#burning tyre

[famousfor15]

Burning Tyre (Bristol, UK 2016) by Banksy

[wee-toe]

Harma Heikens x

[eirianerisdar]

I’m already seeing the discourse start online so let’s be clear. Ferrari’s brakes were shit the ENTIRE race. Charles wasn’t the only one being told to lift. He caught up to Carlos a lot in the second stint because Carlos’s brakes were nearly on fire, too. Carlos’s brakes didn’t clean up until like 15-20 laps from the end. Sky kept talking about how both of them were being told to lift and coast. It’s arguable whether Charles’s brakes could have survived him pushing more to stay ahead of Lando but without detailed brake data, we won’t know.

Either way you understand why it was frustrating for Charles - the car didn’t give him what he needed to stay in 2nd and it was this or his brakes catching fire. When it’s not about technique but about equipment it always hurts more.

[leclercskiesahead]

Stop the count

[flatspot]

They weren’t positives for Merc though. The Merc is better in cooler temps and on tires that don’t need breaking in. The tires are also the new robust kind so they’re harder to warm up. It’s clear the W14’s weaknesses were highlighted more than it being down to Lewis.

i hate to break this to you but it doesn't matter what the car is, or what its weaknesses are, a new set of softs is always going to bring you a better lap time than a used set. lewis DID improve his time, he just didn't improve as much as everybody else did, including his teammate.

[swordsofsaturn]

man one of my closest friends just found out her husband has cheated on her :/ they've literally only been married a year and a half..... i hate country men

[racingliners]

Why has Norris not pitted yet??

[puzzledemigod]

Piastri can now breathe jfc

[evilgwrl]

What abt 141xpregnant!reader (or not pregnant, ur choice, I dont mind!!) And someone gets into their house and reader is all alone so she calls the boys while they're out (somewhere idk)

can be angst or fluff <3

Thank you for this idea, I hope I did it justice for you anon <3

CW: Threats of violence (not against reader), break ins, fluff

You stared at yourself in the glossy reflection, soaked rag scented with the unmistakable smell of cleaning spray dabbing at the final fingerprint, a satisfied grin on your face. You hobbled to the kitchen, ankles slightly swollen as a hand rubbed against the plushness of your belly, a gentle kick answering you back.

You felt content. You were six months pregnant and surrounded by four incredibly devoted men (who were currently running all the errands you could no longer do). Gentle feet padded against the wooden floorboards, your back humming with a subtle ache as you groaned, your body flopping down against your comfiest pillow.

Wispy lashes fell over curled lids, the zip of a fan hushing you to sleep. You awoke to rustling, your window cracked open for fresh air.

“Stupid foxes,” you muttered, rolling towards the window to shoo the pesky creatures away from your vegetables. Your heart halted, however, face a pasty shade of terror as you watched a figure, much larger than a fox, break the glass to your back door, the stone floor of your patio humming against the shards of crystal.

Pesky fingers reached for your phone, a monotone strain coming from your throat as you phoned for Price, eyes now a glassy bowl of unshed tears.

“Hey love, you ok?” The normally comforting tone only spurred your anxiety as you choked out a sob, an instant call of your name blasting through the speakers of the phone.

“There’s someone inside the house,” you choked out, your voice a mere whisper as you huddled in the corner, fingers twisting the lock on your bedroom door.

“Call Gaz in the meantime; we’ll be home in 10 minutes.”

You were a whimpering mess, swollen body trembling in your ensuite as Gaz attempted to calm you down, telling you the police were on the way. There was a commotion downstairs, kitchenware clattering as you presumed, he was rummaging around. Timber creaked under a lead foot, stairs straining under the man's weight as he stomped upstairs.

“Kyle, he’s upstairs,” you trembled, your throat constricted with a coil of anxiety as your limbs tremored, a protective hand strung across the swell of your belly. The Sergeant’s voice brought you no comfort as you heard the door to the nursery swing open, the squeak of a baby toy rattling against the wood. Your gut was burning, tender hands clutching against the marble counter in a motion to hold yourself up, your knees locking up as you clattered to the floor.

Price’s hands were stained permanent ivory, his knuckles protruding from broken skin as he pulled down your street, head beams flickering at the cars before calloused tyres screeched down a turning lane, the bulky SUV swerving into the driveway. Simon had rummaged through the glovebox on the first ring of your call, massive frame bouldering out of the unparked car as his keys twitched in the door, the steady frame of Soap in toe.

Rough fingers wrapped around carbon steel, silent footsteps thrumming against wallpaper as you shifted in the bathroom, gentle sobs wracking through your body.

You were unaware of what was going on outside your bedroom, the faint sounds of a man’s voice, unrecognisable through the thickness of the walls only spurring anxiety shrill of terror through you.

You knew they would never let anything happen to you, but what if something happened to them in the process? Sure, they were trained for combat but that doesn’t make you invincible.

You clutched your stomach, humming to yourself in an attempt to calm down.

Simon was livid, they all were. The house you had built for them all years ago was now tainted. A place you should be safe in was no longer available.

Soap’s voice was sharp as he entered the nursery, enjoying the twisted satisfaction of watching the intruder still as the safety of the gun unlocked.

“You make a f’cking movement and I’ll put a bullet in ye head, ye hear me?”

