wallacepolsom
Not today Justin
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art blog(derogatory)
Cosmic Funnies
titsay
tumblr dot com
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hello vonnie
Sade Olutola
almost home
Love Begins
oozey mess
shark vs the universe
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will byers stan first human second
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@erebus-6
All of my ao3 fics
Under the red light (Lestappen a/b/o au) 23/23 *done
Repellion in Winter (Lestappen medieval au) 33/60 *incomplete #Repellion in Winter
I am not ok (but im polite about it) Dexter Morgan x James Doakes 35/38
Uber daniel (Tumblr ficlet) -> #Uber Daniel
Downforce -> coming soon #F1 x Stranger things
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
"Come and get your pets people. Come and get em!"
...
me, crawling back into ao3 with an update after 2+ weeks offline like a Victorian child emerging from a sewer grate
everyone: omg?? slow burn?? eye contact??? they could actually get together?
me: haha hey besties sorry i was gone i had a Thing anyway here’s the update 🥰
posts chapter
the chapter:
emotional devastation
betrayal in 4k
miscommunication weaponized
the ship: on fire. in the ocean. god is watching. he is not helping.
my comments section immediately:
WHAT DID YOU DO WHY I TRUSTED YOU THIS WAS A SAFE SPACE DELETE
me, refreshing the page every 3 seconds: heheheh ✨
like yeah i did let y’all taste hope. That’s called seasoning, that’s called narrative cruelty, baby.
I didn’t disappear for two weeks, i was in the lab cooking like walter white.
little dexter
▪──── ⚔ ────▪
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Dexter x Doakes fic (by me ☺️)
Some really, fricking, good works below, give them some love they are awesome!!!!!🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Some are finished, some still updating but i would recommend to just go through the Tag in Ao3 and find hiden gems!🩷✨️
The truth of it 🤣
Literally me with my Doaxter (Dexter x Doakes) fic. I just wanted to write smut but im now 16 chapters deep, bc my brain is like "It needs plot" Me: "but its smu-" Brain: "PLOT!!!"
okay but like?? why are there STILL so few dexter x doakes fics??? hello?? the franchise literally just got resurreccted (pun intendet), there’s new content and yet y’all are STILL sleeping on the best dynamic in the whole damn first series.
DOAKES??? he literally has the most compelling arc with dexter, he sees through his mask, he calls him out and the potential??? rivals to reluctant allies, slow-burn tension, forced proximity (work partners?? canon??), mutual obsession??? the banter?? THE CHEMISTRY??
i’m so tired of scrolling through the tag on ao3 and just seeing so little of them (I read everything, for the love of god i want more) where is the content?? where are the fix-its?? where are the post-season-2 AUs where they actually talk instead of everything going to hell?? where’s the fic where they actually work together, bond, share coffee, maybe kiss a little (a lot)????
like sorry but y’all are depriving me. dexter x doakes has everything:
tension
mutual respect hidden under layers of insults
enemies-to-something-more
potential redemption arc???
scary man + scary man but they secretly care
I know there are more people that actually enjoy thta ship, i just need to find them
💬 0 🔁 31 ❤️ 148 · Belgium 2025
@bunnylives (the tags on this post gave me such a good inspiration so i wrote it, all the credit goes to them)
The chandeliers of the Marquis’ ballroom hung like frozen constellations, their glittering crystals spilling golden light across every painted panel and velvet-draped surface. Music played from the ensemble, violins, a cello, the rhythm coaxing feat into measured steps on marble. The place reeked of perfume and polished wealth, gilded masks of civility hiding the heat that always festered at these galas.
Oscar stood apart, hands clasped behind his back, the high collar choking at his throat. His gaze flicked across the crowd, rolling his eyes at the simpering ladies with ostrich feathers in their hair, nodding as they laughed or the lords whose waistcoats gleamed with embroidered arrogance. Love, romance, all of it nonsense. Fantasies spun to trap gullible minds in shackles of duty and yearning. His lips twitched with something between disdain and boredom as Lando leaned close.
