#and puts you in their flat

[danieyells]

I find it funny that the PC allegedly knows which pocket Bailey keeps their weapons in. Like how many times have you seen Bailey pull a gun on somebody and just repressed it tbh?

[stply]

i don't have a take about this game itself because it's not something i'm particularly interested in nor do i really give a fuck but the wording here is really. uh actually guys only men buy porn games especially the bad ones and only men have kinks and fetishes especially the bad ones actually. everyone knows that no woman or otherwise would ever be interested in anything like that despite. checks notes. 62% of women in a study having rape fantasies. but no only men are ever aroused by anything bad and in fact all men who have ever been aroused by anything bad should be in jail. no one else though because they'd surely never like this type of material

[ainosgarden]

off day afternoon nap

[eyra]

love and light to big blue sky readers everywhere but for the last time, yorkshire is not in wales.

wales is a whole different country. please…. please learn this…. this is important

[ricky-mortis]

“You’re a caveman. And I’ve invented fire.”

Close-ups under the cut :)

[chyarui]

A few of you guys were curious, so as promised, here’s a few of my takes on Kiffar marriage customs! Specifically the role of the qukuuf, hope you guys enjoy! (Once again, this was all inspired by fic Resilience on ao3, though the account is unfortunately orphaned)

Hope my handwriting doesn’t suck too much, and super open to hearing any ideas or questions you might have if I didn’t explain anything fully!

Also here’s a b/w version cause I’m a sucker for greyscale (and to make the qukuuf markings stand out more)

[lsunstreakerl]

hello everyone I have tiny platonic max and george brainworms so here you go! 3k of the most unorganized universe ever LOL. gen, max POV, george POV, alex POV, christian POV, and an extremely brief nico POV. this is kind of in chronological order? it's little snapshots, don't think too hard about it.

"George."

Max shoves at his shoulder, hissing his name through his teeth. They both hate running, which means it's a team effort. It's also a terrible start to their day, considering waking each other up feels like more of a high pressure sport than the actual driving.

"Wake up."

He shoves again, and George throws an arm out, halfheartedly smacking him in the face.

"I'm up, I'm up. Christ, you're as graceful as a fucking tractor."

"At least I'm consistent."

"Consistently dickish."

George slides off his futon, fumbling for his water next to the bed while Max waits impatiently. He takes his time, and Max is sure that he's only doing it to be an annoyance.

"Your shoe is untied."

"No it's not."

George lowers the bottle, scowling.

"It literally is, I'm looking right at it."

Max is pointedly not looking at it.

"I don't see it."

"Because you're not looking—"

------

George has never hated anyone as much as he hates Max. Mostly because Max eats four eggs in a single sitting, has the most dorkish reading glasses he's ever seen, snores like a freight train, and is one of the greatest drivers he knows.

There are very few good qualities about him, limited to his relentless dedication to both of their training, his willingness to carry inside all the grocery bags in one trip, and his sharp eye for contracts. George is better with sponsors, so whenever they have new terms and conditions it usually eats up all of their limited spare time, taking highlighters to paper packets they'd printed out at the library that stack higher than their arms.

It's what they're currently doing now as they eat their way through an entire bag of grapes. Max is squinting down at a reworked section of George's contract, brows furrowed, and George has been attacking a predatory sponsor offer for Max with as much red ink as he can.

It seems like the perfect moment to bring it up.

"Alex is coming to London."

Max blinks, eyes still glued to the contract.

"Okay."

George crosses out another line, adding four question marks above it.

"He needs somewhere to stay."

"Is he bringing his own futon or are you both sharing? I'm not giving up mine."

That... was easier than he thought. He's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth— if Max has any issues, he's not voicing them. And Max always voices his issues.

Max looks up, properly confused as George's words actually register.

"Wait, he's not emancipated? Is he?"

George makes a face, rolling his pen across the table.

"No, his family is fine. He just needs to be closer to karting."

Max narrows his eyes, looking at George suspiciously. The effect is somewhat ruined by his giant glasses.

"And you're not going to fuck on the futon?"

George's eyes go so wide he worries briefly they'll pop out of his skull, right before he lunges out of his chair and tackles Max to the floor.

"No, you stupid git, we're not going to— what is wrong with you?"

He tries to whack at Max's head, but Max gets his knees up between them, bracing himself in a familiar way that George has learned means he's either going to get a foot in the gut or a headbutt so hard he see stars. Max chooses the foot.

"Oof—!"

George rolls off of him, scrambling a few feet to get a pillow off of the couch before wheeling back around, holding it over his head threateningly.

"Don't do it."

Max is still sitting on the floor, but George knows better than to think it's surrender— he has no issues trying to take him out at the knees, and he has a disturbingly good success rate.

He's frowning, hair rumpled.

