#except this is rpf

[oldbutchdanielcraig]

“I auditioned for — it was the play, subUrbia, and the playwright was there — Bogosian — and there’s a part where the character, Buff, has to mime giving a blowjob, and uh, I got the part that day — no don’t — stop — mime, I said. But he goes, you know what it was? It was the blowjob. I said, oh, why, did none of the actors drop to their knees and do it? He said, ‘no, you were the only one that cupped the balls.’ Always cup the balls, you know what I’m saying?”

[badangle]

what if you were my idol turned best friend who everyone in the league knew i was completely gone for. and what if i drafted you first on the team i was captaining for the all star game after begging the captains going before me not to pick you. and what if absolutely nobody was surprised. what if the emcee and tate mcrae already knew who i Wanted Before Going To Bed last night and i was so crazypossessive even sports writers knew i’d pulverise anyone who took you from me. and what if i told reporters after that this was my longtime dream come true. and what if you said all you wanted to do now was to make your captain happy, and told the boys that you Listen to your captain. and what if… after all that... you put my hoodie on and did a live interview in front of god and gary bettman.

[tunakitchen]

my dashboard summary

mutual 1: shes so gorgeous 😭😭 [photo of a famous woman] ohhh my godd 😭

mutual 2: You guys are so annoying im serious.

mutual 3: we need more yuri NOW‼️

mutual 1: we need more yuri NOW‼️

mutual 4: [really low resolution photo of some guy] 💥 I NEEED TO ****** **** ******* HIM💥

mutual 5: Been getting into RPF lately!

mutual 2: You guys are pissing me off for real.

mutual 5: Just posted my 5K word M/M RPF fic of my favorite guys! Hope everyone enjoys!

mutual 6: is it normal to get nauseous when you eat yogurt.....

mutual 5: My 10k word F/F RPF fic of my favorite guys as women is now posted! Thank you for the support!

mutual 2: Im genuinely so tired of this shit.

mutual 7: i love kindness !! lets all be niceys to eachother🌸🌺🌹🌷😊 Never give up hope !!💕💖

mutual 6: Guys iJust threw up...........

mutual 8: [serene glittering gif of a hibiscus flower floating on water]

mutual 4: we need more yuri NOW‼️

[ex0rin]

Landscaping Your Mind | Hermitcraft S09E09: Grian's Big Base!

[cyberits]

me reading landoscar fics in my bedroom by myself every night

[antimonyandthyme]

what about love spell/curse/potion for carcar?

“It’s not that bad,” Oscar said.

“It’s obvious,” Lando said. “Even to me. Even to someone not looking for it. They’ll stop you from racing.”

Oscar’s cheeks were flushed, and it extended down his neck, down, down, down further where the fireproofs hid the rest of the evidence. And it wasn’t the good kind of flush either, like the after race glow or the lively splash of sun kissed. The stain was uncomfortably pinpricked and splotchy, and Oscar looked like he was being eaten alive by fire ants, with the way he kept clawing at his skin and adding red on red.

“It’s an easy solution,” Lando said, because yeah, they were teammates who needed to tear each other apart most times, but Oscar was. A good one. A friend, even. Plus, they needed the points. “I’ll get Carlos here.”

“No,” Oscar snapped, so vehemently that Lando considered throwing his hands up and leaving Oscar to his own martyrdom. But again—points. “Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

“Mate,” Lando rolled his eyes. “I thought you’ve gotten over your dislike of that guy.”

He felt a twinge of furtiveness when he said it, that guy. Had to look around the room to ascertain that Carlos hadn’t heard it. As if Carlos could ever be reduced to some background person in their periphery. But he was trying to be helpful, while Oscar seemed content to endure torture for the sake of being stubborn. Come on, Oscar. He’s just some guy. He’s just some guy, right? Fuck him and get it out of your system.

“I don’t,” Oscar said, then locked his teeth together shut so tightly Lando heard the click. His jaw shifted askew from the top half of his face, then back so carefully all Lando could think of were moving mouths on wooden marionettes.

It was a familiar habit, but not on Oscar. It took Lando awhile to place it.

“Don’t what,” Lando asked, already knowing the answer and catastrophically afraid of it.

“Landito,” Carlos announced, flinging open the door to the motorhome. “What’s the emergency, hm?”

What escaped from Oscar’s mouth could only be described as a whimper. Aw, fuck. Lando had. Yeah. He’d already texted Carlos. The second after Oscar had said No.

Lando glanced over guiltily. Oscar’s legs were making a gigantic effort to push himself backward into the couch, as far from Carlos as he could be, but the rest of his body was focused solely on being honest. His cheeks, pinker than what Lando had thought possible. The sweat beading on his forehead, sliding in an unmistakable path down his nose. The obvious stretch of the fabric at his crotch, which he was trying fruitlessly to hide with his hands. He’d be glaring at Lando, if he could, for doing this. But everything else in the room was now wiped clean of existence now that Carlos was here. Oscar stared, like Carlos was all there was and could be.

“Ah.” Carlos's eyes darted between Lando and Oscar. “Is this?” Carlos cleared his throat. “What is this,” he said quietly, sounding a little kicked, like he’d been left out of a briefing.

“Love spell,” Oscar blurted out, the same time Lando’s tongue formed around the word curse. “Some fan. Threw it at me.”

“Are you in love with her now?” Carlos said sharply.

“No!”

Lando cringed. It was likely he was feeling embarrassed for Oscar, if the phantom itch under his skin was anything to go by. Oscar looked as if Carlos had just slapped him, something so horribly open Lando didn’t even realize it was available in Oscar’s vocabulary.

