#( ☆ TIME BREACH ⋙ QUEUE ☆ )

[twister-sister]

Bloodmoon has a gift for you.

[the-incorrect-quotes-show]

Eclipse: Made too many jokes about being sexy and cool and accidentally developed an ego

[windupaidoneus]

in like a day or two i can get back to leveling ast thank the fucking twelve for that

[mimiscoiningcafe]

Day 7 - Sun/Moon Dynamic: Sunguardian Sunny/Sun Daycare Attendant and Moonguardian Moon/Moon Daycare Attendant

Day 8 - Pink Character: Birthdaygender Partygender ADHD Autism Pinkie Pie

Day 9 - Blue Character: Transmasc Autism ADHD OCD V-mon

Day 10 - Absolute Unshakable LGBT Headcanon for a Character: Agender Digienby Chihiro Fujisaki who uses He/It/She pronouns!

days 7-10 of @cocajimmycola april icon challenge!!!

[tinker-lel]

I need a lifesized Lucario plushie like so badly

[thingswhatareawesome]

now 71 moogle stones to go, which would be five runs of the 14 tomestone raids/dungeons. now pondering maybe getting one last mount in addition to the rest, which would mean 9 more runs instead. i think i could do that. it'd be 964 tomestones in total lol. been waiting to buy the actual items so it's going to be this big pile of stuff once i do hit the vendor

[devotedlystrangewizard]

not to be controversial or whatever but orbonne monastery is my favorite raid to get in alliance raid roulette

[empyria-archive]

the cage.

[pugh-bug]

Flashing Lights

Art Donaldson x reader

If people like this I’ll write a part 2 and possibly some sub Art fics in the future. Challengers is all I can think about at the moment and this blonde man is living rent free in my brain.

——————————————————————

‘Come on come on, they can never have too many pictures taken of them!’

Your friend dragged you and your mediocre camera, quite forcefully, to Tashi Duncan’s party. It wasn’t just that you hadn’t been invited and that you weren’t remotely a tennis player it was that Ashley’s lame excuse of ‘they need more photographers’ was patently untrue. Everywhere you looked there were photographers with cameras that cost more than your yearly rent.

‘I’ll get us a drink wait here.’

You watched her confidently insert herself into the queue for the bar, in between endless posters of Tashi Duncan hoodies and Tashi Duncan headbands. If you hadn’t been such a feminist you might have felt a little sick from all the masturbatory self promotion.

In your idleness you decided to people watch. There were no less than a hundred people there already, all dressed elegantly with hair and makeup that no doubt took longer to do than the night would even last. You pulled at your tight dress. Flattering? Definitely. Comfortable? Absolutely not. Ashley had the tennis body, the Tashi Duncan confidence and skill but without the praise or queue of fans. You had your camera.

You hadn’t touched a tennis racket since you were ten years old. These people weren’t your peers they were your betters, including the snobby photographers and perhaps even including Ashely. At least she knew what ‘down the line’ meant.

‘Can we go?’ Your voice sounded bitter as Ashley handed you a cocktail. ‘I’ve got two photoshoots to edit for tomorrow and I don’t even like tennis! Why am I even here?’ As your friend defended her plan to ‘sleep with as many rich tennis players as possible’ your eyes wandered once again, this time landing on a man who needed no introduction.

‘Is that … Art Donaldson?’

It was him, smoking a cigarette by Patrick Zweig dressed for Summer. Fire and ice in the flesh. You suddenly felt the need to readjust your dress, your hair, your earrings. To fidget. To fidget and prepare for the chance he might look in your direction and see what he wanted.

‘Fuck me it’s Zweig.’

As Ashley launched into a thesis on why Patrick was the hottest man she’d ever seen, your eyes bored into the side of Art’s head. His curls fell so perfectly on his forehead but all you could find yourself imagining was messing them up. As your staring breached the line of too far, Ashley tapped your arm. ‘Think I should go talk to him? Flirt a bit? He’s a bit of a man whore, I’m pretty sure I could get him.’ Just as you opened your mouth to speak, the recipient of your staring began to move closer.

It only took a few moments for Art to reach yours and Ashley’s corner of refuge but his eyes never strayed from you. Zweig had followed him like a puppy and whilst you couldn’t have cared less where the brunette chose to stand, you could practically feel Ashley screaming in her head.

‘Aaliyah right? You basically murdered my friend out there yesterday.’ As Ashley corrected Patrick’s memory, you forced your eyes to look at anything that wasn’t Art’s knowing smirk in your direction. It didn’t work, in fact your refusal to make eye contact with the future star had made your feelings glaringly obvious.

You’d watched him play many times, instead of doing your own work, and although you found tennis a little boring the man had you riveted. The ease at which he hit the ball with such force, the little hand movements he’d do during a tie break and his cruel habit of taking his shirt off on hot days … you were hooked.

As he eyed your dress you wondered if he’d seen you, made note of just how many matches you’d been front and centre at. Maybe he knew you were an amateur photographer and perhaps his smirk was intended as a mockery of your being there. Art knew you didn’t belong at thee Tashi Duncan’s after party. You both knew it. He looked at you, finally as you’d lifted your gaze, and cocked his head slightly to the side.

‘So, you don’t like tennis?’

Shit.

‘Oh. You heard that.’

‘Yep.’

His voice was glazed with amusement as he sipped his cold beer, daring you to defend yourself.

‘Ashley was invited,’ you lied with little ease. ‘I’m here as her friend- well I guess also photographer but you all seem to have that covered.’ Both yours and Art’s eyes glanced at the gang of professionals taking Tashi’s photo. She was holding the shimmering trophy as if it was nothing of real value, she had the humble but proud smile down. Art clocked your jealous expression and raised an eyebrow. ‘Tashi not your favourite?’

‘She’s pretty amazing and she looks fucking beautiful tonight I can’t lie. I just, I guess I wish I was that talented.’

Despite her successful flirting to Patrick, Ashley heard your little, sad admission. Mentally you scolded yourself for letting Art see your vulnerable side. Instead of judgement he smiled.

‘Are you not the best at getting front row seats?’

He left off ‘at my matches’ but the point had been made loud and clear. You chose not to react and to ignore him completely. ‘Ashley?’ But when you turned your head to your friend you saw her mouth was occupied. Oh.

Art laughed at his best friend. ‘Seriously? You couldn’t go one night?’ No, Patrick couldn’t and he couldn’t find it in his horny heart to feel guilty for stealing your one friend and escape route from you. The pair, still connected by their lips, hurried away from the party and to some poor fucker’s bedroom. You were alone with Art Donaldson and the party that engulfed the two of you had began to die down.

‘I should go too-‘

‘Wanna go down to the beach with me?’

You couldn’t help but scoff audibly at his request. ‘You don’t even know my name.’

Art’s eyes practically gleamed with cheekiness as he moved towards you. ‘Then tell me.’

‘It’s Y/N.’

With a charming smile he repeated his offer. ‘Y/N… wanna go down to the beach with me?’

If a mind reader had been in attendance you’d have been mortified as your first thought was: Oh god have I even shaved?

The decision to take your heels off had been an impulsive one and an instant regret as you felt the brittle sand rub against your toes. Avoiding the broken glass, you walked into Art’s shoulder and quickly apologised. ‘You’re like a baby deer.’

You perched on the rock overlooking the water that moonlight reached. Art’s eyes were transfixed on you as your hair blew from your shoulders. Surely he was just bored and flirting for fun. But you hadn’t seen him speak to anyone except Patrick before approaching you.

‘What is it about photography?’ Art gestured to the camera you almost forgot you were still wearing around your neck.

‘What is it about tennis?’

Art lit his second cigarette, took a drag and smirked.

‘I’ll let you answer that.’

Much to his elation, your dress had begun to ride up but you hadn’t noticed. You simply dug your toes in the sand and smiled coyly at the blonde. But how to best handle this?

‘Watching you play tennis isn’t like watching other people play tennis.’

Art grinned, only for a moment, but you caught the ego boost in real time. He moved backwards in his chair, outstretching his long legs and looking up at you with keen interest and quiet amusement. ‘Go on.’

Your mind flashed back to his most recent match. His opponent had purposefully coughed every time it was Art’s turn to serve and instead of letting it distract him or doing it back Art had fired the ball, with force, by his head. It had been a warning, not a greatly subtle one but certainly great to watch. The shock on the boys face as he narrowly missed receiving a black eye had made you laugh and you suddenly remembered Art had beamed at you when you had.

‘You’re just really good at it.’

‘Try again.’

He wasn’t making this easy for you but that didn’t mean you had to shower him in compliments, not when he hadn’t so much as asked you your name until prompted. You watched him, completely settled and comfortable in Tashi Duncan’s deck hair and wondered if someone this confident and talented (and knew as much) could possibly be single… unless?

‘Are you and Patrick just friends?’

He twitched ever so slightly at your question before covering his shock with a chuckle.

‘Umm.. yes. Sorry to disappoint.’

You smiled, suddenly feeling more confident now that you’d put him on the spot for the first time that night.

‘Not disappointed.’

Seeing you at ease, seemingly with any answer he had to offer, Art relaxed into his chair again. A moment of silence passed as the two of you listened to the very end of the party above and the seas tumbling waves. The water was just beginning to reach the rock you’d been safely perching on. A sign to leave.

‘I think I should go back to my ho-AAA!’

You’d barely taken two steps before buried broken glass assaulted your feet.

‘Jesus fuck!’

‘Y/N!’

The pain shot through you from toe to head, it settled in between your eyebrows as you frowned, trying not to scream. Art’s face was a picture of panic. He couldn’t help but notice how much pain you were in from putting weight on your foot, which had just begun to bleed as a thought entered his head.

‘I’ll carry you.’

‘I think I can walk.’

You took a hesitant step further but your foot ,in an act of betrayal, buckled under the pain. Giving Art a look of defeat you sighed. ‘Yeah, I think you’re gonna have to.’

You thought it would feel strange, the man whom you’d been watching almost obsessively for months play a sport you despised carrying you to safety. It didn’t. It felt right. His strong arms flexed under your weight as he took confident but cautious steps to Tashi’s party. There wasn’t much left of it. In fact the only people still there were two photographers packing up their lighting equipment and they didn’t give you so much as a second glance.

‘Any chance you secretly are friends with Tashi?’ Art asked, his voice hopeful, hoping he could drop you off to safety. He pursed his lips when you shook your head. Another moment of silence passed through the two of you but this one was different. You craned your neck out to gage the distance before suggesting:

‘My hotel really isn’t far. A mile at most.’

