r63 gax / galex / gaxlex wip for da freaks #happypride (1.2k words)
Max isn't jealous, and even if she was, it wouldn't be of Alex Albon, of all people.
Alex Albon is as close to nothing as a person could be. It's mean to say it, but it's true, and Max isn’t exactly known for being nice, anyway. Alex Albon is, for all intents and purposes, a loser. She’s nice, Max supposes, and funny, but she’s a loser at the end of the day.
“Am I a loser?” Daniel asks, once, his tone lighthearted and serious at the same time, a tone that only he can really achieve.
“Yup,” Max replies, shoving at his face. They’re laying in the hot sun, on the side of a private pool, somewhere in Mexico where it’s still warm and sunny in January. Max is in Daniel’s spare swim trunks, lying on her stomach without any sort of bra because she doesn’t need one, not in general but especially not with Daniel. He is across from her, close but in seperate chairs. and he laughs. He laughs at her, and he’s loud and bright because that’s just how Daniel is. He’s loud and he’s bright and he’s not— He’s not a loser like how Alex is. He’s not a loser, he just lost. It's different.
Lewis Hamilton isn’t a loser because of 2021, but Oscar Piastri is a bit of a loser for 2025. Sebastian Vettel isn’t a loser for 2018, though he came close, but Mark Webber is certainly a loser for everything from 2010-2013, and a bit before that. Daniel isn’t a loser. Alex is. That’s just how these things work.
“You’re a misogynist,” Daniel says, and Max scoffs.
“Spell misogynist,” Max retorts.
“M-I-S-S—”
“Absolutely not,” Max snorts, “You’re a dumbass.”
“You don’t care,” Daniel grins, “You love me.”
“Fuck you,” Max rolls her eyes, shoving at him again. “I’m not a misogynist. I don’t even care about that sort of thing.” Daniel frowns slightly, tilting his head bemusedly.
“You’re no feminist,” He mutters, and it’s almost a question but they both know it’s not. It’s true, really. Max isn’t a feminist. She hangs around Horner and Helmut despite... everything about them. She hangs around Daniel, who sounds like the spirit of a man from the old workplace harassment tapes they rolled out when Max first got hired is speaking through him half the time; tits and ass and sex and ugh. Max doesn’t exactly put herself out there for womens rights, womens representation, womens anything. She’s a woman, and that’s about as far as her activism goes. But, still, she’s not actively awful to women. She’s not, like, a sexist. It’s certainly not Alex’s womanhood that she hates about Alex, and she says as much.\
“I don’t think Alex is a loser because she’s a girl,” Max protests, even as Daniel raises an eyebrow, “I think she’s a loser for entirely unrelated reasons.”
“You don’t think Pierre is a loser, and they’re practically in the same situation. Frankly, Pierre’s the bigger loser than she is, if you really think about it.” Daniel hums, pondering it for a moment, before wincing. “Ah, shit,” He says, “Nothing against Pierre. But, well, you know—”
“Pierre’s not a loser,” Max huffs, interrupting him, “He’s just French.”
Daniel squints at her. She’s getting real tired of him thinking she’s wrong. It all started when he retired, really, all of his protests and pushback and... being a bitch. He’s annoying her. He’s not agreeing with her. It’s pissing her off.
“Everything pisses you off,” He says, when she tells him just that. He’s all smug, with sunglasses covering his eyes like an American, like an asshole. She hates him.
“I hate you.”
“I know,” Daniel grins, “Now, explain it to me.”
“Explain what?” Max hisses, stubborn.
“The Alex thing,” Daniel elaborates, “The anger. The pettiness. The bitchiness—”
“I’m not a bitch,” Max snaps, and it’s important that he knows that. It’s important that she says that. Max doesn’t get called a bitch. She’s an asshole or a dickhead or a motherfucker, but she’s never, not ever, a bitch. That word is reserved for real bitches, people like the journalists she doesn’t like or the girls on the social media team who gossip about her shitty attitude or Georgia Russell—
“Is this about George?” Daniel asks, eyes guileless and innocent, in a way that tells Max he knows exactly what he’s asking.
“No,” Max lies, “It’s about Alex.”
“What about Alex?”
“She’s a loser.” Max turns around then, flipping her head to the side and ignoring Daniel’s weedling and whining and bitching for the next twenty-three minutes. The reason why she does this is simple — It is easy to ignore Daniel, and it is hard to explain Alex.
Mostly because Max doesn’t know Alex. Not really. They were two women on the same team, and Alex was a rookie but she was older, and none of that mattered because Alex didn’t matter, because Alex was never not going to be playing second fiddle, runner-up, cannon fodder. Alex was never going to matter. At least, not to Max.
But, well, Alex matters to Georgia Russell, and that’s something.
Max grinds her teeth. It’s certainly something.
It’s nothing to be jealous of. Georgia Russell is obnoxious, and knowing her is difficult even for Max, who tries her best to spend as little time with her as humanly possible. Georgia Russell is pretentious and prickly — She’s prudish, sure, but she primps and she preens, attention-hungry, desperate. She’s annoying, up her own ass, and Max hates her. Max really hates her, like nothing else. She’s British and she’s a bitch and she’s really, really beautiful, and Max hates her. God, Max hates her.
And, well, it all works out, because Georgia hates Max.
But, well, Georgia doesn’t hate Alex.
