"Then I want the pictures," Lando says before he's even finished thinking it.
"You what?" Max sits up in the chair, eyebrows pulling down in confusion.
"I want whatever you were going to do next." Lando explains, "you don't need to pay me back. I don't want it. But if you need to do something I want you to take your profile down and send me the stuff you were gonna post for next week. Just for me. No-one else sees them."
Or: Max becomes Lando's personal camboy which would be fine if there weren't any feelings involved.
A/n: as a heads up I found this one tricky to tag and finally settled on consent issues rather than dubcon/noncon because I felt that fit better but please have a look at the spoiler notes on the fic itself or shoot me a message of you want more information about what the consent issues entails!
"Then I want the pictures," Lando says before he's even finished thinking it.
"You what?" Max sits up in the chair, eyebrows pulling down in confusion.
"I want whatever you were going to do next." Lando explains, "you don't need to pay me back. I don't want it. But if you need to do something I want you to take your profile down and send me the stuff you were gonna post for next week. Just for me. No-one else sees them."
Or: Max becomes Lando's personal camboy which would be fine if there weren't any feelings involved.
A/n: as a heads up I found this one tricky to tag and finally settled on consent issues rather than dubcon/noncon because I felt that fit better but please have a look at the spoiler notes on the fic itself or shoot me a message of you want more information about what the consent issues entails!
He'd nearly cracked his phone on the pavement when he checked it while he was waiting for the valet to bring his car around after a sponsor dinner and saw the new photos Max had sent.
We've got a little time, got a little motivation, let's ride the wave:
There's nothing to do but listen, really. There are songbirds in the cluster of pine trees at the edge of the green. Somewhere distant, the occasional car passes by. Inside the tent, Lando makes noises that are straight from porn.
He's got to be playing it up a bit, Steve thinks, stroking Jenson's ego. The guy is old enough to be Lando's father. Steve wonders, perhaps unkindly, if Jenson isn't fucking Lando because he's waiting for a pill to kick in.
"Fuck," Lando says, and he sounds wrecked in way that sets off every one of Steve's protective instincts. "Jenson wait, wait."
Steve pauses at the entrance to the tent, straining to hear. Maybe he'd misunderstood what was happening. If Lando's in some kind of distress, he's calling the whole thing off.
"Hey," Jenson says, soothing like he's talking to a child. "You're doing so good."
Steve's blunt fingernails dig into his palms.
"Can you, just-" Lando must gesture to explain what he means, because the next thing Steve hears is Jenson say,
"Okay, like this?" A pause. "Better?"
"I still want you to fuck me," Lando says, after long enough that something unspoken must have passed between them.
Jenson's gentle laughter. "I know," he says.
"There's not enough time," Lando says, and he sounds miserable. "I didn't know you were coming."
"Your body man didn't tell you?" Jenson asks, an obvious criticism that makes Steve bristle.
"I told him not to," Lando says. "I wanted it to be a surprise."
A long pause. "You put me on the list, didn't you?" Jenson sounds almost afraid of the answer.
"Of course," Lando is annoyed, Steve thinks, but he's not sure why.
"But you didn't think I'd come?"
"Never have before," Lando says. "Figured it wasn't how we did things. Never got around to taking you off the list once, you know."
Steve does not know, but Jenson seems to understand.
"I have two time slots," he says, instead of offering Steve any further insight into what exactly Lando is thinking. "We have time, okay?"
No reply from Lando, only an increasingly familiar wet sound.
"Now let me suck you off," Jenson says. "And then I'll finger you till you're hard again, and then I'll fuck you. Deal?"
Lando lets out an honest-to-god whimper. "Yeah, fuck," he says. Then, sharp, "Ohmygod." One word, half laughter lost to a groan.
lando is the prince who's a little bit wild but he's a good kid and he does a lot of work for charity and he's amazing with children and he does those hospital visits and he gifts them legos
george is a rich tax evader who makes money off of other's misfortunes
"Then I want the pictures," Lando says before he's even finished thinking it.
"You what?" Max sits up in the chair, eyebrows pulling down in confusion.