There was a slow nod from the man as Ghost entered, slamming him against the wall with a crash, his hands tied behind his back as he lunged him down the stairs. There was a faint echo of sirens in the distance as you sheltered yourself, still unsure of what was happening.

There was a rattle against the door, a soft voice calling out to you.

“It’s just me, love. Open the door.”

The doorknob felt crumbly under your touch, fingers barely able to twist it. Price’s body was warm as he engulfed your shaking figure, wet cheeks staining his shirt in a soppy mess. Thick hands grabbed at the plush of your thighs, lifting you with ease into burly arms, the tickle of his moustache against your ears as he lolled a soft apology to you.

“Shouldn’t ‘ave left you alone dove, feel like I failed you.”

The captain’s heart was bleak, an ephemeral feeling of guilt worn on his shoulder before you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, soggy lips placing a feathery kiss upon the worn skin.

“It’s not your fault, John. Could’ve happened to anyone on our street.”

The night was slow, Gaz consoling the police as Soap and Price comforted you, tending to your every need as Ghost stood outside, dark eyes glaring into the back of the police van at the man. You assured them you were okay, delicate hands rubbing your belly as you cooed, your heart finally returning to its normal bpm.

Once the blaring of red and blue lights simmered to a halt, and Ghost had run out to get a replacement door (otherwise, he wouldn’t have slept from keeping guard all night), you could fully relax. Your body was flush against the comfort of your L-shaped couch and Simon’s calloused back, fingers running through the roots of your hair.

Your eyes succumbed to temporary slumber at the touch, scalp tingling from the simplicity of gentle tugs. You were carried to bed, arms balled at the soft cotton of Soap’s shirt you had stolen. You nestled quickly into the comfort of your bed, lashes flat against your cheeks.

They all watched you, hands folded as they watched the rise of your chest, a flutter of breath leaving your lips every time it fell.

“Beautiful, ain’t she?” Price mumbled, cerulean eyes lapping in the mere sight of you, a proud glow comforting him knowing you were theirs.

“Damn right,” Ghost grunted.

There was a creak against the floorboards as your eyes opened, your voice delicate with sleep, “Will you guys stay tonight? All of you? Please.”

“Shoot us in the head if we ever say no to anything you say,” Soap uttered, a gentle slap whacking around his head from Simon as Kyle leaned into the bed, heavy hands immediately wrapping around your swell belly.

The night ended with whispers of affirmation and one happy girl.

[ashwantsafreepalestine]

The “Great March of Return” in 2018.

Palestinians peacefully protested every single Friday, for over a year. They performed the Dabke as an act of resistance.

Israeli forces responded by shooting tear gas canisters, some of them dropped from drones, rubber bullets and live ammunition, mostly by snipers.

While some protesters have engaged in some forms of violence including by burning tyres, flying incendiary kites or throwing stones and Molotov cocktails in the direction of Israeli soldiers, social media videos, as well as eyewitness testimonies gathered by Amnesty International, Palestinian and Israeli human rights groups show that Israeli soldiers shot unarmed protesters, bystanders, journalists and medical staff approximately 150-400m from the fence, where they did not pose any threat.

214 Palestinians, including 46 children, were killed, and over 36,100, including nearly 8,800 children have been injured.

“In order for nonviolence to work, your opponent must have a conscience.” — Stokely Carmichael.

(sources: x,x)

[n0thingiscool]

Memphis cops need curb stomped. What the absolute fuxk?!

[userm4x]

laundry list of lusail track's sins:

the FIA changes track limits on turns 12/13 by around 80 cm to try limit damage to tyres (this leads to the addition of an extra 10 minute practice session directly before qualifying for the sprint race. on a weekend with only 1 hour of free practice anyway)

the FIA implements limit of a maximum of 18 laps on any 1 set of tyres due to the curbs & track surface literally shaking the tyres to the point of structural damage (this leads to a minimum of 3 pitstops for all drivers during the race)

nico rosberg reports that pirelli informed the FIA of possible tyre issues in Qatar and the warning was reportedly ignored (he revealed this live on Sky F1)

george russel opens his visor during pitstops to try get some air onto his face

both george russel and lando norris are recorded fanning themselves and steering with their wrists at 300 km/hr down the main straight due to heat

george russel reports after the race that he felt as though he was going to pass out multiple times. he felt as though he was in a sauna from around lap 20, except he had no way to escape the heat as someone in a sauna can

logan sargeant retired due to feeling ill, likely exacerbated due to the heat. he was carried out of the garage by his mechanics

max verstappen and oscar piastri are both unable to remain standing in the cool down room after finishing ("does anyone have a wheelchair?")

alex albon has to be helped out of his car after finishing the race

alex albon was then taken to the medical centre and treated for acute heat exposure

fernando alonso asks for water to be poured on him during a pit stop as his 'seat is burning' him

fernando alonso then reports after the race that he has a legitimate burn on the left side of his ass due to the heat

esteban ocon reports beginning throwing up in his helmet on lap 15, and this then continuing for two laps (and does so only at the end of the race)

lance stroll is taken in an ambulance for medical attention after finishing the race

lance stroll then says that he ended up with so many track limits infringements within the last five laps because of the fact that he could no longer see the white line due to how often he was passing out in high speed corners

valtteri bottas described the race as "torture" after finishing

yuki tsunoda reports that he opened his visor to try to cool down his face and instead of air, sand flew in

charles leclerc says he saw many drivers appearing seriously unwell in parc ferme after the race

charles leclerc also describes the race as being "twice as bad as singapore"

nico hulkenberg left the media pen after only two questions as he desperately needed to cool down

lando norris reports that 2 or 3 drivers took themselves to the medical centre because of dehydration concerns. several fainted once inside

jack doohan says that the lack of action and radio messages during the race is likely due to the lapses in cognition from severe dehydration due to heat

