#good friday scene

[huariqueje]

The adoration of the cross on Good Friday - Joaquín María Herrer y Rodríguez , 1880.

Spanish , 1840-1915

Oil on canvas, 89 x 165 cm.

[holographings]

my softest, beigest pillow

[spacepunksupreme]

this is what this movie was about to me

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

The Nine Worlds series (Hands of the Emperor)

nothing less than the world by ariex09

At least there wasn’t an audience for the look Ludvic turned on Kip and the too neutral way he said, “Tor?”

Kip could feel himself flushing - in Astandalas this was the kind of thing that had lost him jobs before - but he had the excuse of, first of all, amnesia, and second of all, “He didn’t give me any other name!” Kip hissed. “He deflected me off the topic twice!”

-

AU where the landslide at the Liauu happens several years earlier, and the younger Kip has a rather different experience of the future.

diving for a flame pearl by ariex09

It took me an appalling three hours and thirteen minutes to even realize that Kip was gone.

Ah, but that was too charitable. Once we had a timeline together, we discovered that Franzel had seen Kip last, turning in for bed at twelve minutes before midnight, and it was not until Shoänie went to wake him at dawn that anyone knew he was anything but asleep in bed. This meant that by the time the knock on my study door came, shortly past the third hour of the morning, Kip could already have been missing for more than nine hours.

-

In which Cliopher goes missing midway through The Hands of the Emperor. Fortunately, he has friends and family willing to do whatever it takes to bring him home.

A nap at the feet of the sun by SunInGlory

Prompt: Cliopher somehow falls asleep on HR’s robe, and rather than wake him, HR has one of the guards cut that part of the robe off of him. Just looking for something soft and sweet here, but of course go in whichever direction you’d like. Bonus points if Petty Treasons era.

---

Cliopher decides to take a nap. Okay, perhaps decides is too strong of a word.

Stranger Things

Robin's Guide to the Care and Feeding of Your Newly Adopted Former Mean Girl by formosus_iniquis

She extends a hand, ignoring the laugh it gets her, “Welcome to Hawkins, I’m Robin, occasional Dustin babysitter.”

The girl’s smile pulls lopsided at her mouth, kissed with a bit of irony and undeniably charmed. “It’s nice to meet you Robin,” her voice is soft, and a little unsure. Wavering like Becky Simpson’s tone deaf oboe playing, unsure of what pitch and timbre to land on. “I’m Stephanie Henderson, Dustin’s cousin.”

The bit crumbles immediately between Robin’s fingers.

“Stephanie? You went with Stephanie? Are you kidding? We workshopped so many names!”

Marvel

Three Kinds of Learning by luchia

Erik intends to recruit Raven's supposedly amazing, all-powerful older brother. Instead, he finds himself dealing with Charles Xavier, a weak, tweed-addled professor who seems to think powers don't matter nearly as much as personality. Erik's misconceptions are blown apart when Raven goes missing.

SVSSS

In Durance Veil by Mikkeneko (+ podfic)

Right, the villain's beautiful daughter, who had caught a glimpse of the Protagonist from afar and, naturally, fell madly in love at first sight. She'd used her knowledge of her father's lair to sneak into the dungeon where Luo Binghe was being held and eventually proved the key to his escape, betraying her father for love. "So, you want to try to find some random girl who's willing to sneak in past the guards to Luo Binghe's prison and..."

"What random girl could we possibly trust? I'll do it myself!"

"You know what," Shang Qinghua said. "Somehow I feel like I should have expected this."

---

Shen Qingqiu self-detonated at Hua Yue City, but he didn't die. Instead, he wakes up to a world where Cang Qiong is victorious and Luo Binghe has been imprisoned beneath the mountain. What's a poor transmigrator to do? He has to find a way to free the Protagonist before he breaks out and razes the Sect to the ground! Clearly, the best way to do this is to pretend to be one of Luo Binghe's future wives.

Clearly.

Harry Potter

A Place That Fits by BitchesLoveAngstImBitches

Harry had been prepared to save Sirius’ life, no matter what the cost. Harry put himself in danger, and Sirius had come running, and it was the last thing he ever did.

And then it turned out Harry’s life wasn’t even worth saving: Neither can live while the other survives.