“You really are a muppet,” Lando said. He couldn’t decipher if he was being cruel or kind, and he wasn’t going to think any further on it. “He’s in love with you, duh. Can’t you see?”

Oscar found the willpower to glare at Lando then, but when Carlos sucked in a small, shocked breath, Oscar’s eyes were back on him. Caressing, imploring.

“It’s just the curse,” Lando continued on blithely. So, he’d decided on cruel. “The fan must have messed it up, redirected it. That’s what’s making you feel this way, right Oscar?”

It wasn’t fair watching the myriad of shifts and breaks that rose to the surface of Oscar’s expression, but Lando was nothing if not committed.

“Right?” he said again, encouraging, all teeth.

“Right,” Oscar said, like it had to be peeled from his throat, then presented bloodied and raw. “Just. The love spell.”

Two years of being teammates, and Lando thought—hoped, that Carlos had lost the power to surprise him.

“Okay,” Carlos said. No disgust or revulsion. Just gentleness. He was everything his father said he was, and it didn’t do anyone any good. “So you need my help, no?”

Oscar couldn’t keep the starving noise clamped behind his lips. He was shaking now, at Carlos’s proximity, at the promise of something he didn’t even know he wanted to have until this instant. His entire body curled toward Carlos like a vine straining for the light.  

"I need," was all Oscar managed, and something in Lando ached terribly. For what, for what.

Carlos made his way closer, crouched down by Oscar’s feet like he was the one asking, begging, for it.

“Easy,” he said, hand cupped around Oscar’s burning cheek, and Oscar folded like a man with no cards left, nothing left, and said please, please, please Carlos, please.

“Ah, Lando,” Carlos said. As if he’d just remembered Lando was there. Lando himself had almost forgotten, so far removed from the scene unfolding before him he was. “Some privacy?”

Fucking love spells. He closed the door behind him, a little too hard, a little too late to stop the soft sound of skin meeting skin from reaching his ears.

(put that guy in a situation prompts)

[mulherviado]

misty would be so proud

[randomfingthings]

When life doesn't give you lemons (on track Monaco charlando drama) you have to imagine your own lemonade (draw your own charlando drama) 😭✌

aka mclaren sponsored monaco landoscar wedding and how dare charles also show up in white!!?!? 😤 (he looks amazing and lando knows it)

[cainrising]

Hey! I come to you with a prompt : role reversal choscar where Oscar starts lowkey flirting with everyone and its only then that Charles realises what he's like

this took me an age because my sleep schedule has been ABYSMAL these past few days and ive been unable to get anything done, but! sub 2k drabble of role reversal choscar ^^ i feel like i barely complied w this prompt but 😭 my brain got stuck on this, and this is all i have to offer

19. role reversal, additionally: magical realism

"Mate," Lando whispers. Charles has never heard a man sound so viscerally frightened. "What the fuck is wrong with him."

The ‘him’ in question being, of course, Oscar, who for once is not trying to meld with the wall, but is instead smack in the centre of the dance floor, moving like—

Charles doesn’t have the words to describe it. The cognitive dissonance is crippling. His eyes are telling him yes, that is indeed Oscar, pressed back to chest with a stranger, flushed face alight with delight, but Charles’ head is—well. His head isn’t telling him anything. It’s too busy blowing itself up.

Without looking, he fumbles for his drink. Ends up pouring ice cubes into his lap, because he’s a fucking idiot who finished it ten minutes ago when he first saw Oscar grinding on some random woman and consequently forgot everything else. Charles is so far past caring; he scoops the ice cubes up and shoves them into his mouth.

Desperate for something to focus on that isn’t—whatever ill-timed awakening is happening in his nuclear reactor of a brain, Charles clasps his condensation-slick empty glass and asks Lando, a little thinly, over the dizzying thump of music, "How long will this hex last, do you know?"

Hexes are far from a foreign concept. Charles has had his fair share of experiences, some better than others, as have most drivers on the grid. This, however…

Max got hit with a jinx that only allowed him to speak in meows, and even that was easier for Charles to wrap his head around then Oscar under the effect of a personality curse.

“Do I look like his mother?” Lando snipes distractedly, craning his neck to peer into the writhing mass of bodies, where Oscar—and his latest partner—have been swallowed entirely.

Charles tugs at his collar. It’s already unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Still, he’s overheating, almost feverish. Sweating like he does when he’s ill and fighting off an infection. Not too dissimilar of a comparison, Charles thinks, faintly. Except this time, he’s fighting off ill-timed attraction to his colleague in the middle of a sweltering Miami club, and his only moral support comes in the form of Lando, who is too busy having a different sort of breakdown to be of any use at all.

“The witch at McLaren said—” Lando says, leaning towards Charles without turning. Unable to lip-read, Charles has no hope of understanding him. He pokes Lando’s shoulder, gestures to his ear when Lando glances over, and Lando obligingly shouts, “The witch said it’s only 24 hours! So he’s got, like—seven left!”

Oh, thank god.  

“Ayy, cabrón!”

Charles swivels around. Carlos is leaning over the back of their booth, a wild, wide glint in his eyes. He looks, quite frankly, like he’s been rolling in the hay with a rabid tiger. Sweaty and rumpled in the skewed sapphire lighting, perspiration gathering in the hollow of his throat. Charles empathetically relates; he, too, is sweating enough to fill a swimming pool.

Whatever Carlos says is lost beneath a swelling cheer as the music changes, and it’s rather cinematic, how the crowd opens up again, and Charles’ gaze wanders without him really meaning for it to. A big mistake. A dire, unreversible mistake.