[drabblesandimagines]

Trunk

Leon Kennedy x female reader (BSAA) for this request Fluffy, bit of mild spice, bit of blood, mention of panic attack, swears

It was meant to be straightforward surveillance ahead of the main op. Monitor the drop – the metal suitcase fitted with a tracking chip and three fake virus vials – note any observations about the pick-up, then inform the rest of the Wolf Hound Squad who would track the co-ordinates to find the terrorists’ base of operations.

You had pouted a little at being sidelined from the main action, but Chris needed someone stealthy to keep an eye over the drop and, with a squeeze to your shoulder, your track record meant you were the prime candidate.

You’d set yourself up in the eaves of the abandoned warehouse that served as the drop-off point, armed with a pair of binoculars, an ear piece and a couple of guns, as always, for if anything went south...

..which it did the moment you detected movement from the south-east corner. It took a few attempts to get them in focus, but your heart sank when you recognized the figure – one Leon S Kennedy of the DSO rolling between abandoned shipping containers, honing in on the one you’d placed the metal suitcase in a few hours previously.

What the hell is he doing here?

You press down on your earpiece and it beeps once, opening the line to transmit. “Alpha to Lupe. Got a problem. Over.”

Silence.

“Alpha to Lupe. Got a problem. Over.”

Nothing – again. Maybe your current position has poor signal, but there’s no time to troubleshoot when squealing tyres echo around the structure, alerting you to the two black cars swerving in and heading to the shipping container in question.

The cars stop, their engines remaining idle and five well-built and well-dressed men depart – three from one, two from another.

Through your binoculars, you see Leon head straight for them, gun raised.

Shit.

--

You are jolted back into consciousness when your crown smacks on something hard, before being ricocheted back down to your nose cracking against something firm, groaning as you come to.

“Finally awake, sleeping beauty?”

The voice is familiar and rumbles through your chest with the horrible realization that you’re lying on top of someone. You try and scoot back, whacking your head again and a sinking feeling as you feel plastic digging into your wrists, keeping them bound behind you.

It all comes flooding back.

Numerous gunshots go off as you slide down the ladder back to the ground floor, half expecting to find Leon bleeding out or even dead on the concrete. Instead, he’s being heaved up by his armpits, unconscious, and pushed into the trunk of one of the cars, half in, half out as one of the heavy-set men commences a search, confiscating a multitude of weapons with a scoff.

You can’t see any other bodies, which is strange. Is Kennedy getting slow in his old age?

At the other car, a man with a blonde pony-tail is bent down, talking through the window to someone you can’t see. “Go on ahead with the package.”

The driver seems to protest, but ponytail shakes his head.

“We’ll take the rat elsewhere, have some fun… We’ll join you back at base after. Go.” He thumps the top of the car with his fist to emphasize his point.

The idling car now hits the gas with gusto, the tyres burning against the concrete before it skids out of sight.

The heavy-set man seems to have concluded his search of the unconscious agent by then, finishing with what looks to be Leon’s phone. He considers it for a moment before he drops it to the floor and grinds it into the concrete with the heel of his shoe, the screen splintering and plastic cracking under his weight.

He then leans into the trunk before holding Leon’s arms behind his back and securing his wrists with what looks like a zip tie, before heaving up his legs and giving his ankles the same treatment.

You grit your teeth as you think – you don’t have much time. They’re not taking Leon to the HQ, so it’s not like you can catch up and let the rest of the squad know they’ve got a hostage.

The other car’s gone, one of the guys is distracted, if you just-

“Well, well…” There’s a gun pressed to the small of your back and your stomach sinks. You’d thought the two remaining were the ones you had in your eyesight, assuming three others had got back into the other car, but one seems to have been prowling. Fuck, you’re better than this usually. Are you and Kennedy both having an off day?

A thick forearm wraps around your throat in a headlock.

“Drop the gun.”

Before you can even think of how to get out of the hold, a knee is forced between your thighs, weakening your stance and preventing any sort of retaliation you might be able to achieve with your legs. The forearm tenses and cuts off all air, the order repeated and it is not until your grip on your gun goes limp, letting it drop to the floor that it relaxes, leaving you gasping for breath.

“We’ve already caught ourselves a rat this evening, suppose it makes sense we catch a mouse next.”

You try and throw your head back in desperation - if you break his nose he’ll definitely let go, but there’s not enough room and the arm around your throat squeezes again, but this time there is no relief, only a smug whisper in your ear.

“Sweet dreams, little mouse.”

 Everything went black.

You squint in the dark of what you assume is the car trunk – an eerie red glow emitting from the corners which you presume are the taillights – and your eyes slowly begin to adjust to find two icy blue ones staring up at you under familiar bangs. “Leon?” Your voice is a little hoarse, but it’s better than being dead.

