driving along in a waking dream

ao3 || homosexual motorsports etc

[rollingest-hills]

To Taste the Comforts Given ▪ 1k ▪ M Bono/Lewis

Lewis keeps talking, keeps pacing; one frenetic story after another, enough bad energy to power every room in this hotel. Plug him in and he’d light up Budapest. “Lewis,” Peter says.

And who among us hasn't drawn solace from Bono's tits. Happy nearly-new year, friends ♥️

[rollingest-hills]

Don't mind me I just need to make sure that these pictures live on with this fic post forever and ever amen (@bluehardtops consistently curating the internet's best Bono collection that is unfailingly relevant to my interests🙏🙏🙏)

[rollingest-hills]

Countermeasures ▪ 5.5k ▪ E James Vowles/Toto Wolff

He still remembered the moment when, as a child, he’d first realised his thoughts and his face could be two entirely separate things, only one of which could be seen. He kept the visible part carefully blank. “Help you?”

A story about addiction and fetish in a woke-up-with-a-pussy world. Mind the author's notes. Not part of Pull You Together. Gratitude to @manicpixiecatlady, @disarmd & @onadarklingplain for enduring various drafts over the past months.

[vertebrae]

[Podfic] Pull You Together

written by @rollingest-hills - read by @tkaptains and frecklebomb

F1 - Alex/James Vowles, James Vowles/Toto Wolff - Age Difference, Boss/Employee Relationship, dom/sub, light choking, 2024 season.

But it helps you, to think of them as separate. Yourself and… your other self. Your obeying self, you name it sometimes. The James-who-is-and-is-not-you; you imagine him drifting like a delayed exposure, somehow always a moment behind but always keeping up. Occasionally you can feel the hazy outlines of him, taking up the same space in the world that you do.

Duration 1h 25min

Listen on AO3 (archive locked)

[rollingest-hills]

To Taste the Comforts Given ▪ 1k ▪ M Bono/Lewis

Lewis keeps talking, keeps pacing; one frenetic story after another, enough bad energy to power every room in this hotel. Plug him in and he’d light up Budapest. “Lewis,” Peter says.

And who among us hasn't drawn solace from Bono's tits. Happy nearly-new year, friends ♥️

[rollingest-hills]

Skill Differential ▪ 2k ▪ E Max/Toto (goal-oriented), Susie/Toto (legally sanctioned), Max/Susie (aspirational), George/Toto (farfetched), George/Max (somehow?), age difference, yacht sex For @disarmd ♥️

When Toto and Susie had invited Max onto their yacht he’d immediately accepted. Obviously it made sense to keep his options open, and anyway there would be gossip and good drinks and Susie’s easy laughter.

The tumblr fic has now taken up permanent residence on ao3 where it can fuck up not one but five relationship tags by somehow not being about any of them. Happy birthday Laura!!!!!

[rollingest-hills]

It's @disarmd's birthday month!!!!! In honor of her existence please have a few thousand words of the genius premise that she casually dropped in the chat one day and then wandered off and left us all bleeding out behind her. HAPPY BIRTHDAY LAURA I am so lucky to know you and write with you and spend time here with you! ♥️ Thanks to @officialmood and @onadarklingplain for enduring the visions with me.

George caught up to him after FP2. “We need to talk,” he said, tense. They did not, in fact, need to talk, but George was going to be so annoying if Max said no. Better to let him rant, realize Max didn’t care, and end up even more mad but with less to say – not that George was ever short on things to say.

Max rolled his eyes. “Talk fast,” he said.

George’s eyes narrowed but he knew he was on borrowed time. “You’re wasting your time with her.”

Max raised his brows and waited, counting down in his head from four; George gave up with an explosive sigh just as Max reached zero.

“I’m telling you,” he hissed, “Susie’s incredibly professional and she leaves all the team decisions to Toto. He told me she helps him get his thoughts straight sometimes, but she never tries to sway him one way or the other. So if you’re trying to use her to get to him, you needn’t bother.”

“Whatever you say, mate,” Max said agreeably.

George quivered with indignation. “It won’t work!” he cried.

“Okay,” Max said, and walked away, George still vibrating angrily behind him. He waited to smile until he was out of sight; he wasn’t a total cunt.

—

When Toto and Susie had invited him onto their yacht a couple of weeks back he’d immediately accepted. Obviously it made sense to keep his options open, and anyway there would be gossip and good drinks and Susie’s easy laughter.

They ate lunch together and eventually he found himself on a deck chair under the pounding sun, blindingly bright and comfortable, glass in his hand. At some point Toto disappeared to take a call, leaving him and Susie to chat lazily.

The afternoon slipped along, minute after languid minute. Max wasn’t fifteen anymore but being around Susie still gave him the same warm, unsettled feeling. She fetched him a cold bottle of water and he imagined her hand stroking the hair off his forehead. He couldn’t stop staring: at the fine creases on her face when she smiled, at the skin above her tits, soft and loose. The sides of her thighs were faintly dimpled below her shorts. He wanted to put his head on her lap. He wanted to go with her to a bedroom and lie face-down and do everything she told him in a voice as hard as nails.

He must have dozed off, because when he jerked awake Toto was saying his name and Susie was nowhere in sight. “Obviously,” Toto said, as if they’d been in the middle of a conversation, “you’d be a strong addition to the team. But I still have concerns about your temperament.”