His breath leaves him, in a pathetic, croaky rush, all at once.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Lando whimpers, aghast, and—yeah. Yes. That.

Neon lights pouring everywhere, splintering against martini glasses washed up on the frays of the crowd, and cradled within it all, haloed, Oscar’s head is tipped back, alcohol dripping down his throat as some girl licks her shot straight off him.

“Er,” Carlos says, after a stunned moment. Lando rubs the side of his eye with his palm. He looks like a traffic light. Charles can’t tell if he’s about to explode, throw up, or faint. “Something has happened to Oscar, I think.”

“Do you,” Lando says dully. “What on Earth could’ve given you that idea, I wonder."

Charles is one stiff breeze away from making things very awkward.

He seizes his glass in a fit of desperation, and just barely manages to garble, “Drink. Going. Now.”

Carlos calls after him, confused, but Charles is already long gone.

--

It’s cooler away from the pit of body heat and the awful stickiness of leather seating. Charles pushes his hair off his forehead, tugging repeatedly at his collar, tries to fan himself. The bartender, a harried, young-looking woman, is serving a cluster of gentlemen at the far-left end. Charles collapses, elbow-first, onto the bar, and blows out a long, long breath.

He isn’t quite sure what it is. Never in his life has Charles thought twice about Oscar beyond the narrow lens of competition. They had their adoption joke, a year back in Monaco, they’ve played padel together a few times—Oscar has even met Leo, during one of his excursions to the paddock—but it’s this that has thrown the doors wide open. Made the floodgates burst. The dam break. Whatever metaphor: the result is the same.

A behavioural hex, focused on flipping personality traits, the doctor at the medical centre patiently explained to Charles. So Oscar’s usual calm temperament would be overtaken by recklessness, maybe even brashness. His quiet confidence would steadily become louder. He may be quicker to anger. It’s nothing to worry about, the doctor clarified. The hex has such a short duration, and the root of it is so harmless, there’s no point wasting hours crafting the cure. Oscar will be back to normal in no time. It’s a matter of waiting it out.

It's a matter of waiting it out, Charles thinks, repeats. This is all it is. Harmless. So harmless. The most harmless. Oscar acting like the star performer at a Magic Mike show won’t kill him, or Charles. Hopefully.

“Sorry for making you wait so long, sir,” the bartender hastily grabs a glass. “What can I get for you?”

Charles drags up a warm smile. He asks for another of what he had earlier, though, privately, he wonders if it’ll be strong enough to get him through the night. Officially, Lando, as Oscar’s teammate, is on chaperone duty, but because Charles is the one that noticed the hex in the first place, Lando insisted he stuck around. Charles doesn’t quite get the logic, but Lando promised to lend him his Porsche Carrera for the month, and needless to say, Charles immediately cancelled dinner with Lewis. Guiltily, he thinks again, sorry, Lewis.

As his drink is slid over to him, Charles wraps a hand around the stem and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet.

But somebody else gets there first; a card is pressed to the reader, and Charles jerks to protest, mouth opening—

“This one’s on me,” Oscar says.

He is—very close. Charles can feel the heat radiating from him. Can smell the layered amalgamation of bitter perfume and sharp cologne and sterile vodka, and beneath it all, euphoria. Lit up technicolour, the straight line of his nose, slash of his cheekbone, and Oscar’s eyes, wide open.

Charles had never noticed before; always, Oscar has this tired, half-lidded look about him. Calm, maybe. Brief bursts of animation before he droops back to baseline.

Oscar slips his card back into his pocket. He glances over Charles, mouth tugging upwards, before he easily pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes sliding back to the bartender. He looks, Charles thinks, with an odd squirm in his throat, devastatingly alive. He looks unreal.

“Do you mind if I try some?” Oscar asks, head ducking down. His breath is hot on the cartilage of Charles’ ear.

Charles bites around a shiver. Makes a pitched, agreeable noise. Maybe another drink wasn’t a good idea.

Definitely not a good idea, he corrects, as—helpless to stop himself—his eyes drift to watch as Oscar leans a hip against the stool and takes a swig. His lashes flutter over his rosy cheekbones. Charles feels insane with it. Feels like he might be going crazy, because the valley of Oscar’s throat is smooth and long and thick, and it’s still glimmering sticky, and so badly, Charles wants to sway forward and taste. Restless, wants to know if Oscar’s pulse would throb against his lips, if it would be hummingbird fast. If he would be steady, even in this, or unravelled.

Maybe his first drink was spiked, Charles reasons hysterically. Maybe he’s not actually drooling over his nice, polite coworker. Maybe he just really needs to get laid. It has been a while since he and Alex broke up, after all. This is merely—a spell. A phase. He has this all under control.

“It’s good,” Oscar decides, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I thought it might be.” Oscar’s eyes are blown and black. He licks along his lip, scrapes the crystal remnants of sugar off with his teeth. “You’ve always had good taste.”

Charles does not have this all under control.

“Yes,” he says, strangled. Abort, abort. “I like, um. Sweet things.”

Oscar blinks. His damp hair flops over his forehead when he tilts it, and it looks casual, when he idly slumps to rest his chin on his palm, but it certainly doesn’t feel it. Charles can’t shake this idea that he’s locked in a cage with a—a panther, or a jaguar, or just—some sort of beast, and it’s finally deigned to notice him, even though this whole time, Charles has made no secret of himself.

This is Oscar, Charles furiously reminds himself. He’s a giant teddy bear. He doesn’t flirt and unbutton the top four buttons on his shirt, and he certainly doesn’t let strangers spill their shots over him.