At the rate of Voldemort’s rising power, Harry would be lucky to survive the year.

Sirius had died trying to help Harry. He’d died for nothing.

-

Harry is struggling in the aftermath of the Ministry battle to come to terms with Sirius' death. His isolation and mistreatment at Privet Drive only make things worse. Remus Lupin checks on him in Surrey, but with both of them grieving, his assumptions about Harry might only hurt him more.

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Ok well i had the brief thought “what about an ER nurse Eddie au?” and then this popped fully formed into existence so fuck it Friday pt 2.. warnings for smoking and vague references to critically injured kids

“That doesn’t seem very healthy.”

Smoke curls up from the cigarette held loosely in Eddie’s hand. “It’s not, particularly.”

Buck’s hands are in his pockets as he strolls away from the glass doors out into the ambulance bay where Eddie is doing the mature, professional equivalent of playing hide and seek. He comes to a stop barely a foot or two away from where Eddie leans against grimy concrete. “Didn’t know you were a smoker.”

“I’m not,” Eddie sighs, “Particularly.” He looks over Buck’s face as he takes a drag, cataloging bruises and cuts. He hadn’t been the one to look him over before he was discharged, probably because he was out here avoiding having to do so. “Only when it’s- only after the bad shifts.” And only once a month, even if the bad shifts come again and again. He bought this pack in January, it’s stale as shit.

Buck’s eyes follow the smoke as it drifts skyward. “Rough one today?”

Eddie thinks he probably doesn’t have to explain to Buck that it’s sometimes better when a kid is dead on arrival so he doesn’t have to try his best to administer care he knows will be useless. He doesn’t have to explain a day where nothing goes right and he loses more people than he can save and he still has to walk away from someone’s parent or wife or sister, left behind forever in a waiting room on the worst day of their life, and go on to lose the next person too. Doesn’t have to explain why he’s out here, and not in there. “Mm. We’ve got this repeat customer, always hate to have him back.”

Buck’s eyes flick to his face before they settle somewhere around his elbow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. He seems like a nice guy. I worry about him. He’s here too often.”

Buck doesn’t look up. “What was he in for this time?”

“Minor concussion. Bruising. Lacerations.” Eddie sucks cancer into his lungs. “Heard a house fell on him.” Exhales it into the night.

Buck does look up this time, eyes a darker blue out here in the shadows. “Part of a house. Just a staircase and the- like, the balcony, really.”

“Maybe he should stay away from those.”

“From houses?” Buck asks, half his mouth twitching into a smile.

Eddie rests his head on the wall behind him. “Guess that’s not really practical.”

“No.” Buck is quiet for a moment, one hand slipping out of his pocket and running through his hair. Eddie wonders what he looks like, when he’s not here. He’s more styled, sometimes, when things aren’t very bad. He wonders if he’s usually all gelled up and neat. Eddie kind of likes the loose curls. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Making your day worse.” Buck looks genuinely apologetic, and Eddie shakes his head.

“The guy made it out okay this time.” Buck is just close enough that Eddie can kick at his boot with his sensible orthopedic sneaker. “You didn’t even need stitches.”

“That’s good.” Eddie’s left foot is pressed along the inside of Buck’s right, and Buck is staring down at them. “His favorite nurse was on break. I would have missed you if someone else had to do them.”

Eddie laughs, just a few bursts of soundless oxygen. “You gotta find new ways to see me before something happens that I can’t fix.”

Buck moves, taking the few steps necessary to lean against the wall beside him. Carefully, he takes the cigarette from Eddie’s hand, holds it between two of his own fingers, and takes a drag. Eddie watches it happen like he’s monitoring somebody’s pulse ox, and when Buck coughs he laughs again, louder this time. “Fuck,” Buck says, laughing too. “Thought that would be cooler than it was.”

“Smoking isn’t cool, firefighter Buckley,” Eddie says, taking the cigarette back and pulling from it again between smiling lips.

“Hm,” Buck says, grinning out into the night. Then he sighs, and rolls his head along the concrete to look at Eddie. “I think there’s nothing you can’t fix.”

They’re very close. “There’s lots I can’t fix.”

Buck shrugs like he disagrees. “I also think I’d like to find other ways to see you.”

