suddenyearning

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daniel come on i cannot go around with ugly written on my shirt i want to give you my money so bad LOCK IN

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I don’t know if this is new or where it’s from but I’ve never seen it before and it’s freaking adorable 🥲🥰 | via

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Daniel Ricciardo | 2018 Singapore GP | 📸 by Ian Thuillier

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he’s a (teammate) eater! posting here bc it’s circulating on the twt machine againe lol

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THIS IS NOT A DREAM Max/Daniel, 45K, rated E (ch 4 of 7)

When he was awake, Daniel couldn’t summon the pain. He knew it had hurt, and badly, but awake he couldn’t feel it.  But when he was asleep, he could.

█ updates weekly on Tuesdays █ for @motorsport-halloween fest █ playlist

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I started looking at the rings Daniel has worn more than once.

The famous, "let's fuck" and "hard luck" rings which he was worn multiple times.

The ribbed ring that he likes wearing on his index finger and the handshake ring. H the ribbed ring on his middle finger too (below).

The ribbed ring with the flower cap ring combo.

The black stone pinky ring that he has worn quite often, usually in combination with another ring.

The large cap one with the "hard luck" combo, and the rectangular ring, which I think he has worn before. But I haven't been able to find pics that prove it.

If ANYBODY else knows about what other rings he likes to wear please add to this post/tag me.

I love jewellery, and I'm hyper-focused on this. I might start trying to track his necklaces and bracelets.

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of course i saw @wewentcarracing 's INSPIRED post about the grid as male thot jobs.....so naturally i had to draw it

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Also another thing motogp riders would applaud this show of Franco whoring himself out on injury he even got the so called sexy collarbone scar lmaoaooaoao

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what actually happened w that statement was that georgie opened chatgpt and said "make this sentence sound human"

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has this been done yet

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gpda said:

we want to say fuck (to describe a car or otherwise)

we want to wear jewellery

we want to wear fucking underwear however we want

and also where the fuck does our money go?

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GEORGE RUSSELL P1 | 2022 BRAZILIAN GP © Peter J Fox

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max/daniel, josh/daniel, angst. ~700 words.

The foyer of Daniel’s rented New York home has a lovely black and white lacquer that Max is dripping all over now. He’s distantly aware that maybe he’s still sticky from the wet of the champagne they sprayed on him on the podium, in the garage, on the plane. It’s a blur. All he truly remembers is the rain, the car underneath him, winning winning winning. 

Daniel’s staring at him. Wide eyed. He’s in a gigantic blue hoodie Max does not remember him wearing, soft and sleepy in his shorts that show off his tattoos. His feet are tucked into fuzzy socks. Daniel’s always so cold. Max wants him so badly it hurts. 

“Max?”

“I won,” Max breathes out. He steps further into the foyer, closer to where Daniel is smiling at him. 

“I heard,” Daniel says, whispers. The house is quiet. Max does not know why he’s whispering. Daniel’s always loud, filling up all the space in Max’s brain, even when he’s in the car fighting every fucker on the track. “Congratulations. I thought you would be in Monaco by now.”

“I wanted to see you.” He hasn’t seen Daniel in a month. Daniel has spoken more words to him in this short moment than in the past month. “Daniel, I won. You - you told me. if I won. You. You would.”

Daniel looks good. His curls are wild but his eyes look rested. Less sunken in and desperate. Like the last time he had seen him. Like the last time when he avoided him and let Lando handle the goodbyes instead. 

“Max, why are you here?” Max is here because Max wants to be here.

He can’t answer. He just walks to Daniel, pushes him up against the wall, Daniel’s legs spreading like his body knows Max belongs there, that this is it, that the softness of Daniel’s mouth on his is what Max was hurtling towards all along, all those years ago. Daniel’s moaning, kissing him back, biting, his hands grabbing at his shoulders, pulling him in.

Max grabs at his thigh, he’s going to lick those tattoos the minute he gets Daniel on a bed, but for now, this is perfect, hitching his leg around Max’s waist. Max grabs at his ass, squeezing as Daniel keens, ripping his mouth away from him, letting Max mouth down his neck. His lovely lovely neck. Max wants to bite, wants to rip this hoodie off and tuck himself into Daniel, into Danie’s ribcage. 

