I distinctly remember one time Alex saying something like “I’ll flatter my dad by calling him a racer… he was an ameteur” (very paraphrased) in a way that definitely was not the way you would talk about that if you had a a lot of respect for your dad
(re alex's dad)
this took me so long to answer because i was desperately trying to find the source for this (and i've failed), but i remember him saying this too! and i completely agree with your take
eta: thank you to @phneltwrites for coming through with the source! alex said it in his Korean Englishman interview: "At seven, my dad bought me my first kart. My dad loved racing. I'll do him some justice and call him semi-professional. "
i feel like other drivers with dads who were hobbyist racers often try to be nice about it like saying they just didn't have the money or opportunities to go pro, etc etc. but i can't think of a time alex has ever taken that angle
as i was looking for this interview, i did remember two bits of alex dad lore that i think everyone should see
firstly, alex saying that no one taught him to shave from this 2020 red bull video (one of our most important marketing videos). like it really just makes me think of him being alone and having to be responsible when he was a teenager
and second, in a different interview (high performance podcast?) i remember alex saying that when his mum went to prison, he isolated himself and felt like racing was the only thing he had. which is so tough to think about in general
but then you add in that racing was something he got from his dad who wasn't around anymore. and i just feel so sad about him clinging to this sport he got from a parent as he was trying to step into the parental role for his siblings. and then the sport not even giving him anything back because red bull DROPPED him
and anyway, i guess i'll never be normal about alex albon until i die
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
hi hello i was thinking about haasd quinn and in the interests of continuing to Put That Man Through It: how do you think he would react if there happened to be an occasion where he needed some kind of heavy-duty painkiller or smth like that that fucks w/ cognition? and/or how do u think the people around him (especially jack) would react to Him reacting to it? i assume the answer both is Not Well but i was curious if you would have specific thoughts (also this is nikekryou on main btw!)
well i couldn't be normal about this ask, so. here's 3.5k of something i wrote on my phone during the roadtrip bc i went a little insane idk
[during the same break that haasd chp1 ends]
+
When Quinn first starts rolling out his shoulder uncomfortably, Jack takes note, but he doesn't think too much of it.
Getting hit into the boards does that, and they've all taken a bit of a beating in today’s camp session. Jack’s own shoulder is tight, and he's pushing back the thought of psychosomatic pains tingling into his hand.
When they stand in front of Jim and the other coaches for the camp, Quinn remains still. Jack takes more notice of that – he doesn't quite realise what's so wrong with Quinn’s movements until he realises they're absent.
It takes a few minutes, a couple of calls back to Jim, before Jack pieces it together and realises why it feels so strange.
Quinn’s usually always shifting on his feet, like he's unwilling to keep his blades on the same spot of ice lest they melt into it. Jack’s the same, Luke is too. Like once they have skates on and the ice under their feet, they just want to go. Ready at a moment’s notice to tear off and get right into it.
But now, Quinn is keeping himself in the same spot. Nodding at Jim whenever he looks Quinn’s way, doing his best to be a dutiful son in a way that always makes Jack roll his eyes, but Jack starts to realise Quinn’s absolutely taking none of it in. He's too still, too robotic, just checking off what he needs to do to fly under Jim’s radar of direct attention.
When they get off the ice, Jack lingers long enough to end up behind Quinn in the hallway. Watches the way he's quietly split off from the rest of the guys to put his stick away, motion slow and careful. Mindful of pulling something too fast or hard.
Jack bumps against him as they sit, and Quinn gives him a side-eye for it, but the tension under his skin relaxes. Whether it's forceful or not, Jack doesn't know, but Quinn's reluctant smile appears when Jack complains about something Jim said in the session.
After that, for the rest of the night, Quinn seems alright. So Jack puts it in the back of his mind, noted but not something to address yet.
But over the next few days, it becomes clear enough to Jack: Quinn’s shoulder is getting worse.