"You better not do shitty handjobs either, unless he is bringing in enough rent to move us into two bedrooms instead of one. I don't want to listen to it."

"Max!"

George doesn't shriek, but it's close enough, swinging the pillow down as Max rockets to his feet, darting around to put the kitchen table between them.

"It is fair!"

"We aren't fucking!"

"Not yet."

He sighs, lowering the pillow. Max is doing the dumb thing where he doesn't say what he actually means, despite generally being about as blunt as a sledgehammer.

"Will it bother you? If Alex is here?"

Max glares.

"I do not care who comes in and out as long as they are helping with rent and don't snitch."

There it is.

"Alex isn't going to tell anyone. That would screw me just as much as it would screw you, so obviously I'm not bringing him here as some kind of sabotage."

There's a slightly wounded noise from the other end of the table, and Max is making eyes at him, the sad ones that make George not hate him.

"I would not ever think you are trying to sabotage me."

"I didn't mean it like that, Max. I just meant that he's not going to tell anyone."

"Because then they would know you are in love with him?"

George is back to hating him.

------

Max had known George for longer than he'd like to admit when he moved to London. It was less of a "move" and more of "frantic scramble", and he occasionally feels that it's a miracle he wasn't murdered by any of the people who decided to help a teenager and his trailer hitchhike to the UK. The same trailer is now parked up in the driveway, but it's been gutted on the inside in order to fit both of their karts and gear.

Well. Some of their gear.

The suits and gloves and helmets are frequently tossed around the flat, and Max has accidentally found himself trying to put on the wrong pair of shoes or rib protectors more than once. George never labels his things, sleeps like the dead, and has a personal vendetta against eating anything with protein.

Max has no idea how they're going to manage Formula 4, and thinking about Formula 3 gives him hives. It's a horrifying amount of driving, there's countless plane flights they'll have to figure out tickets for, and keeping track of the sponsor agreements has been a nightmare.

He's pretty sure one of his sponsors is a paper towel manufacturer.

Not to mention neither he or George are licensed to drive actual road cars, so they're playing with fire every time they drive the trailer.

It's a bit of a nightmare, and it's a lot for two fifteen year olds. George is behind him slightly, as far as their careers, which means they have to bulldoze their way through Max's obstacles before they're able to take things slightly smoother with George.

Max has only had to sleep overnight at tracks a few times— and it helps them know which hotels are best when it's George's turn, and which ones won't look too hard at unsupervised teenagers.

He drops his head onto the table with a groan. He's halfway through a sponsor agreement, George and Alex are passed out in the bedroom, and he's only mildly panicked about the utilities bill coming up. He can probably put off getting a new pair of boots if he patches duct tape on the hole that's started to wear on the inside of his right, and they'll need to take care of George's boots first, who's hit an uncontrollable growth spurt.

He's not going to be able to wear Max's things much longer, and Alex barely brings in enough support for himself. He and Max trade off each month who's going to panic about their finances, and it's a fairly good system. His phone buzzes and he winces, because it's probably the landlord, and Max isn't sure what he's going to tell her.

"This is Max Emilian."

"Hello Max, my name is Christian Horner."

------

Christian carefully sets the phone down, staring blankly at Helmut and their talent manager.

"He's managing his own contract."

Helmut breaks into a grin, eyes sparkling.

"No Christian, weren't you listening? His manager has no legs or arms to take phone calls with, and he doesn't travel."

"Yes, and I'm sure he can only be summoned on the full moon and has to be watered with the blood of virgins as well— how the hell has he gotten this far without a manager?"

Their talent manager presses a palm to her face, sighing.

"You're going to want to sign him, aren't you."

Christian can feel a weird pang in his heart thinking about the phone call— the scratchy, pitchy voice on the other end, the clear disbelief in his voice— but Max hadn't hesitated to agree to meet with them, not even for a second. He doesn't have much of a hand in the junior teams, but it would be impossible to miss the junior rocketing through the scene, especially considering nobody's seen much of his team. There's no big name backing him, just raw speed and a pair of racing boots Christian thinks might be entirely duct tape.

"Yes, I think we will."

------

"I like the looks of the tall one— from the UK."

Nico rolls his eyes, feet kicked up on the table.

"You're just biased."

Toto takes a slow sip from his coffee, gazing at the pages of stats in front of him.

"I have to agree with Lewis, I quite like him as well. He's got good speed."

"He's a tad young, Toto."

Nico is understating it.

"I do not mind pulling a few strings. The other fast boy is being watched by Horner, and Ferrari of course have their own."

Toto sighs.

"We simply have to scout younger than we have before."

------

"Uh. I did not know there were pre-racing contracts?"

Max is looking at them slightly suspiciously, which Christian thinks is probably fair, because they're not actually a thing.