“He’ll be here tonight, Oscar. You’ll see, no one else compares. A prince. Spanish blood, heir to fortunes, to titles. But more than that, he is beauty itself.”
The others brow arched. “Beauty itself? Lando, you sound like a child reading a fairytale. What good is beauty? What good is love? Paper masks, and fools who cut themselves dancing in them.”
“You’ll eat those words when you meet him.”
Oscar gave a short, dry laugh. “I’ll wager my inheritance I will not.”
And then he arrived, cutting through the ballroom, the crowd parting instinctively. Broad shoulders squared beneath a jacket of midnight blue, boots polished like black glass. His dark hair gleamed, lips curved just enough to promise ruin if they smiled at you alone. Oscar felt the world slow, his carefully cultivated disdain collapsing under the weight of sheer, brutal desire. His chest tightened, heat rippled downward in a pulse he despised himself for.
Lando squealed near his ear, yes squealed, an undignified sound but Oscar could not mock it now. His gaze clung to the Spaniard, treacherous, hungrier by the second. He tried to look away, tried to smother the thunder rolling in his blood, but every flick of Carlos hand, every laugh, tugged Oscar deeper into the abyss. He wanted him. God, he wanted his bodice torn open, corset laces ripped, skirt thrown up, here, now, against some pillar. Wanted him to devour Oscar like a starving dog. Biting, licking, tearing flesh until only crimson trickled and then feverishly drinking it like the nectar of gods or holy wine. That he would be nothing but white bones cleaned of the smallest part of flesh.
But Carlos was Lando’s.
Oscar’s nails dug into his gloves as Lando swept forward, hand outstretched and Carlos, smiling with that damned courtly ease, took it. The music swelled and they moved together, steps fluid, bodies a picture of elegance. Oscar stood frozen, breathing through his teeth, watching his friends fingers brush against Carlos cheek, watching Carlos hand spread across Lando’s waist. Every spin, every dip, every stolen smile was a dagger to his gut. And still, Carlos gaze slipped, just for a second, across the room, locking with Oscars. A flare of heat passed between them, brief and searing, then gone.
The night wore on like torment. Oscar hid his hunger in sips of champagne, in brittle conversation, but his eyes betrayed him, snapping back always to where Carlos stood. The clocks tolled closer to midnight, the air thick with sweat and champagne froth.
The air clung to Oscar’s skin, cool and damp, but it wasn’t enough to smother the furnace in his chest. He’d escaped the ballrooms suffocating atmosphere , muttering under his breath about idiots and their fairytale notions, pressing himself against the balconies banister as though it anchor him. Music drifted faintly through the doors, violins, laughter swelling, Lando somewhere among the crowd as he danced with his precious betrothed. He spat the name in his head, bitter. Carlos. A smug man with perfect shoulders and lips that looked carved for sin. He hated himself for it. Hated the fact that one glance had unraveled him, that his entire body had betrayed him with desire sharp enough to gnaw through steel. The moon hung low, clouds drifting pale, the gardens below whispering with crickets.
He was still cursing his own weakness when the door behind him clicked. The whisper of boots on stone made him stiffen.
“I wondered,” came Carlos voice, smooth as old brandy, deep enough to thrum along Oscars spine, “how long you would keep glaring at me from across the room.”
Oscar twisted, scowl ready, retort sharpened on his tongue but the other was already there, heat filling the space, hand curling bold as sin around Oscar’s waist.
“Unhand me,” the brunet snapped, jerking away. “I am not so simple that I—”
The Spaniards mouth crushed against his, swallowing the words, lips hot and greedy. Oscar shoved at his chest once, twice, then gripped and kissed back with a growl, teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a mess of lust and defiance. The taste was maddening. Wine, salt, hunger.