Bad enough even Jim notices. He pulls Quinn aside after one of their sessions when they're all changed out, trying to be subtle but failing to remember Jack – and Luke, when he has cause to – has always been good at lingering around corners and listening.
“You alright?” Jim asks.
“Hm? Yeah.”
“If your shoulder’s-”
“It's fine,” Quinn replies, cutting Jim off in a move rarely seen. He quickly realised what he's done, his tone softening as he says, “Should've iced it, forgot to.”
And that’s– well, that's a lie. Jack saw him sitting in the kitchen last night, a pack on his shoulder.
“Alright,” Jim says, in that particular pinch of disappointment that always grates at Quinn. “Well, you gotta stay on top of that.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Quinn replies, “I'm on it.”
“If it needs to get checked out–”
“No,” Quinn says quickly, another surprising cut off. Jim's too used to Jack and Luke – he doesn't register it's not something Quinn does. “It's nothing that needs a look at.”
Jim lets him go without any further questioning. Jack remains in the hallway, willing to give up his position as Quinn walks back to the locker room.
Quinn gives him a double-take of surprise, but quickly resigned acceptance. Not as forgetful as Jim is.
“Nosy asshole,” Quinn tells him.
“What’s up with the shoulder?” Jack asks, head nodding in a gesture to Quinn’s left side.
Quinn keeps walking. “You heard. It's not anything.”
“You said you didn't ice it,” Jack points out.
Quinn almost falters. A little stumble in his step as he keeps walking, probably remembering that Jack walked out last night and saw him with the pack.
“I was lazy with it,” Quinn replies, waving a hand over his shoulder dismissively.
Jack runs his tongue over his teeth, annoyed. He understands not wanting their dad involved when it comes to something being wrong — it usually doesn't end up as a productive conversation, and Jack's always felt worse for even trying. But he doesn't understand Quinn pretending like he's being careless with his shoulder, throwing himself under the bus when he very simply could have not.
But Quinn is being careless about his shoulder, he realises. He's understating the pain with Jim, and he's understating it with Jack, too.
He catches up to Quinn as he heads out to the parking lot. Luke's already waiting for them, scrolling on his phone. Jack steps up beside Quinn and says, "Let me drive."
"No chance," Quinn snips back quickly, slapping his hand over his back pocket where he's got the keys. Luke looks up then, eyes darting between them, but he seems to brush it off as he sits in the back without an attempt to call shotgun, sitting behind the passenger seat.
Jack still tries to head for the driver's door, but Quinn sits down quickly and glares at him when he sees Jack heading his way, so Jack rolls his eyes and heads for the other side of the car.
"Q," he tries, in the car, leaning forward and trying to catch Quinn's eye.
Interestingly, Quinn's eyes flick up to the rearview mirror, and Jack realises he's looking at Luke. His shoulders drop when he sees that Luke still has his head down in his phone — though Jack saw Luke's movements pause when he spoke, clearly listening.
Then, he looks at Jack, and the warning is clear: not in the car.
Jack settles back, agreeable but only due to the fact that he wants to contemplate Quinn's actions. He's been getting cagey like this throughout the break, ever since Jack found him on that bathroom floor. Like Jack's just one move, one word, away from spilling it all.
The shoulder's connected, he figures. Quinn's gotten into his head that there's something here he needs to keep secret. Something about his shoulder and that night are tangled together, and he doesn't want Luke — or probably Jack — sniffing anywhere near it.
His stomach turns, but he tries to puzzle it through with logic. Maybe, he theorises, Quinn's shoulder was in the crossfire of everything that night. But Quinn's shoulder hasn't been an issue before, either. Jack would've noticed during the season if he was playing with it injured.
Quinn's still keeping everything as close to his chest as possible. Jack only has a very, very rough timeline to work with. Mostly pieced together through his own deductions, his own memory and text messages, pinpointing when Quinn's anger started to shift and show up like it did. But it was in the middle of the season, he's sure. A game probably right on top of that night.