Art smirked for a moment, forgetting what the actual circumstances were. Your foot had stopped bleeding but you didn’t feel like walking. In fact you were rather enjoying Art Donaldson: the knight in shining armour. It was a good look on him.

‘Uber?’

‘Think of it as a workout.’

It wasn’t the recreational workout Art had been hoping for that night but he did it. He carried you and your shoes to your hotel room. The receptionist barely reacted to your new person but of course what did she care? She was probably only concerned with what mess you’d leave the cleaners.

‘67, this is it.’

Art put you down, keeping his arm around your waist for support. He was a little flushed from the exertion and you were flushed from the pain, or perhaps just his wandering hand.

‘Do you want me to st-‘

‘I want you to stay.’ You interrupted him hurriedly, desperate for him to stay. In that moment you didn’t mind if he stayed to read the complimentary bible next to you or if he wanted to fuck you mercilessly in front of the bathroom mirror. You just wanted him close.

At your eagerness, Art smiled following you in. Your hotel room was not too messy for visitors but it certainly hadn’t been expecting any. For a moment you wondered how Ashley was getting on in her room down the hall and if she too had embarrassed herself in front of her favourite tennis player. Somewhat likely.

‘I think seeing as you’ve carried me bleeding you can see me in pyjamas. Give me one se-‘

You gestured to the bathroom and your dress, looking forward to getting out of it but Art shook his head. You froze. His face was one of sheer determination and unwavering confidence, not unlike the look he gave cocky opponents who needed humbling. He closed the gap between you until his chest was inches from yours but blocked by your camera. You took it off, not breaking eye contact, and placed it slowly on the desk behind you.

Just as you thought the only way to break the silence would be with a kiss, Art broke eye contact. ‘Do you have any antiseptic wipes? Anything to clean it?’ You felt your stomach unclench. ‘Yeah.’ Limping slightly, you fetched a packet from the bathroom sink and placed them in Art’s open palm. He gestured to the bed.

‘Sit.’

His order was polite but you felt compelled. Sitting on your own bed as if it was alien, you looked up at him waiting for the next.

‘Foot.’

Art got down on his knees. Your stomach flipped. With careful hands, he held your injured foot and inspected it. You’d never felt so exposed before, the way his eyes engaged with your wound as if it were more fascinating than any match he’d won. There was an unspoken rule for neither of you to speak as he cleaned you. It stung like a bitch but you only let out minor hisses in pain, barely audible to Art but not unnoticeable.

As he took out a plaster, seemingly from thin air, and applied it to your foot he said: ‘Before tonight,’ Ouch. You winced from the pressure he applied. ‘I’d seen you watching me.’ He didn’t look at you, only concentrating on his handiwork and causing you as little pain as possible.

‘Yeah I gathered from all the teasing.’

His voice grew suddenly lower. ‘I’m not talking about tennis matches.’

You were suddenly reminded of a not so distant memory. Ashley had stood you up for lunch, she’d found a better hot date, and you had been in the cafeteria alone. Art had been queuing in front of you, waiting for Patrick and you’d been in awe. What you hadn’t noticed was that he’d sensed your eyes burning holes into the back of his head long before he turned around. He had given you a passing look of recognition and slight amusement before finding his seat next to Patrick.

You imagined alongside that memory were hundreds others. Hundreds of days you’d stared at Art, watched how he span his apples before eating them and the line of his jaw when he drank water in oppressive heat. All the time he had known, you just hadn’t been as subtle as you thought.

‘Oh.’

Art gave you your foot back and sat on the bed beside you. For a moment you couldn’t bare to look at him, incase he disappeared and decided it was funnier to leave you hanging. Your foot was the least of your worries. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d really kissed someone, with feverish need, but you wanted to.

Noticing your inward battle, Art raised his hands almost in defeat. ‘I can leave.’ He meant it, there was no judgement. You turned to him, your eyes meeting his clouded with lust, and recognised that this was a man who needed to be wanted. He wanted to give and receive pleasure, not out of boredom but out of a clawing need for it. If you wanted him to leave then he’d leave but if you wanted him to stay then he’d make the most of it.

Your hand settled atop of his.

‘Don’t.’

Part 2

Masterlist

[gilverrwrites]

Call me Tim

Tim Drake/Reader, 2K

[Say his name, P2] AN: I did not expect part 1 to be se well recieved, here hoping part 2 was worth the wait! CWs: Breach of trust, teasing, semi-public foreplay, mildly stalker-ish behaviour on Tims part.

Tim had always told himself that fucking his fans was not a thing for him. Not a kink. Bernard was different, he just had so much passion. He would have been into him regardless of whatever he was fixated on.

Then you happened.

Ever since he’s been telling himself that it was coincidence, not causation. And again, he liked you before he found out you’d spent your formative years kissing cutouts of him. Well, he doesn’t know that part for sure, but he liked to imagine it. Point being; your adolescent crush on him was not the driving force behind his attraction to you.

But as he found himself plotting ways to naturally bump into you as Tim Drake-Wayne, it was becoming increasingly harder to deny that he maybe was, a little bit, kind of into it.

Hitting you up online? Too out of the blue.

Turning up at your house? Way too much.

Then one night the perfect opportunity arose. He’d overheard you making plans to meet some friends at an uptown bar later that week. He wasn’t scheduled to patrol that night. Despite the logical part of his brain telling him it was a creepy move, he just couldn’t pass up the chance. Red Robin had to be so cautious around you, but if you hit it off with Tim he could let a little loose around you.

That’s how he’s ended up sitting on the table adjacent to yours, listening in on your private conversation and praying you wouldn’t recognise him before he was ready.

“So have you guys ever had someone ask you to call them by a different name when you’re… you know?” He nearly coughs on his drink, sitting bolt upright as though it will help him hear better. He trusts you not to spill on who the guy is. You’d had that conversation already, but he wants to hear you say Tim again.

“What like ‘Daddy’? Yeah, my ex was into that.”

“No.” Your voice has grown so quiet, laced with a sheepish laugh just like the morning you’d confessed about your crush to him. God, he wishes he could turn around and look at your face. He’d bet you’re all flustered. “Like, another actual man’s name?”

“No, hon. That’s weird.”

“Who’s the guy? Whose name?”

“You don’t know him.” You shut down the first question. He bets your fidgeting, looking at anything other than your friends as you consider your next words cafeully. “But he wanted me to call him Tim. As in, Tim Drake.”

“That’s really weird. Did he know you used to be down bad for him?”

He knows it's mean to turn around now, and worse, risky. Liable to scare you away but it’s so worth it to see the five stages of grief cross your face in the span of 3 seconds when you notice him. You're like a starstruck deer in the headlights as the word “yeah” dies on your lips. If he cupped your cheeks right now, he's certain the heat would burn away any remnants of his fingerprints.

The whole table falls silent as one by one, your friend’s clue into the situation. If it weren’t for their sickly amused smiles, and the foley of the bar, you’d think the world has stopped turning. You wish the world would stop turning.

He’s staring at you with an almost impish smile and your fight, flight, or freeze kicks in. You opt for stuttering “I have to piss!” As you abruptly leave the table.

I have to piss. You just bumped into The Tim Drake, and the first things he heard from your mouth were that you’d called his name while hooking up with someone, and I have to piss.   

The queue to the solo bathroom in this place is always long, and usually you’d be annoyed but tonight you’re grateful for the extra time to compose yourself, or you would be if you apparently hadn’t been followed.

“So, is he your boyfriend?” Where the fuck had he come from? You hadn’t seen him approach at all.

“He’s…” Not, not your boyfriend. You see each other at least weekly, sometimes you cook for him, and he often brings you gifts. However, you’ve never had that conversation, you don’t even know who he is under the mask. You don’t have his phone number. Despite multiple sexual encounters, you hadn’t even seen him naked. Now that you think about it, there’s a definite power imbalance in whatever you have. “Why?”

You’re much more defensive of his teasing than you are with Red Robin. Understandable, you didn’t really know Tim, and he’s really hit you out of left field. This is all turning out a bit crueller than he’d intended, but he can’t bring himself to stop. Your apprehension tonight is as tempting as your timidness had been last time. It’s like he’s trying to seduce you on hard mode.

“Just tryin’ to find out if it would be appropriate to buy you a drink, maybe ask you to dance?” He sounds off. Not like he does in the TV interviews and podcasts you’d heard him on, but still familiar. It’s hard to focus on, however, because he’s standing so close. Close enough for you to smell the fresh sweetness of his aftershave, for you to see the features you’ve been fantasising about up close.

“This place doesn’t have a dance floor.”

“We could go to another place.”

“Oh no buddy, I’m not going to any secondary locations.” He can’t help the smile that crosses his lips. You remembered his safety tip. He just hopes it reads as anything other than prideful to you right now. “Don’t think for a second just cause you heard what you heard that I’m gonna fall all over you.”

“Buddy? You can call me Tim.” The obvious innuendo has you cracking a genuine smile. Your nerves are still apparent from the way you're tapping your fingers against your thigh, and your refusal to make meaningful eye contact with him but he’s chipping at your walls. There's four people waiting ahead, and he wonders if he can breach your shields completely before it's your turn. “Or if it makes you feel better you could call me whatever that other guy’s name is.”

“Is this how you get people to sleep with you? You tease them relentlessly until they give up just so you’ll go away when it’s over?”

“Ouch.” You have a point, he’s never behaved like this before. He’s always been a self-confessed smartass, but you just bring out something especially brazen within him. Something wicked. He’s being a jerk, but you’re chewing your lips and sneaking awed glances at him, which implies you’re more into it than you’d admit. “Am I not what you expected?”

He probably would live up to your expectations had this been your real first meeting. If he wasn’t already comfortable around you, he’d be enamoured by your appearance, too skittish to match your keen whit or ask about your hobbies, not when you look at him with those eyes. If anything, the typical Tim Drake persona might even bore you by rambling on about detective novels or WayneTech.

“You’re why people say you should never meet your heroes.”

“Okay, fine.” Maybe he had gotten a bit carried away messing with you. “Can I just ask you one more thing, and then I’ll go away, or buy you a drink? Whatever you want.”

Your eyes drift up to the ceiling as you consider his offer. It’s not an uncommon tick for people to have, but it’s certainly more endearing when you do it. Eventually, you nod, conceding to him and offering real, esrnest eye contact. You’re still willing to hear out your favourite celebrity, and a pang of guilt at once again abusing his authority thrums through his chest.