"We don't hand them out often, but we really want you on the team later, Max. The pre-racing contract just means you'll go to our junior team when you're eligible, and in the meantime you'll get a stipend for gear upkeep and flights. We might ask you to do some development driving if need be."

The trick is making it sound real, like something that makes sense for a team to be doing, instead of a glorified allowance for the kid to buy new gear. And probably groceries. Christian doesn't even want to think about whatever his living situation is, because he's been doing some digging— Max doesn't have a team. It's him and his made-up quadriplegic manager, and a scraped together group of sponsors with the kind of variety he's never seen before.

There are local mechanics and grocer's shops on the list, for Christ's sake— there's a paper towel company on his helmet.

He's close with two of the other junior drivers as well, constantly around at the junior formula races that George William is at, and he's fairly sure Toto is eyeing the younger driver.

George is in slightly better shape than Max in terms of gear, but the difference is minimal. It makes Christian want to poke his eye out.

Their little trio is rounded out with one Alex Albon, oldest of the three but not quite as fast as Max. Christian wants Helmut keeping an eye on him anyway.

"So it's a stipend?"

"Exactly."

He politely ignores the relieved slump to Max's shoulders, because it makes him want to do unprofessional things like hug him. And take him to a restaurant.

The sport is making him soft— this is why he doesn't work with junior drivers.

------

Max tells Alex about his contract stipend first, so relieved he thinks he might cry. He's already thinking about where to put the first chunk of money— they'll be able to pay off their late bills, and get George pants that actually fit, and finally have a full fridge.

Alex nudges his shoulder gently.

"And maybe some new boots for you, yeah?"

Max blinks.

"That too."

------

The bull child does not immediately buy new boots. Christian's eye twitches. Max is the youngest person running around the factory by far, not counting any of the employees that have to bring their actual children on occasion.

Christian has made sure Max's badge that he scans for meals is secretly connected to a team account, and he's informed their dev team to make sure they're taking lunch breaks.

It was more like "For the love of God please make sure he's eating", but it had gotten his point across.

Daniel is bouncing a stress ball off the wall of his office.

"Boss, I wasn't aware we were running an orphanage."

Christian ducks under the ball on his way to the desk.

"We're not. He's a talented driver, and I'm going to want him in that seat."

"I hope you've got engineering working on booster seats."

He rolls his eyes, sitting heavily in the chair.

"And don't call this an orphanage, I'm sure that's not the case. We just can't figure out who his parents are."

Daniel looks so surprised that he doesn't catch the ball, and it bounces dejectedly across the floor.

"Wait, seriously? You don't know? Mate, he's a Verstappen. Like an evil nepo baby."

Christian blinks, running through his catalogue of notable names—

Oh.

Jos Verstappen had made motorsports news with his eventual arrest and charges, and it would've been early in Max's karting career. It's not surprising Max doesn't race with the name, considering the connotations that come with it.

But if he's not managed under Jos, who the hell...

"Who the fuck's raising him then?"

Daniel's eyebrow twitches. It's one of his tells, the one that means he's about to lie to Christian's face.

"Must be a relative or something."

Right. It's quite possibly the least reassuring thing he could've said— and he's taking a clear side here, trying to somehow protect the younger driver.

Which means Max probably does not have anybody raising him. Which also means—

------

"Toto."

"Christian."

"You're taking on the William's boy, right? George?"

Toto leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together.

"Don't you have your own junior drivers? Why are you trying to poach mine?"

"I'm not trying to poach him, I'm trying to make sure they're not living out of their damn karts on the street."

At Toto's raised eyebrow, Christian elaborates.

"Max Emilian is actually Max Verstappen, and I've spent the last few weeks becoming increasingly confident that between him, George, and the older boy Alex that there is not an adult around. At all."

"Is that why you've given him an allowance?"

Christian winces.

"I was thinking that you should also do that. I can't up Max's again without him getting suspicious, and there's only so much reasonable intervention for a team to make. But he keeps spending it on the other two."

"Don't tell me he's still in the boots."

"He's still in the boots."

"My God."

------

"Max! I have another contract!"

Alex shoves his head under the pillow. He's trying to sleep, and George had been in a meeting with Williams all day before he'd caught the train back to their flat. He and Max are probably going to spend the next few hours— and following days— going over the paperwork line by line. Alex pays a manager to handle his work.

He's not sure what it says that Max and George are doing so well without one.

Max's hair is still damp, long at the edges. Alex needs to cut it soon, even if wrangling Max to stand over the sink and let Alex take a pair of scissors to his head goes well approximately never. It helps if George sits on the edge of the tub and becomes the victim to Max's thoughts on track layouts while Alex tries to focus.

His own hair is a mess, because Max and George are completely hopeless with the scissors, and he's learned it's better for him to give it his best shot with a hand mirror and a dream. They spend most of their time under balaclavas anyways.