What the fuck, he hadn’t come here to be sleep-lectured by this corporate shithead. Maybe Toto had forgotten that Max still held all the cards here? He struggled to pull his thoughts together. But then Toto said, “Susie thinks it won’t be a problem. She may be right.”

Max’s head was cloudy with sun and gin and the afterimage of Susie on the chair next to him. He couldn’t tell if he was being complimented or insulted.

“I wonder if you’ve developed any patience,” Toto said musingly. “Susie thinks we should find out.” He paused. “She’s a grown woman,” (Max’s dick twitched, but surely that was normal), “not some starry-eyed girl who’s willing to put up with a five-minute fuck” (twitch) “just because you’ve got some trophies on your shelf” (what the fuck) “and what she wants is someone with the patience and endurance to make it good. The kind of patience this team also needs.”

Max’s head pounded; maybe he had heatstroke. On the one hand, if this dickhead thought Max was going to grovel to sit in his car next year he would have to do better than that. On the other hand – well. On the other hand, maybe it was worth seeing where this was going.

Toto watched him assessingly. “First, you prove me wrong. Then we’ll see.”

It was hard to look at someone like they were shit on the bottom of your shoe if you were, in fact, about to accept their offer. Max tried anyhow. Toto took that as assent and led Max to what turned out to be the master bedroom, where Susie was waiting. They gave each other a look that was a whole conversation.

Toto pointed at Max. “You don’t get to watch her,” he said tersely.

Susie raised her hand to quell him. “Do you want to face the wall or wear a blindfold?” she asked, businesslike but not unkind.

Max swallowed. He didn’t give a shit what Toto thought, but Susie should know she could rely on his self-control. “Wall,” he said shortly.

They set him up on a chair at the foot of the bed, facing away. “Comfortable?” Susie asked, and touched his cheek. “Anything I can bring you?” Mutely, he shook his head. Her shirt was unbuttoned and her breasts hung low in her bikini top. Smile lines fanned out around her eyes. He wanted her to slap him and sit on his face and tuck him into bed and put things into every hole in his body. He gritted his teeth and said nothing. He only bothered winning things that mattered so obviously this would be no problem.

And so he sat and stared at the off-white wall while Toto took Susie apart behind him. She moaned and murmured, and Max imagined putting his fingers in the musk of her pussy and his mouth on her pink nipples and barely moving at all, while she told him how good he was and they stayed like that for hours. His dick was painfully hard, propping a subtle peak in his swimsuit. Maybe Susie would smile down at him, tell him his small dick was perfect, that it fit perfectly in her hand. Then maybe she would hurt him, and kiss him better, and then she would ride him, and her pussy would feel soft and loose around his dick because she was a woman and not a girl. He shifted in his chair and dug his fingertips into the meat of his thighs and pressed his legs together. Behind him Susie groaned. The wet, muffled sounds of Toto’s face between her legs drifted around Max and out the open window.

They kept at it for forty minutes. Several times Max reached into his swimsuit and gently fondled himself, but he let go before he got too close. They went on for so long that eventually he got soft, and then hard again when everything ramped up – Susie’s panting, the quiet creak of the mattress, Toto’s grunts muffled against her skin. At last she gave a gasp that melted into a long, guttural moan. Max listened, dick aching, as she rode out the waves until the last of her breath came out in a satisfied rush.

He sat and waited, twitching with arousal. Movement behind him, a door opening and closing, and then Toto’s voice: “You can turn around.”

Max didn’t like his self-satisfied tone but his dick was telling him to shut up and do it so he shut up and did it. Toto had, fortunately, put on shorts. Max kept his eyes fixedly on Toto's face.

Toto cocked his head. “Not bad,” he said. “Maybe you’ve got some patience after all. But what matters is what you do with it.” Did he even hear what he sounded like when he talked? Max snorted but said nothing.

Toto seemed to come to a decision even though it had to be an act; he wasn’t the spontaneous type. “You think you can treat Susie well? Show me.” As Max stared, Toto hooked a thumb in his waistband and raised an eyebrow. “It can take a while, at my age. No hard feelings if you can’t go that long. I’ll let Susie know.”

This was the psychological mastermind who had George tied up in knots? He sounded like a comic book villain trying to provoke a toddler into eating his vegetables. Under other circumstances Max would have laughed in his face. But pathetic or not, Toto was still dangling the prospect of Susie over his head like a cat toy. And fuck it if Max wasn’t ready to pounce, even if it ended up being only feathers and wire. 

He got to his knees. At least Toto had the decency to keep his mouth shut and take his own dick out. Even when soft it was large, and Max knelt unmoving for a moment. He would rather drink petrol than blow Toto Wolff for a place on his team. But he wasn’t; he was blowing Toto to show Susie how good he could be. He opened his mouth and leaned in.

He couldn’t be too bothered with the niceties but he tried to make it okay. He grasped the base with his hand and took in as much of Toto’s dick as he could. It lay soft and heavy in his mouth, and he slid his tongue against it, moving his head in and out. Toto was absolutely silent, occasionally producing a quiet grunt. It took him forever to get hard and then it seemed like he could go on like that indefinitely. Max’s head bobbed in and out, Toto's dick nudging the top of his throat. Aside from the occasional twitch of his hips, Toto showed no sign of getting closer.