It doesn’t stop him from asking, however. “What clued this guy into your crush on me?”

“Pictures.” You frown, still not breaking eye contact. Something is different. The nervous energy you’ve been emanating since he’d followed you to the line has subsided, replaced by something tantalisingly self-assured.

“Pictures of what?”

He tries to pry but you give him nothing.

“Of you.”

“What kind of pictures.”

The answers here don’t matter to him anyway, he already knows. He’s just trying to segue into a specific set of questions.

“Just, pictures.”

“How ambiguous.” Here’s his chance to try and satisfy that burning fantasy. “Did you practice kissing on them?”

“What? No.” Your tense shoulders say otherwise. “Why would you even ask that?”

“I don’t know.” Perfect. He gives his best noncommittal shrug before leaning in closer, balancing his weight on the wall behind you until the distance between your bodies is closed. He can still pick up hints of your body wash, but it’s washed out but the smell of a parfum that he wishes he could spray on his pillows at night. “Thought I’d offer you the real thing to compare.”

Your response isn’t what he’s expected, but it is what he’s hoped. Your lips press softly against the corner of his lips, and he can’t stop from locking a hand on your hip, not to force anything further, but to stop you from backing away. Although, the wall he has you partly confined against has been doing a pretty good job thus far.

He needn’t bother, however, because it doesn’t take long for you to grow more confident. This is the moment he’s been waiting for.

His mouth parts at the first sign of your tongue and you eagerly explore his mouth. He tastes like IPA, hoppy and warm. Your hands boldly play across his chest, until you fist the fabric of his shirt and tug him closer, deepening the kiss until he moans into your open mouth.

Your sudden boldness is doing things for him. Head spinney, dick hard things. Thoughtlessly, he ruts his hips, rubbing his clothes cock against your lower abdomen until you pull away with a laugh. It’s his turn to be nervous. You’re looking at him with something fierce and canny.

“Excuse me.” A clearly unamused man interjects himself between your embrace to point at the bathroom. “Are you waiting?”

“Oh, yeah.” Tim is surprised by your chipper poise, as you smile politely at the man. He’s even more surprised when you hook your fingers into the give of his leather belt and proceed to drag him with you into the cubicle, locking him inside with you as you offer thanks to the stranger.

“What are you doing?”

“Comparing with the real thing.”  You grace him with another, hard kiss, backing him against the door. Your tongue is hot against his already heated skin as you hurriedly work it along his jaw and neck. He remembers how you’d looked when you’d first noticed him earlier and wonders if his burning face looks equally as nonplussed as he lets you have your way with him against the bathroom door.

He hisses when you plunge your fingers below his belt once more, this time unbuckling it. You’ve fucking cracked, he must have broken something in your brain. There’ll be exaggerated stories about this all over the Gotham Globe’s home page tomorrow. Hell, if he cares though.

“You’ve changed your tune.” He comments, bucking his hips, helping you free him from his boxers. Your fingers lock around his base, and it throbs at finally being touched by you. He’s wanted so badly to fuck you for months but as Red Robin, he’s had to be careful, had to put his guard up which had resulted in a very altruistic sex life. But Tim Drake could fuck you. Right here, right now, Tim Drake-Wayne would fuck whatever hole you’d give him and the thought of it has him losing composure fast.

Your lips lock in one last frenzied kiss before you drop to your knees, and you look like an Angel sent from hell, looking up at him from beneath his reddened cock, with heady eyes and salacious smile.

“So, Red.” Shit. His heart skips a beat. Shit. Shit. Shit. He’s not sure what gave him away, but he doesn’t have a chance to care before you spit on his dick and start to pump with a deliberate rhythmic pace that has his head rolling back against the door. He’s not sure if he wishes he’d never done this at all, or if he’d done it sooner. “What name should I use tonight?”

[taraljc]

I love that Smithers is trying to give Alex grief about his complete and total lack of surveillance skills because he spotted him in the queue at the café but doesn't really process the part where Alex knows where and when he gets coffee on the way to work which is pretty specific.

Also that he never reported his phone stolen and Kyra has just been walking around with it for like a year. It's like oh hey there's been a massive data breach---o never mind it's Alex's girlfriend she's mostly harmless.

Meanwhile John Crawley still feels deep deep shame that he did not recognise the entire reason Kyra hugged him was so she could lift the key card to the safe house. He just thought she needed a hug and he was the closest available vaguely paternal adult. Which Jack would have immediately recognised, living day in and day out with moody teenager.

also every time I rewatch the first series I'm always shocked at how sullen and surly Alex is because I think of him as this smiling sunshine boy and he really is full of a lot of anger at first. like he breaks an MI6 agent's nose. and everybody is like oh look at the cute kid! except for presumably that agent who is like seriously why did it have to be the face.

I really wish we had gotten more of Wolf and the rest of K squad because he was clearly fascinated by the fact that Ian had intentionally or unintentionally trained his foster son/nephew to withstand enhanced interrogation and yet Alex did not seem to have processed that his training was anything out of the ordinary. and neither did his friends and family.

Like, Tom thinks it's completely normal for Alex to scale the exterior of a building and break inside to get his mobile phone. Even Kyra is like well I've watched Alex shimmy up a drain pipes clearly I can do it too and she's just really lucky she didn't fall and shatter both her ankles in Malta.

I also continue to be confused by the back garden of their terrace house because it was very clearly an actual garden first series and then by the time we hit third series it's walled in and I'm guessing it's because it's a set but if it is a set, they reproduced the location identically which you almost never see. usually we are just meant to believe that characters are blind to staircases being in different places and rooms being significantly larger all of a sudden.

but I do really love the set design in as much as the set dressing changes dramatically between series 2 and Series 3 where you can really see Jack and Alex's influence in the pictures on the wall and the furniture. It goes from being a very abstract bachelor home to a real place where real people live very quickly where is previously the only thing that sort of spoke to this is a home and not just an address were all of the photos on the fridge. and I have a lot of headcanon about those photos, because I had a friend who worked for the Security Services and as a result she wasn't allowed her to have any photographs of herself online.

I imagine Ian being meticulous about this and coming home from a business trip to suddenly find the fridge covered in photographs and Jack being like 'it's so Alex remembers what you look like since you've been gone for 4 weeks, I thought it was really important that he not forget your face and think you were a home invader'.

Meanwhile Alex is 9 and cheeky as hell.

Also I need to get better screen grabs but I do love that the actors clearly brought a bunch of their own photographs to stick to the fridge.

[twister-sister]

It's queue time

And once again I have messed around with Suno, this time a moon song, a positive moon song called Moondrops Watch: *Here or click the picture*

[icallhimjoey]

In 120 Hours

♥ ♥  Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: You work as a temp and are offered a very exclusive interview for a very exclusive job. You see, someone needs a personal assistant for a very eventful week, and you happen to be the perfect fit.

CW / disclaimer: 18+, language, mentions of drinking, rpf, fem!reader

Author’s note: I have no idea what being a personal assistant entails, or what London Film Festival is actually like, but we can all pretend that this is accurate shit, right? Enjoy!

Wordcount: 3K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

“Have you got any–”

You were already holding a hand out to him. Joe saw, grinned, opened his hand to receive a piece of gum from you and looked out the car window, hand on the door handle but not quite stepping out just yet.

Then he turned in his seat, back towards you a bit, but stared into the space in front of him.

“I’m not sure how I...” Joe trailed off, then looked at you, not finishing his sentence, but hoping that his eyes would do the talking for him.

“Could thank me? Have ever managed to function without me? Will go on living your life without me?” they were all jokes, and you were smiling, but Joe just nodded and went, “Yea,” with a crazed sort of look in his eyes. “Exactly all of those things.”

Joe stalled, looked at you, until you nudged him with a knee.

“Go on, the people are waiting,” Not just the people you could see from the car, but you imagined also all the important people, actors and actresses alike, in the cars queueing up behind you.

“Come with me,” Joe suddenly said.

“I will, I’ll see you right after the–”

“No, come with. Let’s do the whole thing together,”

You hesitated. This wasn’t in the job description. Lots of things hadn’t been, sure, but those things had been, you know, not quite so out in the open. Not like red carpets were, anyway.

“I think we’ve been spotted together enough as it is, I don’t want you to-”

“I kind of don’t want to get out without you.”

And you frowned, but only slightly, because there was that smile again. Fuck, that smile had gotten you into enough trouble as it was, and Joe fucking knew it too.

You checked the time. There was over twelve hours left still, technically speaking. That was over ten per cent of the entire job – quite a few too many hours to screw everything up and risk not getting paid. You had said you were reliable. Professional. You couldn’t, really...

“Please?” Joe opened a hand, presenting you with his palm.

But, ugh.

Fuck it. Why not?

You grabbed Joe’s hand and silently wondered if this was breaching the NDA you’d signed. Maybe not. You knew exactly who it was going to piss off though...

Stepping out of the car with Joe, you were met with girlish screams of adoration. Well, Joe was met with girlish screams of adoration. Then cameras flashed brightly, blinding you almost instantly, and you thought back to how precisely one hundred and six and half hours earlier, you would’ve never envisioned that this is where you’d end up.

Doing a red carpet with Joe.

In a slutty dress. With slutty high heels on. Without the engagement ring on.

Not even a full five days had passed...

Not even a full six days had passed, since you’d phoned your friend and she had told you about the vacancy. The whole thing felt like a vague fever dream now, like it had happened years ago.

“Please tell me you have nothing going at the moment,”

It was a weird way for your friend to answer her phone when you called to ask her if she had time to go for drinks that week. Because, consequently, you had all the time for all the drinks, you see, because you had absolutely nothing going at the moment.

No professional things. No personal things. Zero job. Zero fiancé – you really had to remove that ring, but you couldn’t yet. It used to belong to your grandmother before, after all, so it kind of felt like if you just wore it on another finger, it’d be fine.

Still adjusting to life as a single woman - with big bills that belonged to single women - working as a temp and having a best friend work at a temp agency, the two of you seemed a match made in platonic heaven. She always kept all the good stuff back for you, called you on her breaks to slip you information she definitely wasn’t meant to be giving you, so you could officially apply for the right jobs at the right times and use the right words to actually be invited to the interviews. It was perfect.

Sometimes, the good stuff would be going through PowerPoint presentations in stuffy conference rooms in deeply exotic places, like Belgium. Or you’d manage an entire office for two weeks, a holiday-cover that would start Christmas eve and left you in charge of a lot of empty desks because, didn’t everyone take time off around Christmas and New Year’s?