His reply died as Carlos shoved him against the balustrade, stone cold under his palms, a stark contrast to the searing press of the man behind him. Fingers hooked into the skirts, hauling them up with ruthless impatience.
“Wait—” Oscar hissed, twisting, “you think I’m just going to—?”
“Sí,” Carlos growled, yanking the fabric higher until cool night air kissed bare thighs. His palm slid up the inside of one, calloused and deliberate. “Because you want it.”
Oscar bared his teeth, about to spit another refusal then fingers grazed the bulge straining his breeches, and the protest collapsed into a strangled moan. The other just grinned against his throat, tongue flicking at his pulse before his teeth sank in just shy of cruel. He worked the fastenings of Oscars bodice with infuriating ease while also pulling down his undergarment, baring him to the night. Oscar hissed as the air hit his cock, flushed and aching, already leaking for the man he swore he despised.
“You see?” Carlos murmured, hand wrapping around the length, stroking slow, possessive. “Your body tells the truth, even if your tongue lies.”
The other groaned low in his throat, hips bucking despite himself. “Stop saying unwanted things and just ravage me,” he snarled, biting back the whine building as a thumb pressed into his slit, smearing wetness.
“Con gusto.”
Carlos spat into his palm, slicking himself, and Oscar caught the sound before the head nudged against his hole. He gripped the balustrade hard enough that his knuckles ached.
“Don’t you dare treat me gently,” he barked, voice trembling.
Carlos drove in with a brutal thrust, splitting him open.
It was half pain, half ecstasy, whole body jolting against the stone. His breath came ragged as the Spaniard buried himself to the hilt, hips pressed flush against his rear.
“So tight,” Carlos groaned, pulling back only to slam forward again, the sound of their bodies colliding echoing over the garden below.
Oscar’s jaw clenched, fingernails scraping stone, but his mouth betrayed him, sobbing out broken moans, voice caught between filth and prayer, every thrust making stars burst behind his eyes. His body trembled, torn open and filled, every inch of him aflame. The world shrank to the scrape of stone under his palms, the delicious violation of being taken where anyone might look up and see from the gardens.
Sainz reached around, fisting Oscar’s lenght in time with his thrusts, twisting his wrist just so, dragging gasps that turned into broken curses.
“You wanted this,” he rasped, voice ragged, “from the moment you saw me.”
“I wanted—to gut you,” Oscar gritted, though his voice cracked into a moan. His defiance dissolved into filthy, desperate cries, body arching back to meet each thrust. His cock slapped against Carlos fist, dripping, aching, begging.
Carlos growled, hips slamming harder, faster, his free hand gripping the others waist bruisingly tight. The air was filled with the sounds of their bodies, the raw music of Oscars moans spilling uncontrolled into the night. Piastri no longer cared who would see.
“I’m—gonna—”
“Cum for me,” Carlos commanded, twisting his fist around the head, squeezing. Fingers clawed the stone, skirt riding higher with each thrust. Carlos pounded him with the fury of a man claiming a kingdom, lips finding the back of his neck, teeth scraping.
His head snapped back, cry ripping raw from his throat as he spilled in hot, jerking ropes across the stone, cock throbbing helplessly in the others hand. His whole body shuddered, legs nearly giving out. Hot wetness filled him right after, the sensation dragging another broken whimper from his lips. They collapsed against the balustrade, both panting, sweat slick on skin, the night around them thick with the smell of sex.
Oscar laughed, ragged and sharp, spitting the words through his gasps. “I still hate you.”
Carlos didn’t reply, just licked the salt of sweat from his neck, teeth grazing again. “And yet,” he whispered, hips giving a last lazy thrust, “your body begs me to stay.”
The other didn’t pull out. No, he stayed buried inside him, one big hand spread over Oscars belly as if holding him in place. Each shallow roll of his hips made wet sounds where their bodies joined, cum already dripping out only to be shoved deeper with every lazy grind.