Suddenly there was a noise; Max started and barely managed not to graze Toto with his teeth. Toto’s phone was ringing.

“Hello, George,” Toto said.

“How’s summer break treating you, boss?”

Max cut his eyes upward. Toto held the phone in front of him, carefully tilted up. Well. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted; Max was here for one reason only.

He worked away at Toto’s dick while Toto talked to George. So what if Max moved his tongue with renewed care, or set an especially constant rhythm with his mouth? He was just doing his job. No one could fault him for it. Every time Toto’s breath hitched Max was filled with satisfaction.

“Susie and I had Max over today. He’s here on holiday too,” Toto told George. So that was how he was going to play it. Max supposed he could respect that. He tightened his lips around Toto’s shaft and Toto exhaled audibly.

“Funny old thing to run into each other like that,” said George with forced cheer.

“Funny indeed,” said Toto, his voice slightly strangled as Max gave a particularly inspired swirl of his tongue.

George asked what the three of them had been up to – “Oh you know, drinking and catching up on mutual friends, the usual holiday thing” – and then, increasingly on edge, he asked who they’d been talking about and then what they’d been drinking. When that still didn’t yield whatever he was fishing for, he asked if Toto had enjoyed himself.

“Oh, certainly. He’s good company,” Toto said, and flexed his left hand before curling it into a fist. His dick left a faint, salty smear on Max’s tongue.

“Max? Never heard anyone call him good company before, but to each his own,” George said with a bright laugh. “Maybe you’re a good influence on him. Hard to be bored when you’re around, boss.”

“Hmm,” Toto said distractedly. The taste on Max’s tongue and Toto’s swiftly decreasing ability to talk were like rounding the corner in time to spot the car you were chasing down. With a surge of energy Max worked his mouth, pumping his hand and making his lips and tongue a hot cradle around Toto’s shaft.

Casually, George asked, “Max still around?”

“Somewhere about,” Toto managed.

“With Susie?” George asked. “I should let you get back to them." He paused significantly. “Unless there was anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“You called me,” Toto said.

“So I did, so I did.” Another lengthy pause while George didn’t say goodbye.

At that moment Toto’s dick gave a kick and Max’s throat was flooded as Toto froze and came, then bucked his hips and worked his dick through the mess in Max’s mouth. When he finally pulled out, Max made himself swallow. He stood up a safe distance away from the phone. Toto was staring glassy-eyed in the general vicinity of the screen.

“Toto? You alright?” George asked, concerned and curiously breathy.

“I’m fine,” Toto said.

A pause, then, “Are you sure? Because it seems like – I could – “

“Too much sun, probably,” Toto said shortly. “Goodbye, George.”

He ended the call and lowered his arm. He held Max’s eye for another minute, then nodded.

—

Susie was at Zandvoort and came to find him in the paddock. They spoke for a while, and Susie laughed and touched his arm.

Later, George caught up to him after FP2. “We need to talk,” he said, tense.

[rollingest-hills]

Any Hour at All ▪ 4k ▪ E James Vowles/Susie Wolff/Toto Wolff

His stomach twists agreeably. They haven’t done Don’t Touch in ages. There are a number of scenarios they’ve developed over the years and he’s happy to do any of them, really. But Don’t Touch is, perhaps, his favourite.

once upon a time @shovson posted these inspirational gifs, and @onadarklingplain said "jv as toto and susie's sex pet when," and sometimes you just need to work a threesome out of your system.

[rollingest-hills]

Rain Delay ▪ 6.5k ▪ E Alex Albon/James Vowles tags: hetslash/rule 63, fingering, hairy bush, soft butch bisexual boss crushes for fun and self-improvement

At first it was out of a vague sense of penance. Obviously James had plenty of objectively admirable qualities, but Alex forced himself to start imagining what it would be like to find her attractive, too. He would get in the mindset of whoever was out there, sleeping with James or wanting to, and he would use this strategy to train himself not to be a sexist dick.

came to a mutually respectful truce with the f/m relationship tag for the exact length of time it took me to write this. our roads diverge from here on out but I'll never forget you. written for the 2nd annual @thattropeyouhate fest 🖤

[rollingest-hills]

Company You Keep ▪ 2k ▪ E Fred Vasseur/Toto Wolff

It was one thing to have access to the best sleep science money could buy. It was quite another to fall asleep. Just past midnight Toto gave up and picked up his phone.

written for f1 @rarepairfest, thanks to the mods for hosting such a fun fest! someday I'll write the fred/toto heist fic of my dreams, but this is not that.

[officialmood]

a little prequel to the fantasy au that lives in my heart if not yet the gdocs - daniel/cyril, 2.4k

for my beloved @rollingest-hills 💗 unbelievable how kind and smart and talented one person can be, and she's here in f1 rpf fandom writing the most thoughtful and sexy rare pair fic you can imagine 🥰

The day that King Cyril and his latest bride arrived on their wedding tour with their enormous retinue—beautiful, glossy-maned horses pulling ornate wooden carriages; soldiers with shiny gold buttons in perfect formation; chests overflowing with silks and lace, gifts for Daniel’s parents—was Daniel’s twenty-first birthday. His mother came to see him in the morning to bring him his favorite hazelnut pastry she had the cook prepare special. “Once they’ve gone on their way, we’ll do something for you,” she said, watching amused as he licked the sticky frosting off his fingers.