But then, other times, the good stuff was actual good stuff and had you help run huge music festivals, unexpectedly brushing shoulders with the likes of The Wombats and Liam fucking Gallagher backstage wearing knee high wellies, covered in mud.

“Oh my God, what have you got?”

No dillydallying. As a temp, there was never time. All jobs came fast, and all jobs went fast.

“It just came in, this phone call is unbelievable timing because I’m allowed to recruit for fucking once, finally, and you’d be so perfect for it!”

She had said that too when you’d been hauled off to dog-sit a poodle for some CEO of a company you had never heard of for two months, so you held off on the jumpy excitement your friend seemed to be exuding down the phone.

“It’s very short term and the money is amazing – I need a personal assistant for a high-profile client.”

“How short term, how much money, how high-profile?”

Like you said, no dillydallying.

“We’re talking not even a full week, just five days, all expenses covered and the salary’s generous. Very generous. And the money isn’t even the best part.”

Temping meant everything was short term, but this was the shortest a possible job had ever lasted you.

“Okay,” you said, knowing things were always too good to be true. There had to be a catch.

“If this is for a tory politician, or like, actual royalty, I’m out,” you warned, earning a huffed laugh from your friend.

“Don’t let this put you off, but there’s nothing else I’m allowed to tell you. You’ll have to sign a non-disclosure agreement before I can even send the job description over, and I’ll need you down in London for the interview as soon as possible, like, today? Could you do today?”

Oh, she was serious serious.

Okay, so... what was five days, really? If it was shit, it’d be over quick enough. You could really use the money too if it really was as good as your friend was making it out to be. And maybe you’d meet Meghan Markle, you know, if it was actually going to be royalty.

“Are we... are we talking like, Hugh Grant or whatever? Adele, maybe?”

Your friend laughed heartily.

“I can’t tell you anything else until you sign the NDA, but, I’m being so honest with you right now, you’re not going to want to pass this one up.”

And so, you’d given her the go ahead. Sure. Try get me in for an interview, why the fuck not? She said she’d make a call, get your CV into the right hands, and would call you back in a minute. When she did, not all but 11 minutes later, she’d already e-mailed you the NDA to sign. The interview wasn’t that day, but the day after – still too soon, but ok – and if successful, you’d start immediately too.

“Don’t worry, I think the interview’s just a formality – they love your CV, and from the sounds of it, they’re desperate. You’re a shoo-in. Get that NDA back to me and I’ll send you everything you need to know.”

She ended the call letting you know to reach out to her if you had any problems, and you said you would, knowing very well that you wouldn’t. You didn’t have problems. It was part of your charm. You carried solutions. You were dependable, reliable, one hundred percent guaranteed to make everyone’s life easier.

The only person you ever made things difficult for, was yourself. The proof of it was around your ring finger – on the wrong hand now, but still there.

From the names mentioned in the e-mail, which you’d immediately googled, you became none the wiser. They really kept you in the dark about who you were going to be working for, and the job requirements list was a lot. But you were good at job interviews. You knew the right things to say, the right energy to exude, the times to smile, the times to frown in serious thought – you could sell yourself better than you could sell anything else.

And you were competitive to a fault. No matter how arrogant of a celebrity was going to need someone handling their business for five days; you were going to get that job, and you were going to excel at it. Watch me, you thought, as you packed a carry-on with enough underwear to last you five days in case you were right. And if you were wrong, you could just spend money you didn’t have and maybe stay in London for a few days anyway. Visit old friends and old familiar places, because you kind of missed the place if you were being honest.

The next day your train had been late, and the tube had been packed, and you’d almost been run over three times, but you didn’t care. London was gritty and grimy and perfect. The London-shaped hole in your heart could really only be filled with the smell of searing, hot dust that lingered underground and became thicker and more prominent the deeper down escalators would take you.

You aced the interview. Of course you did.

Every question you were asked felt like they were trying to find reasons to not give you the job. They were all questions about what you thought about certain things, what your opinions would be about certain situations, what you really wanted, and you’d rudely interrupted. You’d said that none of it mattered, did it? It didn’t matter what you thought about anything, what your opinions were or what you really wanted in any situation – what mattered was that you would do your job. What mattered is whatever the client wanted.

They’d congratulated you. Said you got the job. And then, right on cue, the door had opened behind you.

“Joe, come in, meet your new PA who’s going to be with you for the rest of the London Film Festival.”

Joe mother fucking Quinn walked in, smiling, looking at you, like you were an actual person that people could actually perceive.

“Hi, nice to meet you.”

It was only a brief introduction before Joe was off again, called out of the room by someone else, and he said he'd see you later. Smiled again, and God, it was the kind of smile that could defrost the coldest of hearts. Joe's expression was objectively neutral, this was just his face, but his eyes exuded kindness in its purest form. Almost dreamily so.

You cleared your throat as the door shut behind him. All right. Back to business.  

You were talked through the things you had already read the day before; the things you'd received in your e-mail. Things that didn't really need further explaining, but you listened politely anyway. You got a long explanation of how NDAs worked and it was almost laughable. Yes, they'd sue you if you broke it. You got it. But they were very adamant, needed to make sure that you really did in fact get it. Having to drag you to court wouldn't just be an awful thing for you personally, they also didn't want to do it because it was a lot of work on their end which they didn't have the time for.

Noted.

"All right. Get your things and meet us downstairs, your car is waiting."  

"Car? Where are we going?" 

"We're not going anywhere. You are. The itinerary, his full schedule, you'll find it all in your e-mail."  

And when you looked at your phone screen, you saw you'd just received it, mere seconds earlier. Man, these people ran a tight ship. 

Opening your e-mail in the car, you were greeted by a digital calendar that had all of Joe's days planned out, down to the literal minute. You could see past the five days that you would be working for Joe too, and although less busy, Joe had things happening nearly every day for at least the upcoming three months it seemed.  

"Wow,"  

This was... a lot.

It had everything on there. Wake-up calls, car pick-ups, lunch time, phone calls, coffee breaks, fittings... 

There were several film screenings scheduled every day, obviously, that was how film festivals worked, and you wouldn't get to go to any of them. You weren't hired to sit and watch films with Joe, unfortunately. You were hired to haul Joe from one place to the next. Accompany him. Get him coffees. Check for schedule changes, because, “Everything is always up for change, so you better keep an eye out!”. Things could be delayed, or be postponed, or switched around – times, or locations – and it'd be up to you to sort things out. Make it all run smoothly. It was your job to make sure Joe would get to the places he needed to be on time.  

"And he needs close eyes on him, because he tends to wander. Keep him company. He's used to having someone with him. A family member, a friend, but none were available for this. So, now he'll have you."   

So... you were a luxurious babysitter, if you really thought about it.  

"What other things are important? Anything that’s not been mentioned yet that needs special attention?" you had asked, and were met with a fast answer. 

"Networking."   

This whole week was all about Joe being seen and being spoken to by industry giants. Joe was invited to see many films, just about all of them, but it wasn't necessary for him to actually watch all of them. As long as he went to meet the directors, he'd be solid. 

There were other obligations too. Besides the screenings there were screen talks, in depth-interviews, panels, debates, workshops, partner events (Joe wouldn't be going to those, no worries) and networking events (Joe had to absolutely be going to those, worry a lot). The industry happy hours were where it all happened, you'd been told several times. 

Then, on Monday, day four, there was Joe's film screening - not his film, but the one he starred in. That showcased him. It'd be followed up by a Q&A, and then of course, happy hour after.  

To make things even easier, more simple, not at all hectic or stressful: Joe also had studio photoshoots, two of them, and phone interviews to accompany the shoots. They were scheduled, slotted tightly in between all the in-person events and to be honest, it all seemed a bit much. Too much. No wonder they hired a PA for the week. This was overwhelming to say the least. 

Your duties would end after the most important day. The awards ceremony. Film Festivals were a competition, and there were awards up for grabs. You'd need to make sure that after five extremely busy days, Joe would make it to the ceremony in one piece, in the right outfit, and at the right time, because people had already been talking, and Joe was meant to give a little speech up on stage if his film was to win.

"Remind him of that. Maybe help him with the writing, too?"  

Sure. Why not?  

"And there'll be two boxes delivered, not huge ones, it'll only be about 5000 copies, but they all need signing,"  

Delivered where? Copies of what? 

"Copies?" you asked, deadly afraid of sounding stupid. 

"Photographs."  

Oh. Alright. Of course. Yes. Fine. 

In the backseat of a car, on your way to wherever they were taking you - they hadn't been clear at all - you saw that the signing of the photographs hadn't been added into Joe's schedule yet. You put down a few options and would check with Joe later until what time he minded working before you'd set it in stone. First task done. Your job had officially started. 

Five days. One hundred and twenty hours of this. You checked the time. One hundred and eighteen still to go, technically, but, who was counting?

The car stopped and you heard the ratcheting of the handbrake being pulled by the driver. You'd arrived. 

"Um, where are we?" you asked, undoing your seatbelt and gathering your things, but before the driver could answer, your door was opened from the outside. 

"Hey, welcome," it was Joe, and he held out a hand to help you out of the vehicle. What a gentleman. That warm smile, there it was again. 

"Are you ready?" Joe asked, taking your suitcase from you with an excited glint flickering in his eyes, and you weren't sure exactly what you were meant to be ready for. The whole week, was the correct answer.

Joe walked ahead of you, up the steps of a beautiful South London terraced house. Quite the mansion, by London standards. Joe stopped and turned as he reached the door. "I've only just moved in, so please, don't mind the boxes and, um, the lack of furniture. It's a mess. The only room properly done up is yours, so don't worry about that! They've made sure that at least one of us has a nice bed to sleep in,"  

 Oh.  

"They made it look like a proper hotel room, I'm kind of jealous of it,"

This was Joe's home. His actual place, where he... you know, lived, and stuff. And where apparently, you were going to be staying too.  

"This is your house?"  

Joe stood in the door opening, and beckoned you in.

"It's just easier to have you close, come on in,"  

Oh, this was going to be an interesting couple of days. 

"Wonderful, thanks."

---  

The Taglisted: 

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[thimbledoll]

A Doll's Defenses

Her armor was spellcraft the likes of which no mundane blade could hope to pierce. Her porcelain shell was fired in the Magicked blaze of her Witch’s kiln, imparting it with steel-like durability. Her core was pure diamond; ancient matter placed under impossible pressures for literal eons. Her Witch’s enemies would find no chink, crack, nor breach in her defenses. She was as impregnable as her begifted name implied. She was Inviolet.

