I Just Wanted To Send You Fanmail, Let You Know How Much I Love Your Blog, And Your Writing! I Think

I'm sorry but is this supposed to look like they were NOT just fucking in one of their driver rooms? nico tucking in his shirt does not help with the allegations.

Launt / ''Chapter 1''

Still struggling with the Launt fic (I'm not satisfied with this at all) but here's the first ''Chapter'' because I feel bad for taking so long.

This is an unpolished version. If I upload the fic on AO3 it will probably be a tiny bit different just because I'll probably change a few things so constructive criticism is welcome! With that said I hope y'all enjoy!

1970

Their paths crossed on a sun-baked afternoon during the qualifying session at a British track. Niki had been on a flying lap, perfectly in control as he hit every apex with precision. Then, out of nowhere, James appeared in his mirrors, a blur of speed and audacity. Without hesitation, James forced his way past, shoving Niki off the racing line as if the rules of racing didn’t apply to him.

Niki was forced to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision, his car fishtailing slightly before he regained control. Anger surged through him as he pulled into the pits after the session, where he saw James casually leaning against his car, a smug grin plastered across his face.

“You call that racing?” Niki barked as he stormed over, his usually calm demeanor gone.

James barely looked up, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. “Come on, Lauda. Can´t handle a little push?”

Niki’s jaw tightened. “You shoved me off the line. My line. You have no respect for the rules.”

“Rules?” James chuckled, shaking his head. “This is racing, mate, not a Sunday drive. If you’re not willing to take risks, you’re in the wrong sport.”

For a moment, Niki stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, the urge to punch James in the face almost overwhelming. But instead, he took a step back, exhaling sharply. “Arschloch,” he muttered under his breath as he turned his back on James. He walked away, determined to focus on the next race. He had no time for brash idiots like Hunt.

James watched him leave, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Asshole.”

Yet, fate has a funny way of intertwining the lives of those who seem destined to clash. Over the next few months, as the season progressed, Niki and James found themselves crossing paths more often. At first, it was nothing more than icy glares and terse nods. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, things began to change.

It all started with a rain-soaked evening at a track in the middle of nowhere. The day’s races had been called off, the downpour turning the circuit into a treacherous mess. Most drivers had retreated to their trailers or nearby hotels, but Niki, ever the perfectionist, had stayed behind, poring over notes about his car’s performance in the day’s practice session. He sat in the back of his team’s garage, his brow furrowed in concentration, while mechanics packed up around him.

James, on the other hand, had been on his way to the nearest pub when he caught sight of Niki alone in the garage. For reasons even he couldn’t fully explain, he stopped in his tracks. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was just boredom, but instead of heading off to chase drinks and women, he found himself wandering over to Niki’s side.

“You know, Lauda, staring at that car won’t make it go faster.” James quipped, his voice cutting through the sound of rain drumming on the metal roof.

Niki looked up, surprised. His first instinct was to brush James off, but something in the Englishman’s easy grin made him pause. Instead, he sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“Maybe not. But understanding why it didn’t go fast today might help tomorrow.”

James nodded, hands in his pockets as he surveyed the sleek machine in front of them. “Fair enough. But sometimes you’ve got to step away, clear your head a bit.”

Niki smirked. “I’m guessing your idea of clearing your head involves a few pints and some poor woman you’ll never call again?”

James chuckled, unoffended. “Maybe. But you might be surprised. Sometimes, it’s more than that.”

Niki raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “More than that? From you?”

James shrugged, taking a seat on a nearby tool chest. “People see what they want to see. Doesn’t mean that’s all there is.”

That was the first real conversation they had, one that stretched on for a surprising amount of time as the rain fell harder outside. The next morning, Niki found himself thinking about their talk, replaying James’s words in his mind. Maybe there was more to the man than just reckless driving and reckless living.

After that night, they began to spend more time together. It wasn’t anything planned—just a few minutes here and there, small talk—brief exchanges about lap times, car setups, the quirks of different tracks. Then came the late-night conversations, where they found themselves discussing life beyond racing. James was surprised to find that beneath Niki’s stern exterior was a dry wit and a surprisingly sharp sense of humor. Niki, in turn, discovered that James was more than just a reckless playboy—he had an uncanny ability to see the bigger picture, even if he rarely showed it.

One weekend, during a break between races, Niki and James found themselves at the same shabby motel in a small town just outside the next race circuit. It was the kind of place that had only one pub, where all the drivers ended up after long days of practice and qualifying. That evening, after the usual chatter about the upcoming race died down, Niki surprised himself by agreeing to join James for a drink.

The pub was dimly lit, filled with the scent of spilled beer and the low hum of conversation. James, as always, seemed to know everyone, and within minutes, he had introduced Niki to half the room. Niki, more reserved, stayed by James’s side, sipping his drink quietly as the night unfolded around them.

After a few rounds, they found themselves at a table in the corner, away from the noise. James leaned back in his chair, a relaxed smile on his face. “So, Lauda, tell me something. Why racing? Why not some cushy job back in Austria?”

