happy death race bonus scene: carlos is in his time loop and it's not going great
It's windy on Mont Agel.
"My cousin, he did eyeball therapy," Carlos shares.
Charles nods with understanding. "Caco got LASIK."
"No, no. Not him. My other cousin. We think he was, you know. A hit man. He had trauma. His therapy, you look at things or blink or something. It fixed his brain. I think I need eyeball therapy for my brain."
"Follow my finger," Charles encourages. He traces lines through the air with his index finger. He says, in a low, hypnotic voice, "Ferrari strategy will improve."
Carlos shakes his head morosely. He looks into the dolorous dawn of another day. "No, not that. I am plagued by death."
"Honestly, I just stopped checking world news," Charles discloses. "Why are your eyeballs doing that jumping thing? Did you start your hit man therapy already, Carlos?"
"Mucha cocaína," Carlos explains. "Will you be my pretend boyfriend? There will be no consequences."
Charles narrows his eyes and looks Carlos over in dubious consideration. "No. It may wake up something in me."
"One kiss. I beg you."
"It is possible. I'll call Alex."
"You have four minutes to decide. Vamos."
Carlos checks that they're in the right spot, dusts his shorts off, and makes some kind of rock nest like he's a penguin dad. He kicks it over.
Charles returns. "She says one kiss is fine, but she worries also that it may awaken something in me."
There are footsteps coming up the path. Carlos says, "Pretend I am ugly," and surges forward to capture Charles's mouth with his. He rucks up Charles's shirt, slots their legs together, and groans recklessly.
Behind them, Oscar says, "Oh. Shit. Sorry."
Charles springs back and almost falls off the mountain. He blinks owlishly.
"Oh. Sorry," Oscar repeats, mouth staying open after speaking. "Sorry," he says again, backing up. "I won't, like, I'm, um. Discreet. Yeah. Cool. Congrats. You're both, um. Very attractive. Like, a good match. Good for you. Sorry. So. Cool. Um, my sister is also---yeah, cool. I'm gonna--go."
When he disappears, Carlos smacks Charles's shoulder. His blood feels full of fizz. "Attractive," he repeats smugly. "Did he look jealous?"
"Jealous?" Charles is breathing rapidly. "What? No." He bends on his haunches and breathes through his knees. "But I fear I am awake."
thank you anon and @annebd as always - this is the last installment i'm going to post here! but great news -- I have two chapters done and ready for AO3 that you'll get soon. :) and if you're an anon who has sent in a prompt, you'll moooooost likely get to see it somewhere in the AO3 version.
22. Breath play + stress
Daniel had been jealous of Toto Wolff.
It feels too good to be true, but it is: he had been jealous of Toto. A silly thing to be jealous about—if Daniel had a Formula One team, Max would race for him in a heartbeat, and who cares if Toto wants to fuck him or not? Because Max is only fucking Daniel.
But Daniel had told him not to race for Toto, and that was cute. Daniel does not understand how everything works, of course, but Max likes that he wants to; he likes that Daniel wants him so much to himself that he would invent dramatic situations for the two of them, like Toto Wolff wanting to fuck Max badly enough that he would offer him millions of dollars to race for him, when really Toto was just weird and intense and wanted to win, and Max was very good at winning.
But still—he had been jealous! It feels incomprehensible that someone as beautiful and charming and funny and kind and sexy and gorgeous as Daniel would be jealous of getting to be with Max. But the good kind of incomprehensible, like a risky overtake. One second Max had been behind, and now he was ahead. Now he was winning.
Except Daniel seems tense after that night—he picks at his cuticles sometimes, when he thinks Max isn’t watching, and he grinds his teeth in his sleep. Max cannot imagine what he is stressed about; even if he asked, Daniel probably would not tell him. He would just say something like, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, baby,” in a bad American accent and kiss Max and distract him until Max couldn’t remember what they were talking about.
But it does not seem fair that Daniel makes Max feel huge and luminous and light while Daniel is suffering with something he won’t share. Max has to sometimes be creative with making Daniel feel cared for, and he’s not always very good at it.
Like with the necklace: he had thought Daniel would like it, because Daniel likes pretty things and is always wearing jewelry, and he likes the rare occasions when Max manhandles him and puts him where he wants him. But instead Daniel had looked sort of terrified, though of course he calmed down when Max got his dick in him, and now he doesn’t seem to mind wearing it so much, even if Max wished Daniel would wear it all the time. He likes seeing it across Daniel’s thick neck, the way it glints at his throat. Everyone should get to see such a sight; Daniel is too beautiful not to be looked at. Even when other people looking at Daniel makes Max feel like his bones are too big for his body and all his organs have shrunk. It is enough to know that he, Max, bought him that necklace and fucks him in it when he wants or sometimes gets fucked by him when he’s wearing it, and it bumps against Max’s chin when they’re face-to-face, his legs wrapped around Daniel’s waist.