Oscar groaned, forehead pressed to the cool stone, breath shivering through parted lips. “You’re not even… done with me,” he muttered, tone sharp despite how weak his knees felt.
“Mm,” Carlos hummed against his ear, thrusting slow, unhurried, the movement more torment than relief. “Why would I stop, when you’re still clenching around me like this? Like you never want to let me go.” His teeth caught Oscar’s earlobe, tugged then released.
“What would Norris think, hmm? What would he say if he saw you in me?”
Carlos thrusts deepened, grinding right against the overstimulated spot inside. His growl vibrated through Oscars spine. “He would not think,” he said, voice dark, “because he would never know. This—” another lazy thrust, cock nudging so deep the other gasped, “—is unsaid.”
Piastri hissed, fingers tightening on the stone railing until his knuckles burned. His retort tangled with a groan as Carlos dragged back and pushed in again, precum slicking his path, their combined mess squelching with every grind.
“Bold,” Oscar spat breathlessly, though his hips rocked back to meet each lazy pump. “So certain you can keep your dirty little secret? That I’ll stay quiet after you’ve wrung me out like this?”
Carlos chuckled low, pressing kisses along the slope of Oscar’s neck. “You will. Because you want me too much. Because you’ll spread your legs for me again, even while I dance with him at another ball. You’ll sneer and argue and still let me use you, here, anywhere.”
“Bastard.”
“Mm,” Carlos murmured, pushing his cock deeper, slow and deliberate, as if sealing the words into the body. “But yours, for tonight.”
The balcony air reeked of sex and defiance, and still the heir of Spain grounded himself lazily inside the friend of his betrothed, making him feel every inch, every drop of heat that leaked from him. Inside the ballroom, violins sang sweetly of romance. Outside, Oscar came apart in the arms of his friend’s betrothed, the night echoing with the proof of his ruin.
Uber Daniel 4, Part II: “You’re All Delusional”
The stream is still live. The viewers are feral. Lando’s got his headset half off, Charles is sitting cross-legged on his chair like a goblin, and Alex is now upright on the couch purely to argue more efficiently.
George has his arms crossed, fully channeling that you all bullshitting me - vibe, eyes narrowed like he’s hosting a converence.
“You’re telling me,” George says, slowly, with the voice of someone trying very hard to stay reasonable, “that there is a mysterious Uber driver in Monaco named Daniel, who none of you googled, who somehow gave each of you a philosophical ride, and you’re all just fine with that?”
“Yes,” Lando says instantly.
“Absolutely,” says Alex.
“It wasn’t just philosophical,” Charles adds. “It was…spiritual.”
“Spiritual?” George repeats, scandalized. “You drive through Monaco one time and suddenly it’s a pilgrimage?”
Charles shrugs. “You weren’t there.”
Lando kicks his feet up on his desk. “Listen, I’m just saying the man had eucalyptus in the car and an alpaca co-pilot. I would die for him.”
“I would cry for him.”
“You did cry,” Lando says.
“Allegedly!”
George throws his hands up. “This is absurd. You all sound like you’ve joined a cult.”
Charles points directly at the camera. “It’s not a cult. It’s a vibe.”
The Twitch chat is already making edits.
[danielism101]: He’s not a cult leader, he’s a vibe curator [convert_george]: JUST ONE RIDE GEORGE. JUST ONCE. [uwu_albon]: i want daniel to drive me to therapy then become my therapy
George tries again, calm and patronizing. “Did you even check his driver profile?”
“No,” says Lando.
“He didn’t have a picture,” Charles says, then pauses. “Or like… maybe the picture was blurry.”
Alex frowns. “Mine was just a black screen that said ‘Daniel R.’ and five stars. Nothing else.”
George leans forward, eyes wide. “You got in the car anyway?!”
Lando shrugs. “The vibes were immaculate.”
George sits back, exasperated. “Unbelievable. You three, actual professional athletes, trained drivers, and you just trust some blurry Uber wizard because he played good music and offered you gummy bears?”
