Latest Posts by saviouroflord - Page 10
kiss my neck, and take a bite
Hi everyone!! ❤
Finally, I can announce, that I participated in the @formulampreg fest, with my very first fic!
Pairing: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Tags: omegaverse, fluff and smut, pregnancy
Rating: E
The first two chapters are out, current word count 20k
The third part will be the last, but if you like it watch out, because this story is part of a series, so more to come... 🙈
Read it on ao3
Whaaat the f*ckily f*ck? 😂😂😂
HOW?!
A proposal
Sometimes, in fandom, we just want to write id-tastic fic that rolls around in tropes that might be viewed as problematic. But we don’t want to address the problematic side of things in this particular fanwork; we just want to roll around and wallow.
It is considered courteous to give readers a heads-up via use of AO3 tags. I propose a tag that signals that a given fanwork is for rolling around, not giving a measured evaluation of anything. The MCU has carved out a space for this sort of fic with the “HYDRA Trash Party” tag, for which I commend them. Trash Party is a bit too specific to cover all of the ground I’m thinking of here, though; I propose “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.”
For those of you not familiar with Arrested Development, Michael Bluth finds a paper bag in the freezer labeled “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.” He opens the bag, finds a dead dove, and reacts as follows:
[gif of a white man saying “I don’t know what I expected” in a deadpan manner]
The “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat” tag would essentially be a “what it says on the tin” metatag, indicating “you see the tropes and concepts tagged here? they are going to appear in this fic. exactly as said. there will not necessarily be any subversion, authorial commentary condemning problematic aspects, or meditation on potential harm. this fic contains dead dove. if you proceed, you should expect to encounter it.”
(more at KnowYourMeme: http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/i-dont-know-what-i-expected)
Quick what are you doing RIGHT now (besides scrolling Tumblr)
wing!famiglia, 2k, GP POV. some things are different- but some things stay the same. (hi! I describe the accident in more vivid detail than I do in the original famiglia, because I'm writing from GP's POV.)
The rain is slamming down in harsh sheets, pasting Gianpiero's feathers down, and his heart is pounding as they pull over to the side of the road, sprinting towards the crash site.
There's cars strewn across the road, twisted metal scattered around them. His hands are shaking, trying to figure out where he needs to go first. There's so many, too many to handle at once, he needs to-
There's a rasping cry from a van, warbling and distressed. It's rolled over, resting on its a side, a mangled mess. Gianpiero runs over, cupping his hands around his eyes to try and see better in the dark, slamming to his knees to try and look inside.
There's bloody feathers coating the car, dark brown and maroon, and Gianpiero feels bile rise in his throat at the twisted bones rising from the man in front of him, shattered and pinched at unnatural angles.
There's a deep gash in his forehead, blood dripping from his mouth and nose, and his eyes are unfocused, one pupil larger than the other. He makes another desperate rasping noise.
His arms are curled around something, cradled tight to his chest, and Gianpiero's heart flips into an ugly pretzel when he hears a soft chirp.
"I'm here, I'm- I'm going to get you both out of here-"
The man lets out another wheezing cry, wet coughs rattling his chest, blood coating his teeth.
"My son..."
Gianpiero can't save him. He's not sure anyone could, but-
There's a fledgling in there.
He shuffles forward on his knees, reaching in through the shattered windshield, and the man drops his arms, head falling to the side with another wheeze.
There's a boy, one wing tucked tight around him, the other resting unnaturally to the side.
The man's fingers land in the boy's hair, weakly ruffling through it, but his eyes drag to meet Gianpiero's, piercing even in their final moments.
"My champion,"
He hacks again, and the fledgling flinches, curling tighter in on himself.
"My Max."
Gianpiero is going to be sick, can't bring himself to meet the eyes of a dying man as he carefully gathers the boy in his arms.
Max.
The fledgling cries out, hands darting forward to tangle in Gianpiero's shirt, and then he's latching to his chest, desperately chirping, pleading for reassurance.
He still has soft hatchling feathers, smeared red, and Gianpiero supports him with one hand, the other coming up to curl gently behind his head as he coos softly, backing away from the car.
His wings are heavy and waterlogged, but he strains his back lifting them anyways, wrapping around the fledgling to shut out the rain.
He doesn't look at the dying man again.
------
The fledgling's name is Max. He's 14, a falcon subspecies, and he's probably never going to fly.