Daniel comes over that evening wearing a nice button-up shirt, bags under his eyes. They’re supposed to be going to dinner first, just the two of them. Not even the kind of thing Max needs a date for, but just because he can take Daniel out for dinner if he wants to, and he does.
“Looking sharp, babe,” says Daniel, grinning at him, but something isn’t right in the way he says it. Sometimes Max has a hard time figuring out what people mean when they don’t say it outright, but with Daniel, he can always tell, which is a blessing and a curse.
Max leans in and kisses him softly. “Hello, Daniel,” he says. “Are you tired? You look tired.”
Daniel pulls back, laughing, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Is it that bad? I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“No,” says Max. He kisses under one of Daniel’s eyes, then the other. “You of course look very beautiful as always. I can just tell.”
Daniel smiles, softer but more genuine. “You’re a sweetheart, Maxy Max.”
He’s still smiling, but Max can tell he means it. He blushes.
“Let’s not go out to dinner,” he says impulsively. “It will be good to eat here instead, I think.”
A little line appears between Daniel’s eyebrows. “Because I’m tired? ‘Cause I’m not too tired for you, baby.” He pulls Max to him by the hips, kissing him. “I’m never too tired for you.”
“What if what I want is for you to rest?” asks Max. This thing between them—there are rules, and Max has to guess at them. It is sometimes fun like a puzzle, but mainly it’s confusing. He wishes Daniel would just tell him the right things to say and do so that he would not look so stressed anymore.
Daniel makes a face that’s a little bit annoyed but a lot fond. “Sometimes I just—get like this. I stop sleeping and I feel all buzzy and jittery. It’s not a big deal, I’m just tired.”
“What helps?” asks Max. He wants to be useful. He wants to make Daniel feel like he feels when he’s with Daniel. “I want to help.”
He sees Daniel try to slip into a silky, accommodating expression. He knows what he is going to say—you always help, baby, or something like it, and suddenly, unbidden, Max is a little angry at him.
“Please do not say, whatever you want, or tell me I am good,” says Max. There’s a hot, sharp lump in his throat. “I want to help. And I—I am paying. And if I want to spend my time making you feel better, that is my choice, right?”
He hates saying it out loud. At one point they’d discussed their financial arrangement freely, but now it felt too—cheap. Controlling. He did not want to force Daniel into doing anything—that was the point.
Daniel looks at him with an uncertain, slightly annoyed expression. “I just—I like to get fucked, alright? When I’m super stressed, sometimes it just—helps.” His tan skin blooms red in a way that reminds Max of ripening fruit.
“Oh,” says Max, pleased. “That is fine, then. We can of course do that.” He moves back to Daniel, kissing his neck. Daniel shivers; Max can feel an artery in his throat throb under his tongue.
“And—fuck, Max—there’s—”
Max pulls away to look at him. Daniel’s eyes are already huge and dark, but he still looks like he’s got one foot out the door, not fully in yet.
“What is it?” asks Max. “Anything, Daniel. I want to do anything for you. Please tell me.”
Daniel shudders again, pulling Max’s hand to his mouth. He kisses his fingertips and then, carefully, wraps his hand around the sides of his neck. It’s thick, but Max has long fingers. He feels powerful and focused, like he’s just gotten into his car. Like he’s about to go 300 kilometers per hour.
“I like to get choked,” says Daniel, sounding a little hoarse, and Max’s fingers twitch automatically. Just a little pressure at the sides, barely a pulse—but Daniel goes lax immediately, his breath getting shallow. “Yeah. That’s—if you’re asking, and you want to. That’s what I like. That’s what helps when I get like—but if you want to do something else—”
Max tightens his fingers experimentally, a little harder, and Daniel stops speaking. “I want this,” says Max. He spends so much time trying to chase after Daniel, to get him to stay in one place. He didn’t know it was so easy. He didn’t know that he could like it this much. “I want you.”
Daniel makes a sound like half a groan, half a laugh. Like he can’t believe his own audacity, or maybe Max’s.
“I am going to fuck you,” says Max, squeezing again, “and I will do this, and you will feel better, and you will sleep.”
Daniel looks at him, his expression cautious but open. “Okay,” he says, and Max is on him in an instant.
When Daniel gets like this, there is hardly anything else as beautiful. Pliant and sweet, like there’s something he’d been holding back and is letting Max see.
In his bed, Max strips Daniel quickly, tired of clothes. His narrow, muscular body against Max’s sheets—Max is so lucky.