Buck’s eyes are even more in shadow at this angle, and they’re the color of the lake back in El Paso that he and a bunch of kids went to after graduation, drunk off beer somebody’s cousin got for them, skinny dipping with breathless terrified delight under bright constellations. “Then ask me.”

Buck inhales as Eddie exhales. “What time’s your shift end?”

“5:30 AM. So, probably 6:15.”

Buck traces the two fingers he’d used to hold the cigarette down Eddie’s arm. “You wanna get breakfast with me?”

“Yes. I would.”

Buck smiles, and Eddie snubs out the cigarette on the wall between them. “I’ll meet you here?”

“Alright.” He takes a step forward, then a step to the right so he’s standing in front of Buck. “Two hours.”

“Uh huh.”

He should really get back inside. They’re understaffed, as always, and there are too many patients, as always, and not enough beds, as always. “See you then.” He doesn’t make any move to leave.

“See you then,” Buck almost whispers. He leans forward, and Eddie still doesn’t move, so he presses a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth for just a moment. His lips are warm. Eddie hadn’t noticed it was cold outside.

Buck pulls back and leans against the wall again. Eddie smiles, puts a hand in his pocket, and walks back toward the doors.

[bluishfrog]

Inspired by "takes one to know one" by demonstars (@demonstars)

Fic Art Friday - event tag - event description - fic summary and tags under the cut

[xofeno]

CHICAGO P.D. 6.15, "Good Men" (2019)

[doug-meat]

listen i love shipping as much as the next guy but we as a fandom do not give nearly enough attention to the beautiful beautiful platonic relationships within hatchetfield. like bill and paul are the ogs love them. but also. paul and charlotte's friendship is so dear to me. i would like an expansion on linda gerald and jane's friendship So badly. the roller rink trio (sophia, daniel, hannah) are like literally so wonderful. frank pricely and miss holloway have such a cute friendship. if u rb with ur fave hatchetfield platonic relationships i will feel so much joy i LOVE FRIENDSHIPS!

[campbyler]

current ch09.2 word count: 26,369

current ch09 total running word count: 48,715

current mental state: unwell (/pos)

[beachyserasims]

Geneva Island Legacy┃Chapter four┃Imagining Things

~ Transcript ~

To Be Continued in Chapter 5

Shoutout to @lynzishell for inspiring me from this post

Beginning / Previous / Next

[jessieren]

Not sure if this counts as a fidget but given the talk of tight white shirts and stretches last night it seemed apt…

You’re welcome ☺️

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets: Free Day Friday

Aka "you've ruined a perfectly good Damas is what you did. Look at him, he's got anxiety"

(For context, I gave Damas a backstory of being last in line for Haven's throne, but also Last Man Standing. This had something to do with Praxis hating "the default king". Long post warning, it's a whole one-shot again)

At some point in his life, the Precursors had decided that Damas was their least favorite Maridius. Any time something went well for him, it had to be immediately balanced by something awful.

He found acceptance and camaraderie that he never had from his elder brothers among the Forward Guard in the war.

And then Menelaus and Nicostratus died stupid, pointless deaths trying to seize glory, leaving Damas the sole focus of his parents' hopes.

He found an escape from the pressures in running the numbers, working out which districts needed food more than soldiers, and which districts needed more protection than most.

And then Father died and Mother shut herself in a convent, no longer interested in anything to do with her disappointing youngest son.

He actually had support from people for focusing on them and not the nest-

And his eldest brother's childhood friend literally stabbed him in the back and left him to die in the desert.

For a time, he'd assumed things would never get better. That the Precursors were tired of reeling him in and out like a fish on the line. But the hook pulled once more and he found himself using the skills he'd learned from the guards who raised him, joining a rebellion against a tyrant and defeating him against the odds.

And then the Precursors let him have ten good years. They let him find love, and family. They let him become a father. And then they ripped it all away in the cruelest way possible.

Damas knew it was foolish to hope that Mar was alive. He knew Phobos had been right to move on from him -- from them -- and throw herself into operating the orphan barracks of the Cliffside district. But he couldn't let go yet.