His right wing is shattered, needs hours of corrective surgery that Gianpiero doesn't think twice about telling them to move forward on.
His blood type is A-, he's small for his age, and he's-
"...most likely imprinted on you, Mr. Lambiase. Fledglings at that stage, after a traumatic event, are going to look to the nearest adult to take care of them, and there is a very good chance he's picked you."
Gianpiero blinks at the social worker. First responders wear masks and helmets to avoid accidental imprinting, but Gianpiero hadn't-
He hadn't thought about it. Hadn't allowed himself to consider the idea that there was a fledgling- barely a fledgling, still with fuzzy little hatchling feathers- in that wreckage.
"I, uh,"
He pulls his wings tighter against his back. The warm blankets have helped to dry them back off, but he tries his best to be spatially aware of his surrounds- having a heron wingspan isn't always a helpful thing.
"I need to call my boss."
------
Max is 16, speaks softly, and doesn't fly. He's had more operations than Gianpiero likes to think about, but he won't even try, refuses to even visit common lift off areas.
Gianpiero wouldn't dream of pushing him- they utilize non-flight spaces as much as possible, and they live on a lower level accommodation, which was both cheaper and easier to access than where Gianpiero had been before.
Most people don't like being so close to the ground. GP doesn't mind- his subspecies means he likes to use his legs, and Max needs the accessibility.
He still works out his back and shoulders. Gianpiero has quietly wondered about it before, why Max chooses to train his flight muscles with no intention to ever use them, but he's never asked.
It's Max's business.
------
Max is 19, leaving Gianpiero's nest for his own place not too far away. There's a light brace fitted around his right wing, overlapping carbon fiber and intricate pulley systems to allow full supported range of motion.
He still doesn't fly.
He'll go up higher into buildings with Gianpiero now- they can frequently utilize skyways and platform spaces up in the sky, as long as Max doesn't get too close to the edge.
He's still Gianpiero's tiny little fledgling, and he still fits perfectly under his wings.
"Dad, you are a heron, I'm always going to fit under your wings."
"Exactly."
------
Max is dating a dove. A high profile, flirty, racing driver dove.
Gianpiero has never approved of anyone less in his life. He'd been a fan of the songbird from uni, now that had been a nice boy.
Apparently, Max and the dove- Charles- have history. Gianpiero doesn't care for him at all, and certainly not for the way he leaves feathers everywhere, bright white against the couch cushions.
------
Charles isn't terrible. He's grown on Gianpiero like a leech, and he's preformed the miracle of at least getting Max within a few meters of a lift-off range before he'd backed out.
It's more progress than anyone else has been able to make.
They've been dating for a few years now, growing into their twenties. Gianpiero sometimes looks at Max and sees a small bloody fledgling, has to bundle him in his arms and wings until tears no longer burn hot on his lash line.
Max tolerates it.
------
They're at a FIA event, all dressed up for hours of self-absorbed speech giving, something Gianpiero has learned to tune out while still looking like he's listening.
Max had taken a few years to catch on, but he's getting better at it, although he still looks annoyed if a camera ever lands on him.
They're mingling up on the aerial platform, and there's drinks flowing, which is a safety violation that's not usually an issue- but the F3 drivers are here tonight, so everyone is being responsible.
They're supposed to be, anyways.
Gianpiero has spotted more than a few young drivers with drinks they shouldn't have, and he's trying to keep an eye out, but there's so many of them- they're playing some ridiculous game of catch, small wings flapping around as they trip over their own feet.
Hugh pulls him into a conversation with a Ferrari engineer, and his attentions drifts.
It's fine.
It's fine until it's not, fine until there's a terrified screech, fine until he snaps his head around just in time to watch a fledgling fall over the edge, time slowing down.
The F3 drivers should be able to fly and glide short distances. They can't pull a recovery dive, not at this hight, not inebriated. Snapping out their wings- it would tear their muscles, snap their joints.
They need- Gianpiero unfreezes the same time as everyone else, darting to the edge- it's been three seconds, four seconds, they need an eagle or a vulture, six seconds, seven seconds, they need-
They need speed, need someone who can make up those seconds, they need-
A flurry of brown and blonde darts past him, arcs gracefully over the edge before wings tuck in, and the towers emergency lights flash on.
There's a small blur dropping fast.
Max is moving faster.