Usually, Charles realises, with dread. Usually, Oscar doesn’t do that. Oscar under a hex—Charles doesn’t know who he is.

“That’s funny,” Oscar comments. There is this drag in his voice, like he’s playing with his food. His eyelashes are long as he looks up at Charles. “I also like sweet things.”

Charles squeaks, “Um?”

Maybe he’s having a stroke. Miami is hot, of course, and Charles’ vision is undulating, and his tongue feels useless and stupid, and he can barely feel his limbs, and that’s a stroke, isn’t it? Does he need a defibrillator? CPR? A lobotomy?

Lando. He needs Lando to call him an ambulance. Right now.

“Booth,” Charles blurts, taking a hasty step back. “I need to get back to. The booth. With Carlos. And Lando.”

He doesn’t catch Oscar’s response. There’s so many people surrounding the bar, idling, chatting, bopping their heads to the bass. It’s beyond a mild inconvenience. Charles is bathed in unbearable heat, so many conflicting scents, but superimposed over them all is Oscar. An exhilarated, non-insignificant part of him feels like prey. Or—not exactly. A carnivore staring into the looming void of a bigger predator and learning, for the first time, what it is to fear.

The worst part about it, Charles thinks, is that he fucking loves it. He’s never felt so frightened, nor so alive.

He finds a gap and goes for it, is almost into the thick of the crowd, halfway to the booth, when someone catches him by the waist. Charles knows who it is before he even turns—sharp-sweet-ecstasy. A very bad idea. Maybe the best he’s had in a long time.

“Charles,” Oscar says warmly. His touch is blazing. “Are you forgetting something?”

Is it really so wrong to bear attraction for someone who wears a familiar face, but acts in unfamiliar ways? If you think about it, can he truly be Oscar, if what’s inside is flipped and wrong?

And even if it is wrong, Charles thinks, even if it is wrong—

It is very tiring, to be good all the time.

[wellspilled]

never kill yourself the world of baseball rpf waits for you

[lalitjdsc]

Oh he wanted to sit in his lap so bad

[sillysileassilverfish]

MerScar AU (?)

Ummmm I found this ref by mellon_soup, and I went "😦"

it cured my art block for a bit tho!!!

So I present: MerScar!

Also a little extra piece, featuring my shaky grasp of perspective (I wasn't trying)

[incorrect-green-lantern-quotes]

Hal used to be a huge Star Wars fan. One of his earliest memories was watching A New Hope with his dad and holding his breath as Luke flew through the trench to blow up the Death Star. Of course, the starfighters and space dogfights were his favorite parts, but he enjoyed the melodrama of the Skywalker family too. And after Martin's death, Hal could relate to Luke's desire to live up to his father's legacy.

Then Parallax happened, and that effectively ruined Star Wars for Hal. Because even after learning that he'd been possessed by a fear demon, the fall of Anakin Skywalker just felt too familiar. The first time he watched Revenge of the Sith, Hal couldn't sit through the whole movie. When Anakin cut off Mace Windu's hand, Hal had to run to the bathroom. He barely made it there in time to throw up into the toilet, his mind replaying the moment when he'd chopped off Boodikka's hand to take her ring.

Unfortunately for Hal, most of the other Earth Lanterns were Star Wars fans too. So of course they noticed when he tended to avoid that topic, especially the prequel trilogy. There were several awkward times when Kyle, Simon, or Jessica would quote prequel memes, then realize Hal was there and quickly change the subject. At least it didn't happen too often, since there was rarely occasion for Earth's Green Lanterns to spend time together.

That changed when they adopted Keli and decided to live together on Earth. At the time, the Star Wars issue wasn't even something Hal had considered. But then Keli started watching the Clone Wars cartoon- he was absolutely flabbergasted to learn that they made a kid's show about war- and the problem became impossible to ignore. Because Keli absolutely loved the show and would often chatter about the characters.

Her favorite was Ahsoka, but Anakin was a close second, and boy wasn't that a kicker. Because while the movie version of Anakin Skywalker was moody and whiny, the Clone Wars version that Keli kept going on about reminded Hal far too much of himself, and just how far a Hero With No Fear could fall.

Then Keli called him "Skyguy" and it had taken every ounce of his will to not snap at her. Because it wasn't her fault that Hal had issues, that he saw way too much of himself in a fictional character in the worst way possible. But what the hell was he supposed to do?

Jo's suggestion of reading fanfiction was so out of left field that Hal had thought it was a joke at first. But then she explained the concept of AUs and sent him a link to a fic on Tales of Our Own where Anakin didn't die in Episode VI and instead helped Luke rebuild the Jedi Order. Hal was still skeptical, but decided to give it a go.

He was very glad he did. Hal was surprised by just how much depth the story gave to Anakin by making him earn his atonement. It struck directly at the core of what made Hal so deeply uncomfortable about the prequels, that Vader's fall reminded him so much of his own, yet there had been no struggle for redemption like Hal had experienced post-Parallax. Reading a version of Star Wars where Anakin instead proved to himself and everyone else that he still had the capacity to do good... well, it may not be canon to the movies but Hal thought it was more true to who Anakin Skywalker was supposed to be.

Jo had cackled when Hal told her that, and then made him sit through a full viewing of the prequel trilogy. It was actually bearable, and he found for the first time in years that he could just turn his brain off and enjoy the space wizards dueling with laser swords.

[artchvies]

for putting a guy in a situation carcar and 39

wasn’t planning on writing angst but it kinda wrote itself with this one...