So he'd endured. Two bitter years he'd endured. And when he found that scrap of a boy in the desert, only to watch him outdo warriors twice his age, he'd thought maybe things were getting better.

Jak was...hard to define. The kid had seen more combat than some of his most experienced scouts. He carried scars on par with the surviving child-soldiers of Atys's reign. And while he shared their distrust of authority in general, he had none of their understanding of ranks and rulers. He just...treated everyone like they were his equal.

And after the kinds of things he must have experienced in his short life, Jak probably had every right to consider himself the equal of any senior Wastelander.

And for a moment, Damas had foolishly let himself hope that the Precursors could leave well enough alone. That they'd just...let him have this-!

Annnnd then Jak had to go and break the one rule. The one law Damas had given him.

Do not compromise the Arena.

Six other candidates had been doing their third trial against the Leucas Freebooters in that Arena. Six other candidates whose results had to be thrown out, who had to wait for full citizenship, because Jak refused to fight, and Sig had decided to waltz into a trial without checking to see what the purpose of the trial was!

Damas was either going to lose his mind, or go fully rogue and declare war on the Precursors. He couldn't discount either option yet.

Deep breaths, Damas. Deep breaths.

Jak knew not to mess with the purity of the Arena. He knew that, didn't he? He couldn't have gotten this far without understanding how important it was to keep the trial balanced for all candidates! He had to have known the consequences for not only compromising the others' trials and putting them at risk of the Freebooters getting the upper hand on them, but open mutiny-!

He wanted to shake sense into the boy. Maybe smack him upside the head and hope it jarred his common sense loose. But he wasn't likely to get that chance.

Even if Sig had caused this, he had all three amulets. Jak only had two. Those two protected him from a lot, but not public mutiny. A challenge in private Damas could have handled.

He knew Jak -- he thought he knew Jak -- enough to make him understand whatever instruction or decision he had a problem with. He knew how to phrase things to make it sound like all Jak had done was ask for clarification.

He couldn't cover this one up. Not with this many witnesses.

Damas knew the name of the creature thrashing beneath his ribs. Terror.

It clawed at his lungs, coiled around them until he couldn't breathe. Kicked at his heart until he felt every beat like a hammer.

I can't lose him too. I won't lose him too!

He didn't know when, exactly, things had changed between them. Was it before he'd admitted that he'd never had a father to teach him- well, anything? Was it before his second trial, when Phobos had pointedly compared the boy to her own students? Was it her less than subtle hinting that he find his closure in helping the boy he'd dragged out of the mouth of death?

Did it even matter?

You've taken enough from me! You can't have him, too!

It was depressingly easy to mask fear with anger. He had been doing it all his life.

In hindsight, so had Jak.

Damas wondered later if that was why the boy didn't seem afraid. He glared at Damas the whole time, but in those eyes was a challenge: I see through you. You don't fool me.

Damas hoped no one else saw through him.

"What have you done?" he demanded, slamming the butt of his staff onto the stone with a ringing clang.

"One of those Freebooters could have shot you in the head -- shot your comrades -- because you threw down your gun! You placed yourself and them in danger!"

I stopped the trial because of you! Do you not grasp how serious this is?!

"Freebooters?!" Sig exclaimed in surprise before cutting himself off.

"And you, you're a veteran of the Arena! You have no excuse for this!" Damas snarled.

He knew he was going to have to set a punishment. If he didn't, the legislative council would. And he knew which of the two offenders they would favor.

"I shouldn't have to tell you the penalty for sabotaging citizenship trials!"

Sig risked a glance at Jak, then set his jaw.

"You're right," he said in a voice as artificially calm as Damas’s was artificially angry. "I don't have an excuse. I take full responsibility. Don't put this on Jak. He didn't know I'd be there."

Interesting. Sig was trying to protect Jak.

But in doing so, he was trying to force Damas into an impossible decision. One that would haunt him the rest of his life if he carried out the known sentence. After everything Sig had done for him, exile felt like blasphemy.

Damas clearly wasn't the only Spargan who thought so.

"Sire, think about this!" One of the Arena guards set foot on the pathway as if he intended to join the offenders.

"It can't end this way, it can't! Sig is one of us!"

One of his comrades, emboldened by his courage, joined him.

"He just came home from assignment!"