Arrows clattered to the floor upon striking her. Swords shattered against her wards. Spells left the land more damaged than their target. All offense they could muster against her was rendered inert. Still, they broke upon her like waves upon a cliff.

“Your tenacity is admirable,” Inviolet declared to the gathered hunters. Under the clash and clang of their weapons striking her impervious form, her small voice barely carried to those who dared engage her in melee. “But this one must ask that you leave, otherwise she fears she will have to remove you from the premises.”

Her request was answered with a gout of spellflame direct to the face. When at last the flames subsided, the caster was met with the doll’s cold, steely, and unblemished gaze. “Very well. Then you have made your choice known.”

Belladon hummed happily to themself as they rummaged through the cupboards. The sounds of battle that had been ringing out from the courtyard had since died down, meaning their doll was likely going to be walking through the door shortly. Eschewing traditional roles (as they were wont to do), they went about preparing kettle, leaf, and china. “After what she’s had to deal with today, I’m sure she’d appreciate a pot of tea to… unwind when she gets in,” the Witch thought to themself, giggling at their unheard jest.

As if on queue, the porcelain clink of Inviolet’s hand upon the doorknob alerted the Witch to their doll’s return. If not for that, they likely wouldn’t have heard her enter at all. “I’m in the kitchen, dear. Spot of tea? I was thinking the hibiscus,” they called out in greeting.

“Hibiscus sounds lovely. Thank you, Miss,” Inviolet answered from the kitchen doorway, her movements about the house as silent as her entry. She carried such an unnatural ease for one who had just come from battle, the Witch thought. Her demeanor was as impregnable as the body they’d crafted for her. It never ceased to amaze them.

“Perfect. I’ll have it ready in just a few minutes,” Belladon declared, turning away from the cupboard, letting the momentum of the movement swing the door closed with a small bang.

Belladon froze as they realized their mistake, the sound of the slamming door echoing throughout their conscience.

Inch by inch, crack after crack after crack spidered out across Inviolet’s body. What a thousand blades couldn’t manage, Belladon had accomplished completely without intention. It took only mere moments before the doll crumbled to nothing but a pile of porcelain shards on the floor. Her weathered, beaten, and overly chipped diamond core laid atop.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Belladon cried out, as they began carefully picking their doll up, shard by individual shard. “I should know better by now. I’ll-I’ll do better… I swear. We’ll have you back together in no time.”

Though she had no voice with which to say so, Inviolet knew the truth of her Witch’s words.

(I've been hesitating to post this one for a while... It was originally supposed to be part of the second volume of Emptied Spaces, but it seems like that endeavor has sputtered out. It's unfortunate, but completely understandable. Still, I felt bad leaving this one languishing in drafts for forever, so here it is. We'll see if anything else ever manages to leave the drafts... heh)

[madomkasak]

Reckless thoughts verse

Listen. Things are going to be ok. The tributes that have poured make things a bit sweeter on the bittersweet scale. So reckless thoughts verse gets a new entry here on AO3. Now you're tire tracks and one pair of shoes - c. 7.5k. Maxiel. Lots of comfort. Lots of love. A bit of hurt. Someone breaks something - it's not a collarbone. We hear a bit about the baby cow.

The thing is. Max doesn't have anything else planned. He flies to Perth, retires, gets to Daniel. Gets Daniel. A three step plan six years in the making. Gone through iterations and small changes throughout but Max never diverted from it. He just got delayed. Waylaid and misled and now Max knows he had to fly to the farm, for it to happen. That outside of it all, they both would have been beholden to others.

So. He booked the flights before he even told Daniel about what to expect from the teams. Shook his head. Feels the squeeze of Daniel’s hand on his bicep as much as he does the kiss that follows. Doesn't tell him how the plan was jump-started into action by GP on the radio and Daniel crying in the media pen.

How Max didn't sleep until he knew Daniel was back in his room, Max scheming and planning and keeping it all to himself all the while. Refreshing the media page on his computer. The circus of it already didn't taste as good as before.

Thank you, Daniel, he thinks. So Max jumped his plans a bit.

Booked the flights, slept only two hours. Not in his own jet. Glared daggers at the snoring man as they stepped out of the plane. Glared even more when the man drove out the airport in a Ferrari. Followed the plane on the screen until the pilot told them the weather, outside. Max can't remember what he said.

Decides here and there that he will get his jet back and send an email to Seb to explain that he hates flying in first class, sorry, Max will offset the carbon emission somehow. Seb might answer this time, if it means he brings Daniel with him next. Max will swear that getting to Daniel is worth it all, to Max. Even on the cusp of environmental disaster.

He’ll buy insect hotels, fuck it.

Stands in the short queue for his passport. Hopes he doesn't have to give money to the steward when he sees Max Emilian Verstappen printed on the document. He doesn't have to. Maybe there are too many Max Verstappens going to Perth to get their Daniels. He is just one of them. He wishes them luck.

Doesn't need it. He knows Daniel. Has facedtimed him even on the loo or when Daniel is in the bath. Tells him to scrub his fingernails. Daniel snickers he’d rather still smell like sex. Max imagines he smells like nature more. Sand and dust to replace sweat and fuel. Max doesn't mind.

He will make Daniel smell like them soon 

He stands outside, clammy in his jeans and thinks. His plan didn't involve details beyond — get to Daniel. Stay.

He doesn't have a car. Breathes through the panic. Usually the FIA sorts the travelling from the airport, even that time his own flight was delayed and he ran to the press conference. Allows Max his comfort and preference but run a tight schedule the moment he lands.

He spares a thought to the ants in the Formula 1 anthill. He won't be there.

He stands, hovers, awkward and careful near the car for hire stands. Doesn't want to risk it. Not when it comes to cars. Not in Australia. Not with Daniel back home. His phone is at 20% battery just because the emails and calls keep on coming, now that he has a signal again. Christian called fifteen times in ten minutes. Greedy.

Max doesn't ask himself if it’s a breach of what his team have sent.

He scrolls through his contacts. Fights the urge to just call Daniel. Max wants it to be a surprise. The farm. Him. The retirement. Max staying, more importantly. Daniel still thinks he is in Las Vegas. 

Max hopes he blocked Christian because he knows the man will call Daniel next. Knows that of course, they keep tabs with each other. Max doesn't want them to ever contact Daniel again. Will go to Goodwood on his own if it means Daniel isn't sad. 

Max should have told the lawyers to give them a gag order.

He calls Grace. Gnaws on his lip. Turn away to face a wall, hunches over so no one glances at him as her voice rings. He mutters a hello to her joyful greeting. Something eases inside of him.

“How is Vegas? Daniel is half a text away from putting Sky Sports on.” She continues happily. Max knows Sky Sports is at the Ricciardo’s, not at the farm, because even Joe has banned Daniel from his family house for the past Grand Prix. He hasn’t quite grasped the story yet, but Daniel yelled at the TV, when Max took a penalty for something he didn't do.

He did brake too late. Jutted his chin at the media afterwards. Still won. Daniel had sent him another voicenote. A video. He stopped after Austin. Daniel doesn’t watch F1 now.

“Daniel can't watch, Grace.” He says, urgently. Sharply. Even Grace laughs a little, not at Max. But because they both know Daniel can't watch the race. Max has dozens of messages with timestamps aligning with Max being in the car - photos of their baby girl cow, voice notes of Daniel making weird sounds back to birds. One video he kept safe on his computer of Daniel stepping in manure, filmed by Michelle, twin laughs so loud. He promised Daniel he deleted it. Deleted it from his phone. Daniel should know better. So. Daniel doesn’t watch the races. Tells Max it hurts too much still. Even if the VCARB car doesn’t want to race well without her driver. Max feels good about it. Daniel doesn't watch the races but knows when Max wins. His are the first messages Max opens now. Won’t receive anymore. 

He has wondered if Grace sends Daniel some Max shaped messages during races. If the Max-shaped hole that follows Daniel seeped into all of the Ricciardos. 

Max can't win this one. Can't give Grace love notes from Nike’s wings to deliver to Daniel. But he can give her himself to deliver. Hopes Daniel remembers his mythologies. Hopes he won't be disappointed, that Max won't win on the track anymore.

Maybe he can get Daniel to do a shoey when he helps win sim races. Max will allow it even on the tiny desk camera. Will endure Redline jokes with a smile on his face.

Hopes Daniel wears shoes in the house. For the sim shoeys.

“Las Vegas treating you this bad, Max? You know he would be there if you asked.” Max swallows. Hasn't asked Daniel either. Just wants him to ask Max to stay. Max doesn’t want Daniel at the races, he wants to be with Daniel here. Home. Or something. “It isn't too different from Australia, there.”

It is. There is no Daniel. Everyone, not only Max, will feel the Daniel hole this weekend. It will suck. Max’s weekend won't. He smiles. 

“I'm not in Las Vegas, Grace.” he admits, when there’s a lull. When Grace doesn't ask what Max wants because she too knows to let Max speak first. Lets him fight phantoms around his lungs and voices and Max is better now, when it comes to Daniel. “I’m. I am in Perth. At the airport. I can't rent a car to Daniel's farm “

“I can't get to him.”

Because his team usually handles his aliases and bookings and Max hasn't told anyone he is going to Perth. Is in Perth. Grace is silent for a moment. Two. Max feels a flush on his neck. Is embarrassed and needy and wants her to approve.

“Oh, Max.” She sighs. He thinks the sound is lovely. Hopes Daniel says it like this too. Hums. Max hears the shuffle of keys, soft footsteps. “I think Daniel can wait a couple more hours to see you. He has been a bit antsy not to hear from you during your flight to Vegas.”

“I’m sure he looked at the Jet twitter account.” She says and Max looks downward, mouthes about his own Jet having a twitter account. It’s X now, or whatever. Spares a second to think about George who promised to win all the monopoly games against Lando for Max.

Max thinks George knows. As part of the union. Or just because he loves Daniel too, tangentially different from Max. Otherwise Max will punch him next. No hard feelings. Just like how Lewis’ texts are unanswered - a bit of hard feelings there, truly.

“Sit tight, honey, ok? Traffic will be bad, but I'll be there in a couple of hours.”