“One and only. Gotta say, this is a surprise. Been a while.”

You try and roll off his chest entirely but it’s awkward and cramped. The trunk is not large enough to be accommodating two adults, let alone one as muscular as Leon. You manage to shift most of your weight off him, though your legs are somewhat still entangled, ankles crisscrossed together with the same zip tie treatment. You cough, trying to relieve the tightness in your throat. “What are you doing here? This is a BSAA op.”

“DSO had intel of a terrorist cell being supplied with virus samples.” He tries to shuffle back a little, take in your face after you lying atop of him unconscious for however long.

“It’s a fake – it’s our drop.”

“What?”

“I was doing surveillance to confirm they accepted the suitcase with the tracker – the rest of the pack is gonna intercept their base once co-ordinates are confirmed.”

You see him raise his eyebrow in the dim light. “Pack? Redfield still going by that wolf crap?”

 “Oh, because birds are so cool, right?” You retort, though you’re more annoyed at your situation than him.

“How’d they get you?”

“Does it matter?” You avoid the question, not wanting to tell him the real reason you’d got caught was because you’d been concerned seeing him being shoved into the trunk.

“We’ve gotta get out of these restraints. I can try and…” You trail off, your breath catching in your throat. You pull fruitlessly at the plastic holding your wrists, ignoring the sharp pain, and try and bring your knees up to your chest.

“Already tried, there’s not enough space.” Leon interjects. “Maybe if I was here solo…”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you mean to sound sarcastic, but with how you’re breathing it sounds more like a genuine apology. “I just thought it looked so fun when I saw you being kidnapped so I had to join in, you know?”

You’re breathing too heavy now, but it’s not getting down into your lungs. You’re not sure if it’s because your windpipe was crushed earlier, or that you’re on your side in an awkward position, or the fact that you’re stuffed in the trunk of a car with potentially limited oxygen.

Fuck.

“Hey.” Leon’s voice sounds foggy.

You shuffle as best you can, hoping a change in position might open up your airways, but it feels like as if the trunk is closing in around you.

“Hey. You good?”

“I…”

“You need to breathe deeper than that, okay?”

Deep down, in your logical mind, you know you do, but in the panic it’s just not happening, and your breaths grow only shallower. Your throat is too tight, the zip tie around your wrist and ankles is too tight, the space in here is too tight. Leon tenses his forearms behind his back for the umpteenth time, willing the plastic to break as he sees you falling further and further into distress. His words aren't getting through and he can't really touch you either, can't grab your hand or your shoulder and try and ground you for a moment to catch your breath. “I’m so sorry.” Leon throws his head forward and kisses you – not square on the lips, more at the corner of your open mouth, messy and awkward - but it’s enough to knock you out of hyperventilating as your scalp tingles.

“Breathe.” He orders, pulling back.

“You just-”

“Breathe. There’s plenty of oxygen in here – it’s not airtight. Breathe.”

You close your eyes and mouth and take a deep inhale through your nose, spluttering a little as you try to hold it. It takes a few cycles, Leon keeping silent as you gather your bearings, but eventually it steadies.

“Sorry.” You mumble, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have kissed you, I just couldn’t think of how else to divert your focus.”

“No, it’s okay. Definitely worked.”

There’s an awkward silence before Leon shuffles ever so slightly.

“Promise you won’t tell Redfield? I’d rather not have my neck snapped.”

“Why would he do that?”

“You... You two aren’t a thing?”

“No.” Your brow furrows. “He’s my captain. My life’s already complicated enough fighting bioweapons without throwing in dating my superior.”

“Oh. I thought…” He shrugs as best as he can before you can see the infamous cocky grin. “Well, how about you and I grab dinner after this?”

“If there is an after this.” You try and swallow down the anxious feeling that’s crawling up from your stomach once more. “Being moved to a second location against your will is nev- Ugh!”

The car drives over a pothole but, thankfully, your head doesn’t collide with the top of the trunk. Leon groans as the impact threw him over onto his front before he mutters under his breath and starts to grind his hips.

“Holy shit.”

“What?”

“I think they missed a weapon.”

“Really?” Your voice perks up. “What?”

“A knife.”

“How’d they miss a knife?”

“Is that a complaint?” Leon scoffs.

“No, just seems a bit amateur hour. Can you reach it?”

“Not a chance, but, er…”, he clears his throat, “you might. We’re gonna have to try and adjust positions first, I’ll need your back to my chest.”

“Okay. Erm…” You scooch yourself forward with your hip and heel of your boot - easier said than done as the trunk grows narrower the further you go down, your knees bunching up towards your chest. “Like that?”

“Gimme a sec.” He responds through gritted teeth, trying to roll over again. Whatever make car this is, it’s not American – the trunk space is abysmal. Eventually, he manages it, shuffling himself forward until your fingers are pressed up against what feels like his chest.

“Hey!” He snaps with a poorly concealed laugh as your fingers twitch against the fabric. “That tickles.”

“Sorry – reflex. Where is it?”

“Well, put simply, my crotch.”

You give yourself a moment to let the words sink in.

“You keep a knife in your crotch? How have you not cut off your-?”

“It’s more a scalpel than a knife,” he cuts you off. “And it’s hidden away in the lining – in-built sheath – near the fly. Think you can find it?”