"Stop," Sig warned them, but was ignored.

"Lord Damas, Sig’s served faithfully as your spy in Haven two years! Surely it's not that surprising that he might forget to check a roster!"

"Char is right!" The first guard cried, "It's the newcomer who deserves no mercy!"

You'd better shut your mouth-

Damas knew they were just standing up for a fellow Spargan. He knew that if Jak had all three amulets, they'd be rallying on his behalf, too. But it rankled to see them turn on the boy so quickly.

"Sire, if anyone must be cast into the desert, it's him!" Rikard pointed a shaking finger at Jak.

The words were out before Damas had time to plan his next move.

"Absolutely not! I'm not letting him off that easy!"

Oh rot. He had to follow that up with something.

Think, Damas! Use your shiny, spiny, head for once and think like Obed taught you!

He thought of the old captain of the Krimzon Guard -- when that had meant something, when only the king’s honor guard wore those tattoos -- the man who had raised him when his own family hadn't been interested in such a weak channeler.

There's always another way, whelp."

Then you tell me, Obed! I don't know what to do!

He reached for that memory desperately.

*Sometimes, you face your enemy head-on. And sometimes, you wait until you see a weakness. A loophole."

"You're talking about my brothers again."

"Now, did I say that? Clean the gunpowder out of your ears, whelp, before you get me in trouble!"

A loophole. I can do that. I can still save them-!

Damas sucked in a calming breath through his teeth.

"You do make a point about Sig’s record of service. I would not be king if I did not try to keep you all alive."

Let this work, please, Obed, if you're still watching over me, let this work.

"This once, I will give you the opportunity to salvage this. In your absence, metalpedes have settled in Turquoise Canyon and begun harassing our artificact carriers."

He leaned on his staff and hoped no one saw the tension in his jaw for what it really was: fear.

"I want you to drive into the heart of the nest and take out anything that moves."

He turned on his heel to send a hard stare Jak's way.

"Unlike Sig, you get a choice right now: stay here and forfeit your second amulet, or go with Sig and repay the damage you did today with something that benefits your community."

He prayed Jak could hear the emptiness of his threat. That he would know what Damas needed him to do.

Jak was not technology-friendly. Anything that required precision or aiming was more likely to be used as a blunt force weapon. But put him on a turret gun and the boy was a prodigy. If he went with Sig, the odds of them both surviving skyrocketed.

Jak's glare melted into something uncertain, even a little fearful. He was weighing his options. Good. That would sell the act more to the guards -- who were, like all watchmen, incurable gossips.

Damas saw the moment the light clicked on for Jak. He knew that glint.

Jak nudged Daxter, almost too quickly to be seen, and Daxter nodded. To anyone else, it would seem he was responding to Jak.

Damas knew that Daxter was answering him on Jak’s behalf.

Message received.

"I'm not gonna let you send Sig in there alone."

Damas almost smiled. Defiant to the last. Never change, Jak. Unless it's to learn some common sense-!

"Then perhaps something good can come of this debacle. But understand this, boy: coming back from destroying that nest does not mean this discussion is over. I expect you to turn over your gate pass when you return. You're off scouting for three weeks."

"You're grounding us?!" Daxter shrieked.

"Keep talking, I'll make it a full month."

That one wasn't an empty threat. If he'd thought it would keep Jak out of harm's way, he'd keep him off missions indefinitely!

"We're going," Sig said quickly, and grabbed Jak by the arm before he could protest.

"I'd say good luck," Damas said dryly, "But then, luck won't help you."

which is why I'm sending Jak.

The second the elevator was out of sight, Damas dropped into his throne with the most long-suffering, exasperated groan he'd ever made.

"Someone tell me this is a dream and I'm actually dying of boredom in a financial meeting right now," he said sarcastically.

When no such reassurance arrived from the guards, he dropped his head into his hands with another irritated sound.

In the silence that followed, even over the water wheel they both heard him mutter,

"What am I going to do with that boy?"

Rikard was...not a bad guard. He did his job, and he stuck by his comrades. But he had a big mouth sometimes.

"You...favor the newcomer then? Is it his age?"

Damas aimed a tired glare at him over his fingers.

"Boy, if I told you some of the things I did at his age...."