"I want whatever you were going to do next." Lando explains, "you don't need to pay me back. I don't want it. But if you need to do something I want you to take your profile down and send me the stuff you were gonna post for next week. Just for me. No-one else sees them."
Or: Max becomes Lando's personal camboy which would be fine if there weren't any feelings involved.
A/n: as a heads up I found this one tricky to tag and finally settled on consent issues rather than dubcon/noncon because I felt that fit better but please have a look at the spoiler notes on the fic itself or shoot me a message of you want more information about what the consent issues entails!
He'd nearly cracked his phone on the pavement when he checked it while he was waiting for the valet to bring his car around after a sponsor dinner and saw the new photos Max had sent.
The witches finally let George leave when the checkered flag falls. Nearly two hours of burning sage and low humming and tuning forks waving around his head, trying to uncover the source of all of his rotten luck. George knew they wouldn't find it. He told them as much, too. They listened about as well as his engineers when he brought up the battery issues.
Most drivers with George's string of results start believing in the racing gods even harder, making vows and offerings to satisfy their capricious bloodlust. A means of exercising some semblance of control when results are taken out of their hands. After hours of circuitous engineering meetings and worthless reassurances, George is starting to doubt whether they exist at all. The gods haven't chosen their predestined winner, Mercedes have. Fate has nothing to do with it.
He can already feel his body tensing up as he considers the long walk back to the paddock, trudging through hoards of cameras and microphones shoved in his face, rabid journalists thinking if they ask the right question he'll finally break down and cry for them. And worse still, another team celebration without him and a debrief where no one will want to listen because he's bringing the mood down.
He's surprised to find Lando lounging in a leather armchair in the makeshift lobby of the medical center, shared with the occult division to give them more legitimacy.
"You alright?" George asks, not immediately seeing any sign of injury or distress.
"Yeah, fine," Lando says, sitting up straighter at George's voice. "My side mirror shattered for no reason. Sign of bad luck, apparently."
Lando dramatically rolls his eyes and George can't help but let out a chuckle, even though it makes his ribs ache.
"Always something, isn't it?"
"Always something," Lando concurs, tongue flicking to the inside corner of his mouth in a contemplative gesture George knows all too well. "Did they find anything this time?"
"No," George says with a sigh. "Reckon there isn't anything to find."
Lando hums sympathetically. He's had a front-row seat to most of George's struggles this season, some through convergent circumstances, some because he reached out and put himself there. Even after qualifying, George found himself extending a conciliatory handshake, even though he'd inherit the P3 position Lando beat him to. It was like there was an invisible thread connecting them that tugged the hardest in times of distress.
"Dinner after?" Lando offers. This bit has become a more regular occurrence, too. Finding comfort in each other's company. First, because Lando could best understand George's situation and was happy to let him vent. Then, for other reasons.
"Might be a late one with the team. But…"
"After," Lando says definitively. "I'll send you my info."
Lando stands and stretches his back with a low moan, stirring a sensation in George's gut other than the latent nausea of being suffocated by pungent herbs.
"You already saw the witches?" George asks as Lando starts towards the exit.
"Yeah, I was waiting for you, you muppet."
He tries to brush it off like it's nothing, burying his concern under brusque indifference. Even then, George can't help the way he instinctively reaches out, half a step closer and arm frozen midair in an aborted gesture before he realizes what he's doing. Mercifully, Lando takes pity on him and meets him halfway, tossing his arms over George's shoulders so he's forced to lean down into the hug and put his weight against Lando for support.
"Thanks," George mumbles into his neck, wholly insufficient for the reprieve he feels in Lando's presence, the thrum of soothing energy that pulses between each point of contact.
George can't be sure that it's a true magical bond tying them together—there are more mundane explanations that are even more terrifying to consider. But if it is, he hopes the witches never find it.
I honestly think Gen-Z and younger simply does not understand how recent widespread smartphone adoption is.
I am not that old, and I didn't have a smartphone until probably late high school. For most of my life, many if not most people were not walking around with a magic internet machine in their pocket that they pulled out and used constantly for everything.