He shoves aside his thoughts on his own career as he sits up, because he's genuinely proud of George, and he wants him to know that. His hair is grown out and starting to develop a curl pattern, and Alex often finds himself twirling strands of it absentmindedly around his fingers when they're on the couch together.

Max peers at the papers. His reading glasses are shoved up into his hair.

"Oh! You have a pre-racing stipend also!"

Alex takes a slow breath. He's not sure what the hell is going on with Max and George and their fucking racing allowances, but it's ridiculous. It's not a real thing, he knows it's not a real thing, but it's been their saving grace lately, the only thing keeping them both in racing, and Alex is petrified that if he breaths on their delicate house of cards wrong, the entire thing will come crashing down.

He couldn't do that to George. If he did do it to George, Max would probably take a hammer to his skull.

"Oh, I make more than you do."

"What?"

Alex bites his lip to avoid laughing.

"With Williams?"

Max rolls his eyes, glasses dropping to his nose as he takes the packet from George.

"George William in a Williams, that is fucked up mate. It's like if I was Max Bull in a Red Bull."

"Max Bullshit, maybe."

Alex winces at the ensuing scuffle. He should probably get in the middle of it— he's the oldest, and Max fights mean— but he'd caught a bony elbow to the face once and has no interest in it happening again.

They'll get it sorted out eventually.

[a-bugs-world]

i am so positively (NOT) normal about them!!

FunnyBunny shippers (ME) were fed so well with the new episode i kept having to pause to squeal

" You threw me out of a moving truck. :| "

[shroompette]

It took a while for you to notice. It was a small detail, really - though it's incredible that anything about your 6'10" behemoth of a boyfriend could ever be paired with the word "small". People would always only gape at his size, his mask, or truthfully, his package. It's not like you were any better.

It only dawned on you one quiet afternoon that you two were spending together. You sat comfortably in the armchair you claimed as "your spot", your boyfriend splayed out on the couch beside it, draped over the armrest so he could have his head in your lap while you stroked his long hair.

You averted your eyes from your latest literary obsession and your gaze softened as you regarded him. Despite his rather unappealing appearance, you thought he was the loveliest man in the world, with strong arms, chiselled back that curved oh-so-nicely when he laid on his front and-

Oh.

You arched your eyebrow as you realized that where König's ass was supposed to be, you found nothing. Zero altitude. You could land a helicopter on that piece of plain and the landing would be smooth as a butter.

How did you never notice this?

Perhaps because the front of him served as a good enough of a distraction from the criminal lack of backside.

You bite your lip, hesitant to say anything and disturb his peaceful sleep, but at the same time, you had to explore your discovery somehow. You reach for the mug of coffee on your table and carefully place it on his ass...

Flat. Like a stabbed tire. The coffee's surface remained perfectly still.

For a minute, König honestly thought he might have peed himself from fear when he was abruptly awoken by your loud, witch-like cackle, the brew spilling on his pants as soon as he moved.

Now your couch has a permanent stain and your boyfriend refuses to speak to you.

masterlist

[crazyyyslots]

it's our world now

[heartscrypt]

mfw im trying to explain to my coworker that having a paranoia induced breakdown is actually the most sane thing i can do rn given the situations i be in

bonus:

[buildoblivion]

i think the reason why thunderbolts works so well is that the team is like 80% legacy heroes/ knock off avengers but they’re all old enough to remember when princess diana died

[chiropteracupola]

'The Polar bear at Blair Atholl,' 2024.

[elvenbeard]

Sonic Surge Issue 04/2025 - Exclusive birthday interview edition

Did I make a whole new appearance with custom tattoos, new bandana, edited hair and beard and everything just for his birthday? Maybe, because I am one of those people that celebrate the heck out of fictional characters' birthdays xD And I will forever love that he's only 5 years older than me XD

But yes, I got one more thing planned with this appearance, because if it looks familiar, it's because I took a ton of inspo from the little pic on his netsite in game XD Only the neck cyberware is missing (but I have headcanons for that) and I'd like to try and see if I can give that to him somewhere down the line too to finalize the look :D But even so, this was fun, both from the modding and the VP stance! Making something a little more elaborate VP wise again, which I've really missed, and trying something new (editing vanilla hair) when it comes to modding! I mean, it is basically his 2077 hairstyle, but I tried making it a little bit messier xD I like how it turned out, even if it's not a huge difference, but the different color and the bandana help selling it I think uwu

ANYWAY I also have a part two and three planned for this so stay tuned XDD

Also, some "raw" photos for everyone who read my ramblings this far:

[satoblue]

satoru becomes 100000x more insufferable and shameless when your daughter asks how the baby got inside your stomach . _.

[mobius-m-mobius]

One of those days, huh?

OWEN WILSON as PRYCE CAHILL in STICK S01E06 (2025)