Max has a joke about Grace making the fastest lap too. That she does it for Max as well, always. Counts to ten. Says it in rushed words that graze his teeth, feels sharp and tender against his flesh. Thank you, Daniel. Thank you, Grace. Smiles into his shoulder when she laughs. He will tell Daniel this, that he made his mother laugh on the phone.

That he made his mother pick him up at the airport. So Max could be here with him finally. It's evening already, Max feels a little bad that Grace offered immediately. Doesn’t let it linger because he will be with Daniel finally, when he left so many hours ago. Didn’t even take a shower in the plane because it is not his plane shower.

He thinks about many things. About Daniel, mostly. Because there is nothing to do at the arrival part of the building. Max’s phone teeters at 5%. He finds a shop to buy a charger with the correct plugs. Sees Daniel’s face in the newspapers anyway.

Buys a RedBull, throat feeling tight and dry. Dares to thumb up Martin’s one of many texts, emojis and questions and pleas because Max had told Martin to grab him at the grand Prix and. Max isn't there. He is here, in Perth. To see Daniel. To kiss him. Ask him to ask Max to stay so he will. Will anyway, even if Daniel doesn't know, doesn't dare to ask. He doesn’t say this to Martin, of course. Because he has not seen Daniel yet. Cannot let him ruin the surprise. So many would tattle on Max, for Daniel.

Daniel is so loved, always. But Max will love him most.

Martin sends him a middle finger emoji. He replies with a laughing face. Swipes to decline Christian’s call. Thinks hard about whether or not he should block all of them. Or email his lawyers.

Doesn't decide either way. 

Jokes with team Redline for a moment. Doesn't tell them where he is. A quick Google search and he has a few more hours before he must be in the paddock. He won't be. 

Grace arrives in a flurry of smiles and cooing and wild curls that have gone a bit more grey now. Maybe it catches up with her now that Daniel isn't racing. That she won't watch her son crash on live TV ever again. He wonders, in a small voice, if he made her go grey too. 

He hugs her as tightly, feels himself to be shy when she pats his cheek, palm warm in blessing. He sees the same grey at Daniel’s temples, on his beard. Wants to pull at the curls on Daniel’s head a little and check if Daniel has grey hairs on his pubes too, so Max can focus on those when they fuck. When he makes love to Daniel in Perth.

Max turns from Grace so she doesn’t see the bashfulness on his face. She too is a Max mind reader. Learned from her son. Or maybe she is just that good. Max does love her too. 

“Daniel is going to be heartbroken “ she says, and Max’s heart stutters. Frowns. Feels too big. She pats his cheek again, smiles the same heart shaped thing. It soothes Max. “He ate all the food he bought for you specifically, said he would go again as it’s not the winter break. And he isn't expecting you until then. He went a bit crazy, nesting.”

“Too many barbecues.” He states and she nods. He wonders what Max foods Daniel bought and ate all on his own. He wants to know what makes Daniel think of Max. What he has substituted whilst waiting for him. Would he have waited until after Adu Dhabi?

She talks as much and as fast as her son. Max’s brain stops. Hard restarts. When she says how Daniel has moved things around. Bought mini fridges for Max’s gaming sessions. He hasn't asked Max to stay yet. Nesting. Waiting for his baby bird Max.

“Will Daniel be happy?” He half chokes, worry gnawing at his inside. Grace’s smile loses the heart shape of her lips but her face softens so much more.

“He already is, with you.” she answers. “Always has been, Max.”

They both remember when Daniel left Red Bull. Left Max. It means a lot.

--

Max stays awake for a few minutes. Shuffles into the passenger seat. Doesn't let Grace heave his bag into the boot. Declines to lay down at the back of the truck for a nap. Blushes when she pats his cheek a bit longer. Listens to Grace small talk with him, just like Daniel does, until his eyes close. There is no one snoring two seats down.

That guy in the Vcarb paddock plays on the radio. Max still hasn't opened the Spotify links.

He doesn't know how long they drive. Couldn't drive the way back to the airport. Good. Max doesn't intend to leave. Or just for a few days, Daniel can drive him. Max doesn't fancy seeing the wheel of a car. Thinks of bikes and sim racing instead.

Wakes when Grace shakes him at a turn and the road turns to dirt and dust. Hands him a bottle of water, a chocolate bar - nothing with nuts, she says with a wink that makes Max blush.

That makes Max want. Because it means he can kiss Daniel. 

She woke him up before they entered the farm. Max is awake, jittery, just like when the five red lights are on and he is waiting waiting waiting — go. Watches through the window, tries to imagine this is where Maximillian the baby cow lives. Sees trees and dirt bikes parked at the front. Daniel’s farm.

He has seen pictures, of course. Long before today. Long before the thing between them grew legs and names and burrowed into their hearts  but he feels shaky, to be there.

The calls and the videos and how they shared snippets of lives apart doesn't do it justice.

He watches Grace text Daniel. Does it via voice control. She too lies with a smile. Tells him she is bringing groceries. A gift even. Max is the gift. She elbows his side softly, shows him the reply — Daniel is busy, his mum can let herself in. It makes Max bite the inside of his cheek. Daniel would tell him too, because he feels his own face be blank from overwhelm.

Grace dumps him at the door. Kisses his cheek. Tells him to say hi to Daniel. Races out of the farm like she’s the one in Vegas. He would give her a penalty for the way she bumps the bins ever so slightly. 

He will give her DOTD. Will make Daniel text her the joke, after. Knows Grace will sends emoji kisses and the dot dot dots all mothers use.

The first thing he hears from Daniel’s real voice since September is a curse, a what the fuck mom loud and whispered because why would Grace leave the groceries on Daniel’s front step without saying hi. Max will though, has Grace’s words in his mouth.

Max is the groceries. Half a eaten chocolate bar without nuts and an empty water bottle he hasn't left in Grace’s car. He is polite.

Daniel opens the door. His t-shirt is wet from the shower or the cow trough, little shorts that make his tan lines silly. Max want to push the hem up and see for himself.

They look at each other. Max wants to do something silly like wave. Croaks a hello, dan-iel. Wants to do something less silly, like reach for the collar of his shirt, to bump him against the door and kiss him.

He does neither. Stands on the porch, devouring Daniel with his eyes. Smiles awkwardly. Lifts an eyebrow. He’s got no problem with his voice this time, or with anything else.

“Max?” Daniel says, squeaks. Reaches out between a punch and a pat and a hug and Max smiles wide.

“Hi Daniel. I am your delivery.” He says proudly, even as Daniel’s eyes sweep over him again and again. Glances at the road. Mouthes what the fuck mom again. So Max is helpful.

“Your mother drove me from the airport.” He explains. As if this is what Daniel is asking.

Doesn't explain what is happening. Daniel hasn't asked yet.

“Max. You —” yes, me, Daniel. “You can't be here?”

“Can’t I?” He asks. Max doesn't know how it sounds, what his face does but it makes Daniel pull him into a hug. Tight and shaky and Daniel’s fingers twine into Max’s short hair until his cap is lifted away. He grips too hard, Max’s neck tingles pleasantly.

“Of course you can Max — I wanted – you should have said.” He finishes. Doesn't start. Doesn't ask. But Daniel wanted, so Max is happy. Daniel doesn't have to ask, really.

Max hugs him back. Kisses the hem of the wet t shirt. Smells fresh shampoo. Not the cow trough then. Doesn't let his mind linger on Daniel in the shower.

“Maxy.” A breath. An exhale just like Grace’s but it is softer, warmer, more loving. Max kisses Daniel's skin next. Tastes sweat not shampoo or cow water. Shivers.

Two months. 

“The airport, Max?” He asks after a breath. Let Max pull his face between his two hands. Let him thumb at his lips the way Max wants to kiss him but doesn't yet. “You took the plane there? Lando sent me a selfie from the jet and I thought you were —” doesn't finish his sentence. 

Thought Max was going to race again. That maybe he would never come to the farm. Would not love Daniel back enough to do so. Daniel is always a bit silly, a bit slow for this.

“Yes Daniel.” He nods. 

It continues for a moment. Silly questions that make Max’s thumb graze Daniel’s wet tongue, burns a fire in Max’s belly. Did Max sleep? Yes, Daniel. Slept more in the car. Is he ok? Is he is sure? Does he want to come in? Yes yes yes.

Daniel kisses him the moment Max crosses the threshold. Max doesn't actually get a tour of the house until two days after. It is ok, he knows where the ensuite is, listen to Daniel’s footsteps. Get served not quite Max foods in bed. 

Tugs him back into bed. Uses his weight to keep him there. Daniel follows easily.

--

Max slides into the counter. Tells Daniel to ask him. Burrows in the ugly lawn chairs.

Vegas ends. Daniel has to show Max who wins. Max texts George it is rude of him to have removed Max from the group chat when Daniel is still there. George tells him everyone loves Daniel more. Max sends him a selfie from the farm, flipping him off.

Wearing Daniel’s enchanté on the ugly lawn chairs. George tells him he has this one already, try again Max. Send a kiss to Daniel, mate.

He kisses Daniel. Long and sloppy and maybe a bit jealous. Doesn't tell him about George, since Daniel kisses him back the same way.

--

They talk more, of course. Daniel’s nerves don't evaporate after Max slathers after sun lotion onto his skin. Max is steadfast anyway. Shows him what Daniel doesn't get with words only.

He asks about Max racing three times a day for the first week. Asked a dozen times the first day. Until Max forwarded all 43 emails to him. Probably broke whatever NDA his lawyers have in place. It isn't like Daniel will talk and have quotes leak into the Dutch press.

Max hasn't even told his people. Everyone is surprised, or so he hears. Hears about it loudly from the people who matter.

He is ready to be here. Has packed little, but has crafted a schedule for him and Daniel. Tells him what feed is available at what nearby store. Has in fact contacted the vets as well, so Maximillian doesn't happen again.

He has been planning. The retirement is new, yes, but not him being here with Daniel. If would have happened anyway. Max just couldn't wait anymore. 

He talks and talks and Daniel sits there between bemused and endeared. Max wants to fuck when he looks like this and doesn't interrupt Max. Wants to promise it is real. He may or may not have truly placed a grocery order when he was waiting for Grace. It will arrive in two days, because Max ordered big quantities. And two freezers. Daniel hasn't been taking care of himself, ate all the Max foods and not the Daniel foods.

Daniel makes a joke about Pinterest. Max doesn't tell him he has one, and shared it with his mother at the tail end of September. When Max felt Daniel’s loss keenly. And couldn't fly to Australia yet.