“It’s alright,” Daniel said. King Cyril had been here three years ago, and three years before that, with brides subsequently divorced once they failed to produce an heir. Each time he visited, the party was legendary. He brought casks of his country’s strange effervescent wine; herbs and spices collected from around the world; and a prize cow for the kitchen. Daniel considered it lucky timing.

“Well, don’t get into too much trouble,” his mother said, narrowing her eyes like she was already skeptical of his likelihood to heed her. 

“Of course not,” he said, as earnestly as he could. Too much trouble was certainly a lot of trouble. He could be satisfied with a more moderate portion.

✷✷✷

All of the best bards and musicians in the city had been invited to the palace for the celebration. There was hardly a moment to digest the nine rich dinner courses, plus the extravagant dessert—a structure of cake nearly as tall as a child—before dancing began. Daniel, who had in his opinion been a sparkling conversationalist despite being wedged at the high table between Michelle’s boring husband—Daniel had long since given up on squeezing a single drop of life from him—and King Cyril’s even more boring new wife—he could not goad her into an easy back-and-forth no matter how he smiled and joked and asked questions—escaped with a nod from his mother as soon as the lute-player began tuning his instrument. 

Once he was dancing, it was difficult to stop for anything beyond refreshments, a servant always within arm’s reach with a tray of drinks, and another to take away his glass as soon as it emptied. Daniel danced with Michelle, because her husband didn’t dance, of course; half the girls at court, but only once each, lest his parents believe he had taken a liking to one and start wedding preparations; and, once the room was spinning even while he stood still, Michael, who picked Daniel up and held him over his head to the great amusement of the crowd. After that, Daniel decided he should sober up just enough to make it through the rest of the evening’s entertainment, and snuck away to one of the small balconies off of the main hall.

The air was sweetly cool, a balm on his face. Unobserved, Daniel let himself unbutton his shirt, and slumped against the stone parapet to stretch out the ache in his lower back. He might have become a bit drunker than he intended, but it was his birthday after all. As far as he could recall, he didn’t think his parents looked overly disturbed, unlike at his last birthday when he rode into the main hall on his horse. 

“Excuse me,” a voice said from behind him. Daniel startled up, tugging at the front of his shirt so that hopefully his state of undress wasn’t immediately visible.

“Oh lord,” he said, when he turned and saw who was standing on the balcony with him: King Cyril, with a glass of wine in one hand. “Excuse me. My, um. Your highness. I thought I was alone.” He bowed clumsily.

“Please, there’s no need for formalities,” Cyril said, laughing. His voice was kind. He stepped closer, leaning one elbow against the railing. “You’re a highness in your own right, no?”

“Well, not like you,” Daniel said. He hoped that it was dark enough to hide the flush warming his face. “Just the spare, that is.” It didn’t bother him really. Michelle was older, and she had married, so she would take the throne. Daniel wouldn’t, barring some unforeseen tragedy. Even in that scenario, he’d have to marry the girl chosen for him first. And for what—enough responsibility to turn his father’s hair silver and mark a permanent worry line between his mother’s eyebrows? It was easy to convince himself that it was all for the best.

“A spare?” Cyril repeated, and laughed. “It seems to me you are the heart of this court. At dinner everyone looked to you. Even Marisele enjoyed your company.”

“Did she?” Daniel said, suppressing a snort. “I wasn’t sure if I was amusing her.”

“That was as amused as she is capable of being,” Cyril said, with a wink. Daniel giggled helplessly. “No, never a spare. Everyone here speaks of you quite lovingly.”

“Ah,” Daniel said. He wrung his hands together. He wished he had a drink to hold as well, or that he could do up his shirt again without drawing attention to it. “Well, that’s nice. I try to—it’s a nice place, after all, lots of nice people. I’d say the nicest in the world but I’ve never been anywhere else. You’d know better than me.”

“No?” Cyril asked. He took a sip of his wine, but his eyes didn’t leave Daniel’s face. “Do you wish to travel?”

“Yeah,” Daniel said immediately, then coughed. He glanced back at the hall: the dancing was continuing with vigor, their absence unnoticed. No one was nearby, not Cyril’s wife or any of his attendants that had joined the dinner. “Yes, I mean. One day, I hope. I would love to see Occitania.” 

“We would love to have you,” Cyril said, pleased. It was easy to forget he was a king; Daniel felt strangely relaxed around him, as if they already knew each other well. “If you do decide to come, you must write me a letter so I can send my personal guard for you at the port.”

“Oh.” Daniel laughed, a nervous thrill at the idea of those strapping, neatly uniformed men with their gleaming swords standing at the docks, waiting for him. “The entire guard? That’s not necessary.”

“Yes, of course, nothing less,” Cyril said, teasing. “They’ll give you a proper escort to my palace.” 

Daniel bit his lip. He wanted desperately to see Auvergne; everyone he knew who had visited said it was the most wonderful city in the world. And the palace at Auvergne was supposed to be a marvel, a splendor of white stone sitting along the cliffside overlooking the river Rhone. He thought Cyril was likely joking, or not entirely serious, but Daniel couldn’t help but be. “You would permit me to stay there?” he asked, a little breathless.