He groaned again.

"This is boundary-testing. I've seen worse. Rot, I've been worse!"

Silence enveloped them again as the two guards stared at Damas, and Damas stared back. He hadn't meant it to come out like that. After several seconds of owlish blinking back and forth, he said simply,

"Crap. I think I adopted him."

Char turned her head quickly to hide the fact that she was trying very hard not to laugh at the king’s slightly stunned expression.

"Do you...think this will be an adequate lesson?"

Rikard winced. At least he knew he was questioning Damas’s choices in parenting. Er, ruling.

"The nest? Perhaps. It's the confinement that's going to get him." Damas snorted. "You know how Wastelanders are about adrenaline. You ground a kid like that? End of the world."

Mar was exactly the same. Gods, if he's as stubborn as Jak at that age, I'm done for. Might as well write the epitaph now: "died of a heart-attack from idiot sons doing idiot stunts".

"As long as he doesn't set anything on fire in the Arena, sounds good to me," said Char, raising her hands in mock surrender. "Are we clear to return to our posts?"

"Can't set things on fire if I don't let him get two yards away from me, right?" Damas grumbled, but he waved a hand in dismissal.

Once alone, Damas dragged his fingers down his face and muffled a scream in his palm. He was going to get Sig for this. Babysitting. Indefinitely. Or maybe make him handle Arena trials for a while, let him feel that stress! And Jak? Jak was grounded. So, so very grounded. If he had to make Jak sit through meetings with him in the throne room to get it through his head, then so be it. No stunts, no racing, no "the Precursors made me do it" nonsense.

Briefly, he glanced up at the statue of the Oracle in his throne room. Gaudy thing, but it did house a lot of parts of the water wheel.

Damas flipped it off.

[btwn2lungs]

When Kazuki watches Rei and Miri from the park bench and starts reminiscing about the life he almost had, I lost it.

“At the end of the day, I just wasn’t cut out for it.”

YES YOU WERE! ITS RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!!!

[lost-in-fandoms]

Manifesting a pole and good race in Spain by having GP make Max drive qualifying with a plug <3 (praise kink, little bit of dom/sub dynamics)

cw: explicit sexual content, probably unsafe driving practices (can't think this is safe in a F1 car), probably nonsense technical talk

"Okay Max, we're aiming for something between zero and plus two in this lap."

Max shifts gears, GP's voice clear in his ears. His focus is divided still, part on the track and part on the pressure of the plug inside him, on the way he's half hard in his fireproofs. As if he's reading his mind, GP speaks again.

"How does it feel, Max?"

It's a thrill, knowing that to anyone else it will sound like GP is only asking about the car, about the settings, about the track, but Max knows he's actually asking about both things at once. Their game, their secret.

"Okay," he says, voice steady. The plug is his smallest one, but it's still an insistent presence in the corner of his mind. At least for now. He knows it will feel different later.

"Three cars ahead of you," GP informs him, and Max wonders if he too is half hard, or if his control stretches that far. "Russel has gone, now only Gasly and Piastri. Recharge off before turn 13."

Max takes a breath in. Holds it.

"And you can go whenever you're ready."

He breathes out, and for one minute and 13 seconds he's one with the car. His heart pumps with the engine, cylinders pushing blood around his body, fingers melding with the steering wheel, feet holding the carbon fiber itself. For one minute and 13 seconds his body and its needs don't matter unless they're bound to what the car is doing.

"And recharge on. Good lap."

GP's voice slams him back to himself, man separated from machine. He shifts, and suddenly his body remembers itself, the sharp bite of arousal stealing his breath for a moment, long enough to muffle whatever GP is saying.

"Sorry, what was that?" his finger doesn't shake as he presses the radio button, not yet, but he still feels charged, electric.

"Box this lap, Max. Anything you want to change?"

An out Max doesn't want.

"Maybe one click on the front wing."

"Copy."

He doesn't go back out during Q1, just sits in the car with the screens in front of him, watching his time drop from p1 to p6, but remain safe. Usually GP stays on his spot on the wall, but Max isn't too surprised when he comes over, leaning over the halo to catch his eye.

"Do you need a break?" he asks, low enough nobody should pay attention to it, but vague enough that even if they did, it wouldn't matter.