“And life advice,” Alex adds.
“And emotional healing,” Charles says, totally sincere.
“I’m done,” George announces. “This is what happens when I leave you all unsupervised.”
Charles leans in, squinting. “You’re just jealous.”
George scoffs. “Jealous?! Of a hallucinated Uber shaman?”
“You’ve never had a man hand you a mint and tell you to embrace the uncertainty,” Alex says, arms folded.
“You’ve never been seen, George,” Lando says dramatically.
The chat has transcended chaos.
[danfansanonymous]: this is our new religion [george_vs_vibes]: george is the final boss of logic in a world of nonsense [charles_isright]: george needs to be humbled by daniel and carl the alpaca [stoplight_confessions]: guys what if daniel isn’t from this world
George buries his face in his hands. “I’m going to call Toto. I’m telling him you’ve all lost it.”
Lando perks up. “What if Toto’s MET Daniel?”
George glares. “If I find out my team principal is part of an underground Uber cult I’m leaving the sport.”
Alex whispers, “It’s not a cult.”
Lando grins. “It’s a lifestyle.”
________________
“Professionalism Has Not Died, but George Might”
It’s raining in Monaco. Not a dramatic thunderstorm, no, that would at least feel cinematic. This is the petty kind of rain. The sideways kind. The spiteful mist that soaks through designer jackets and turns good hair days into cautionary tales.
George Russell stands under the edge of the Mercedes hospitality tent, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Kimi Antonelli, teenage prodigy, menace in a race suit, child of the gods, had already zipped off in their team car twenty minutes ago, laughing like a Bond villain, muttering something about “not needing chaperones.”
And the driver? Gone with him.
George looks around. The sky is a dull grey, fans have already scattered. He sighs. Long. British. Noble.
“Fine,” he mutters. “We’re calling an Uber. Because professionalism still exists, and I am not catching a cold.”
_____
When the car arrives, George narrows his eyes immediately. Its slightly scuffed on the rims. There’s a tiny disco ball hanging from the rearview mirror. The stereo is playing Fleetwood Mac at a volume that suggests emotional availability.
The driver has sunglasses on, inside the car, and a Hawaiian shirt that should not be legal.
He rolls down the window.
“You George?”
George stiffens. “Yes.”
“Hop in, champ.”
George hesitates. “You’re very… casual.”
“You’re very damp,” the man says, cheerfully. “Quick, before your disolve.”
George sighs. Gets in.
The car smells faintly of eucalyptus and gummy bears. There’s a tiny stuffed alpaca on the dashboard. The seats are warm.
The Uber driver hums along to the music. “You look tense.”
“It’s raining,” George says through.
“It’s always raining somewhere,” the driver replies philosophically. “The key is to vibe anyway.”
George turns slowly. “Are you—are you Daniel?”
Daniel looks over, grinning. “Might be.”
George stares at the dashboard. “Oh my god.”
“You’ve heard of me?”
“They won’t shut up about you.”
Daniel smirks. “Ah. The emotionally unstable trio?”
George mutters, “You’re their mythical Uber man. The one who made Alex cry and gave Charles an existential crisis and made Lando believe in fate.”
Daniel wiggles his eyebrows. “I do have a 5.0 rating.”
“You’re real,” George whispers, dazed. “You’re actually real.”
As they drive, George starts to notice things.
Daniel doesn’t use Google Maps. He just knows the streets. He glides through corners like a man who’s droven this place with his eyes closed. He hums like he’s got nowhere else to be. And somehow, George finds himself… unwinding.
“So,” Daniel says eventually, “what’s your deal?”
George frowns. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve got ‘I must hold this sport on my shoulders’ energy. That gets heavy.”
George opens his mouth to argue, then… closes it.
“People expect a lot,” he admits quietly. “I expect a lot. I can’t afford to— I just want to do it right. Be the driver Mercedes needs. Be…”
Daniel finishes, gently, “...enough?”