“Of course, you must think I am very rude if you doubt it,” Cyril said, but he clearly was not insulted the way he kept smiling at Daniel. He had a very nice smile, a very friendly, handsome face. “In fact, I insist upon it.”

“Yeah?” Daniel asked, feeling strangely bashful. “If my parents—I’ve asked before, and they always find reasons to delay, reasons I’m needed here.”

“I’m sure they’re entirely well-meaning,” Cyril said. He stood up again and sipped his wine, looking at Daniel appraisingly. “You and I will simply need to come up with something they can’t refuse.”

Daniel’s heart skipped a beat. He remembered abruptly that in Occitania, men could marry other men as well as women. And in fact, if Cyril’s third bride did not produce an heir, as her two predecessors had not, by their tradition he would take a male consort next. Michelle had joked about it that afternoon, that Cyril may as well skip to selecting his—his mother had overheard and immediately admonished her for using the word—stud, since he clearly could not produce a child with a woman.

Daniel hadn’t spoken in too long, he realized, his sense of time dulled by confusion and copious amounts of ale. Cyril tilted his head and said, “What do you think? Would you like that?”

Daniel would like very much to visit Occitania, but he was beginning to realize they may not be speaking simply of a visit. The idea of being shipped off to another country as a—not a bride, men couldn’t be brides—it gave him a cramp in his chest. Even if he had thought, even if there had been moments when—he had always got along better with other men than he had with women, had thought it would be easier to imagine marrying if it could be with a true friend, if every night of the summer he spent at Lord and Lady James’s estate he had thought of their son Scotty, as exactly that kind of friend, and, remembering the thoughtless, proprietary way Scotty slung his arm across Daniel’s shoulders, would give in and touch himself—and what was Daniel doing in Stralia, anyway? The spare. They’d give him something to do, of course, to keep him occupied. Or he could travel the world, celebrate like this all the time, with Cyril, who was by all accounts a good man, a good king, wealthy and wise, and who was still gazing at Daniel patiently, as if he could sense the furious chaos of Daniel’s thoughts.

“I, um.” Daniel cleared his throat again, and risked impertinence. “May I try your wine?”

Cyril’s eyes widened for the briefest moment, and then he held the glass out to Daniel. Daniel leaned forward and touched his lips to the brim, waiting until Cyril tipped the glass, the bubbly liquid spilling across his tongue. Cyril righted the glass again quickly, and Daniel eased back. “It’s my favorite vintage,” Cyril said softly. “Aged for ten years. You can taste the sea in it.”

Daniel wasn’t sure about that, but it went down smoothly. He touched the corner of his mouth where a stray drop had gathered. “What’s it called again?” he asked.

“Champagne,” Cyril said. His voice sounded more hoarse than it had when he had first come out onto the balcony. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” said Daniel, his whole body seeming to light up from inside all at once. 

✷✷✷

Daniel left the festivities soon after that. He alerted no one, hoping that everyone would think he was simply elsewhere in the crowd and not miss him. He went to his rooms intending to think, but fell asleep only half-undressed as soon as he lay down. 

He slept until they sent Blake to wake him. His face was puffier than he liked in the looking glass; he stuck his head in a basin of cold water until his lungs burned. Then his hair was a mess, but before he could fix this new problem, Blake told him to hurry along and fussed until he got dressed and went with him down to breakfast.

The seating was the same as the night before. Daniel made brief, scalding eye contact with Cyril—King Cyril—before he settled down beside Marisele. He found it beyond his capacity to eke conversation from her or anyone; luckily, no one seemed bothered by this turn of events. He ate a stack of fresh bread and butter and kept his mercurial thoughts to himself. 

Too quickly, it was time for Cyril and his company to depart. They were travelling by land across Stralia, stopping in every major city along the way, then embarking again on the long journey across the sea to Occitania before the winter storms came. The entire royal family came to see them off, which meant standing in the unforgivingly bright sunlight while Cyril spoke to Daniel’s parents for so long, thanking them for their hospitality and generosity, etc. 

Daniel braced himself as Cyril and Marisele made their way down the line, bowing and shaking hands with each of them in turn, but Cyril treated him no differently than the rest, as warm as his hand felt against Daniel’s own. And then they were gone, in a din of hoofbeats.

The embarrassment unfurled in Daniel slowly as he made his way back to the palace, meandering through the gardens on his way. He must have imagined any—subtext last night. He was drunk; he had been silly. He had revealed too much—not only to Cyril, but unfortunately to himself. He paused to talk with one of the gardeners, a sunburned woman who bossed him into coming to admire her display of roses. The enormous fragrant hedges did make him feel better; the gardener cut off a bloom for him to take, trimming the thorns off carefully before she passed it over. It wasn’t bad here at the palace, even if he never got to travel, even if he had to marry one of the girls from court, he thought, sniffing the rose to fortify himself as he went back to his rooms. It was a lovely place to live. He had no complaints.

Daniel was surprised to find his mother in his sitting room—with a large crate, the lid having been pried off and then set back atop it. “Is it a birthday gift?” Daniel asked, grinning and moving towards it.

“It’s from King Cyril,” she said, just as Daniel lifted the lid away to reveal a multiplicity of glass bottles, nestled safely in hay to keep them from breaking. 