Niki looked at him, considering his answer carefully. “Because I need to win. I need to be the best at something that matters.”

“Doesn’t everything matter, in its own way?”

“Not like this,” Niki replied firmly. “In racing, there’s no gray area. You’re either faster, or you’re not. You’re either alive, or you’re not. That kind of clarity… it’s rare.”

James nodded, understanding. “And that’s enough for you? Just being the best?”

“For now,” Niki said, though his tone suggested there was more he wasn’t saying.

James didn’t push. Instead, he took a long drink, then grinned. “Well, you’re a damn sight more interesting than I first thought, Lauda.”

“And you’re not as much of an arschloch as I first thought, Hunt,” Niki responded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy,moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious,gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tango ever bro could cause a nuclear bomb inside me and I'd still ride.

New Evangelion au update

Max (and his Eva)

There’s a story post coming to that very soon.

"Leave my hand." "You first..."

With a wicked grin, James maneuvered through the crowd until he was right next to Niki. The Austrian glanced at him briefly but continued his measured response about race strategy. Without warning, James grabbed Niki by the shoulders and pulled him into a kiss.

The world seemed to freeze. Cameras flashed furiously, reporters gasped, and Niki’s eyes widened in shock and confusion. As they broke apart, the paddock erupted into chaos.

Launt ficket coming soon ;)

there's something to be said about the pipeline of blonde, extroverted, german f1 drivers falling in love with even more blonde, introverted, nordic f1 drivers.

I mean michael and mika? seb and kimi? nico and kevin? this needs to be studied.

party rockin in the houseeee tonighttt

tag list!! lmk if you want to be added/removed! @97leclrc @ineedassistance28 @beebeebee2224 @33milian @mclarenyaoi @toppamplemousse @rubywritten @fleshmouth @aliassimes @formulanni @fopzaferrari @run2max @hurricane-heatt @three-days-time @crozierahegao @albonoooo @macbethot

Niki as Karl Lagerfeld and James as Jacques de Bascher.

I said what I said

F1 x Neon Genesis Evangelion au

Max.

Story post to my previous drawing.

"Cut the signal! Shut it down!" Voices overlapped in his comms, frantic and useless.

His hands trembled against the controls. He wasn’t piloting anymore. He was inside something alive, something hungry, something that had always been waiting for an excuse to take over.

Max’s hands gripped the controls, fingers slick with sweat, blood pounding in his temples.

The Angel before him was relentless, its form twisting and shifting with eerie fluidity. Every strike was a surge of primal energy—a force that Max couldn’t seem to contain, no matter how hard he pushed Unit 33 to retaliate. His EVA was battered, bruised, the armor cracked and peeling away in places. But still, it stood. Still, it fought.

Another wave of energy hit, sending Max reeling inside the cockpit. He gritted his teeth, his body jolted violently as his EVA staggered backward, but it didn’t fall.

He couldn’t fall.

He had been fighting this Angel for what felt like days. The city around him had become little more than a memory—broken fragments of steel and stone scattered across the battlefield. But he was still there, still standing.

But he didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.

His vitals were spiking. The monitors flashed with warnings, but Max barely registered them. His breath came in ragged gasps, the LCL in his lungs thickening with each inhale. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his body, the kind that echoed deep into his bones, but it didn’t matter. He had to keep going. He had to fight.

There was no room for weakness.

He wanted to retreat—just for a moment, to assess the damage, to regroup, to think. He wanted to find a way to make sense of it all. But every time the thought crossed his mind, his heart raced. His chest tightened. Because if he stopped, if he gave in, lives would be lost.

People were counting on him.

He was their perfect pilot.

A perfect pilot didn’t retreat.

A perfect pilot didn’t allow failure.

Not when there was a city to protect. Not when people needed him. Not when NERV was watching, waiting for him to perform—to succeed.

Max’s heart hammered in his chest. His breath came out in short, sharp bursts. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, for release, but he refused to listen. His hands trembled, but they didn’t leave the controls.

NERV had no patience for weakness. They never had.

They didn’t care if he was hurt. They didn’t care if he was dying.

As long as he was standing, as long as he was able to fight, he had no choice but to keep going.

No one else should do this. No one else could do this.

He couldn’t stop.

With a deep, shaky breath, Max drove Unit 33 forward again, the EVA’s claws scraping against the cracked asphalt. The Angel was already charging toward him, its limbs twisting and shifting, ready to strike once more.

His pulse raced. His sync rate spiked dangerously. The cockpit shook violently as the Angel’s tendrils slammed into his EVA, throwing him back again. Max’s vision blurred as he fought to maintain control, his hands gripping the controls so tight his fingers went numb.

Pain flooded his chest. Pain shot through his head.

But he couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t give up.

“Max! Your vitals—!” The voice crackled over the comms, but it was distant, muffled, like someone shouting from far away.

It didn’t matter.

Max’s jaw clenched, his breath harsh and uneven. The world around him felt like it was spinning, the edges of his vision darkening, but he pushed it all down. He could still fight. As long as he could move, as long as he had breath in his lungs, he could keep fighting.