George nods once, eyes fixed ahead.
Daniel hums thoughtfully. “You know what I like about this gig?”
“The questionable disco ball?”
“Nah. That no one expects me to win anything. I just show up, play my music, drive my weird car, and maybe help someone get where they’re going a little less sad.”
He grins. “Pressure’s off. You should try it sometime.”
When they pull up, George doesn’t move at first. He’s still damp. Still exhausted. But… lighter.
“I get it now,” he says finally. “Why they talk about you.”
Daniel lowers his sunglasses. “And here I thought you didn’t believe in vibe-based healing.”
George huffs. “I didn’t. Still don’t. Probably.”
“Sure,” Daniel winks. “You keep telling yourself that, mate.”
George opens the door, pauses, then looks back. “What’s the alpaca’s name?”
“Carl. He doesn’t judge.”
George nods solemnly. “Good. Someone in this sport shouldn’t.”
And then he’s gone, striding through the drizzle with a slightly looser step, leaving behind only water on the seat and the lingering scent of eucalyptus and mild emotional clarity.
Daniel adjusts the rearview mirror, changes the song to “Here Comes the Sun,” and drives off into the Monaco mist.
Carl nods approvingly.
Carl is blessing your day
65 layers later 💀👌
!SPOILER WARNING ON REPELLION IN WINTER!
Ok like i know im at the half of my book but im just so proud of the Art so Yeah!!!!BIG SPOILER!!! for the end
But just look at it :3
Im so proud of it
IM NOT DEAD!
Actually...i do have a summer job but moneyyyyyyyyyyy, so yeah.
Alsooo can someone hit me in the head pls bc now i got a new fixation and i want to write a fic for that now (curse you tiktok)
★ Winterdad and Spiderson 🕷
OK this can go either way. So post–No Way Home, everyone forgets who Peter Parker is. He’s totally alone, no connections, no May, no Ned, no MJ. He’s just some invisible 17-year-old living in a crappy apartment in Queens and still doing the whole Spider-Man thing in secret.
Meanwhile, Bucky Barnes (who’s trying to stay off the radar after all the Hydra mess and him getting better in Wakanda) ends up renting the apartment next door. He’s laying low, minding his own business, eating canned soup like an old man — and then this awkward, kind of jittery kid knocks on his door one day like:
“Hi! I’m Peter, I live next door. Thought I’d say hi. I also brought you some takeout because, I dunno, moving sucks.”
Bucky’s like. Okay. Weird. But thanks.
And then slowly — like over several weeks — they start to sort of… coexist. Peter's polite and quiet and always looks exhausted. Bucky sees him on the fire escape at 2 a.m. staring at the skyline. There’s something off about him. Familiar.
And then one day Bucky casually mentions Peter to the landlord, and the landlord goes:
“There’s no Peter Parker living in this building.”
And Bucky’s like “What.”
Cue slow unraveling where Bucky starts digging and realizes:
There are no records of Peter Parker.
This kid seems too good at patching himself up.
He has a Spider-Man–shaped hole in his memory he can’t explain.
And now the kid next door, who talks too fast and flinches at loud noises, who’s way too smart and heartbreakingly lonely… Might be tied to something Bucky was meant to forget.
So he starts watching him closer. Not in a creepy way, just... protective. Curious. Because whoever this Peter kid is, he’s not normal. BUT
I dont really know every movie or the storyline of every avengers film. I mostly just want to write Bucky kind of taking peter in as like a big brother/dad thing. Maybe peters mom did secret work for hydra and the avengers found so they try to find peter even though there are no documents of the kid. I think i would mostly go to the daily stuff and not a lot about the avengers.
idk if i´ll actually write it bc its mostly wordvomit right now but god i want some ficsss of them being son and dad If you know any good onesssss plssssssss send me the link :´)
It wouldnt leave my mind, Sony Hayes 😂💀
Uber Daniel 4: “Wait — YOU Know Him Too?”