"I'm okay," Max reassures, shifting slightly just to check. Now that GP is this close, it's harder to keep his hands away from himself, but he manages. He's being good and he wants to keep being good.

"If you need a break, you tell me. Clear?"

Max nods, but GP reaches forward slightly, tipping his chin up to meet his eyes again.

"Max."

Visual and verbal confirmation, always. That was one of the things GP had made him promise before they had agreed to try this.

"Clear," Max confirms, nodding again. His voice catches a little, and GP hands him his bottle before he can even think about reaching for it.

"Good," GP says, mouth ticking up at Max's responding shiver, before patting his helmet and standing back.

Q2 is a bit harder. Sitting still in the car, nothing to think about but the pressure that isn't quite enough, has done nothing to cool Max down, but still his desire is just a lake: deep and quiet, something he dips into when he's not focusing on going fast, faster than anyone else. It's manageable.

"We're doing a cooldown lap and then you're going again, Max."

Max frowns. It means his lap wasn't good enough, and in his current mindset that's slightly more upsetting than usual.

"Where did I lose time?" not good enough! his brain screams. He clenches his hands on the steering wheel.

"Turn 4, the exit of 10 and then 11 and 12. There's the toggle available for turn 4 if you need it."

There's a long pause. Max grits his teeth, forcing himself to not close his eyes while he waits, knowing it would be catastrophic. He lets two cars pass him by, not even bothering to check who they are.

"Track should be clear after the two Ferraris go. Recharge off before turn 13." Then finally, "you're doing a good job, Max."

Max breathes out.

He wishes there was a way to ask him to say it again, to say it right, but he knew what he had agreed to when this had started.

He flicks the recharge off.

"Recharge on, mode 8 and let Russel by. Well done, Max."

Relief washes through him, both for the lap and for the praise, making him wish again he could close his eyes, making him wish GP was touching him while speaking.

GP doesn't come by to check on him this time, and Max is equally relieved and disappointed, wanting to have him close, not knowing if he'd be able to resist the temptation to reach out for him.

His car is the last one out in Q3 and he doesn't know how much of that choice was dictated by GP just wanting to keep him sitting still a little longer, keep him wanting. They both know racing comes first, but he wonders, if it didn't harm his qualification, how much GP would let himself lean into this game they're playing.

"Feel free to push a little more on this outlap."

The vibrations of the car send sparks up his spine now, his lower back feeling a little tense, the plug feeling bigger. His throat clicks when he swallows, his tongue heavy in his mouth. When GP speaks again, Max almost asks him to keep talking through his lap, stay close, say more. He doesn't, but only just.

"Recharge off."

Max wills himself back into full focus, but it's different than it was before. The need to go faster, to come out on top, to push the car, hit the apex, find the limit, be better coils itself around the need swirling in his gut to grind down, to shift, to put his hand inside his own fireproofs, to be good. Max wonders if the people outside can see it, all this need bleeding out, flowing around the carbon fiber, turning with the tyres, burning with the engine. His breath comes in short harsh puffs. He doesn't blink.

"And recharge on. That's P1 for now, good job."

It's harder to disentangle himself from the car this time, to undo the knotted lines of his desires. He feels like he's vibrating, doesn't know if he's shaking or if it's the car underneath him. The sun feels brighter, his skin tighter.

"Box this lap, Max. Everything okay?"

No. Yes. I don't know.

His thoughts are starting to slip, but it's too soon, there's still so long left before he's allowed to.

"Max."

If he'd ask for it, GP would find the way to make it right, even with the limited time they have. But this is right, this is what he had asked for, what they discussed.

"All good." His voice is raspy, he can almost imagine it crackling through the radio. He wonders if GP will come over to the car again, wanting to get a new visual check, knowing that Max has pushed himself further than what he was comfortable with before. He doesn't know if he hopes he does or not.

GP doesn't, but he turns to look at him while he drives past the pitwall, and Max nods, knows he'll see it.

His body feels wound tight as he waits to go out again, set in anticipation for everything after while also trying to stay in the now. He asks for his drink again, wills his hands to be steady. Forces himself to not walk out of the car to go drop on his knees next to GP's stool.