“I want you to wear your necklace,” says Max. He’s feeling greedy. He can’t believe Daniel is letting him do this, that he’s trusting Max to give him what he needs. His head feels like there is static in it, a bad radio connection, but instead of being frustrating it makes Max feel crazy and hot.
Daniel nods, and Max retrieves it from the drawer in his bedside table where he keeps it. It’s so beautiful, it’s like it was made for Daniel to wear, specifically. Maybe someday Max would get him a custom necklace and give it to him. Daniel deserved to have something that was just his.
Carefully, Max clasps the necklace around his neck. Daniel looks up at him while he does, his eyes dazed. Max is going to go insane, if he isn’t already.
“You are so beautiful,” Max tells him. “Naked, just with diamonds on you.” Max traces them with his fingers and Daniel gasps, his hips bucking slightly. Max needs to be inside him. His head is going fuzzy with it.
He opens Daniel up carefully, even though they are both desperate for it. Usually it is Daniel making sure they are safe, but tonight it’s Max, and he has to stay focused enough to fulfill his end of the bargain. Daniel is all whiny and eager for it by the time Max is satisfied; Daniel talks a lot when he’s topping but mostly makes these little whimpering sounds when he isn’t, which Max finds very hot.
“I want you to be on top,” says Max. “Sitting up, both of us, so I can reach your neck still.”
Daniel groans, complying dutifully, even when Max slips his fingers out of him. He knows Daniel hates that.
The first push in feels like—
There are hardly any words for it, and Max is already not good with words. It feels like sailing through a chicane. It feels like the top step of the podium. Like wringing his fireproofs out later, drenched in champagne.
Daniel cries out, “Max,” in a punched-out kind of way, so Max thrusts in again, and again, and again, until Daniel is making a sound that could be his name again but also could be anything, vowelless and urgent.
He has one hand on Daniel’s hip, pleasingly curved under his touch, and snakes the other up to Daniel’s neck.
Without really thinking about it, he pulls the necklace tighter around his throat, and Daniel yelps.
“Oh,” says Max. Every part of him is buzzing. “Daniel, did you like that?”
He knows he did, but he likes to ask anyway. Daniel nods furiously. “Please, Max—”
Max does it again. It’s not even hard—he does not want to choke Daniel for real, of course, and the necklace is too beautiful to break. But just the very slight pressure of the diamonds against his skin makes Daniel cry out. He sounds so pretty. Max tells him so.
Max has always prided himself on his focus: when he’s in a car, there’s nothing else. It’s the same with Daniel. His world has narrowed to the hot clutch of Daniel around him, the smallest hitch of his breath, the feeling of diamonds in Max’s hand. The way Daniel’s chest rises and falls, his head tilted back.
“You are so beautiful, Daniel,” Max says. He tells him this a lot, but it seems like Daniel thinks it’s just words, just something to say in the throes of a passion. But Max means it—Daniel is beautiful when he’s taking his cock, he’s beautiful when he’s giving it to Max, he’s beautiful when he’s just woken up, he was beautiful soft in that restaurant bathroom, he is beautiful in the driver’s seat of Max’s car, and in his plane’s bathroom, and on his yacht, and when jealous of Toto fucking Wolff.
“Max,” says Daniel again, frantically. “Max, I’m—”
Max closes his fist again around the necklace, and Daniel stops speaking, and then he comes.
His whole body shakes with it; he collapses forward onto Max, who releases the necklace. Daniel lets out a wounded, pained sound, little gasps and moans against Max’s collarbone. Max kisses the side of his head.
“I am going to keep going,” Max says. “I am so close too, my Daniel, I need to—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” says Daniel raggedly. “Yes, Max, whatever you need, please—”
I love you, thinks Max as he comes, pressure releasing behind his eyes and in the small of his back and in his fingers and toes. Daniel, I think I love you.
Daniel shivers in his arms, eyes fluttering shut, immediately tired. Max’s dick twitches inside him; it had worked. Daniel had told him what he needed, and Max had been able to give it to him. He had done it; they both had.
“Beautiful,” says Max, letting Daniel slump onto him. He will clean them up in a moment, when Daniel is asleep. For now, he just scooches them both down the bed so Daniel can lie down properly, Max still inside him. “Beautiful, my Daniel.”
Daniel sleeps for an hour like that, and then another eight that night, after they’ve eaten and drunk some wine and watched a movie, Daniel curled up next to Max, sharing a blanket.
In the morning when he leaves, he’s still wearing the necklace.
omegaverse maxiel for anonstie who asked for role reversal dead heat!