Gianpiero feels like he's going to throw up when the blurs collide, heart in his throat when Max doesn't immediately flare-
He's still diving, but he's extending his wings slowly, twisting into a arching upward curve, bringing himself to a speed manageable by species other than falcons, and he's curving back towards the tower.
Someone has corralled the other fledglings, and they're trying to clear a space for Max to land- a landing that will undoubtedly be messy, because he's never done it before.
Max finally flares closer to the tower, wings snapping out fully behind him, fledgling clutched tightly in his arms as he lands in a staggered run, crumpling to his knees on impact.
Gianpiero is at his side in an instant, hit with a wave of complicated emotions-
Max has his wings curled tightly around the F3 driver, cooing gently.
Gianpiero had done that once.
Someone has gotten the medical team, and they're making their way onto the upper deck as Max uncurls his wings- it doesn't escape Gianpiero's notice that his right side moves stiff and slow.
There's a flash of vibrant white in the corner of his eye, and then Charles is crouching next to them as well, cooing softly to coax the fledgling out of Max's arms.
It's careful work to disentangle them, but the fledgling finally works with them, moving over with the medical team.
Gianpiero wraps his arms around Max gingerly, wings curling over them both, giving Max the privacy to drop his head onto his shoulder.
"Max,"
Max makes a soft noise, and something hot and wet drops onto Gianpiero's skin.
"Hurts, dad."
"We'll fix it."
He'd worried, as soon as he'd seen Max flare his wings- he has anchors and stabilizers in the muscle and bone, but the speed of the dive, the force of the flare-
There's a chance the muscle is shredded.
Max buries his head further into Gianpiero's shoulder.
"It felt so nice, for a second."
Gianpiero tightens his wings, nudging the sides of their heads together.
"I'm sorry, Max."
Sorry that none of them had gotten off the platform sooner, sorry that Max had put the pieces together faster than the rest of them, done the math in his head, sorry that all the surgeries in the world will never fully repair his wing, sorry that he'll never experience flying the way he should-
He's sorry for all of it. If he could cut off his own wings, give his boy a chance, he would. He'd do it in a heartbeat.
He squeezes the back of Max's neck gently.
Max sniffs, sitting back up as Gianpiero slowly lowers his wings.
"Is Kimi okay?"
The F3 driver is tiny- Gianpiero had heard gossip about one of the junior drivers being a pygmy owl, and it must be this one- but he's standing on his own two feet, dutifully listening to the medical team.
"It looks like it."
Max's shoulders slump in relief, but his right wing stays hitched up behind him, trembling in place.
Gianpiero opens his mouth to say something about it, but a brilliant white wing extends underneath the curve of Max's sharply angled one, offering a rest.
He shares an appreciative glance with Charles, unspoken that in this they're on the same team.
They always are, when it comes to keeping Max safe.
Max laughs softly, looking at GP.
"Maybe if that German hospital had a songbird you could've not ended up baby trapped by imprinting."
Gianpiero narrows his eyes, feathers bristling.
"Don't say that. I could never regret you, Max. I wouldn't have wanted someone to pull you away- imprinting goes both ways."
Hadn't that been a surprise, the first time someone had offered to watch Max while Gianpiero went to a meeting and he'd puffed up, wings spread wide threateningly.
The first few years had been a learning process for them both.
He leans forward, knocking their heads together briefly.
He's so proud of his boy, all grown up and out of the nest, and he hasn't quite processed yet that Max had flown.
"But maybe no more jumping off buildings? I'm getting too old for you to be doing that to my heart."
Max grins weakly at him.
"I think the fledgling rescue thing just runs in the family."
It's not the worst family trait Gianpiero can think of.
"Maybe it does."
Trying to draw everyday before race as to manifest a lestappen 1-2 (max 1 obviously) 😵
Max pulls his shirt off, eyes trained on Charles. He does not want to miss the moment Charles spots it. The shirt is stuck in front of his eyes for a second before it's gone.
Charles' jaw is on the floor, his eyes fixed at skin below his left pec. CL16 embellished in black.
"Max, what is this?" Steve is frowning at him, the camera now trained to the ground.
Max feels a bit ashamed now, he thought it'd be funny, he forgot people other than Charles will see it. Or that it'd be an problem while shooting. Oops.
"We need you to visit makeup again, Max. You canno-"
"I lost a challenge." His eyes snap to Charles, he seems to have regained some semblance of coherence, "And we have to allow him to shoot like this."
"Charles, with all due respect, I am not sure that'd be good for the brand."