You close your eyes tight, thinking it might help you focus. Your thumb brushes up against something firm and you feel Leon tense behind you.

“Is that…?”

 “My jockstrap, thank you.” He clears his throat again. “Higher than that and more to the left.”

You try to follow his instructions, but it’s impossible to go any higher, unable to bend your elbows. “I don’t think I can. Can you shuffle down any?”

“Er…” He tries, shifting down an inch or so, his knees pressing into the back of yours in a spoon, his breath tickling your ear as he settles back down. “There. Bit to the left again.”

You close your eyes again, feeling the zip with your thumb and head to the left until you feel what feels like a thin tube.

“That?”

“Yep. Now, just try and bring it up and out. The blade’s at the bottom.”

That’s easier said than done as you press your thumbs either side of it and feel it move ever so slightly up. It’s a slow and steady process, not helped with the fact of how sweaty your palms are now getting with Leon pressed right up against you. “I think it’s nearly there. If the blade’s at the bottom, can you shuffle back? I don’t wanna slice you open.”

“You got a good grip?”

You swear you can hear the grin in his voice with that one.

“As good as I ever will.”

He scoots back a little, not as far as possible, but enough room so you can pull the scalpel implement up and twirl it around carefully in your grip so you can start to saw against the zip-tie.

“Got it.”

“Does it feel like it’s working?”

“Yeah. Just kinda awkwa-" There’s a stinging pain in your palm as the knife slices through and you hiss.

“What?”

“Got my palm.”

“Bad?”

“Had worse.” You bite your lip at the pain then, eyes squeezed shut again, trying to visualize what might be going on behind your back. Your movements are miniscule, a concern that that if you went any faster you’d slip in your enthusiasm and stab Leon.

It feels like hours when you finally feel the tension give and your wrists are free of the horrid plastic.  

“Got it. Just…” Mindful of your bleeding palm, you roll over with your good hand and lean up, pushing Leon face down so you can set to work on his wrists. It only takes a few confident saws, despite how slick your palm is with blood, before the agent groans and pulls his arms in front of him.

You pull your knees up to your chest and quickly slice through the restraints around your ankles, before handing the scalpel to Leon to do the same. His fingers pinch your other wrist instead, bringing your bleeding palm up close to his face to analyze in the dim light.

“Shit, that’s deep.”

“It’s fine,” you try and shake off his hold, but his grip remains firm.

“That’ll be the blood loss talking. Hold on.” He pulls up his shirt with his free hand and rips at the hem with his teeth, tearing off a rough strip, before he begins to wrap it around your palm in an attempt to stem the bleeding.

“There.” He announces, tying it off with a tight knot. “Not ideal, but it’ll have to do for now.”

“Thanks.” You cradle it back against your stomach and hand him over the blade so he can finally cut through the zip-tie around his ankles. It seems just in time too, as the car begins to slow.

“How do you want to play this?”

“You sit tight, I deal with whoever opens the trunk… then we go for dinner.”

“You know I am not a sit tight kinda gal, right?”

“We’ve only got one knife.”

“One scalpel.” You correct.

“Exactly.” The car stops.

“Roll over, face the back.” He orders, taking control. “I’ll go the other way – they won’t be able to see our hands. When they lean in to haul me out…”

The dulled sound of the car doors opening leaves you with no choice but to turn away as instructed and your hand brushes up against Leon’s as you tuck them back behind your back. With the hand that’s not holding the scalpel, he grabs hold of your uninjured hand and squeezes your fingers in reassurance.

The trunk opens.

Leon is peering through his lashes, bangs over his eyes, as his captor comes into view, gun raised. He nudges Leon’s shoulder with the barrel, watching the agent’s head lull back before holstering his weapon and preparing to heave Leon out of the trunk.

And that’s when he takes his chance, scalpel in hand, straight into the jugular, his other hand nabbing the gun out of the holster as he twists himself up and out of the trunk before the man can hit the ground.

Before you can get up to join him, he slams the trunk back down. You curse, hearing back and forth gunshots before the trunk opens again a few minutes later, Leon stood there with an apologetic smile.

“Coast is clear. We’re down at the docks – I can’t believe I let myself get caught by these amateurs.”

“Well, I can’t believe you shut the trunk on me!” You shuffle forward using your good hand, relieved to be sitting upright at last, legs dangling out from the trunk.

“I’m sorry - I know most guys bring their dates flowers,” he pulls another confiscated gun out of his back pocket – must be his prize from the other guy – and offers it out to you, “but something tells me you’d accept this instead?”

You take it with a smirk and a retort too good to pass up on. “You’re really gunning for this dinner date, huh, Kennedy?”

He leans forward and pushes you back into the trunk with a kiss.

--

This is so, so silly but I had fun x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Commissions/Ko-Fi

[race-week]

With Piastri (in particular) McLaren need to go for strategies that prioritise maintaining track position, rather than strategies where he has to chase cars from behind.