Daniel slowly set the lid on the ground so he could pick up one of the bottles. The yellowed label announced it as champagne, as he suspected—the date recorded there was ten years prior. He could sense his mother watching him; he knew she must have understood everything in an instant, as she always did. “Is it wrong?” he asked, putting the champagne back down and crossing the room to her. He was afraid to look at her face, in case she was angry or disgusted with him. Instead he sat at her feet, his back against her knees. 

Her hand settled on his shoulder, and squeezed. “Of course not,” she said, and something in Daniel loosened. “Perhaps unconventional.” She stroked his hair, and he leaned his weight against her. “In fact,” she said, then paused. When Daniel turned to her, he found her looking at him consideringly. “This might prove to be quite useful, if we’re smart about it.”

She touched the crown of his head. Her hand felt heavy there for a moment, before she moved it away.

[rollingest-hills]

a prequel to Let Their Kingdom Come Tonight for the most wonderful @disarmd, @officialmood and @onadarklingplain. happy real/honorary birthday month, friends (Laura gets a fake January birthday for administrative purposes only), thank you for being glorious gifts to this fandom and the very best of vampire enablers ❤️❤️❤️ with extra thanks to @racecrafting ❤️

Read on ao3

Daniel Ricciardo/Cyril Abiteboul, vampire au, 2k

The only constant, when it came to inns that served their kind, was that a Club could always be found nearby. Cyril asked the proprietress his first night there, and sure enough. He’d been traveling two weeks at full tilt; nothing would be lost for lingering an extra day here.

The second night he followed her directions through a warren of pitch-dark alleys to a particular doorway, where a slouched figure took his coin and studied his face for a long, silent minute. At last he nodded, satisfied, and stepped back to open the door. The clamour of voices washed out and drew Cyril inside.

He stood at the edge of the room and let his eye rove. The living passed through the crowd in silk dressing gowns suffused with the warmth of their bodies. It didn’t pay much, a day’s Club work, but that wasn’t why they did it.

His gaze caught on a young man in a paisley robe with a fall of straight dark hair across his forehead. He gave Cyril a blazing look before turning back to the bar. That would do.

Cyril crossed the room in no great hurry, navigating the press of bodies, nodding politely when a curious or interested gaze crossed his. This far from home no one recognised him, but paths tended to clear before him regardless. When he reached the bar he found the man in conversation with another mortal. Cyril stepped close and spoke cordially. “Excuse me.”

The man stilled and looked over his shoulder. He held Cyril’s eye, then slowly, deliberately, returned to his conversation.

So that was how it would be. Cyril put his arms out and, in an instant, had the human pinned tight to him. One hand held the man’s chin, fingers gripping the cut glass of his jaw as he wrenched his head back. The other arm held his torso immobile against Cyril’s. The paisley robe sagged open above its knotted sash, and Cyril slid his palm slowly upward – nipple, feeble muscle, pounding heart – hard enough for the drumbeat knock of the young man’s blood to reverberate through both of them.

The man panted and his pulse sang through his skin. He didn’t say a word but twitched in Cyril’s arms. His companion turned politely away.

Cyril moved his face up the slope of the young man’s neck, breathing him in, enjoying himself. He let his lips drift over a scattering of healed punctures. Some humans tried the Clubs only once and never returned, but many came as often as they were allowed. The better Clubs usually enforced a minimum length between visits: time enough to let wounds heal, blood replenish, talk fade.

The human was rigid with anticipation. Against the smooth skin beneath his ear, bitter with bottled fragrance, Cyril said gently, “You know how this goes, eh?” It didn’t matter whether the man spoke French; nothing but inevitabilities were left.

He chose an unscarred place and passed his tongue over it. The strangled breaths grew louder. Cyril’s fangs dropped and he pierced the pale neck. The human struggled briefly, then fell still. Cyril drank deeply.

There was a subtle art to stopping just short of too far, and the Clubs had eyes posted everywhere. Dead humans were bad for business; they frightened away the live ones. The young man, lying limp against him, made a small sound when Cyril pulled up and out.

As Cyril’s vision cleared, he met the disconcerting stare of a patron at the far end of the bar. Dark eyes, dark curly hair – Cyril’s mind, still languorous with blood, hitched for a moment before making the connection. Christian’s servant Daniel, as far from home as Cyril was, by chance or by design. Cyril was a prudent traveller but hadn’t expended any particular effort to cover his tracks on this journey. He tongued blood from the corner of his mouth and watched as Daniel raised his glass with a wry grin.

Two discreet employees materialised beside Cyril and lifted the deadweight of the young man, taking him past the bar to the convalescent room.

Cyril straightened his collar and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. He was warm with blood and infused with a sense of possibility, bolstered by the vodka the human had been drinking. The night softened like a shrug as he made his way over.

Daniel saw him coming; by the time Cyril arrived he had contrived a space at the bar beside him. His smile flashed in the murky light.

“Daniel Ricciardo,” he said by way of greeting, turning the full flame of his gaze onto Cyril.

“I know your name,” Cyril said in English, and Daniel’s smile grew. Everyone knew Daniel. “What brings you all the way out here?”

“I might ask you the same.”

Cyril smiled. “And neither of us would tell, eh?”