So... Jack would have noticed. Hell, Jim would have noticed. He would have pried at Quinn a little harder if he knew it was a recurring issue — fuck knows he gets on Jack and Luke's asses enough about it. He would've gone in harder on Quinn not icing it well enough rather than letting him get away with it fairly unscathed other than his disappointment.
Quinn turns up the music. Luke makes a noise, a puff of amused air through his nose — Quinn's shitty playlists are an endless source of teasing for him, but he remains quiet enough in the back. The rest of the ride is silent, and Jack tries to turn over how the hell Quinn's gotten his shoulder mixed in with all of this.
Maybe he's too used to just hiding injuries. Maybe that night's fucking with so much more than Jack has been prepared for.
They pull up, and Quinn tries to slink off quickly to his room, but Jack follows right on his heels and doesn't let Quinn even try to shut the door on him. He sits down on the edge of Quinn's bed, demanding attention.
For a moment, it looks like Quinn is considering walking right back out and finding something to keep him occupied. Somewhere far away from Jack. But he can't do that for the rest of the break — hell, he can't even do it now. Jack's not going to let this go. He let way too much shit go for too long, and Quinn's way too fucking used to trying to keep shit from him, it seems. Jack's not going to let it become any more of a habit than it has.
He contemplates the way to go into this conversation. After a quiet moment where they both size each other up, Quinn shuts the door behind him, deciding to face Jack head-on.
"You didn't get ice," Jack points out, just because he knows it'll annoy Quinn. He always gives away a little more when he's pissy, and Jack's going to need what he can get for this if Quinn's already walled himself up. Going into this delicately will just get Quinn to reinforce his walls, and he thinks the way in is just going to be finding a weak spot and bashing a hole into it.
"Felt you breathing down my neck," Quinn replies, steady but clearly annoyed. He takes a step into the room, heading for his dresser, but then pauses before it. He switches track of whatever he was planning and decides to rest against it, staring down Jack with a questioning gaze.
Jack spreads his hands out. "Was going to breathe down it whether you came in here or not."
"Obviously."
"Was it the hit from a couple of days ago?" Jack asks, head nodding towards Quinn's shoulder. "Dude, if it's getting worse, what the hell are you doing?"
"It's not getting worse." Stilted and clearly trying to stop Jack from prying. Too bad, Jack mentally tells him. Too fucking bad. He's going to find out what the hell is up.
"And let me guess, not getting better," Jack fires back, rolling his eyes, before he leans forward. "You iced it. Then lied about icing it. What's up with that? You don't want Jim knowing, or...?"
Quinn stares at him blankly. Jack almost laughs, but he holds it back — it's really not that funny of a situation, even if Jack's always amused by the small moments of Quinn showing he's got some sense when it comes to their parents. But it's really not funny that Quinn's hiding it from Jim and is now trying to hide it from Jack.
"Look, whatever's up, you can't..." Jack breathes out, shaking his head. Changes track and gestures to himself. "You know you can't fuck with this kind of thing, dude. An injury is an injury, come on. If it gets worse because you're stubborn, then—"
"Jack," Quinn snaps. Jack almost falters, a little startled by the heat in Quinn's voice. He's been so quick to get angry lately. Jack's still trying to get used to it; it's always been Jack or Luke who strikes the quickest and flares up the brightest. It's never been Quinn, who takes a while to get heated. Once he gets going it's hard to get him to fizzle out, but... it's never been like this. Like he's always burning, and the fire just starts roaring the second someone pokes a little.
And Jack hadn't meant to poke that hard, either. He'd been trying to get a bit of an edge, trying to see why Quinn was sensitive and why he's lying about it, but he'd been trying, in that moment, to be empathetic. A little vulnerable. If anyone was going to understand trying to play off and then play through an injury, then there's no better person in Quinn's life than one of his brothers.
Quinn deflates quickly. He runs a hand through his hair, but Jack starts to see the small, surprising tremble in his fingers.
"Q," he says again. "What the hell is this about?"
