dududu max be yappin

Lewis doesn’t answer immediately, shaking his bong before his face, as if he’s a scientist studying some chemicals in a flask.

“Yes. And you?” He makes a long puff, savoring the smoke.

Charles isn’t quite ready for his question to be thrown back at him, but he’s relaxed enough to tell him the truth.

“Yes.”

They suddenly look at each other and burst out laughing.

“Germans,” Charles utters at the same time as Lewis speaks, “Spaniards.”

the sun is setting in red bull racing

george russell/max verstappen | rated: e | 5.5k

George doesn't feel any type of way about Max.

Really, he doesn't.

This whole thing would be easier if George didn’t find Max charming at all. If he still found Max as insufferable as he used to, back when it’d happened for the first time over winter break, quick and dirty and mean. A padel match with Lando and Alex that had somehow ended with George shoved up against the wall in the toilets, Max’s hand wrapped around his cock, too tight to feel good, really, and Max’s other hand pressed over George’s mouth, his palm hot and sweaty against George’s lips. “I can, you know, to you,” George had offered, and Max had snorted and rolled his eyes, before banging his way out of the stall. It seemed like Max thought he’d got the better of George, which made no sense, really, when George was the only one who’d come.

my f1 secret santa contribution for @killjoythereader :))

this must be the place

Oscar Piastri/Mark Webber

E, 10.3k words

Tags: Post-2025 Season, Tenderness, Disordered Eating, Dubious Consent, Codependency, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Crying During Sex, Dad Issues, Bittersweet Ending, Angst, Uncomfortably Reliable Narrator [full list on AO3]

The days lose their edges.

Oscar sleeps in stretches that seem to lengthen each night—eight hours, then ten, then twelve, his body demanding the debt it's owed. Mark lies awake beside him more often than not, watching the way Oscar's face changes in the pale hours before dawn. That softness gone from his jaw entirely, the last trace of the boy he was when Mark first met him finally carved away.

They don't talk about racing. Don't talk about the championship, the team, what comes next. The season sits between them like something dead, too heavy to move. Mark feels it in his chest sometimes, but Oscar seems lighter without the words. Relieved, almost. Like not speaking about it means it isn't real yet.

"It's nice," Oscar says one evening, apropos of nothing. They're on the terrace, watching the sky turn colors, Oscar's head resting against Mark's shoulder. "Not being anyone for a while."