Charles' hand pats Steve's shoulder, eyes not leaving Max, "You know how it is Steve, a challenge with the boys, we have to be honourable."
Max suppresses a giggle at that. Challenge with the boys.
"In fact!" Charles' eyes finally meet his, "I'll join Max. We can place me in front of his boo- tattoo and hide it." He snaps a smile at Steve.
Max can feel the colour drain from his face. He cannot survive Charles near him, cannot survive a shirtless Charles.
Steve purses his lips, fiddling with his camera as he ponders.
Say no, say no, say no.
"Fine. But no more surprises."
Charles tears his eyes from Max for a second and shoots an assuring smile before stripping off right there!
Max's eyes snap towards him and Charles grins predatory.
A hand comes up, resting under his ribs, a thumb caressing over the tattoo, shooting a shudder through him.
He suppresses a moan as Charles leans closer at Steve's instruction, his lips next to Max's ear.
"Two can play this game, Maxie."
You remember the Anom with the idea of girlmax with the boobs tattoo? Why we didn‘t talk about our max with the boob tattoo for Charles ?
Maybe they have a bet who will win this year championship as to : Charles openly only wear Red Bull merch and Max - well max maybe has to model for Charles new swimsuit line.
And maybe Max lost and now he has to do the most annoying thing ever modeln. So he came up with the idea to get a real tattoo of Charles number as a small joke ( it’s fake)
On the day the picture gets public Charles has a heart attack and all day hard on. Nothings looks better on Max as Charles number AND THEN ALSO UNDER HIS MAN BOOBS HELLLO?
You are right anon, it could 100% work with boy Max! ... plus I adore the idea of Max modelling for Charles' swimsuit line!! I've seen the pics of Max on the beach and he looks so good in swimwear!
Oh god, Max thinking it will be a hilarious joke to get the number 16 tattooed on him but then Charles almost dying as soon as he sees it and not being able to function properly. Plus it is drawing his attention to Max's boobs (as if his attention wasn't going to be drawn there anywhere) and he can not look away.
Bonus if Charles is also modelling the swimwear alongside Max so the fact he is hard is super difficult to hide!
"Your rut's in a month, right?"
Max opens his cupboard, pulling out three Red Bull shirts and dumping it in is bag, "Yeah, around three weeks, I think."
An arm snakes around his waist, Max rests his back against Charles' chest as the other kisses up his scent gland, "Baby, please carry something other than RB kit."
"Sure," He tugs at an Alpha Tauri, letting it slide off and into the bag.
There's a groan against his neck, Max laughs, Charles is so easy to rile up.
The hand tightens on his waist as Charles sighs, "I want to mate you so bad, Max, it'd be so easy to. I can do it now, you can bite me back."
His stomach swoops, it'd be so easy. He'd be Charles' just like that. Charles will be his.
"If it triggers either of our ruts, we'll miss your home race." He turns around, pulling Charles closer by his waist. His eyes are closed but his face is peaceful, Max cups his cheeks, "and you wanted to mate at home."
"Stupid me."
Max rolls his eyes, pulling the Monegasque's head down to rest on his shoulders, "Yeah, you are."
A smile presses against his shoulder, Max kisses his hairs.
_
The paddock noise feels like something pressing at a live wire exposed in his body.
Every smell carries a scent, every touch is scorching at his skin. They were warned it's sensitive after mating, your senses mingle into one- you feel for two people. Max doesn't even like feeling for himself.
"Maxy!"
His eyes dart towards the source, tension draining as Daniel makes his way to the space between wrapped tyres and the wall.
"Congratulations, fucker!" His body is covering Max's, hands messing the strands placed to perfection. Max feels like home.
"No one knows yet."
Daniel's grin widdens, his eyes zeroing in at the mark. Max feels the heat rising in his cheek. Charles broke skin there, it's red and purple with the blood pooling beneath the surface, he loves it.
He whistles at Max, hesitating a second before putting his arms across his shoulders.
"I can tell. You look like a spooked deer."
Max feels the crimson darken, he pushes the hand off him.
"I am fine, of course."
Daniel purses his lips, "Of course."
A beat.
"I have extra nose blockers?"
Max takes one of the ghastly looking blockers with Pierre's face on it (Secret Santa gift, he hopes.) and dares Daniel to speak anything of it. He is fine, of course.
