until he sees that curly mop of hair and all of the air gets sucked out of him, replaced by something light and dizzying, an air-lock chamber for his lungs.

This is why Max rolled a chair over to the spectacle and listened to Charles and Carlos debate the paternity of several blonde children who appeared before (all of them went to Haas). This is why he’s been staring at that nebulous space in front of them where time is bending and warping. This is why he’s been ignoring his screaming bladder, why he won’t miss a thing.

Daniel’s kid.

-

It started this morning when a teenager zapped into that same spot with a crack, said he was Alex Albon’s son. He didn’t have a paddock pass. They would have escorted him out, but everyone saw the teleportation, so. They brought over Alex. You cannot really do anything else at that point.

Alex laughed at him. The teenager gave him the finger. He had weird nail polish that cycled through all the colors of the rainbow, something Max is pretty sure you cannot buy yet.

Alex said, “Prove it. Tell me something only my kid would know.”

The nail polish guy narrowed his eyes. “You and George Russell used to give each other handjobs behind Williams hospitality.”

Alex had lunged forward and covered his mouth, but only the Williams part got garbled. The where, not the who. Alex said. “Jesus, what the fuck? Why would I tell you that?”

“I was having a crisis! I needed support and direction and commiseration!”

Alex had dragged him away saying, “On what planet would that information help? Oh my god, honestly, I’m never having children. This confirms it. Prepare to disappear with a puff of smoke soon, because your very existence is about to be a contradiction.”

Press and fan access was revoked, the paddock locked down. The drivers circled up to look on in fascination and horror.

It was quite boring. The kids were of course very cute. But nothing else interesting happened. No more handjob reveals.

But then a little Daniel appeared.

-

He is a little Daniel for real. He looks just like him. A head full of curls and his little cute face. He looks up at everyone, surprised and hopeful. He looks like these photos of Daniel as a kid always with his big smile.

And it doesn’t–it doesn’t reveal anything. The boy does not look like anyone else besides Daniel. It’s then that Max realizes he’s been waiting for, like, a curly-haired Heidi or a fucking mini-Scotty James to appear so he can just leave and know and be normal again.

He told Kelly what was happening. She said she wished she were there, to meet their kids. Their kids, like it is this for sure thing.

Alex’s girlfriend had looked at Alex’s time-traveling son and said, “He doesn’t look Asian enough,” and the guy replied, “Hey, fuck you, don’t gatekeep my Asianness.”

Everyone knows you don’t talk to your mother that way, so.

Max is glad Kelly is not here.

Some nice ladies from Mercedes are talking to Daniel’s kid. Telling him what happened and explaining why he should try to not say anything about the future. He is too young to understand; they should not bother. But they look like mums and it will be probably very lovely and comforting to Daniel’s son who must be very scared.

Behind Max, Daniel says, “Oh my god,” and ducks behind a fake plant.

“Daniel.” Max swivels fully around in his chair. “Daniel, are you sure he is not you? Maybe you will clone yourself, you know. Daniel Ricciardo 2.0.”

“Shhh,” Daniel hisses. “You’re blowing my cover.”

“He is so cute; I love him. Go be with him.”

Daniel makes a yikes face.

Max gets up to stand next to him. “Why are you being such a pussy?”

“Oh gee, I don’t know. Maybe because I’m not ready to be a dad?”

“They will go back to their own timeline tonight. Spontaneous time travel never lasts so long–”

“Yeah, I know, Max. It’s just. Like.” Daniel is ripping fake leaves off the fake plant. “What if he’s disappointed in me?”

“What.”

“I’m not even driving right now? Like. What if whatever multiverse version of me is this kid’s dad didn’t fuck up his career, ya know?”

“That is so stupid. He won’t care about that. He just loves you. Not racecar driver Daniel. Just Daniel.”

“Yeah?” Daniel asks. He stares at Max, intense. He’s not picking at the fake plant anymore. His whole body is just still.

“Yes, Daniel.” Max squeezes Daniel’s arm where the little spaceman is.

Daniel’s smile is shy, like a little animal or like he too is a time-traveling little baby. “How do you. Like. Um. How do you know that?”

Max frowns. “Because I am not a stupid motherfucker, I think.”

Daniel cackles, shakes his head. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll go hang out with him. I got this.”

Max wants to say, Ask who is his mum and then come tell me, but thinks that would be strange. He will maybe ask the kid himself. Ask him and leave and know and be normal again.