The stream is already off the rails.
It started as a “Just Chatting” stream, allegedly a chill Q&A. But it’s been 40 minutes, Lando’s halfway through a bag of crisps, Charles keeps getting distracted by Leo, and George is obsessively fixing the lighting on his webcam every five minutes like he’s broadcasting from a BBC studio.
Alex is horizontal on his couch with his mic way too far from his face, but no one says anything because at least he’s not yelling about white balance.
“Okay, okay,” Lando says through a mouthful, “Serious question. Has anyone here ever gotten in an Uber and the driver was, like, suspiciously good vibes?”
“You mean like, polite?” George frowns, adjusting his ring light.
“No,” Lando says, waving a crisp in the air. “Like… weirdly calm. Chill. Like he knows all your secrets but won’t tell anyone because he respects the sanctity of the road.”
There’s a pause.
Charles suddenly leans forward. “Wait. Was his name Daniel?”
Lando freezes. “YES!”
Alex, from the couch spoke up “He picked me up after… uhh. A night. Very mysterious. Had an emotional support alpaca on his dashboard.”
George stares at the screen like they’ve all lost their minds. “Hold on. You all got picked up by the same Uber driver? In Monaco?”
Lando nods enthusiastically. “He had a Red Bull sticker! But like, old. Faded.”
Charles chimes in, “And he drove like he knew the track layout of Monaco better than Google. But he didn’t recognize me? Even when I told him I was me?”
Alex adds, “He told me I had 'main character energy' and then played Billy Joel. I almost cried.”
George is staring in disbelief. “You’re joking. None of you are serious.”
The Twitch chat has absolutely exploded.
[thegrid_goblin]: THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF A SUPERNATURAL MYSTERY.
[sadtifosi]: why is this Uber driver the protagonist of a Netflix docuseries
[w33kend_w1ngman]: WHO IS HE. WHO IS DANIEL.
[hydrationbot]: remember to drink water. especially if an emotionally wise Uber driver picks you up.
George is squinting
“So what, you all independently had a life-altering Uber ride with this random guy named Daniel, and I’m just left out?”
“Well,” Charles says innocently, “maybe you need to get ghosted more.”
Lando wheezes laughing.
Alex, eyes still closed, smirks. “Or be emotionally available enough to attract Daniel’s energy.”
George sputters, “I am emotionally available!”
“Yeah,” Lando grins, “but to yachts, mate. Not people.”
The chat loses it again.
[boatsnbetrayal]: GEORGE SIDED WITH THE SEA.
[alex_was_right]: justice for Albon. Daniel supremacy.
[D4N_IS_REAL]: WHO IS HE. WHY IS HE EVERYWHERE.
Then, almost too quiet to hear, Charles says,“I think he’s more than just a driver.”
The others go silent.
Alex turns his head slowly. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Charles says. “He… felt like someone who used to drive. Like, really drive. Not Uber. But something more. Like he gave it up.”
George is now visibly unsettled. “This is literally a conspiracy theory. Are we seriously suggesting this Uber driver has a secret past life?”
Lando quipped in “I’m just saying he knew all the apexes in a Model 3. That’s either divine intervention or years of trauma.”
Alex nods solemnly. “He offered me gummy bears and told me to ‘embrace the twisty turns of life like a medium-speed chicane.’”
“WHAT EVEN IS THAT??” George half-yells, laughing now despite himself.
They sit in silence for a second, the four of them — the yacht boy, the emotional Ferrari prince, the sad boy on the couch, and the crisp-eating goblin.
Somewhere out there, Daniel is probably giving another ride. Vibing. Laughing. Making someone question their whole life with nothing but a song, a glance, and a mysterious alpaca named Carl.
“Chat,” Lando says seriously, “if anyone else gets picked up by Daniel R. in Monaco…ask him whats his vibe.”