“Cheers to that,” Daniel grinned, draining the last of his ale. He glanced past Cyril’s shoulder. “There’s an empty booth, are you staying for a bit? I wouldn’t mind the company. I don’t know anyone here.”

“You don’t know me,” Cyril pointed out.

“Well, let me buy you a drink and I’ll get to know you.”

Cyril decided he had no objection. He had worked his way out of worse traps than this one, and whatever Daniel’s motive, it would be pleasant to pass an hour in conversation. Like most of their kind he preferred to travel alone, but solitude grew as tiresome as anything else. He nodded. “Very well.”

The booth was dark and horseshoe-shaped, with a round table too small for anything but a few glasses. Daniel followed a moment later with wine for Cyril and another ale for himself. He sat beside Cyril, close enough to hear each other over the din.

He was, Cyril soon discovered, easy company. Daniel was talkative and forthright, quick to laugh and keenly perceptive. Cyril found it hard to look away from him, as if all the shine had slipped off everything and clung instead to Daniel. Time spun away. Daniel bought them another round of drinks, and still later Cyril paid for a third. Long past midnight, Daniel got up to piss and nearly tripped over his own feet as he returned.

“Might be time for a snack,” he said ruefully, perched at the end of the bench.

He scanned the room, face brightening as he raised his hand in greeting. A mortal with lush curves beneath a blue robe detached herself from the crowd and approached them. “Danny!”

“I thought you didn’t know anyone,” Cyril murmured, amused.

Daniel grinned. “We met tonight, does that count?”

Cyril watched as she settled herself on Daniel’s lap and they shared some easy banter. Mortals didn’t matter, but still he spoke as if she did, as if she weren’t already there for the taking. It made Cyril’s skin itch with something barbed and restless. The woman laughed and Cyril thought: Nothing would ever be dull, with Daniel.

Daniel finally fed. Cyril thought dimly that he ought to be admiring the lovely face of the human as she tipped her head back in ecstasy. Daniel’s face was turned away from Cyril; there was only the dark smudge of his curls against her skin, the knob of his spine, the movement of his neck as he swallowed and swallowed. His hand cupped the weight of her breast, thumb tracing her nipple through the thin sheen of silk. She caught her breath and arched against him. The low light washed away the gold of his skin.

He stopped well before she lost consciousness, giving it a minute, then helping as she stumbled to her feet. While she straightened her robe he offered to walk her to the convalescent room, but she declined. “I just need something warm to drink. You people are so cold.” She kissed his cheek and was gone, leaving Daniel and Cyril alone again.

With a satisfied groan Daniel stretched out on the bench. The curve shouldn’t have accommodated him but he managed, one foot braced on the floor, dark curls nearly touching Cyril’s thigh. Two hours ago Cyril would have taken it as a warning shot: I don’t fear you. Now he wasn’t sure.

“I used to feel cold all the time,” Daniel confessed, eyes half-lidded. “Before.”

Cyril smiled. “It's because your people come from the south. Like mine.”

“The Ricciardos,” Daniel agreed, rolling it off his tongue. “And the – Abi, Abida…” He began to laugh. “No, don’t tell me. Abidabowls. Hell. I’m still drunk.”

Cyril fought to keep a straight face. “Perhaps you’d better stick with ‘Cyril.’” The phrase had a heft he hadn’t expected, and it left a dent in the conversation where the silence pooled.

Daniel’s eyes flicked upward. “Alright, Cyril,” he said obligingly.

The name hung there. Cyril swallowed, then swallowed again. “What would Christian say to see you drunk beside his enemy?” he asked lightly. He turned his wineglass in his hands for something to do.

“You’re not his enemy,” Daniel said, unconcerned.

“His least favourite person, then,” Cyril amended.

Daniel grinned. “One of them,” he allowed. The smile faded and he ran a hand through his hair, distracted. It brushed a whisper against Cyril’s leg. Cyril’s fingers tightened on the wineglass; the silence swelled. “I,” Daniel began. “I’ve been thinking. About leaving Christian.”

Startled, Cyril looked down. “What? Why?” If there had been even a whisper of rumour to this effect, Cyril would have heard it. Christian’s holdings were immense, and his star was rising. Surely Daniel had all he could ever want. Before tonight, Cyril would have salivated at the thought of a secret that he could twist to his advantage against Christian. Now - well.

He was suddenly, grimly sober. With creeping clarity he pictured himself, sitting cozily with Christian’s first servant. One drink was easily explainable. Half a night in conversation with the servant of a rival House was as good as a challenge; wars were fought for less. If anyone sent word to Christian, what explanation might Daniel give him, in a fit of regret at his own candour? Cyril knew exactly how much his word was worth in Christian’s regard.

He had forgotten what it felt like, to commit errors of this magnitude. He managed with great effort to speak calmly. “I suggest you think hard before you say anything more,” he said, and ordered his body, limb by limb, out of the booth to a safe standing distance. “I wish you success on your travels.”

Then he walked away from the sound of Daniel’s voice. The crowds parted before him but he couldn’t find the door. The wine, the blood, everything had conspired to make him slow and stupid. When he finally stepped out into the night he nodded at the guard – the same, or a different one, it hardly mattered – and moved quickly down the alley.

Daniel caught up just past the first corner. When Cyril didn’t stop, Daniel put out a hand and seized his arm. The hand that had caressed the human, Cyril thought idly; the hand that had touched his leg.