He had to.

He was their perfect pilot. The one who never stopped. The one who never failed.

Even as his body screamed for rest, even as his mind teetered on the edge of exhaustion, he kept going. Because the world demanded it.

Because they expected it.

A flicker at the edges of his vision. The sync rate display spiked.

85%... 90%... 94%...

He growled, shaking his head. "Not now. Not yet."

A second strike. The Angel’s attack tore into Unit 33’s plating, exposing the writhing mass of muscle beneath. Pain surged through him—not real, but real enough. His nerves lit up as if he had been struck himself. The sync rate climbed again.

97%... 99%...

"Max! Keep control!" The voice—his comms officer? His strategist? He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.

The anger came in a wave. A deep, all-consuming heat. The walls of the entry plug pulsed around him, the LCL thickening, as if alive. The heartbeat of the EVA—his heartbeat—pounded in his ears.

100%.

Then, silence.

It felt like hours had passed.

Unit 33 twitched. Its jaw cracked open wider than it should. A low, inhuman snarl vibrated through the battlefield.

The EVA moved—and Max wasn’t the one moving it.

With a deafening roar, Unit 33 launched itself forward, faster than before, limbs contorting, armor splitting as its organic form expanded. It tore into the Angel like a rabid animal, ripping through its core with bloodied claws. The once-monolithic creature writhed and screeched, but Unit 33 didn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop.

Max gasped, trying to override the controls. Nothing responded. The EVA thrashed wildly, breaking the Angel apart piece by piece, ignoring the fact that it had already won. The thing was dead. And yet, Unit 33 was still moving, still destroying, still devouring.

"Cut the signal! Shut it down!" Voices overlapped in his comms, frantic and useless.

His hands trembled against the controls. He wasn’t piloting anymore. He was inside something alive, something hungry, something that had always been waiting for an excuse to take over.

The last thing he heard before everything went black was the sound of his own laughter—low, broken, and not entirely his own.

—

The cockpit disappeared.

The battlefield disappeared.

Everything disappeared.

—

Max floated.

Drifting in a vast, endless sea of nothingness, weightless. lost in a space without shape, without form.

It was as though the air itself had melted away. There was nothing. No edges, no boundaries. Just an infinite softness wrapping around him, enfolding him like a cocoon of silence. He couldn’t name it—the color, the sensation. It wasn’t light, but neither was it dark. It was... something. The absence of something. Or everything.

Every time he tried to name it, the thought slipped away, like sand through his fingers.

A slow breath.

The emptiness felt warm in his chest. It wasn’t his breath. It wasn’t his body. But the air still moved. It still filled him, and in that slow rise and fall, he felt something.

He knew this place.

A sense of relief bloomed, quiet and deep. It was as though something heavy had been taken from him, something unspoken, something he had never let himself acknowledge. A breath that he hadn’t known he was holding.

He Knew. Unit 33 was tearing apart the Angel—or worse, something else.

He could hear it. NERV was screaming through comms, trying to reach him.

But he didn’t care.

Because this was the only place where he could be vulnerable.

No battle. No expectations. No weight crushing down on his shoulders, forcing him to be perfect. Here, he didn’t have to hold up the façade of strength, didn’t have to wear the armor he’d built around himself.

Here, there was nothing.

And in that nothingness, it was waiting for him.

A figure stood above him. Watching. Protecting.

It had no metal, no restraints, no plating to hide behind. It bared its true form—muscle and sinew, raw and unshaped, not human, but something close. Its eyes, deep and endless, held something he couldn’t name. It reached for him, but did not touch him. It didn’t need to.

Its presence was vast, too large to understand, and yet its outline was etched into his mind as if it had always been there. It didn’t move, but he felt it, hovering above him like a shadow without a form. Or maybe it was light—he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that it was watching.

A strange pulse—faint but unmistakable—washed over him, and the space around him seemed to shift, as if the very nothingness breathed with him.

He felt held.

It was holding him.

Keeping him safe.

It was not a grip, not an embrace. It was a knowing, an understanding that didn’t need words or touch. It existed between the silence, in the place where nothing could reach him.

And for a moment, he allowed himself to float in it.

Weightless.

There were no edges. No time. The concept of moments felt like waves, but they never broke. He drifted, and yet he didn’t move. And somewhere beneath it all, he could feel it—the thing that had always been there.

He didn’t know if it was his.

He didn’t know if it was him.

But it was with him.

His fingers twitched. His body, for the first time in so long, felt light.

His eyelids grew heavy.

He let them close.

His mind felt detached, his thoughts soft like ripples in water, fading before they could take shape. There was no rush. No urgency. Only the slow, quiet rhythm of something waiting.

The figure above him remained, and in its presence, he didn’t feel the need to understand. He only existed—floating, breathing, and being held by something that wasn’t quite light, and wasn’t quite shadow.

A moment, perhaps. Or maybe, no moment at all.

It didn’t matter.

He let go.

Let it take over.

And for the first time in a long time, Max rested.