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max needs an orange cat

'come on,' daniel chases the big, orange maine coon across the living room of his shared flat. the little scrap of clothing is clutched in one hand and treats are in the other. 'let me put this on you, your papa is gonna love it.'

at the sound of his papa, rocky stops, beady yellow eyes boring into daniel's. the aussie grabs him, taking the cat between his legs and ties the little handkerchief around his neck.

'good boy,' the man cooes, stroking rocky's long, soft fur until he purrs. opening the wet treat, daniel offers it to the creature that has only just learnt to tolerate him. rocky licks at the tube incessantly, forcing daniel to practically empty the tube in one motion. 'that wasn't so bad, was it? you look so handsome. good boy, rocky.'

rocky lets out a little chirp and sits for daniel to take a barrage of photos of him before skittering off at the sound of one of the other cats. daniel listens as the scratch of his claws against the floor fade into silence.

----

a little text lets daniel know that max has just gotten off the plane and is on his way home. he frantically searches for rocky, calling out the cat's name and half yelling pspsps around the apartment.

'rocky, come on, buddy,' he calls out, shaking a bag of dreamies. jimmy bolts out of the bathroom and pulls at daniel's leg for a treat. the australian is weak to saying no to any of max's children so he opens the bag and drops a foul-smelling treat on the floor. 'there you go, now help me find rocky.'

jimmy lets out a cry for another treat but saunters off when he realises that daniel does not currently care for him. daniel can't deny that the cat gave him the stink eye and mutters a prick under his breath before looking for max's orange son.

'rocky, come on, papa will be home soon,' he pleads, hoping the furry creature will have mercy on him. 'we got you all nice and dressed up for him.'

daniel sighs at the lack of fur running towards him and endeavours to the bedroom, patting on any and every lump on the bed until one yells back at him.

'ah, there you are,' daniel glares at the creature, all curled up and glaring back at him. he carries the cat into the front room and past a picture of his namesake, max's beloved rb19 before closing the door. 'you're not going anywhere until papa sees you.'

rocky lets out an impressed chirp and headbutts at the treats in daniel's hand until the aussie is forced to placate the creature with as many as he demands.

'don't eat so quickly, i'm not cleaning your barf off the carpet,' daniel says, giving yet another treat to the purring kitty. rocky crawls into daniel's lap, purring into each pet.

the cat startles as the door opens but scampers off the spare human's lap to his papa.

'hej, rocky,' max whispers into the maine coon's fur, scratching at his fluffy chin. 'what has your dad dressed you in?'

max pulls back to properly admire the little handkerchief around rocky's neck. it's got four stars embroidered on it, not dissimilar to the one he wore when he first got the cat. only, now, he's wearing one more star...

'congratulations on another championship, baby,' daniel whispers, pulling max into a kiss. beneath them. rocky lets out a frustrated wail at the loss of attention from his beloved papa.

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sorry for the late response i was jacking off to M4X

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Fuck it, i want my old url back and a new pfp

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the holding the umbrella with two hands the lil shufflings to keep up with daniel to keep him dry the way he kept talking and talking the way his whole upper body looked strained

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Daniel Ricciardo and Max Verstappen in Canada, 2024

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True…

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Daniel with an engine that self-immolated in every second race and with the second/third/fourth fastest car still has a higher winning percentage. 🤠

Find shame Red Bull

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Dear Maxiel nation, here is my modest contribution

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What do you mean no homo

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there is no heterosexual explanation for this

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doing a bingo this season, will update throughout 😝

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one final assist

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WE NEED THIS I'm already miss them 🥲

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it is of course, always daniel. it was daniel who sent that super license video, daniel who was the teammate that mattered, daniel is the one who’s steering wheel he still uses, daniel who would drown with him, “i love you daniel, i love you” with puppets, daniel who he would reply to right away, daniel who he would go on a not a romantic date with, daniel he would go on a deserted island with, daniel who’s fun to be around, daniel who would whisper in his ears to guide him, daniel would be his emergency contact, daniel.

always daniel.of course daniel.

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Non-driver Maxiel AU where Max lives in London and is forced into a run club by George.

Warning: mention of vomiting

The sun is obscenely low in sky when George raps at Max’s bedroom door. It’s soft at first, then graduates into louder and louder pounding that Max can’t ignore, even in this hungover haze. He drags his heavy limbs to the shaking bedroom door and flings it open, hoping his visible rage and pillow-creased face make George fuck right off.

“What do you want?” 

George is perky, that irritating fucking smile accompanying clear skin and bright under-eyes. There’s no signs of last night’s adventures left on his face. He’s also wearing the ugliest, most neon green workout set Max has ever laid eyes on. The shorts are obscenely short. Max isn’t wholly convinced George isn’t aspiring for the sex offender registry if he wears those in public.

“You promised you’d attend run club with me,” George says. He begins dropping into little side-to-side leg stretches, and Max has to avert his eyes to avoid being flashed. 

“Mate, I absolutely did not do that.” If a criminal was holding Max’s family hostage and said the only way to save them was running a 5K, he’d have to beg the guy for a chance to say goodbye.

“Yes, you did,” George protests. “It was after that guy you hit on turned out to be straight.”

As if Max needed to be reminded of that part, which does come back to him quite clearly, along with the many g&ts he downed after.

George, rather unwisely, keeps talking. “I said it was a great way to meet people, then Alex said you wouldn’t last a single kilometre in a run club, and then you bet him 10 quid you could finish the run and agreed to come today.” 