“Where are you going?” Daniel asked.

Cyril tried to keep walking but found himself wrenched abruptly sideways and held against the wall. The shock of it caught in his throat. The sear of Daniel’s body was like frostbite everywhere they touched, and something inside Cyril threatened to come unloosed. He sealed his lips against the urge to carefully unpick Daniel with tongue and teeth until the taste of him ran so deep that it became a dangerous, secret part of him. A charred memory to hold fast against the years.

“You can’t tell anyone what I said,” Daniel said, urgent. “Christian can’t know.” If he’d been feeding him a lie, Cyril thought vaguely, he was doing a credible job feigning distress about it.

They were nearly of a height. The press of Daniel’s body was heavy against his chest, his stomach, his aching cock. The rich hot haze of Daniel’s blood clutched at him: the smell of his skin, the quicksilver shine. It had been such a long time since anyone had touched Cyril so easily. His status afforded him space, and when he wasn’t feeding, or fucking, or under attack, the world kept its genteel distance. The night had tipped on its axis; nothing was happening as it was meant to.

Daniel leaned harder against him. Cyril clenched his fists until his nails dug deep in his flesh. “Tell me a secret,” Daniel said.

“What?” Cyril asked. His voice hardly made a sound.

“A secret for a secret, so I know you won’t tell mine,” Daniel insisted, mouth so close that Cyril could feel the movement of his lips. “Tell me where you live. Tell me, and I’ll come find you. When I leave Christian.”

The urge to consume was a familiar one. The urge to be consumed was not. The secret lay on Cyril’s tongue like a jagged stone. He paused for only a moment.

[rollingest-hills]

Room Enough ▪ 9k ▪ E James Vowles/Toto Wolff, James Vowles/Alex Albon

“Okay, I feel like I shouldn’t have to ask this,” Alex said. “But is this – are we actually considering this? Because everything feels like it just got even weirder.” Toto met James’ eye and searched his expression, while James diligently attempted to keep his mind blank. If the two of them wanted to crow about reading his thoughts, they could damn well work for it. After a moment Toto turned back to Alex, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged.

the not-a-threesome fic I've been plotting since May, and the final (for now!) episode in the pull you together series. would never have made it this far without @manicpixiecatlady and @onadarklingplain, or the many other people I get tender about in the endnotes ❤️

[rollingest-hills]

Let Their Kingdom Come Tonight ▪ 4k ▪ E Cyril Abiteboul/Daniel Ricciardo tags: vampire au, blood

When Cyril spoke his voice was even. Nico, though, caught the eager tremors rippling through their connection. “Very well. Come in, Ricciardo.” Daniel’s face finally split into a smile. The smile of a wolf, Nico thought, if it loved its prey. “Call me Daniel.” From where he stood Nico could see Cyril’s cheek move as he smiled back. “Daniel,” he said.

inspired by a conversation with @racecrafting 🧡 written for @motorsport-halloween fest - go check out all the incredible works in this amazing collection! 🎃

[rollingest-hills]

closed loop ▪ poem ▪ Max/Daniel I never meant to put this on ao3 because I guess explicit porn is fine but I draw the line at fluff? But a while back I wrote a love poem to @powerful-owl's love letter to @officialmood and @onadarklingplain and this week seemed like... not the worst week to put some max/daniel fluff into the world 🖤

[rollingest-hills]

All Eventualities ▪ 6.4k ▪ E James Vowles/Toto Wolff

A more specific question, then: Do you fancy Toto? Well. Admittedly his behaviour with Toto over the past decade was not, perhaps, a stunning testament to heterosexuality. He tried to picture Toto’s body, testing himself, but everything kept scattering into a collection of parts like a Cubist portrait: an arm, a back, a mouth. He felt nothing in particular about any of them. It kept hitting him, though, when he was least prepared – nothing so exotic as heartache, mostly just a mundane low-grade stomach-ache. It happened when he thought about Toto and, increasingly, even when he didn’t.

can't stop shan't stop literally unable to stop writing about these two calculating bitches. once again I dragged @manicpixiecatlady and @onadarklingplain along with me and they made everything better 🖤

[rollingest-hills]

Open Stance ▪ 3k ▪ M Alex/Yuki

Apparently Alex did karate now. There were maybe other viable alternatives to sitting alone in his short-term corporate flat, counting the hours until he could move out, but he hadn’t been able to come up with any.

a gift for @monaco24 🖤 grateful for a prompt that let me keep my rarepair brand alive and thriving. written for the 2024 motorsport zine exchange.

love to @onadarklingplain and @disarmd for accommodating my last second writing schedule, to @love-leah for organizing the exchange, and to @manicpixiecatlady to whom all my martial arts au's (literally I only have this one, but.) are dedicated 🖤

[rollingest-hills]

Tell You Where, Tell You When ▪ 5k ▪ M James Vowles/Alex Albon tags: gay for the process but not for each other, background James/Toto

Alex looked crafty. “But you’d be able to do it?” “Obviously,” James huffed, entirely aware he was being played. Alex smiled, all teeth. “Then shall we try it?”

for @onadarklingplain 💖

so many thanks to @manicpixiecatlady and @boxboxlewis for making this better, and to everyone who's read and commented on this rarepair circus of a series