And it starts like this: Max enters Alex’s drivers room early on in their teammate relationship, and George is beautiful, hair tumbling down her back in waves, her eyes bright blue, blinding. She’s like nothing Max has seen before, tall and lean and angular, cool and icy and delicate like glass, sharp at the edges. She’s gorgeous. Max immediately hates her. What Max hates more is the way Alex’s hand lingers at George’s waist, the way they duck into each other to laugh and talk and breathe, like they can’t bear to be outside of each other’s orbit. They barely even glance at Max, and when she leaves, she can hear their giggles through the door.
They’re talking about me. Max thinks, hysterical. They’re fucking talking about me.
She doesn’t do anything about it. It drives her crazy. She thanks God when Alex finally leaves. She curses God when Alex leaves for Williams, sitting right back down in the seat George is about to leave.
Is her seat warm? Max wants to ask, nonsensical.
Do you have to share everything? Max wants to ask too, even more nonsensically.
Even a seat? Max is spiraling. You need her seat? Do you need her clothes too? Her underwear? Her skin? Can you even live outside of each other for a day?
“Yeah?” Charles fumbles uselessly with the high collar of his shirt, the silk slipping through his fingers. “Lucky me.”
It’s unfair, how pretty he looks in genuine pain: the crease in his brow, the moue of his lips. A bead of sweat runs down Charles’s neck, glistening as it disappears under thin fabric. Max swallows.
So he might be a bit of a sadist.
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@onboardsorasora little snippet of Sunlight has inspired me. So thank you my friend ❤️
Demon fic on the works
----
Lewis had been 3 when he had come across his first demons. A father and a son.
Everyone around him told him that demons were vicious, murderous creatures that rose my the darkest depths of hell.
However before him was a son crying as his father was injuried still trying to protect his little one.
"Papa no your hurt"
"Nico my little, its ok"
That night Lewis had gone against what everyone had told him about Demons, he had fetched his dad and begged him to help them. Normally his dad was against demons but there was a look of understanding between his dad and the father demon.
He had struck up a friendship with the son called Nico, proving to him that not all demons were monsters.
It had been years till Lewis would meet another.
But this meeting would a core event.
Lewis at the aged of 6 was checking the chicken coop on the farm when he had heard noises coming from the barn so putting down the bucket of feed, he approached the barn doors slipping in quietly and softly approached were a bucket was rolling around he looked to his left, hidden in the corner were two demons.
A tall one with a broken horn and a shorter one with very curvy horns.
Both very injured, the smell of purify salt hitting his senses.
Demon hunters.
The taller of the demons looked ready to give up there and then while the shorter demon still had fight in him, he looked ready to say something but they heard the shouts from outside, the demon hunters.
Flashing memory of Nico and Keke in his mind.
Lewis stepped outside and put on his best terrfied face when the demon hunters had come out of the corn field.
"Demons... they took off that way... the tall one was limping... they tried to go in the barn but... my dad has put demon warding charms on"
Through his fake tears, Lewis watched as they saw the fake realistic charms his dad had done. One had tried to console him but soon enough a car pulled up taking the demons hunters away from his dad's farm. He waited for a few minutes before he grabbed the first aid box and two small hens with him before he returned into the barn and stood before the demons.
"Why would you do that?"
The tall one sounded funny just like his friend Daniel.
"Dad says a demon saved me once, we then saved that demon. Not all demons are monsters"
Giving the small hens to the tall demon, Lewis grabbed a small roll of bandage and carefully took the shorter demons hand then began rolling it around to cover the wound up, he looked up to see black eyes watching him and suddenly a soft Spanish voice.
He hums as he ignores him and focuses on sinking into the tight wet heat. God that’s good. A sharp thrust has—George, was it?—scrambling for purchase against cold metal with a reedy whine. He opens up just as beautifully as Max thought he would all those weeks ago when he’d first caught his eye, fresh faced new valet at his favorite bar.
Perfectly coiffed hair, coy pout, and legs that went on for miles. To be honest, the sort of slender doe-eyed creature that belonged on magazine covers or down a runway in Milan rather than in a drab waistcoat working the parking lot of Jimmyz, but Max is hardly going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
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The second he gets flipped over, Oscar’s delayed instincts kick in and he scrambles away, or at least attempts to anyway, making it only a few centimeters up the bed before he feels the bruising grip of Max’s hands close around his waist. A despairing noise escapes his throat the moment he realizes no amount of thrashing can release him from where he’s being held down. Max’s amused laughter as he drags Oscar back towards him—Oscar’s fists still scrabbling desperately at the sheets—is genuinely some straight-up villain shit.
When Oscar said he preferred to be in the position of the hunted he didn’t mean it like this.
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well helloooo details about the problematic 331663 girls au are sorely wanted 🙏🙏
sorry for the astronomically late reply 😭 but well.. 331663 girls au is really suuch idfic im almost embarassed to share like it’s really not something that is showing a good(?) image of me wisjdkkdkd but… basically it’s girl!charles and girl!george and started out vaguely based on the idea of charles maybe accidentally on purpose crashing an established toxic 3363 situationship but then the more i wrote the more it turned into 6316 girls who psychosexually torment each other. for fun! the (more) problematic part is that ostensibly this is all over max, who is a man in this au IM SORRY WOMEN 😭😭😭 and also they are still all f1 drivers etc etc it’s ambiguously set in a 2025 season with details i made up which is to say max obviously wins in the end. i haven’t touched the doc in a while but maybe i can look to see if there’s any small bit postable BUT basically i love bitches and cattiness and mindgames—6316 give me that in spades (charles’s secret santa gift really made me feel so prescient lmao)… And Max Was There (guy who loves inserting max into any situation)