(900 words, avoiding a conversation)

It’s after.

The air in the room is thick, humid with the leftover weight of it. The desperate, half-silent way Oscar had climbed into Carlos’s lap, the way Carlos had let him, had kissed him like he could solve whatever it was Oscar wasn’t saying with just his mouth.

Maybe he had, for a while.

But now, Carlos lies still on his back, cooling sweat sticky on his skin, feeling every inch of space between their bodies even though Oscar is still technically there. Draped over him, face tucked against his collarbone, one hand curled tight in the sheets instead of touching Carlos.

It shouldn't feel like this.

Carlos keeps his breathing slow. Like if he stays calm, maybe Oscar will too.

Like if he stays calm, he won’t blurt something stupid, like Do you even want to be here anymore? or Did I lose you and just didn't notice until now?

Oscar shifts slightly, and it’s not to get closer. It’s almost like he’s bracing himself—forehead pressed hard against Carlos’s chest, fingers twitching once in the sheets before stilling.

"You’re quiet," Carlos says, low. Careful.

Oscar lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, except there’s no humor in it. "Tired."

Carlos could point out that Oscar hadn’t seemed tired when he was grinding down on him earlier, mouth open, panting quietly into Carlos’s neck.

He could say a lot of things. He doesn't.

Instead, he lifts a hand and settles it lightly on Oscar’s back, feeling the tension thrumming under his skin.

Oscar leans into it instinctively, but Carlos can feel the hesitation there too—the way he accepts the touch without seeking it out.

"You don’t have to stay," Carlos says finally, voice so light it sounds foreign to his own ears. A joke, almost. The kind you tell when you don't want to hear the answer.

Oscar stiffens.

It’s small. Barely there. But Carlos feels it like a punch.

"I want to," Oscar says, too fast. Too defensive. It doesn’t sound like a promise. It sounds like an apology.

Carlos hums, noncommittal, and slides his palm up Oscar’s back until he reaches the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the damp hair there.

He wants to pull. Wants to tilt Oscar’s face up and look at him and demand, Then why are you acting like you’re already halfway gone?

Instead, he just strokes his fingers through Oscar’s hair, gentle.

Oscar lets him.

The hand that isn’t fisted in the sheets comes up, hesitant, and settles on Carlos’s chest. Right over his heart.

Carlos holds his breath without meaning to.

He wishes it would be enough. He wishes it didn’t feel like Oscar was clinging out of guilt instead of need.

They lay there like that—two bodies still close but worlds apart—until Carlos feels his resolve start to crack.

Until the words are pressing up against his teeth, hot and bitter and heavy.

"Was it not good?" Carlos hears himself ask, stupidly.

Oscar jerks back like he’s been slapped. His eyes are shocked and hurt.

"No—no, it was—" he stumbles, shaking his head violently, like he can erase the idea from Carlos’s mind just by denying it hard enough. "You’re—Carlos, you’re—"

Carlos pushes himself up onto his elbows, looking at him properly for the first time since they finished. Oscar looks wrecked. Not in the good way.

There’s a frantic edge to the way he’s breathing, the way he keeps glancing away and then forcing himself to look back.

Carlos feels something ugly twist in his chest.

"I’m what?" Carlos asks, quiet.

Oscar opens his mouth. Closes it again.

He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something huge. Or running out the door.

Instead, he leans in suddenly and kisses Carlos—messy, desperate, all teeth and trembling fingers fisting into Carlos’s hair.

Carlos lets him.

Lets Oscar press him down onto the mattress again, lets him slide over him, lets himself pretend that Oscar’s mouth on his skin means more than fear.

Lets himself pretend that this isn’t a goodbye in disguise.

Oscar kisses him like he’s trying to drown in it, gasping against his mouth, hips grinding slow and filthy against Carlos’s thigh, chasing friction.

Carlos groans, deep in his throat, and lets his hands wander—down Oscar’s back, under his thighs, gripping tight enough to leave marks.

If he’s losing Oscar, he wants to leave something behind.

They move together in the messy, frantic way of people trying to outrun something.

Oscar ruts against him, frantic and silent except for the broken little sounds he tries and fails to smother against Carlos’s neck.

Carlos cups his hand around the back of Oscar’s head, holding him there, holding him close, until Oscar shudders apart in his arms—biting down on Carlos’s shoulder hard enough to bruise.

Carlos doesn’t let go even after it’s over.

Even when Oscar pulls back, panting, blinking at him like he’s just realized where he is.

Carlos brushes a thumb over the curve of Oscar’s cheekbone—a gesture too tender for what just happened between them—and watches as Oscar’s face crumples, just for a second.

Oscar leans into the touch. "I’m sorry," he says, so quietly Carlos almost doesn’t catch it.

Carlos’s chest tightens painfully. "For what?"

Oscar doesn’t answer.

Just closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Carlos’s again, breathing him in like he’s trying to memorize him.

Carlos doesn’t push. He holds Oscar there, and lets the silence stretch out heavy and warm and miserable around them.

Maybe this is all they get tonight. Maybe this is all they’ll ever get.

Carlos closes his eyes and pretends it’s enough.

[kingofthecotas]

diametrics | ao3

a vale pov of inlooking and more | 2.8k

——

Jerez is where Valentino draws the line. 

It’s stupid, because he’s just off the back of one endurance weekend, a wet and treacherous Imola, and Spa is fast approaching, and then the big one not long after, but Pecco hadn’t come to his race with Bez, had muttered out something about training, that he cannot let Marc get a headstart like he did last year. 