Maybe with a food poisoning (They should have never cooked themselves) and a sore throat (That, he doesn't regret) and too much sweating (The June of Barcelona is hot.) and he can feel everything Charles does and all Charles feels in Ferrari is pain. It's okay, they told him it'd be like this.
I'll never write something as good as writing
"He'll make up some story about dinosaurs and Oscar will nod like he understands what it means to be human."
From that one lestappen+ kid Oscar fic that I wrote ages ago.
y’all expose yourselves and take this fanfic test i was just forced to by an irl so now i’m making you too
oh wolf, you antisocial weirdo. I love him so much
it's time for top/bottom discourse to end. the only thing i want to hear about is which one is the sex crier.
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Lando Norris/Carlos Sainz Jr Characters: Carlos Sainz Jr, Lando Norris Additional Tags: Hurt No Comfort, Angst, Read at Your Own Risk, sad Lando, Depressed Carlos, Lando needs a hug Summary:
Carlos has thought about it a lot.
He’s been planning it for a long time.
And he’s finally decided what he has to do.
But there’s one thing he needs to do before he does it.
——–
Here is my first ever Carlando fic. I hope you all enjoy it.
Max: *Says something slightly egotistical*
Media: Max Verstappen, always having to be on top
Charles: *Starts laughing from the other side of the room*
WAIT YOU ARE FOOTBALL NERD
Dude, I am so gonna bother you with questions ✨
The research is KILLING ME SLOWLY
Last match of the season. The game rarely ever comes down to this. Max knows Charles is going to be in his head, always is, before a match. They play West Ham today. Fate isn't entirely in their hands, if Man City wins against Liverpool, they will be second. If they tie or lose, they win. He knows Charles hates that. He knows in his heart, Charles will win. Richmond will win.
"Will you be there?"
Max blinks the sleep out of his eyes, Max is always there. He has loved this sport before Charles. He has loved Richmond longer.
"Of course."
Why are you asking? hangs in the air. Charles tip toes around it, refolding the same shirt thrice. Today, Max will be patient. He tries to be, always. Charles rarely ever leaves him wanting. He gives and he gives without asking. For him, Max will wait. Always.
"If we don't-" his mouth clicks shut, Max wants to pull Charles back into the bed.
"If we don't win, will you still kiss me?"
Max frowns at him, "I will, of course, always kiss you."
"No." He shakes his head,
Then again before sitting at the foot of the bed.
"In the audience, at the railings." He stops the abuse on the shirt in his hand, resting it on Max's duvet covered feet, "If I come to you, will you kiss me? Even if we don't win."
Penetration is a gender-neutral act. Topping is gender-neutral. Bottoming is gender-neutral. You are not more or less of a man or a woman depending on how you fuck. You are not “fake trans” for having sex a certain way. You are not any less masculine for bottoming or any less feminine for topping.
Formula 1 - Incorrect Quote 39
Charles: Holy fucking shit!
Max: *Who recently watched Avengers* Language
Charles: Putain de merde!!
Pierre: I'm sure that's not what Max meant, calamar
Max: *Blushing* Did he just swear in french? OH MY GOD I'm so gay
Daniel: I knew it
in fact, i strongly believe suguru missed satoru just as much
Last match of the season. The game rarely ever comes down to this. Max knows Charles is going to be in his head, always is, before a match. They play West Ham today. Fate isn't entirely in their hands, if Man City wins against Liverpool, they will be second. If they tie or lose, they win. He knows Charles hates that. He knows in his heart, Charles will win. Richmond will win.
"Will you be there?"
Max blinks the sleep out of his eyes, Max is always there. He has loved this sport before Charles. He has loved Richmond longer.
"Of course."
Why are you asking? hangs in the air. Charles tip toes around it, refolding the same shirt thrice. Today, Max will be patient. He tries to be, always. Charles rarely ever leaves him wanting. He gives and he gives without asking. For him, Max will wait. Always.
"If we don't-" his mouth clicks shut, Max wants to pull Charles back into the bed.
"If we don't win, will you still kiss me?"
Max frowns at him, "I will, of course, always kiss you."
"No." He shakes his head,
Then again before sitting at the foot of the bed.
"In the audience, at the railings." He stops the abuse on the shirt in his hand, resting it on Max's duvet covered feet, "If I come to you, will you kiss me? Even if we don't win."
I am writing the most niche audience of one person fic EVER.
Richmond AFC player Charles Leclerc X Engineering Undergraduate/ WAG Max Verstappen