Daniel’s blowing a bubblegum bubble and everything about it looks off. The candied colour is more purple than pink. The stretch is too deep, the membrane too translucent, like it should have already burst. His lips look soft, not puckered enough to hold it. He says, “Earth to Macks,” and he says it like that, like the x is three distinct letters, triple lip shapes.
“What—yes.” The gum is gone now, tucked somewhere behind Daniel’s big grin, his white teeth.
“You good, homie?”
“Yes,” Max repeats. He thinks if the bubblegum would taste like bubblegum or if the bubblegum would taste like grape. He imagines the imprints of Daniel’s teeth in it.
“Yeah, nah, you don’t look so good.”
“Yes. No. I’m next week supposed to.”
“To…” Daniel glances over at Max because he’s driving, because they’re in a car. Maybe it’s the dash lights making his bubblegum grape instead. “Max, are you pre-rutting in my whip?” He laughs as he says it, rolling down a window and waving a hand in front of his face like there’s a stinky smell, but Max gets injections in his armpits every four weeks so he won’t smell like anything. Daniel reaches over and digs blindly through the glovebox, elbow close to Max’s knees. He says, “Catch,” and flicks a bottle in his lap. Max drops it twice.
It’s alpha-branded scent blocker. It’s stupid, because regular scent blocker works on everyone, so this kind is half effective as normal. It probably costs double. It’s stupid that Daniel buys it. Max puts it on anyway, rolling the cold metal ball over the pulse of his wrist. He drops the little cap somewhere, gone forever.
The car is red because the traffic light is red and Daniel is frowning now. “What are your rut plans, Max? Reckon it’s come early, yeah? The hotel?”
There’s only one cycle hotel in Monaco. Daniel doesn’t go there. He told Max once that he has an arrangement and that he’s exposed to heaps of bed bugs too much as it is. Max doesn’t know if his arrangement is a person. Max’s arrangement is a person.
“Jamie.”
“Jamie,” Daniel repeats raunchily. “Jamantha. Jamiella. Jamigail.”
Max says, “What.”
“Text her and I’ll help get you in, hey? I’ll be, like, your bellhop. Ding ding.”
Ding ding. Luggage in the boot because they’re driving from the airport in Nice. Max didn’t feel good on the plane.
He texts Jamie, Starting early can you come? But it makes less sense because there are more mistakes and incorrect corrections. Jamie heart reacts which means yes.
The indicator pop-click-pops.
Max asks Daniel, “Did you spit it out?”
Daniel says, “Huh?”
Max imagines the grape bubblegum in a foil wrapper somewhere, soft but saving the shape.
“Are you—” Daniel breaks off into a high laugh. “Like, do you have an omega scent aid or something?”
“What?”
“Did you open a bag of Jamie’s clothes or…?”
Max frowns. “I don’t have his clothes.”
Daniel gawks at Max instead of looking at the road, dangerous. “Jamie is a guy?”
Max frowns double. He can’t keep track if this was one of the things he should not say while also keeping track of potential foil glitters in the car. It’s probably fine. “Yes.”
Daniel rolls down both of their windows. Max thinks the bubblegum is back again—grape grape grape—but Daniel’s only holding his breath, cheeks puffed up. His fingerprints are indenting the steering wheel. Max imagines the leather bruising grape-purple over all the prints.
They get back to their apartment building and Daniel carries all their things, balancing the curve of Max’s helmet bag on the jut of his hip, the least alpha thing about him. People say he has omega hips and he’s flattered, brags about it. It’s stupid because Max knows he wouldn’t be like that if he were an omega for real.
Jamie opens the door as Max is still fumbling at the keypad, Daniel’s hand gripping the back of his sweaty shirt as he sways. Max remembers, belatedly, that Jamie smells like an alpha and looks like Daniel.
Daniel says, “Oh, hey—um. Ha. What?”
Jamie ignores Daniel. He looks Max up and down and says, sympathetically, “Fuck dude,” spreading his arms wide where they’re extra alphay ike he’s been to the gym.
Daniel’s hand fists the material of Max’s shirt. When Max tries to step forward, he gets pulled back.
“Sorry,” Daniel says. “Sorry, sorry.” But he doesn’t let go. “Sorry.” After a suspended moment, each of his fingers release the bunched cotton sequentially, number 3 pinky the last.
Jamie gives Daniel a judgmental look and shuts the door on his face.
But Daniel doesn’t leave. Max knows because he can feel it in the memory of his gripped back still, can sense it through the wood between them as Jamie strips him down and gets him off because he’s too far gone to wait. He comes harder than he has maybe ever and Daniel punches the wall behind him—yelling into something, maybe his own fist—and then walks too quickly away.
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