Charles adds, “Or ask if he remembers his weirdest uber ride.”
Alex: “Ask what his real name is.”
George sighs. “You’re all unwell.”
[conspiracarl]: HE’S AN F1 GHOST CONFIRMED
[whoisdanny]: IS THIS AN ARG?? TELL US THE TRUTH.
The stream spirals into chaos, and no one gets to the Q&A. The viewers are feral. Lando’s got his headset half off, Charles is sitting cross-legged on his chair like a goblin prince, and Alex is now upright on the couch purely to argue more efficiently.
George has his arms crossed, fully channeling that BBC Dad Energy, eyes narrowed like he’s hosting a tribunal.
“You’re telling me,” George says, slowly, with the voice of someone trying very hard to stay reasonable, “that there is a mysterious Uber driver in Monaco named Daniel, who none of you googled, who somehow gave each of you a philosophical ride, and you’re all just fine with that?”
“Yes,” Lando says instantly.
“Absolutely,” says Alex.
“It wasn’t just philosophical,” Charles adds. “It was—spiritual.”
“Spiritual?” George repeats, scandalized. “You drive through Monaco one time and suddenly it’s a pilgrimage?”
Charles shrugs. “You weren’t there.”
Lando kicks his feet up on his desk. “Listen, I’m just saying the man had eucalyptus in the car and an alpaca co-pilot. I would die for him.”
Alex, dreamily: “I would cry for him.”
“You did cry,” Lando says.
“Allegedly!”
George throws his hands up. “This is absurd. You all sound like you’ve joined a cult.”
Charles points directly at the camera. “It’s not a cult. It’s a vibe.”
The Twitch chat is already making edits.
[danielism101]: He’s not a cult leader, he’s a vibe curator [convert_george]: JUST ONE RIDE GEORGE. JUST ONCE. [uwu_albon]: i want daniel to drive me to therapy then become my therapy
George tries again, calm and patronizing: “Did you even check his driver profile?”
“No,” says Lando.
“He didn’t have a picture,” Charles says, then pauses. “Or like… maybe the picture was blurry.”
Alex frowns. “Mine was just a black screen that said ‘Daniel R.’ and five stars. Nothing else.”
George leans forward, eyes wide. “You got in the car anyway?!”
Lando shrugs. “The vibes were immaculate.”
George sits back, exasperated. “Unbelievable. You three — actual professional athletes, trained drivers, and you just trust some blurry Uber wizard because he played good music and offered you gummy bears?”
“And life advice,” Alex adds.
“And emotional healing,” Charles says, totally sincere.
Lando: “And nice remixes.”
“I’m done,” George announces. “This is what happens when I leave you all unsupervised.”
Charles leans in, squinting. “You’re just jealous.”
George scoffs. “Jealous?! Of a hallucinated Uber shaman?”
“You’ve never had a man hand you a mint and tell you to embrace the uncertainty,” Alex says, arms folded.
“You’ve never been seen, George,” Lando says dramatically.
The chat has transcended chaos.
[danfansanonymous]: this is our new religion [george_vs_vibes]: george is the final boss of logic in a world of nonsense [charles_isright]: george needs to be humbled by daniel and carl the alpaca
George buries his face in his hands. “I’m going to call Toto. I’m telling him you’ve all lost it.”
Charles perks up. “What if Toto’s MET Daniel?”
George glares. “If I find out my team principal is part of an underground Uber cult I’m leaving the sport.”
Alex whispers, “It’s not a cult.”
Lando grins. “It’s a lifestyle.”
(Dont judge me on the pics, i wanted it to look they are actually having a stream, georges face tho XD)
little Moodboard for my fic :>
hehe the little Bull ✨️✨️✨️
Eye :D
Ok Yeah bit pixilated but oh well
(Me doing literally anything else except write the bext chapter for my fic 😩😔)
Idk im brain dead with the fic right now