Marc had won in Austin, unsurprising, inevitable, and Pecco had made noises that Qatar would be better, that he’s still picking up points, that the season is long, that Marc will not win every race. 

And he’s right, because Marc hadn’t won on Sunday in Qatar.

Álex had. 

So Valentino goes to Jerez, brings his motorhome, hunches inside a VR46 hoodie like that will stop people noticing him. He waves his hands at Uccio, tells him he’s still in charge, and wanders, hands-in-pockets, to the Ducati garage. 

“Ciao, ciao,” he says easily, too used to the way people stare, gape at him, like a supernatural phenomenon rather than a retired rider-driver-owner. Only Pecco nods, tilts his head to invite him closer. 

“Looking for team secrets?”

“We all share data, Pecco.” He reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, smiling. “Just here to say hello.”

Pecco raises his eyebrows. “Hello.” And then he glances past Valentino. His mouth pulls down at the corners: uncomfortable. 

Marc walks in, Jose at his shoulder, stops. His leathers are hitched around his waist, the arms hanging stiff, torso hugged in his black undershirt. Right arm covered by the long sleeve. 

For a suspended second, Valentino holds his breath; feels the eyes of the garage on his back; waits for it to land like a punch. Marc’s gaze dances over Valentino as if he’s just another one of Pecco’s mechanics, not even a nod.

Fine. Vale twists his lips and hopes the grimace hides his smirk. They’re playing it like that. 

——

“You were so rude to me,” Valentino murmurs into the spot behind Marc’s ear, letting his lips brush against hot skin. It gets him a shiver, then a petulant scoff. 

“I should be ruder.”

“Yes, maybe.” 

“Do you want them to suspect something, Vale?” 

Does he? 

“Whatever you want, Marc,” he says, careful that Marc doesn’t take it as a slight, because for a long time he’d baulked like every word of Valentino’s had a thorny second meaning. 

“Okay.” Marc has—something about him now, beneath the frantic victorious brightness, something quiet and resigned. Valentino hates it, really, hates that Marc stopped fighting back as hard in case he hit a stress fracture that ran too deep. Hates that he’s doing the same.

Still, he’d rather have this than nothing at all. 

As if Marc can sense what he’s thinking, he pushes his fingers into Valentino’s hair, tugs, demanding in a way that makes Vale laugh into the crook of his neck. Not completely stifled, then. 

——

“You are here again,��� Pecco says, flat, neutral, a little too much like Luca. 

“Yes.”

“I thought—Austria, maybe. That is what you normally do.”

Vale just shrugs, because that is what he normally does, but the gap between Mugello and Spielberg felt too long this year, and it’s been ferociously hot in Tavullia, and it has been a long time since he was at the Sachsenring, and he has missed the noise and smell and energy of the paddock. 

And Marc. He’s missed Marc.

“I am spending more time in the paddock, Pecco, remember?”

It builds at the base of his skull, the sensation, crackling with the growing sound of Spanish voices approaching the front of the garage, and he has to stifle a smile. 

“Good morning,” Marc calls. “Hi, Pecco, Valentino.”

Pecco blinks, gaze flitting between Vale and Marc, before he lands on the television crew, the social media team with phones ready, and the confusion clears. Still, he stares until Carola hands him a cap.

——

“Pecco noticed something today,” Vale says, light as he can, in between paying careful attention to the way Marc is coming loose and pliant between his legs, eyes sparking in that way he likes. 

“Ah. Well,” Marc says absently—completely lost in him, and Valentino drinks it in, because that’s him, he’s doing that to Marc—and then smirks. “It will give him something to think about, no?” 

“Marc.” Valentino pinches skin between his fingers, a hard-muscled thigh. “No games. You said.”

Marc goes still. Then, “No. No, I wasn’t—that’s not what I meant,” and he’s shifting away, away, out of Valentino’s grasp. “Just—if you want to tell people, it is better for it to not be so much a surprise.”

“I said if you want to tell people. Up to you.” 

“Is it bad?” Marc says, plaintive. “If we are talking again?” 

“No.” And now Valentino is on the defensive, and he shouldn’t, but his pride is a lump he has never learned how to swallow. “But just—tell me. Yes? If you want me to do something different. I am not a fucking mind reader.” 

“Okay,” Marc says, “okay. Sorry.”

They apologise now. Important. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t rankle, doesn’t burn their throats on the way out. But they do it. 

Valentino pulls him back in, because they apologise and forgive with more than words now, and he is still relearning the lines that age and pain have carved into Marc’s face while he wasn’t looking. New marks on his skin to run his fingers over. 

Sometimes, it amazes him that Marc lets him. But Marc goes lax again, languid, an invitation for Valentino to sink into him. So he does. 

——

“Would you tell people?”

Marc tilts his head; he had been sprawled on the hard bench seat in his motorhome, king of the ring once again, satisfied in that catlike way of his, one foot tucked beneath him, but now he sits up, contemplative. “About us.”

Valentino waits, lets him sit in that. Us. 

“Do you want to?” Marc says eventually.

“I told you. Whatever you want.” They’re toothless now, both of them, defanged by the threat of losing each other. 

“Not everyone. Not at once.” A pause. “My parents will not be happy.”

That stings, of course it does, and Valentino is still halfway through learning that Marc just says things sometimes, a little too blunt but with no intention to hurt. Of course they wouldn’t be happy. 

“Let me tell Álex first,” Marc says at length. “Warm him up, yes?” 

“Of course,” Valentino says. “Of course. Then—can I tell Luca?” 