He’s a decent defender, and he can overtake well it’s just that he has a tendency to burn out tyres quickly when chasing down cars, yet they keep going for strategies where they leave him out long and then he has to push hard to catch up after pitting, which completely negates any tyre benefit

[onadarklingplain]

happy qatar race weekend to all those who yearn for the galex hot lap video. here's one possible reason they never posted it By the time Alex rounds the last corner and comes onto the finish straight, feet landing on the pavement in time with Patrick’s, he’s disgusting with sweat, covered in a fine layer of grime. It’s late enough that the track has quieted a little from the feeding frenzy of media day, but someone has been doing hot laps, the screeching sound of the tyres echoing around the track, the smell of rubber heavy in the hot air.

The track is so flat and featureless that he can see the group from ages away, the distant figures getting clearer, more distinct, the closer Alex gets. It’s obvious it’s Mercedes by the time he rounds the last corner, the team shirts bright under the floodlights, but he doesn’t clock that it’s George until it’s too late.

“Albono,” George calls out just as Alex is about to escape down the pit lane, and everyone’s heads turn. He’s smiling, relaxed, one hand curled loosely around a crash helmet, his hair a mess.

The last thing Alex wants to do coming off the back of a DNF is schmooze with whatever VIP George has been tasked with showing a good time. He had done enough interviews already — he was done putting on a polite facade. He looks at Patrick like Patrick is at all likely to save him from this interaction: conjure a fake debrief or invent dinner plans, anything, something. It’s basically Patrick’s job, Alex thinks desperately, to streamline Alex’s weekends, spare him unnecessary distraction. The fucker just looks back implacably, shrugs. 

“Should’ve known it was you on track,” Alex says, because he has to say something. “We were almost run down at least twice.” Now that he’s stopped moving, he can feel the lactic burn in his muscles, a soreness creeping in all over: his legs, his chest, his lungs.

George laughs, sharp and loud like there aren’t a dozen people watching them have this conversation.   

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Without even saying anything real, his voice sounds impossibly fond. It’s written all over his face, everything. Alex’s throat feels tight; he tries to tell himself it’s just the heat, the relentless humidity.

“I’m talking about vehicular manslaughter, mate,” Alex jokes, and several of the dozen on-lookers laugh.

“I’m a very careful driver,” George says, laying his free hand over his chest in mock hurt.

Alex has already opened his mouth to refute George’s outrageous lie, half a dozen examples on the tip of his tongue, when someone from the socials team appears in between them. “Alex, do you have some time for some quick photos for the channels?” Alex looks back at Patrick again, who just shrugs again, the traitor. He’s really leaving Alex to the dogs this weekend. 

Alex is only halfway through stuttering through his own crap excuse when the entire Williams marketing team appears from nowhere like there’s some kind of inter-team bat signal or they have spidey senses whose only function is alerting them to postable moments happening on track.   

“I can do you one better, Albono,” George says, and before Alex can brace himself, George is stepping closer. A second later, he’s holding a helmet to Alex’s chest. “I’ll show you a bad driver. Get in the car, I’m giving you a ride.”

Alex hasn’t been in a car with George since their road trip back from Monza, and now the very idea of it feels somehow — dangerous. Like all the unbalanced tension between them is going to come tottering over with the first graze of the accelerator.

He tries, feebly, to say that he wouldn’t want to take time away from a sponsor, but it doesn’t work. He’s in the passenger seat, camera pressed into his hands before he can work up a coherent protest. The door swings shut, and when Alex looks over, George is grinning like an idiot, his cheeks all squished up against the sides of his helmet. Nothing for it. The red recording light is already on, the show already started.   

“George is going to show me how to do a lap of Qatar and impart some wisdom, isn’t that right? Williams driver solidarity.” Alex says for the video before the silence has a chance to grow, and he angles the lens so that George is filling the viewfinder, his hands wrapped nonchalantly around the steering wheel.

“I’m going to show you how a good driver does a lap of Qatar,” George corrects lightly, shifting into gear and stepping on the accelerator.

Alex doesn’t mean to yell, but the second George pulls away from the line and goes into the first corner, he forgets entirely about the camera in his hands and makes some noises that aren’t befit the dignity of a Formula 1 driver.

“Is this revenge for something?” Alex asks when George breaks too late into the second corner, and he gets thrown against the seat belt.

“You’re telling everyone I’m a bad driver,” George says ridiculously, and when Alex chances a glance over, he’s pouting, his lips pushed out in a show of petulance. “You said it on the fan stage in front of everyone, mate. There are like a million TikTok’s, I’ve been sent the link at least half a dozen times.”

“The evidence is conclusive from where I’m sitting,” Alex says. “Not sure I’m going to make it to the end of this season if you keep driving me around. In Monza —”

He cuts himself off before he can say anything stupid. They’re not talking about Monza, they haven’t talked about Monza. Alex had kind of been planning on never saying the word Monza in front of George again.

“Look,” George says, and when Alex chances another glance over, his face is all flushed, a pretty pink working down his neck. “Monza — I didn’t mean it. You can just like, forget about — forget I did that. Pretend it didn’t happen.”

Alex had mostly been thinking about how fucked up he had acted, but before he can say that, George goes into a corner, and Alex’s body slams sideways, the whole line of his body flush against the door, handle digging into his ribs. He’s starting to feel vaguely sick, the last drinks bottle Patrick had pressed on him sloshing uncomfortably in his stomach, and the lights are going by dizzyingly fast now, everything a blur outside of the car windows. 