It has to be about that night. It has to be something that Jack's not sure if he can bear the weight to hear, but he needs to be ready to. He needs to find out whatever the hell's got Quinn stupid enough to risk aggravating an injury.
"It's fine," Quinn says, shaking his head. "Seriously. Just needs some icing and rest."
"How do you know?" Jack shoots back. Quinn's quiet for a moment long enough for Jack to know he's got an in. "You haven't had anyone look at it, have you? Don't be stupid. You know what a bad shoulder can do if you don't manage it properly, Quinn, what the hell?"
"I'm managing it."
"Fucking— yeah, sure," Jack breathes out through his teeth, dry and annoyed. "Come on, Q. What's got you like this?"
"Nothing," Quinn fires back. "Rowds, it's fine. Drop it."
"I'll only drop it if you get fucking cleared by someone actually qualified," Jack replies. "You know the guys here, dude. They're good. You know they're good. You don't need to tell Jim."
"It's not—" Quinn grits out, stopping himself by his teeth.
"Not dad?" Jack tries to fill in.
Quinn gestures with his hand somewhat uselessly, not really meaning anything. He says, "Sure. No. Not Jim. Not the guys."
"Then what?"
"It's..." Quinn groans. He's still only using one arm; his other shoulder is tense, kept close to his body.
"Quinn," Jack sighs. "You can't let this get worse, dude. What is it? Whatever it is, we'll work around it."
"I don't think you can," Quinn laughs, terribly dry. "Fuck, I don't think I can."
"What? Q, what the hell is it?"
"If it's worse," Quinn finally manages, after a few moments of tense, stretched silence. "If it— fuck. Look. I don't think... I genuinely don't think it's that bad. But we're off-season, and heavier-dose painkillers are the go-to, you know? And. Fucking scans. And if something's whack, then. Straight to surgery, and that's just..."
Jack stares at him. Then narrows his eyes, pissed off suddenly. "Where the fuck did surgery come into this? Fucking Jesus, Quinn, if you're hiding something that bad, then what the fuck—"
"I don't think it needs surgery," Quinn hisses back, low and hurried.
"Then why the fuck say it?"
Quinn scrubs his face with his hand. "Fucking— I don't know. I'm not."
"You very much are."
"I'm, I don't know. Theorising the worst."
Jack's real fucking lost. "Why? What the fuck, dude? If it's surgery, then sorry, but I'm going to fucking go to the trainers myself, you—"
"Don't you fucking... Jesus Christ, Jack. It doesn't— it's not the fucking surgery. It is. But it's not— that's not," Quinn's stumbling all over himself, and Jack's so fucking confused at this point he doesn't know what the hell to think or do.
"Then what?" He manages, somehow, to get out, trying to find out where this conversation has slipped from his grip.
"I don't even..." Quinn closes his eyes and tips his head to the ceiling, and then drops it heavily. He doesn't look at Jack as he sits near the head of his bed. "It's the... painkillers. The good stuff. Whatever you go on with surgery. It's that. I'm just fucking... I don't know."
It takes Jack a few moments to piece it together, because his head is still spinning over all the weird missteps of this entire conversation, where only Quinn has understood what the path leads to.
And now that Jack finally understands it, he sinks forward, the weight of it pressing down on him, heavy and suffocating.
Fuck. Fuck. This is something Jack probably should have already been thinking about — Quinn's been waving off the alcohol and the weed. But his sobriety isn't a wanted thing, and it's not something that's going to just be magically fixed because it's medical. It's still a loss of control and something that fucks with his cognition, no matter the purpose of it.
"I don't want to feel like that again," Quinn admits, defeated.
Jack... doesn't know what to say to that.
"It's not the same," he tries, and then grimaces immediately.
"I fucking know that."
He deserves the anger for that one, he knows. Apologetically, he says, "Yeah. I... Yeah. Sorry."
His remorse chips at Quinn's anger, though. Slowly thaws it out until he's hunched over again, but Jack hates the sight of it.