Max blinks at him dumbly. To be fair, it does sound like the kind of stupid, competitive bet he’d get into with George’s new boyfriend.

They all technically work for the same company, but Max is in IT and Alex was always tech-literate enough to never need Max's help. Ever since Alex all but moved into this flat — which George's mysteriously wealthy parents pay for, so Max shuts his mouth and deals — they have become well acquainted. George has effectively weaponized their innate need to antagonize each other into fights over who can dry dishes faster, sort out the recycling best, and hang framed photos the straightest.

This, however, is a whole new level.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Max says. He moves to slam the door in George’s face, but George swiftly kicks his foot in the gap.

“Fine, but I’m telling Alex you backed out,” he threatens. He’s serious, too. He’s been begging them to join this run club with him for ages, but it’s been a losing battle against two people who hate both early wakeups and exercise. 

Max thinks of Alex’s smug, delighted face when Max is forced to hand over the money — and he’ll make a whole show of it, probably in front of all their co-workers — and grits his teeth. “I’ll fucking go, but I’m moving out.” 

“That loses its effectiveness when you threaten it every other day,” George informs him, then drops into a lunge that exposes his matching neon green briefs. This is going to be the worst morning of Max’s life.

They roll up to the meeting spot five minutes late and both extremely grumpy: Max at the whole situation, and George at Max because he apparently dressed too slowly. He’d dragged him by his wrist the whole way there. 

George is instantly greeted and swept away into a crowd of runners who could be his fucking clones, short shorts and all. Max briefly wonders if he can escape without George noticing, but as he begins a shuffle toward the edges of the group, someone catches his eye and begins walking over.

“You’re new!” he says, just as eerily enthusiastic as the rest of this group, like it’s not literally six in the morning. Max is beginning to wonder if he’s starring in a horror movie.

The man flashes perfect teeth at Max. At least he’s extremely beautiful. The least this group could do is give Max something worth looking at if they’re planning to ritually sacrifice him at the end. 

“I’m Max. George made me come,” he says, sticking his thumb out at his evil, detestable flatmate. Max will be unleashing the cats into George’s locked office, where he keeps his priceless collection of vintage teapots on display.

“Oh, he’s always talked about bringing his boyfriend! I’m Carlos. I founded this group.” 

Max tries to resist gagging at more than just leftover gin sloshing around his stomach. Judging by Carlos’ amused expression, he does not succeed. “Flatmate. Definitely not his boyfriend,” he corrects. 

Carlos runs a tan hand through his beautiful, flowing hair, and Max doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s not watching the movement. “Welcome, George’s not-boyfriend. Let’s get you sorted into a pace group. What’s your usual time?” 

“I haven’t run since I played football in school. I will be walking behind the slowest group.” 

Carlos laughs as if Max just made a hilarious quip, which is vaguely concerning seeing as he could not be more serious. “Just run at whatever pace works for you. We believe in pace inclusivity here. You’ll have Daniel over there hanging behind the pack today so nobody gets separated, and we’re just doing 5K today. You’ll be fine.” 

“Just 5K,” Max repeats flatly, but Carlos is already gone. Fuck his life. He’s swearing off all bets with Alex for the rest of time. 

He tries to get a peek at the mysterious Daniel that he’ll seemingly be spending loads of time with, but all he can see is the back of a worn navy cap, long sleeves, and tight compression leggings under shorts. At least he’s not an exhibitionist like George’s little neon crew. 

Carlos stands on a nearby bench, gets everyones attention with a clap, and starts on some monologue about the beauty of morning runs. Max tunes him out and wonders if it might have been a good idea to stretch.

When Carlos gets the run started, Max doesn’t even try to move near George. He lets himself fall back with the only other person who looks vaguely close to struggling. The dude's in an ankle brace, but still, Max is able to keep pace with him for a solid two minutes.

Things start getting a bit shaky 1K in, but Max can still see some of the other runners. He knows the run club pace guy should be somewhere behind him, but he can't turn around to check. If he pauses for even a second, there’s no way he’s making it through.

He’s definitely wheezing quite loudly, and his legs are cramping in ways he never thought possible. Every new step aches. His four-year-old worn down shoes probably couldn’t survive another London rainstorm, let alone an actual run. He knows the wrinkly t-shirt he wore to bed is probably completely drenched in sweat, but he successfully gasps through another kilometre.

Only three to go before Alex has to pay up, and that thought is pushing Max through. He’s almost completely lost track of the group by now, and he can hear the slow tread of the poor guy stuck with him getting closer. The guy — Daniel, he thinks — calls out to him as he approaches. 

“Mate, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to run beside you so you don’t veer off-path.” 

If Max could hear anything over the sound of his own heavy breathing, he might have clocked the Australian accent and familiar cadence. Instead, he focuses so hard on not tripping over a now-unravelling shoelace that he instead misses a giant fucking stick in his way and eats shit straight onto the pavement. 

He sits with his back curled over his scraped-up knees, trying to remember a time when his chest and lungs didn’t physically ache with every short breath. He can feel last night’s drinks and 2 AM kebab churning around his stomach.  

“Are you okay?” a kind, concerned voice asks. There’s a hand lightly touching his back, and it’s making Max feel sickly over-warm in his already burning body. 

Max turns, looks into Daniel’s eyes, and promptly vomits onto his ex-fiancé's pristine white shoes. 

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a new beginning for a familiar face 🧡💙

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a little doodle i'll maybe clean up one day but probably not