“If he doesn’t already know.” Marc shoots him a loaded look. “Observant, Santi says.” 

Santi Hernández isn’t often wrong, not about riders. “Mm. Maybe.” 

——

Valentino does go to Austria, and wishes he hadn’t, because the rear comes around on Marc’s bike in the first practice of the weekend, as he tries to brake for the stupid fucking chicane, and it’s not bad but it—

His ribcage seizes for a moment. Then Marc gets to his feet.

Valentino goes to his motorhome, which turns out to be a bad move because Luca is already there, making himself a coffee after a cut-short practice. Engine, or something; Luca takes his duties as a factory rider far more seriously than Bez does, which means he doesn’t tell Vale shit.

“Hot,” Luca offers, then slides his own espresso to the side and starts on one for Vale, who quietly thinks he doesn’t need any help getting his heart rate up. “Your Ducatis are going well.”

“Of course.” 

“That chicane is tricky.” And Luca’s eyes watch him as he twitches. Observant. 

——

Valentino flicks a shred of onion skin off his finger, dry, papery, and concentrates on making slow, careful cuts. Precise. Marc hates large pieces of onion. 

There’s another sigh behind him, a pissed-off tap of a laptop key. Marc is watching it over and over.

“Stop,” Valentino tells him, not as gentle as he would like, and Marc’s finger taps the key again, belligerent. “You have a penalty. It is over.”

“A long lap, when he took himself down—”

“This is not the stewards’ office.” Valentino winces as he slices a little too close to the onion core. 

Pedro had muscled past Marc at the first corner, and Marc hadn’t waited even a full lap to exact revenge, pushing the KTM out wide onto the piss-wet Brno kerbs on his way past. Bike down. Easy penalty. 

“Look.” He tries again. “It was a—stupid move at that turn. You were faster, you could have—”

“It was a high-risk move.” Marc’s glare is searing; even though Valentino hasn’t turned around, it burns the back of his neck. “He could have backed out.”

“Acosta? Really?” Valentino huffs. He should reach for the olive oil, should drizzle the pan. Should make a joke that he’s too rich to be cooking for himself. “You have the best bike, Marc, you don’t have to race like that.”

“Like what?” Marc hisses. “Stupid? Aggressive? Dangerous?”

Vale finally turns to face him, leaning back against the worktop. “Don’t do that. You’re not really angry at me.”

Marc is—blazing, eyes dark and furious. “I should be.”

Fuck’s sake, Valentino thinks, and grasps his snarling ego by the scruff of its neck before it makes him say something he’ll regret in short order. “Marc—”

“That’s what Álex said. When I told him. He said I should hate you.”

Valentino inhales through his nose, thinks of Marc pulling away from him in the motorhome, thinks of how spooked Marc was when they first started this, how he was waiting for the final axe to fall, and clamps down on his retort. Except Marc shakes his head, face suddenly unreadable, doors slammed shut, defences up, and he’s stepping away, away from Valentino, towards the kitchen door, down the hallway. When the front door shuts—

Valentino scoops the onion-dice into a glass container, presses the lid down carefully, slides it into the fridge. He pulls a bottle of red out of the wine rack and uncorks it the old-fashioned way, squeezing the bottle between his thighs and pulling until the burn in his knuckle-joints seems like his only problem. The cork pops, and he sucks in a breath.

They haven’t—

They haven’t argued like this, have always downed weapons or waved white flags or acquiesced with a smile and a kiss. They don’t know how to fight without it becoming cataclysmic; that’s always been their fault. 

And Marc has gone. Is gone. 

But his laptop is still on the kitchen island, jumper still slung over the back of the sofa. He hasn’t left. Just gone. 

Valentino abandons dinner; he pulls one of Marc’s prepared meals out of the fridge and eats it cold, chicken and pasta sticking in his molars. He didn’t think it would be easy—even at the start, he’d been aware enough of everything that had passed between them, every tripwire he’d laid over the course of ten years, and Marc had been too good at dodging them, too good at pretending that he wasn’t still angry. 

He should have known. Marc lies. Hides his pain. Pretends it’s fine. 

The evening slides into night outside his windows, and he finds himself on the sofa, staring at nothing on the television, floor lamp lit against the creeping darkness, wine tacky in his mouth. 

Marc will—he has to come back. His toiletries are pressed into one corner of the bathroom, as if they themselves are conscious of taking up too much space. His clothes, too, shoved into one drawer with the compact precision of a packed suitcase. 

Valentino finishes his wine. He makes a coffee, even though it’s a shit idea because he won’t sleep and Marc wakes up early, but he needs something between his hands that won’t lull him to sleep. Won’t stop him getting behind the wheel of a car, if he needs to.

Even as he’s contemplating that, as he’s about to heave himself up and search for his car keys, the door opens, and he sighs, closes his eyes, sets his coffee on the side table just as Marc slinks, tail down, into the room.

It’s an exhale when he lets out, “Hi.”

Marc blinks, as if he hadn’t expected to find him there. “Thought it would be better if I didn’t keep going.”

“Mm,” Valentino says. “Where did you go?”

“I went to ride,” Marc says. Even across the room, he smells of earth, of engine oil, of sweat. “You—did you wait?”

“Didn’t know where you were.”

“Sorry,” Marc whispers, and he’s sliding onto the sofa, hand behind Valentino’s head. “You’re right, it wasn’t you—I wasn’t angry at you.”

“But you are.”

Marc’s throat clicks as he swallows, looks away. “It’s—I should be. I know I should be, and that pisses me off.” But he’s still there, still warm against Valentino’s skin. Still trying. “But I don’t want—”

“I know,” Vale says. He knows. 