Max wiggles a hand down Daniel’s shorts. He’s not wearing any underwear. He reaches his hole.  Daniel is. Daniel’s wet. 

Max’s dick jerks, painting precome into his boxers. His heart is beating, making a racket. He pulls back to stare at Daniel. Daniel’s not looking at him. 

There’s footsteps, thundering and coming down the stairs. Daniel pushes him away. Max’s hands miss Daniel terribly. 

“Daniel, where did you – oh. Max. Hello.”

Josh Allen stands at the doorway. Max stares. Something is breaking. Max wonders if it’s his heart. Daniel still won’t look at him. 

“Hello Josh,” Max says. Daniel moves away. Daniel leaves him standing there. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Oh,” Josh says. He’s big enough to completely hide Daniel when he moves behind him. Max thinks he might cry. Him, not Daniel. Daniel does look at him. “We were celebrating. The big win.”

“Yes,” Max says. He needs to leave. “The win. Congratulations.”

“Are you in town? Wait, did you and Daniel have plans? We were just –”

“No,” Daniel says. He’s still hidden behind Josh. “Max was just leaving. Had something to drop off.”

“Yes,” Max says. He feels like he’s seeing this all play out. Daniel stepping away. Cold where Daniel was just so warm. His body is here but he feels detached. “I was just leaving. Good to see you, mate. Good luck for the rest of the season.”

“Goodbye, Max.” He thinks he hears Daniel say. He steps out into the cold. The door closes behind him with finality. Max does not cry.

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2024 Brazilian GP | November 1-3, 2024

© Mark Thompson

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“I can’t see,” Max complains. Daniel props his phone up on the weird, blocky hotel lamp. “Daniel. I cannot—how will I be able to see you, like this.”

He turns the phone sideways, to landscape mode, and Max’s face lights up. In the little corner square, the white bedspread stretches behind Daniel, all the way to the headboard.

“Oh, there,” Max says, pleased. “Now I can.”

“Front row seat, baby,” Daniel says. There’s a tacky stripe in his arm hair from where someone had spilled beer on him, jolting out of their seat at a touchdown. A tiny American flag is planted in his backpack, colonizing his Bills hoodie and bottle of lube. Daniel feels invigorated. Max’s face scrunches.

“It would of course be better if I was there,” he says, stubborn.

Daniel gives an exaggerated scan around the room. “I dunno. The cuck chair in here’s nothing to write home about. You’re better off on the jet, I reckon.”

Max’s mouth falls open. He starts to say something, but Josh knocks on the door before he can get it out. “Whoops,” Daniel says, rolling off the bed. “That’ll be him.”

When he’s back in frame, he’s being pulled down onto the sheets by Josh’s massive arms, not quite violent but not quite gentle either. Just steady, unrelenting. How Josh always is.

“Daniel,” Max says, as soon as he can see him again. “Daniel. I won. In Brazil, just now. From the back. I won.”

“Hi Max,” Josh says. His voice is bright, only barely singed with the rasp of winning a home game. He’s amicable even as he spreads Daniel’s knees, up and over. Daniel likes him a lot.

“Hello,” Max says, absently. “Daniel. Did you hear?”

“Fuck,” Daniel says. He’s settled on Josh’s lap and he can feel his dick tenting his sweatpants. Josh grins sheepishly.

“Since you texted,” he tells Daniel, apropos of nothing. “I was hoping you would. I was sitting in the locker room, just thinkin’—“ he trails off, glancing at Max on the phone and then back up at Daniel. He grabs Daniel’s hips. “Thank you. Thank you, DR, fuck.”

Daniel preens and Max chokes.

“I won,” Max says, steadfast, but the hitch in his voice is one that Daniel could recognize blindfolded and in ten different time zones. Daniel plants a hand on Josh’s chest and he goes down easy, staring and panting like Daniel has a Super Bowl ring on each finger.

“I know,” Daniel says, indulgently. He rocks his dick against Josh’s bulge, a pantomime cowboy, and he and Max let out twin groans. “So did he.”