Daniel spreads his arms wide and sneaks up behind the kid like a stalker emu. He roars and picks him up, turns him upside down like he is a cartoon character shaking someone down for lunch money. The kid laughs uproariously. He maybe is used to his dad being all of the time crazy like this.

Max’s chest hurts.

The mum ladies talk to Daniel and he holds the kid and nods with serious, wide eyes. While he listens he makes his hand into a little crawly spider and tickles the boy.

Sometimes very little kids don’t know their parents' real names. If that is true then maybe Max needs a police sketch artist to talk to this boy and make a drawing of his mum’s face. Then Max can take it and leave and know and look at it always when he needs to be normal. Just as a reminder.

Max is wondering if he should try to just throw his voice or something, call out, “Hey kid, who is your mum,” to make some progress here, when Daniel’s kid catches his eye and beams.

Max looks behind himself. No one else is hiding in the fake plant.

The kid bucks wildly, melts to the floor and squirms out of Daniel’s grip like he has turned into slime. He runs to Max on still-chunky baby legs.

Max should maybe take this chance to interrogate him, but then the kid hugs his legs and Max’s air-lock lungs are back.

The kid grins up at him, flushed cheeks and Daniel’s dazzling sunshine smile. He says, “Papa!”

#cutest shit ever

[readinguponstuff]

in collaboration with @eff41: some stollonso lol

"Why are you watering a vase?" is the first thing Lance says when he comes out of the bedroom.

He's been awake for an hour already, Fernando knows, because he liked Fernando's post and put something from the team to his story, but he likes to get up slowly.

He still looks sleepy when Fernando turns around to smile at him. He's in the same thing he slept in, athletic shorts and no shirt, his broad hand scratching his stomach.

"They needed water," Fernando says lightly, putting the wineglass he was pouring from in the sink.

The answer is really, because he tried to make breakfast, and burnt the eggs three times.

"They're in water?" Lance says, scrunching his nose. "That's like, the idea of a vase?"

Fernando doesn't tell him he thinks sometimes vases need more water. It's something the cleaners Lance has must do, must have done all his life, so maybe he even thinks flowers just stay alive in water forever, fresh and pretty. It's ok if he does; it's good. He should live in a world like that, where even if he gets the phone reminder that the cleaners are coming in an hour while Fernando has him naked over the back of a couch, even if he texts them to cancel with Fernando working two fingers against his prostate, the flowers still stay nice.

Fernando will look it up later, to make sure if he's right, about adding water.

For now, he watches Lance.

He's nice looking, in the morning. His hair like after a race, his face like he's mad at the sun. He stretches his arms up while he walks to the fridge, and Fernando looks at the tattoo on his ribs that reminds him of a girl, the thick dark hair in the hollow under his arm that doesn't at all.

This is one of the first mornings–like this. Not during a race weekend or by the factory, but two days out from Lance's home race, at his family's very Canadian big house, logs and a moose head and a big brown lake.

It's harder to think about what he's doing now, with no car to get away if he wanted to, with just Lance here, pale and tall in front of the open fridge.

In Monaco, he'd started fucking Lance so hard the night before quali Lance had put a hand at his hip and rolled his eyes and told him, "I get it, you're strong," and pressed lazily at him until Fernando had given up and put his face in Lance's hair and fucked him softer.

In Abu Dhabi, the first time, he'd slipped into Lance's driver room an hour before the race, and shoved a hand into the open zipper of his race suit to jerk him off, then grinned at him and wiped his hand off on his fireproofs and said, "Have a nice race."

This is different. He has no reason to be here, in Canada still at all.

Lance hadn't even asked him, had just said he was staying at his family's house for a few days, and when Fernando got in his car after the race, he'd rolled his eyes and said nothing and drove.

Now it's been two days of just. Of mostly sex still, but of Lance letting Fernando kiss him in the morning but then elbowing him off and saying, "Stop it, I'm still sleeping." Of Fernando sitting on the huge couch while the sun rises and making eye contact with a dead moose, and then with a big picture of Lance from when he was in school, skinnier and younger, his jaw soft and speckled red, his eyes softly happy, his real smile that looks fake. Of taking his phone out to take a picture, the joke he's been doing that he just started to realize isn't maybe funny actually, but instead of wrestling it out of his hands, Lance just smiled at him, closed mouth and curved up eyes, and now Fernando has a picture of that, the sun shining off the lake behind him, on his phone, and he doesn't know what to do with it.

#love starting my day reading soft soft strollonso