Marc nods, and he doesn’t leave. Shifts, if anything, closer. 

“Do you know what Luca said?” Valentino murmurs. “When I told him?” Other than the look. It was the Tuesday after Austria, and Pecco had been flaring a tail-plume of dust out on the track, and Luca had just looked at him. 

“What?”

“Don’t fuck it up.”

Marc laughs, hot against Valentino’s shoulder. “I like him. He should come for dinner.” Then he reaches for Valentino’s half-finished coffee, long past tepid, and takes a sip.

——

It comes to him on the Wednesday after Misano, legs flung up on his sofa, Marc curled against the opposite arm, languid; Tuesday had been spent in the sun at the ranch, laughing with Bez, Franky and Cele, and it felt—not incomplete, that’s not fair, but Marc had stayed back in the house, excluded, and the warm sun and laughter hadn’t been enough to stop Vale missing him. 

Valentino doesn’t like having serious conversations in bed, if only because Marc doesn’t like it, doesn’t like feeling trapped. So he takes a sip of his wine, laid out as he is on the sofa, and nudges Marc with his bare foot, gets a look of disgust for his trouble. 

“What?”

“Would you come to the ranch?”

Marc’s expression slides into open confusion. “I do go to the ranch.”

Valentino takes another sip so Marc doesn’t see his wince at the reminder of their last argument. “I mean—when everyone is there. The boys.”

There’s a long pause, nothing but Marc’s fingers tapping on his glass of water. He doesn’t like to drink during the season—unless it’s podium champagne, of course, which Valentino finds amusing to no end, given it’s in ready supply. 

“Not yet,” Marc says, which is not a no, but his mouth is pinched: thinking. “Not—give me some time. If this isn’t—”

Another blow landed without intent, but there’s weight behind it all the same. Trust is a fragile thing, Valentino’s realising, particularly when even its foundations have been obliterated. 

“I do—I know you mean this,” Marc says, quick, as if he can feel the swoop in Valentino’s stomach. “But—if they all—and something happens—”

There is nothing Marc hates more than being embarrassed by someone who is not him. If Valentino pushes now, pushes to prove that Marc can trust him, it will crumble beneath his feet. 

“Okay,” he says quietly. “It was not—no pressure, yes?” 

A nod. They don’t have time to fall apart now; the paddock flies for Japan in three days—Luca has already gone—and Marc seems acutely aware of it, like a pinprick. “I know.” 

——

Pecco is in his kitchen, and all Valentino can think is shit, because Marc is glaring venomous at him and Pecco has no idea what he’s walked into. When Marc puts his coffee down and flees, Valentino follows. 

“Did you ask him to come here?” Marc snarls. “Is this why you were asking last night?”

Valentino can’t help but hiss through his teeth. “You always think there is something.” 

“Can you fucking blame me?” Marc snaps, and then he’s gone, front door slamming in his wake, and no, Valentino cannot blame him, because trust is a fragile thing.

Pecco is still in his kitchen, halfway horrified, and Valentino tells him not to worry as he makes him a coffee, because Marc will come back. 

——

“I am—I’m sorry,” Marc says again, and Valentino stops scrolling through Netflix, one hand looped lazily over the sofa arm with the remote, the other on Marc’s warm thigh. 

“Was shit timing.”

A snort. “Yes. Pretty shit.”

“I forgot they had the gate code,” Vale says, tries to let honesty wrap each word until there’s no way Marc can doubt him. “I can change it, tell them they all have to call ahead now.” 

“No.” Marc taps his fingers on his leg. “No, I don’t want to—change anything. Between you and them.”

“It will change for Pecco,” Valentino says. “I have a favourite in that garage now, yes?” 

That gets a half-smile, and that’s almost enough. 

“I will change the code,” he says, firm. “This should be—a home for you. They still have the ranch.”

“If you are sure—”

“I’m sure.” It’s hard, brick-wall, and Valentino’s fingers clench around Marc’s leg for a heartbeat. Can’t let him go.  “I’m sure.”

[starscelly]

i have kind of an aimless rant abt the treatment of non-white and/or non-north american by hockey fans.... specifically in the context of the stars ....... saw a thread today commenting on the play of wyjo this playoffs (which. for ranting sake we're gonna handwave away my biases and beliefs on play this playoffs by. anyone really) and it was immediately met with someone pivoting, saying roope's play hasn't been the greatest (okay) and that he's probably not the 1C the stars need to win the c*p (hey what) hey what. hey. what.

and its just....... how quickly hockey fans (general) are able to overlook the potential ehh play of a promising young canadian but the second a european player is not scoring a goal a game its ehh :// maybe we don't need him :/// maybe he's dragging the team down, even ://// as if he is not being expected to do the same things that are probably making wyjo struggle as well, having to play back defensively so often .... but its Different and Worse because he's european :// didnt you know that ://

same phenomenon with jrob too, obvs not um. currently. but the second hes not hitting 100pts a season people are like hmmm maybe he's not even very good.... at all..... and its like hey so he's actually improving Every Other Area of His Game did you notice that. and they go nooo. no goal ): he's bad ): . and i go hey so another left winger that hasn't been the hottest the past few years, jamie, what are your feelings there? and they go oh greatest captain in the league! wouldn't get rid of him for the world! btw we should trade that weird filipino first liner ASAPPPP.

and it's the fact that it's not even just present among The Straight The White The American The Cis Men of hockey but subconsciously present in Gay Woke Hockey Fandom too that's EXHAUSTINGGGG