It's relief and torture to drive again, to keep his eyes open and his mind present for every meter of the circuit, knowing he can't afford to slip, not even a little.

"Currently P3 Max. Focus on the exit of turn 5 and 10. Recharge off before 13. You know the tools you have."

Max knows with unshakable certainty that if he was to say now that he needed a break, GP would give the rest of qualifying up for him. He also knows himself enough to be sure he will not need it.

It's impossible to fully disconnect from his body now, to not feel the way the car hurtling around track makes it move and shift, but he curls his needs around each other again until he's holding everything tightly in his gut. And then he drives.

"And that's P1, Max, well done, good job."

The words land in Max's mouth, heavy as if he had been the one to speak them, sweet as if GP had put them there with his own tongue. He lets himself slip just a little, taking a hand off the steering wheel between turn 9 and 10 and shutting out Christian's voice.

He digs his fingers into his own tight, hopes the other part of his brain is spitting out something coherent enough.

Almost time. His whole body thrums with the knowledge of it.

He manages to pull himself back a little, enough to not wobble as he gets out of the car, to clasp hands with Lewis and Carlos, to find words to say during his interview.

And then finally, finally, he gets to walk away, even if just for a few minutes, to go look for GP.

He finds him sitting on the small couch in his driver room, knees splayed wide, eyes focused on Max as soon as he lets himself in.

"Come here," he orders, in the same voice he uses on track.

As he always does, Max goes.

A part of him wants to drop to the floor, but GP tugs him into his lap, hands firm on his waist, mouth finding his with a certainty that makes Max's head spin.

"You did well," GP says when they separate, Max panting and whining already, grinding forward and then pushing back, looking for relief. "You deserve your reward now, right?"

Max nods, letting his head drop on GP's shoulder, mindlessly mouthing at his neck, hands useless around his shoulders.

"So good, so far gone for me already."

GP somehow manages to get his hand inside his inner layers, index finger pushing on the plug before toying with it, dragging gasps and moans from Max, making him writhe in his lap, keeping him still with the other one on his waist.

"Please, inside," he begs, feeling tears gather on his lashes, "please."

He's shaking now, all the coiled desire ready to snap, but GP shushes him, finally taking out the plug and immediately replacing it with a finger before Max has even the thought to complain.

"Two?" he asks, waiting for Max's breathless assent before pushing his index finger next to the other, pleasure and pain shooting up Max's spine in a show of sparks.

"You can come whenever you want, you have earned it."

Max closes his mouth around the collar of GP's team shirt, trying to not be too noisy, and grinds forward against his stomach, too many layers between them, feeling his fingers twist inside him.

He's so so close, he just needs...

"So good, Max," GP says, before Max can even think about stringing enough braincells together to form the whole thought. "Good boy."

Max comes with a jolt, untouched in his underwear, biting down on GP's shoulder, shaking and gasping his way through it as he tries to get somehow even deeper, closer.

He's still boneless and floating as he feels GP replace his fingers with the plug again, whines even if he knows they don't have time for him to properly fuck him now, knows it will have to wait for later. Feels a kiss being pressed onto his sweaty temple, then another on his hair.

"Breathe now," GP reminds him, still unflinchingly steady, even if Max can feel him hard underneath him. "Good boy."

Max knows he soon will have to gather himself again and go for more interviews, knows he will feel the ghost of GP's hands on him for the rest of the day until they can properly fall into a bed, reassurance and taunt wrapped into one. For now though, he lets himself be held and praised, content.

[lionofchaeronea]

Christ Carried to the Tomb, Sisto Badalocchio, ca. 1607

[man-down-in-hatchet-town]

Love how Lauren's and Jon's characters almost always have some sort of special bond. Paul and Emma, and by an extension Emdroid and Paul 23. Linda with Gary, Wiggly, AND Roman. Daniel/Stopwatch as Hannah’s first real friend. Wiggly and Blinky are siblings. And Richie and Ruth being a delightful pair of absolute-best-friend weirdos (they always stand so close! Little peas in a pod!).

They just bounce off each other so well in so many different contexts. And it's always so fun to watch.

(...and then you have Boy Jerry accusing Donna of being a serial killer out of nowhere lol)