He's been turning questions over in his mind, over and over again. Every single night, every time he looks at Quinn, he can't help but think them: Who was it? Do you know? Will you ever tell me? I want to know. Do I know them? I want them to regret everything. Tell me who, won't you? He wants to ask them now. He wants the answers. He wants to go out and find them, and make them understand that what they've done to Quinn is unforgivable, unchangeable. They can't take it back, but they should want to. Quinn deserves that, but he deserves so much fucking more than whatever Jack can do, too little and too fucking late.
He won't let it stop him from trying though. It can't be about this other person, though. It's about Quinn, and just trying to deal with this.
"It might be something small now, but if you don't get it looked at, it could get worse," Jack says. He clenches his fists around the edge of the mattress, pained to say it but knowing Quinn needs to hear it, "And if you fuck your shoulder and refuse help, then you know that's it. You know that's your game gone."
He's sick at the thought of it. Wants to burn away the words the moment they spill from his tongue. Doesn't want to bring any kind of life to that possibility.
But if Quinn keeps going as he is, refusing to get checked out, then Jack knows how it'll unfold. It's not fair to ask it of him, but it's the only way that it'll save his career.
"Staying on top of injuries is the only way you stay ahead of them. You know this, Q."
Quinn's silent. Jack's stomach turns over, but he makes himself move, slowly unclenching his fingers from the mattress so that he can pull himself across the bed and sit next to Quinn.
"You can ask for the lower dose of painkillers. Which I think is stupid — you're going to suffer more for it. But if it's what will get your head right, then. Fine," Jack continues. "Then you can do that. And if you need something more, then I'll be right with you. I'll fight tooth and nail to make sure it's just me."
"And the docs," Quinn replies, missing the beat of humour by a few seconds, but Jack gives him an amused huff for the effort.
"Yeah. But I'll make sure I'm around the entire time."
Quinn sighs. Jack nudges against him.
"I just don't think I'll be able to reconcile it," Quinn admits with a mutter. "Like, it's. It's going to fuck up my head."
Jack can't even fucking imagine. He tries hard not to think about Quinn in the kind of state he must have been in. The fear of it that's obviously fucked him up so badly that he can't even stomach the idea of heavy painkillers. Jack— fuck. Can't think about it too much.
But Quinn can't keep going like this. He can't let a hit into the boards spiral, and make him slack on his physical upkeep. It'll just keep going down and down — that night stripping everything that Quinn has worked so hard for. Jack's not going to fucking let it happen.
"You're getting ahead of yourself," Jack tells him, plain and simple. Slightly strange for him to do it — Quinn's never really been the kind to think so pessimistically about something. But that night, whatever was in Quinn's drink, will not be the same situation, and he can't let Quinn keep conflating it. "We can start with just getting it looked at. See what's up, then figure out a game plan. But we gotta do it, Q. Or if you don't want me there, then—"
"No," Quinn cuts in. He lets out a long breath, but elaborates, "I want you there. If... yeah. If you can be."
"'Course I can be," Jack answers. "I'm going to be. So. How about you reach out to one of our guys? The sooner you do it, the sooner we get this shit sorted, the sooner your shoulder's good to go."
And the longer it lingers, the harder the fear becomes to shake off. Better to deal with it as soon as possible — Quinn's already delayed by a couple of days, after all. He's a little worried Quinn's going to be resistant to it already, the fear too far down already and already stripping him of sense. But Quinn just sighs and pulls out his phone, ignoring his list of unopened messages and opening up a new text right in front of Jack's view. It's a silent trust, unspoken, but Jack doesn't let it go by unnoticed.
Quinn's letting him into it: the fear, the worry, the panic. He's letting Jack in to see it. And to help with it.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I have a question, please help me if you know the answer.
When you’re in a relationship and sometimes like to spice things up by asking your partner for a favour, like, do the dishes, buy something nice for them etc. in exchange for sex. Is there a name? Is this kind of like a kink? Because I wouldn’t call this sugar daddy or mommy stuff.