“George, fuck, Jesus Christ,” Alex pants. It’s like all the air has been shocked out of his lungs. George is surely right on the limit, the rear of the car stepping out like crazy, the rear wheel dipping into the gravel. “Oh my god, George, Georgie, fuck, come on, please.”

Alex expects George to laugh at him, expects him to rub it in a little bit, call Alex a baby, but he’s still focused when he brings them into the next corner, jaw clenched tight, right on the edge of too fast, and Alex throws out his free hand wildly, looking for anything to steady himself — the hand break would be ideal, but failing that, he’ll take whatever: the seat back, the centre console, George’s thigh — except what he finds isn’t George’s thigh at all. He’s overshot his mark catastrophically.

It’s shock enough to make his brain forget about his engrained fear impulse entirely, all the adrenaline in his veins redirected in one violent realisation: George is hard.

He should move his hand. If he just moves his hand real quick, it might not even be weird. It will just be another thing to not talk about.

Instead, Alex finds himself saying “George,” again and somehow, he’s enough out of his body that he manages to make it come out vaguely normal. He feels barely in control of himself as he squeezes just a little, feeling the outline of George’s dick through his trousers.

“Alex,” George chokes out, but he doesn’t let up, throwing the car into the hairpin with just as much vigour as before, the squealing of the tyres suddenly louder in comparison to the unnegotiated silence that’s settled in the car. Alex’s hand shifts a little with the momentum, and the heel of his palm rubs against the head of George’s dick, drawing out a whimper that Alex almost can’t hear, small and sweet and delicious.

It’s very stupid. They’re in a fuck off fancy car that neither of them owns, and it would be mortifying to explain how it ended up in the wall. Both of their teams are waiting for them in the pits. Alex doesn’t even — He told George that he didn’t — Even though Alex had —

“Come on, George,” Alex says again, and he lets his fingers inch down lower so he’s cupping George properly. When George takes the next corner, he does such a showy drift that Alex has to squeeze again, his fingers tight, dragging along the dark linen. Everything outside of the car is a blur now, the universe narrowed down to one moment, one car, just like it had when they were idiot kids, when they didn’t know any better.

“Alex, fuck,” George says, and when Alex looks over, his bottom lip is caught between his teeth, like he’s biting back something more. Alex wishes he could see more of his face, wishes the stupid, glaring helmet wasn’t in the way.

“I see why you’re such a criminal on the road,” Alex says. “If you’re distracted like this constantly. What do you call this lap time?”

“I’m not—“ George starts before Alex shifts his wrist again, drawing out a delicious gasp. “This isn’t like, a regular— Jesus Christ, you’re a menace.”

Alex has to give it to him; even if starts missing apexes, spilling messily into the run-off, he manages to keep the car running. In the privacy of his mind, Alex can’t say without reservation that he would be able to do better. It makes him redouble his efforts, a destructive, unsuitable urge bubbling up to drive George to distraction, to make him put all his cards on the table for real, no take-backs. He drags his hand steadily up, building a relentless rhythm, drawing out the sweetest moans even as George keeps worrying away at his lower lip.

It’s when they’re just coming into the final sector, running down the sweeping straight between 11 and 12, that George suddenly says, his voice high and breathy, “Alex you can’t, I’m going to come, please.” He’s properly squirming against Alex’s hand now, his hips canting up, looking for more, and Alex’s fingertips feel almost numb, tingling with too much sensation.

“Yeah,” Alex says, encouraging. “Yeah, you are. Come on, come on.”

Alex isn’t even looking at the track anymore, has no idea where they are. Everything feels messy, sloppy, and he can’t take his eyes away from George, the frozen bliss on his face, his creased brow, scrunched nose. His mouth has fallen open, a silent cry, the spit shine on his lips catching the lights. It’s like the snap of a rubber band when George’s dick jerks against his hand, and Alex can feel the warm wet even through the layers of fabric. The feeling is so all-consuming that he hardly even notices that they’re spinning out until the force of the car launching over a curb jolts his hand away.

His eyes close on instinct, braced for an impact, but when he opens them, they’re fine, the car merely facing the wrong way up the track, stalled out. Next to him, George is panting, his hands still gripped tightly around the wheel. He looks unfortunately wrecked, considering they’ll both have to parade in front of a dozen cameras the second they bring the car back, but Alex thinks he’s maybe never looked better, a light sheen of sweat sitting on his face, glistening in the light. It hits him all at once, a sudden surge of undefinable emotion. George is — mad, perfect. He was an idiot, in Italy, for not saying yes when George asked. He was an idiot for putting it all at risk.

There’s a second when Alex worries that he’s really fucked up, and he tries to delicately defuse the tension. “Okay, so when I said you were a bad driver, I didn’t really—”

“Alex, so help me,” George says. His eyes are still closed, but his shoulders have relaxed, all the tension slipping away from his face. “You are never allowed to say shit about Monza again after this, I mean it. Not when I — I’m supposed to bring two more VIPs around after this, and I’m disgusting now.”

“Right well, you’re the one who put me in the car,” Alex points out. “So I don’t see how that part is my fault. This was fully your bad idea.”

Alex almost misses it entirely when George says, his voice barely above a murmur, “It was a good idea.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He can’t refute it, but to agree would be — he doesn’t know. He adjusts himself carefully, tucking his dick up into his waistband, but they can’t stay there long. Someone is bound to come investigate if they don’t get moving sharpish after a spin.

