beerenee
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Bill,
Thanks for your letter of January 31st detailing your loss of the Thunderbird Invitational. I hope you know that I don’t keep up with that kind of thing, and you could’ve just as easily have told me that you took home the whole damn prize. I guess I should thank you for your honesty, shouldn’t I?
All is well here, thanks for asking. I really am sorry that I’m not able to come to more reunions, but New York is a long way to travel even to visit with nice people. Maybe I’ll get up there someday, but I’ll bet that you salty bastards must get up to enough excitement without me there. Tell the fellas I say hello the next time it rolls around.
If you’re still in California, my wife and I would be happy to host you at our home here on the outskirts of Los Angeles. We’re still at the same address we were when we were married back in ‘49. (Some four years ago, now. Can you believe it?) So, swing (haha) by if you want to. Ring if you decide to come or Alma will bite my head off. My extension is enclosed, and it hasn’t changed either, as you know.
Faithfully yours,
Jay
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Or, Bill and Jay are not good people, but they are exceptional lovers. -
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In an instant, he remembers seeing her marching behind her father down the streets of Aldbourne, every bit as serious and severe as a ranking officer. It would be difficult to forget that harsh, determined look (trained only on the next step forward and the next) on an otherwise gentle, round face framed by dark curls.
That look is trained on him now, her green eyes are a shock to the rest of her, sharp and intelligent. They seem to dig into him almost instantly.
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Or, the story of Ron Speirs and his first wife -
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Lewis Nixon has been on his last nerve, but he knows better than to fill up a whole sheet of paper with how much he dislikes somebody. Not pleasant to write about and certainly not pleasant to read. He has this latent desire to make his accounts something that DeEtta likes to get beyond the simple joy of receiving word from a friend. They deserve to have some kind of entertainment value.
All the same, he walks across the Fort Benning fields in the newfound heat of April to the post office and lets himself just think for a second what he might say to DeEtta if he wasn’t worried about being a bother.
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Or the drafts of letters that pile up in Dick's mind when he starts considering what he WOULD write about Nixon -
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“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me on that front,” he promises her, believing it fully to be the truth.
Nevertheless, she seems unconvinced. “Don’t I?” she says, leaning in as though whispering a secret to him. She has a clean scent to her: lemon, linens, and eucalyptus.
“For starts, you don’t know me,” Rosie tells her, and though his mind wills him to pull back, the body is weak. Even in Texas, February is cold, and he can feel her warmth from where he stands.
There is an extended moment, torturous honestly, in which neither of them move. In which she just stares at him as though their strangeness to each other wasn’t a factor she’d considered before. Or maybe that’s a thought from his own mind and the drinks are confusing him. Either way, she grins once more, and only then does Rosie realize that up until this point he had been seeing behind a curtain that has suddenly snapped closed on him.
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Or, Rosie can't help himself from getting reeled in by a taken woman -
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The figure crouches down, and it’s easier to see him now. His blue-gray eyes hold the beginnings of amusement, if that counts for anything. Said sunlight is making his red hair light up all golden-like. The name tag on his uniform reads “Winters” which is almost an irony. “You look a little worse for wear, soldier,” Winters says.
It takes Lew a minute to find himself. “Yeah?” he answers finally. “Well, you look—”
But however Winters looks, he is not to know. Rather than finish his sentence, Lew rolls over onto his side and loses that second half of his lunch. Puking is an activity he’s friendlier with than he’d like to be, he’s very familiar with the territory. It’s been a long time, however, since he’s had a hand on his back, patting him through the worst of it.
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Or Lew finds out what devotion really means in the shape of someone who could never return it
Recent bookmarks
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It’s 2035, and Max has removed F1 from his life.
Bookmarked by beerenee
11 May 2026
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cause I know what it feels like to wanna walk away by lavender_ghoulfriend
Fandoms: Formula 1 RPF
15 Apr 2026
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"I just. I do not know what I will be when I am . . . " Max's voice cracks, "done racing. And I know it is not fair to bring this to you, but."
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Or: 2025, behind the scenes
Bookmarked by beerenee
26 Apr 2026
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Max hasn't let more than a few sips of beer pass his lips, wheaty and stale. His regime is tight and his schedule doesn't allow for any underage drinking, so he hasn't exactly thought about it. He knows that boys his age have already begun to clink back shots of vodka, tequila, anything they can get their hands on, but Max isn't like other boys, Max doesn't have the time to do these things.
He splits his time from track to track as his father drives him around. It's lots of the same thing, and he tells himself that none of it makes him miss his sister or his mother, he tells himself that he isn't jealous of those boys, tells himself that he doesn't want these things. It adds to a layer of deep cold that permeates his bones. He’ll keep ignoring that though.
It isn't until he meets Daniel that he ever really drinks.
AKA
The prequel to Orange Juice, a Max centric retelling of the 2025 season and a 5th World Championship.
Series
- Part 1 of The Orange Juice Universe
Bookmarked by beerenee
02 Feb 2026
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“Hi, Daniel,” the man at his door says, tentative with a sideways smile. There’s sweat on his hairline and two cage-like boxes in his hands. He hears a meowing come out of them when he shifts to set them down.
“Max,” Daniel breathes out, floored and caught in the way Max rubs at his own arm awkwardly. Max just smiles.
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Based on the Stick Season (Forever) album by Noah Kahan
Bookmarked by beerenee
11 Jan 2026