It has the dirt bikes he wants to order. Has things for him and Daniel. Max has seen the poor coffee machine. They will need a better one. One Daniel won't call a cunt.

Also room for the trophies. Theirs. Max is sure he can get someone in the MTC to take the Monza trophy and send it to Daniel. Everyone is on hair trigger about him still. Max could rally an army for him. Oscar joked about it already, but Max remembers.

Couldn't get him the seat. But. It got Max here. Got them to stop being stupid, high up in a hotel room in Singapore. Max is ok with it. He thinks — looking at Daniel scroll through Max's Pinterest board with eyebrows that rise rise and a smile that is wonky and secret. Daniel may be ok with it too.

Daniel makes the same cooing noise he has when speaking to the baby cow. Max loves him a little more.

--

“What about the cats?” Daniel asks suddenly. Max stops absently fidgeting with Daniel’s t shirt. It is frayed at the hem. It annoys Max and puts him to sleep too. He doesn't remember what they put on the TV.

“I have been here more than two weeks, Daniel.” Nineteen days in fact. Three since the news officially dropped. Max hasn't even looked at the tributes. Feels complicated things nest within the peace he made for himself. Doesn't care about the complicated things, when he is with Daniel.

Two days after Vegas Max sighed and called Christian back after his lawyers emailed him their agreement. Hunched in Daniel’s spare and empty room. He nearly puts Christian on speaker to measure the walls and think about his computer equipment instead. He has quotes and lead time and worked the schedule with everyone involved. He will only miss one or two streams.

Didn't because Daniel frowned at him. Made shooing motions with his hands. Max kept the door open. Glanced at Daniel hovering, thumbs up and aborted hands to Max’s hips. Unseen and unheard support. Max doesn't fight the conversation, but patiently explains his decision. 

Does not even think to say he regrets anything. Ask if Christian regrets instead. Doesn't even need to bring up what happened at the last race, the lack of points from either teams.

Christian hasn't called back since. Good.

This isn't about Christian though. Daniel pokes the edge of his pectoral. A nail scratches his nipples. Max has to focus on the conversation, rather than blurting out he wants Daniel to fuck into him like that, a titjob. They could make it happen, even if Daniel will also complain about his knees. Max only cares about Daniel's fingers digging into his flesh.

Daniel pokes him harder. Max pouts. Hums a question.

“Are the cats ok?” Daniel asks more urgently. Untangles himself for the heap they make on the sofa. Drowns the sound of the TV. Drowns Max’s sleepiness back into awakening. Stops the horny thoughts.

Max is always ready to tell Daniel about the cats. They are his Maximillian. He has sent as many photos of them as Daniel did their baby cow. He knows Daniel doesn't have a Jimmy and Sassy secret folder. But.

There’s a printed Polaroid picture of them on the fridge. Max doesn't even remember Daniel taking it in Monaco. Jimmy and Sassy kittens curled on Daniel’s fridge.

They took a long time to be here, Daniel and he. It made Jimmy and Sassy grow.

“Yes they are ok. Jimmy has eaten all the food, and Sassy has posed for pretty pictures.” He knows, because Max asks for updates from the hotel ten times a day. He pays enough for them to do it. They haven't complained yet, not even when Max told them to buy better treats when he is not there.

He doesn't talk about the Jimmy pictures because not even Max’s money make pretty pictures of Jimmy happen. 

“They are at the cat hotel Daniel. I have not let them be alone in the flat.” He explains. Pulls up his phone. Quickly scrolls past the Maximillian folder before Daniel sees. Explains the expensive set up he booked when Max purchased the flight tickets. Picked the expensive package with kitty spa.Doesn't mention their stay will end soon. Max can extend it. It is fine. Can extend it until Max asks otherwise.

A silence. A beat. Daniel’s hand spasms against Max’s thigh. He doesn't want to extend it. Doesn't want to think even this could end. He booked a one way flight to Daniel’s heart. Daniel’s hand forms little morse code messages between them. Goads the words out of Max’s throat, always.

“Can they come?” Max asks. The words are swallowed. He feels them tingle on his lips like Sassy scratches. 

“Maxy.” Daniel says, and Max doesn't know what it means. Thinks the closest thing was when Max had asked why Daniel was leaving him. Leaving RedBull. It makes his heart ache, and Max feels like he has missed something again.

“Max.” He says again because Max closes his eyes. Exhales. Feels Daniel’s breath against his cheek. His eyelashes.

“You’re staying, yeah?” Daniel asks. Max reminds him he has been here nineteen days. Will count them all. This is what makes Daniel relax into him, the weight against his thigh sodden. 

He watches as Daniel goes through a decision. Realisation that yes, Max hasn't been lying. Hasn't been booking flights back to Monaco, away from Daniel. Max waits for him. Cards fingers through longer curls, tug a little to make Daniel hum.

“Then they’re staying too. I’m only afraid of dogs, Maxy. And Jimmy at night. We can't let them roam outside.” Starts to talk about Australian wilderness like Max hasn't researched it years ago. Has spiralled when crossing Atticus spiders. Shivers.

Understandable. Max is a bit afraid too. Mostly for his furniture. Doesn't say they are expensive city cats, they won't even like the outside. They have never seen a chicken. Won't eat Daniel’s babies.

He reminds Daniel that he is scared of so many things. Sharks. And heights. And open sea water. And so many more quiet fears Max thinks Daniel got tattooed in ink. It’s fine. Max isn't afraid.

He is a bit afraid of the insects still. Yelled when a snake was in the toilet, the other day. Looked up websites to train the cats to eat spiders. Daniel had laughed so hard Max had to pat his back. A bit too strongly. Flushed deep red. Refused a kiss.

Somehow Daniel is laughing again. Making fun of Max. Max knows now that he also laughs with him. Gears up for a joke only Max will find funny.

“Will they get Air Maxed to Perth, Maxy?” He snickers. Max doesn't laugh because, yes, they will. Levels Daniel with a huff that makes Daniel honk scream, pointy elbows in Max’s soft ribs. “Do they have kitty passports?”

Of course they do. Max filled out their visa and applications the other day. Before Daniel even said yes to them being here. He squeezes Daniel’s hand in thanks. With love.

Daniel shows him the Jet account. Says it will be so funny when they see it depart Monaco for Perth. But Max won't be landing. Asks Max if he will make his mother pick up the cats from the airport too.

Max doesn't say anything. He will make Daniel drive, at this rate.

Asks if he can leak to the press that it is Jimmy and Sassy on Perth Express - just like in Zandvoort, Max, get it? Should they name it the Daniel express? 

 Max kisses him quiet. Presses him down the too small sofa. Daniel doesn't get the titjob, it’s fine. It only has been nineteen days. Max will make it happen.

--

Daniel is correct. Because Lando, Martin and three other people sent him a message about Perth the moment he gets confirmation the cats are strapped safely into the jet. Lando is supposed to be on media duties in Brazil, Max knows. It makes Max want to thank Lewis for not telling anyone beforehand and that makes him grumpy.

Daniel can talk to Lewis as much as he wants, Max still doesn't think they are friends. Hates that they both made a face when Daniel said it out loud and then Lewis laughed, the one time in the past month that Lewis called Daniel. Because Daniel told him. Lewis makes fun of Max. 

Why have you got alerts about my Jet, Lando? He asks. Lando sends three shrug emojis. Max thinks about revoking jet access.

I cannot be travelling to Perth, he sends. Wait for them to send more messages. They ask why, what is Max thinking? Why isn't he with Daniel? Daniel will have him.

If Max isn't racing, why isn't he there? What the fuck Max. Max feels insulted.

Max smiles also, pleased. Yes, everyone knows Daniel will have him. Says he is already at the farm. That Daniel is cooking breakfast. That neither of them have a dietary plan to follow. Says he has been there since before Vegas.

His phone vibrates for an entire minute. Daniel looks up from his laptop, eyebrows raised. Max sighs.

After two missed calls, Lando sends a fifteen minute long voice note. He doesn't open it. Thinks about blocking Lando’s number. Knows he has burner phones so doesn't bother. 

Hears the Lando screech from Daniel’s phone five minutes later. Daniel tells Lando that no, Max is the only one who can appear at his doorstep before a grand Prix he should totally have been at.

Yes, Lando can come to the farm during break. No, only if Max agrees. Yep, it’s like that mate.

Max beams at Daniel’s back.

Calls Max a world champion. Lando gags on speakerphone. They don't talk about the current point standing. Even the FIA doesn't know what to do. Max smiles. Gets up to wrap himself against Daniel’s back. Flips an unseeing Lando because he didn't even face time. Laughs against Daniel's neck when Lando calls them names.

Daniel telltales about Max flipping him off. Max withholds jet privileges for the both of them. Will put Daniel to sleep next to a snoring man when they travel back to the other side of the world. Max loudly says he will sleep soundly, alone.

Daniel of course is with him when they take the plane to Monaco.

There might be something on their fingers Max can't wait to tell his mother. They have the quickie Max wanted.

--

They buy the first aid kit. Max orders more anyway. Stockpiles plasters in their bathroom. Doesn't blush when lube also arrives. He ordered too much. But he takes things seriously. Especially Daniel’s comfort. Daniel’s pleasure. Tells Daniel spitroasting isn't enough.

Daniel chokes on it. Max smiles, content, eyes creased. Daniel says Max can't kiss him anymore. How silly.

He texts a play by play to Luke. They make a little joke about it on the next stream. Daniel flips him off where he sits, off camera. Watches max sim race even though it’s past his bedtime.

Max loves him.

Spends an hour or two or five looking up at first aid courses too. Drives Daniel’s car to the little town next to the farm and takes a course with new parents and two older women.

He is of course, the best there. Gets a little diploma. Shakes their hands and tells them about Daniel, who will break his collarbone one day, Max has foretold it. They don't laugh, but the instructor snickers at the back of the room. They think it is just a couple thing, a private joke between lovers. They weren't lovers then, despite the Daniel and Max shaped holes.

Max isn't joking.

Yet.

He comes back from his afternoon class to Daniel fresh from the shower, fresh from the tail end of the farm where they ride more often than not. Isn't joking when he congratulates Max. Opens a bottle of wine, not champagne, when Max shows him the stamped form that calls Max a first aider. Max jokes that he can't spray Max with wine, can’t do a shoey.

Smiles into his shoulder when Daniel says the shoey is for the next race Max wins from his gaming room setup.

It is not a DR3 wine, Max is happy. Downs one glass before Daniel kisses his cheek and cracks open a premade gin & tonic cocktail. Max burrows into the better dining chairs, even if they are outside.