“We’re going to have to burn this memory card. Or like, run it over. Would that work?” he says eventually, remembering the camera in his hand. He definitely hadn’t kept it on George, but whatever it caught was surely damaging for both of them, even if it was just a view of the floor and — noises. He’s already fishing out the memory card, thinking of the most reliable methods of destruction, when George grabs his wrist.  

“Don’t—” George starts. “Do you have to?”

“Do you really want the whole media team to hear your come noises, mate?”

“No, god no,” George says quickly. “But like. You could come around to mine tonight if you wanted. We could do a little last-minute— onboard review, if you will. While you—”

“No, okay, I get it, let’s leave some suspense,” Alex says. He can feel the smile on his face, so wide is almost hurts his cheeks, muscles jutting up against the cushioning of the crash helmet. “I’l —”

He doesn’t know how he’s going to finish the sentence, but he knows, with a sudden and unexpected clarity, that it’s what he wants. He slips the memory card into his shoe and readies the excuse in his head, heat curling low in his stomach.

[randombush3]

the end of the world

alexia putellas x reader

summary: just another one of those toxic relationships (based on 'i want you' by mitski, except i don't know the song very well and went a bit off topic)

notes: me? posting incoherent rambling that i refuse to read again? never.

i couldn't be bothered to fish out my journal or whatever

OH ALSO pls ignore the car. i'm not sure how i feel about the fucking toyota yet.

[...]

You want her. 

Alexia is in between your tensing thighs, strong and steady where you tremble and shake. Hands slide up your canting hips; her tongue through your slick folds. The pressure she bears down on you is almost to take, but you take it anyway. You’d take anything for her. 

You want her, and you know you were never supposed to, but that was a risk you took. You’ll be whipped for it, if not lashed by her tongue then by the agonising cane of her absence. She has been clear about what she herself desires, wants. Unashamed to crave your body, her silence has always met your probe for something more. 

You want to tell her about it, too, as she works so relentlessly, so diligently; as blonde hair suffocates your fingers, winding around them like pythons (dead pythons that you force to constrict, mind).

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” you’d say, and the sole card pressed against your bare chest would flutter to the floor. Its patterned back would mercilessly disappear, revealing the worth of your hand. 

It would be a joker. 

Jokers aren’t allowed in this game – whatever it is you’ve got going with Alexia. The rules are fuzzy, a deliberate haze in your mind that acts as some suicidal fog, but this one is obvious. She couldn’t make it more obvious. 

Jokers are also foolish idiots. The dealer was sick and twisted, but the dealer was Alexia and Alexia is between your legs, and Alexia makes you feel both good and bad. Alexia, with a mouth that rivals her other talents, and her fingers that slide into you with such smug entitlement that you can’t help but whimper. 

You beg her for more – what an addict you are – but she decides it is impossible to give you it, and then she is gone. 

But she’s never really gone. 

You crawl into the shower, sobbing. You’re not sure why you are sobbing, nor how you got here, but the only difference between your tears and the droplets of water falling from the shiny head is that one was asked for. Wanted back. And Alexia’s fucked you up properly this time, because you are comparing yourself to a fucking showerhead. 

Is that how worthless she has made you feel? Is this her punishment for you? 

“We’re starting over.” It sounds out from your doorway. You fall to your knees before she crosses the threshold into your apartment. You’re begging her, but, eyes narrowed and unimpressed, she ignores what you mean, nudging you backwards so that the door can close behind her and you can press her against it. Eagerly, she keens into your mouth, holding your head in place. 

You move your lips with your question but there is no answer in her whine of pleasure. You spell it out and she is unaware, and you could scream it at her, you realise, if you’d like. She’d meet your burning throat with her mouth placed on your skin wrapping around the tunnel into the soul you are trying to bear to her. Your voice would go hoarse but she would be deaf to the words you would repeat. 

And it is your apartment she is in, but you are driving away. There is a car parked outside; a nice, shiny Toyota with decent mileage and a full tank of diesel. The seats are unused and they criticise you for it; why didn’t you make an escape earlier? Alexia is in the house and you are in the car, and the roads are wet like your face as though the sky’s copious amount of weeping is mocking you for being so fucking pathetic. The tyres screech and scratch and the bends grow windier as you drive far away. 

Someplace quiet, you think. A field, empty and far from the constraint of Alexia’s city. You scream, out in the open, “how I love you!” But ‘you’ is only the birds that fly away in terror, ‘you’ is the wind that carries your curse into other lands. 

“I want you,” Alexia gasps. 

You’re not actually in the field – don’t be stupid. Why would you get to be anywhere other than where Alexia has put you? 

“I want you too,” you could reply, turning her words against her because it is her power that will shatter the house of glass she has built around herself. The flip would be unexpected; it would shock her. She’d maybe… run? 

From herself. From you. From many other things that she hides in her glass house – plainly in sight but unreachable and untouchable. If the door were to open, your steps would lead to your death: there is no floor here.

You’d keep falling and falling and falling and tumbling and falling. You’d never reach the bottom of the bottomless pit, because no one is supposed to even try. 

Alexia is in the house and you are in the car. 

Alexia, crystal glass, has value. Yours diminishes the further you go from her. 

But you want her. Oh, how you want her.