And still.

It isn't Daniel who breaks anything. It’s him. It isn't even because of Maximillian the cow. She isn't a baby anymore. Max loves her now. Max raced with the dirt bikes and well. Learnt that it is different, than crashing on a track. There are no flags to wave to tell Max about debris. Looked away from the road for one second.

He would have preferred the G force and the tyre stacks. Feels the burn of dust in open grazes on his skin. Smells the antiseptic more than he does the plaster for the cast.

He is a bit out of it, as they wait.

He told Daniel it wasn't worth driving to the next private hospital. It was just a broken wrist. He won't have a cool scar like Daniel.

Daniel isn't too happy about Max’s jokes. It’s just past Christmas and the emergency services are full. A private hospital would have seen him already. Max doesn't mind waiting. Pulls a cap down his face. No one recognises them anyway, not when children are crying and Max wants to cry too.

He thinks Daniel cried a bit, driving Max and his limp wrist and bleeding knees. Kissed his face and called him baby and suddenly Max forgot about the pain.

Remembered it straight after.

“When I said you owed me a gift, Maxy.” Daniel says, tired as they still wait at the hospital, x-ray done and Max knows the bone is broken. “it didn't mean you had to hurt yourself for it.”

Even through the painkillers, Max knows Daniel isn't talking about his injury. Makes for a move but Daniel scrambles to hold him down, helps him move so Max doesn't hurt himself more. Daniel is silly. But Daniel is his now, and Max didn't have it on his list for Daniel to take care of him too.

“Daniel.” He slurs a bit. It makes Daniel pay attention. Max isn't fully in control. Doesn't care. He has never been embarrassed about Daniel. Not at seventeen. Not now.

“I looked at dirt bikes,” he says. Daniel’s face doesn't do anything different. Thinks again. Words trip in his mouth. He doesn't know where to start to make Daniel see. “In Singapore. In fact, in Baku, but I of course did not act on anything until you knew.”

Had created his little Pinterest board of emails and quotes and late night googling. Had moved the Max plan to action mode. Crossed little steps in his mind to get to the finish line more quickly. Recklessly. But Max doesn't regret. No regrets, only memories.

He says it in half bitten words.

Daniel’s mouth does something funny. Like not kissing him. Max knows it is sore, even between them, that Max is the only one who told Daniel, before. Daniel thinks still it wasn't Max’s duty. Max thinks otherwise. He needed to be the one to tell Daniel, if they wouldn't. It could not have been anyone else.

“I looked at dirt bikes and clothes to wear on a farm and got myself ready for you.” That’s what she said. Daniel would have snickered and made a dick joke too, Max thinks, if Max wasn't hooked on a IV for fluids and is waiting to get a cast. He will get the green resin, he thinks. Or the blue. If it isn't any of the blues from the teams. Would have gotten red, if they had any. Ferrari red.

Daniel would have sent it to Seb and finally Seb would have texted Max back. He is sure. He will ask for a red cast. Focuses on Daniel again. There is so much of Daniel in him.

“I always meant to come here. After —” doesn't say he thought he would retire first, in fact. That was the plan, until summer break. Thought he would watch Daniel race from the farm. “After it was done. I always wanted to be with you.”

“Maxy—”

“I want to be here.” He whines, urgent. Daniel grabs his good hand. Max thinks the pain muddles things up. Wishes he could just speak Dutch. Breng je me even naar huis? Daniel would have honked laughed. Will try it next time they go on a date not on the farm.

Will make Daniel take him home.

Max has a laundry list of thing he did, between Baku and now. Has a secret plan for after, once they cross Christmas and the new year's. Wants to show it all to Daniel so they can go back to Europe and their friends and Max’s family and Max will sit content and happy and not even think about racing.

He guesses he will say yes when Daniel asks to spend a night at Christian’s. He will rope GP into it. GP loves Daniel anyway, will say yes.

Love me. Love me. He doesn't say. But wants to scramble and urge Daniel to get it.

“Max.” Daniel soothes. Fingers tracing the furrow in Max’s brow. It is soothing. Maybe Max whined out loud again. Daniel rubs circles in his thigh, the other one, not the one with the giant gauze on it. It still burns a little. Max will look up gear for the dirt bikes next. Won't allow Daniel to ride without knee pads.

“You didn't need to do all of that for me to love you.” 

Max hums, gentle. Yes, it is good, that Daniel loves him. Would be a bit awkward, he thinks, because he has a gift burrowed between the boxes in the spare room, Max’s gaming room. Daniel had vetoed it living in their dining room. Max had only beamed throughout the process.

“I loved you already, Maxy.” love you now, love you forever, he corrects when Max makes a wounded sound and the heart monitor goes beep beep beep. Soothes him with a kiss, a whispered I love you baby against Max’s sweaty temple. “You know I would have waited for you. Even until 2026. You know they all thought you’d leave then.”

Daniel had waited a long time. Max knows, listening when Daniel talked about it, jittery hands drumming on Max’s thigh. Explains the Daniel timeline to Max. Fills in gaps.

Chokes up on words and confessions and doubts. The Daniel plan is as long as the Max plan. But Daniel didn't have a farm to go to. Max thinks now he shouldn't have bought a flat in Monaco. Could have bought land in the Netherlands. Might buy a house with a field for tulips. For sunflowers. They could have had a Maximillian cow in Belgium as well. But Daniel needs the sun, needs the distance. Max is happy to follow. Never cared to call anything a home until now. 

But Daniel always talked about home. And family.

Didn't meet Max’s eyes until he was finished. Filled Max’s heart until he thought he would throw up from happiness. Bought the burrowed gift the morning after. Daniel has many rings for Max to steal and measure. It waits, like Daniel.

But it is Max, who doesn’t want to wait. Daniel’s eyes crinkle. He kisses the top of Max’s head. Max must have said it out loud. He says things out loud too often. Doesn't care for word games. It is what it is.

Daniel signs Max’s cast. Draws a shit honey badger. A blob. Max makes sure he knows his drawing is bad. Gives the shitty honey badger that-is-not a name. It is a lovely name, unlike Daniel’s drawing skills.

Daniel swats at him every time he brings it up, smile blinding anyway. Heart shaped lips on his face.

Daniel helps him in the shower even if Max could just wrap it in plastic to protect the cast. Says it every time. Daniel washes Max’s back and his hair and — oh. Yes. He gets it now. Doesn't refuse the help anymore.

Daniel says he crosses the line at taking care of Max’s itchy skin. Calls him a big boy. Shoots finger guns at him. Max pouts. Watches the streams from the sidelines and Luke makes fun of him. No one else outside of their circles knows Max Verstappen has a cast from a dirt bike incident in Perth.

It does make it to the daniel3 dump weeks after. Max stares, unmoved. Resolves to post an embarrassing picture of Daniel on his main account, will bypass the admin control just like he did after Spa. Maybe the manure video from his computer.

He changes the flights back to Monaco because he cannot face his friends and family with the cast on. Has shown them already yes, but doesn't want to explain why yes Daniel must help him in the shower. That’s for Max to know only. For Daniel to smirk about.

Yes, he sighs to George because of course George knows. They slipped once. No, they do not buy a bench like old people. Because get it Max, Daniel is older.

They simply run baths now. He doesn't tell George that. He is the one washing Daniel’s curls. Buys the good shampoo, even.

--

Grace signs the cast too, coos all over Max for an entire day. Daniel asks her to stop but Max beams, lets Grace take over, until his cheeks hurt from smiling. From nudging Daniel with jokes and teases. Daniel goes out to check the chickens five times. Never comes back with eggs. His smile is bigger each time he sees his mother and Max sat on the couch together. Smiles biggest when Max is sandwiched between Grace and Joe.

Doesn't squeak when they pull out embarrassing pictures. Max has seen a lot of embarrassing teenage Daniel. Fell in love back then anyway.

Max whispers asks to steal a few. He will copy the entire album. Daniel knows he can't win because Max knows he was the cutest child so Max is not embarrassed by baby Max pictures. Daniel has talked to his mother about it many times.

Max’s heart flipped funny then. Avoids his mother’s eyes every time. Long silences on calls. Sophie’s Max is sighed the same way Grace’s is.

Daniel makes hand motions between his eyes and Max when Max hollers at him not to break his collarbone. Daniel swears he will ban Max and dirt bikes. He won't, because they race each other and Daniel still wins for now and Max will kiss him again at that little remote spot they can only get to on the bikes. When he can ride again. Daniel stared at him when Max swore he can probably drive one handed. He drove after Silverstone. That didn't make Daniel laugh.

She signs it with little X kisses. Signs it Grace Ricciardo, fastest lap in Perth. They laugh, burrowed in the ugly lawn chairs. Watch Daniel get the barbecue ready with his father. Max and Daniel foods ready on the side. 

It is a way to midnight, to the new year's. He’ll wait. Will kiss Daniel at midnight. Will do the grape wishes he learnt from Carlos. Twelve little chances on what they can do next year. Max and Daniel’s first year together.

Just them. Their calendar is mostly free now, especially Thursdays to Sundays.

Max has one big wish and twelve grapes under a table to make it happen. Max smiles. Waits a bit longer. Max will be the one to ask then, and Daniel will say yes.

[greatwyrmgold]

At time of writing* I have not finished Tactical Breach Wizards. However, I feel confident saying that Dall's Anxiety Dream is the best.

First, having a wiser version of Dall speak wisdom to her and representing that by having one of the Dalls on the mission not only wear an outfit you haven't unlocked but also unlocking all her perks? (chef's kiss)

It's a good way to integrate those bits of gameplay and narrative, and indicate that (unlike, say, Jen or Banks) the dream-Dall has more to offer than pointing out a problem waking-Dall is aware of but unwilling to admit.

It also gives you a taste of Dall's full potential, and allows the level designers to build a level around what a fully-upgraded Dall can do. That's significant because, while all characters have some perks that dramatically change how they play, Dall's perks (especially the Swap and Charge perks) are especially game-changing; this not only lets the Anxiety Dream show the player what she's capable of, but also lets them build levels that are decently challenging with access to that full toolkit without worrying about what perks Dall bought. (I'm not exaggerating when I say that levels designed assuming you had those perks could easily be impossible without, and ones designed assuming you didn't have them could be pathetic if you did.)

And of course, the writing is on point.

*At time of posting, I have 100%-completed Tactical Breach Wizards. That's just what happens when you have a long and regularly-shuffled queue.