once again the brainworms got me. i just think they're neat.jpg
Oscar canât look directly at it, suddenly, the shiny black scribble - he reaches down, tugs Landoâs polo shirt back over his stomach and says with as much bravado as he can muster: âNow youâve got a tattoo, too.â
Oscar realises the second heâs said it that itâs weird that heâs signed Lando like a neon orange hat or a driver card or someoneâs t-shirt. With his own name.
who do you carry the torch for - 5.6k - sebastian vettel & charles leclerc
i started writing this months ago and suddenly got the urge to edit & tidy it up, so heeeeere it is - what i've been referring to as 'the ferrari horror story'!
âWhy didnât you tell me?â
He isnât expecting Charles to speak, and it startles him. He flinches at the weight of the accusation. Kneeling on the ground, he takes Charlesâs hand, bends close.
âIt wasnât - itâs not like this for me.â
Charlesâs voice is quiet. Fearful. âBut you do - you do feel it.â
I feel it, Seb thinks. The sleeplessness, first a night here or there, then more. Then most of them, and the sleep he does get invaded by dreams he cannot explain and which wake him, sobbing or shouting, in a cold sweat.
call me by your name - 7.7k, lando norris/oscar piastri
you know when you're in the discord with your pals and one of them (@lattesqueeze) has an idea that makes your brain turn into a fizzy worm and then the other one (@wanderingblindly) outlines an entire plot and you can't let the side down so you write nearly 8k words of porn about it? that. here's our collective landoscar/call me by your name inspired lovechild where non-driver!oscar has a one-night stand with lando.
âSay that again.â His own voice sounds unused, gravelly. Landoâs eyes widen, just a fraction.
âFreak,â he murmurs, pulling Oscarâs shoulders downward. Oscar goes easily - heâs not sure he knows how not to be easy for Lando, for whatever this is. Landoâs face is just to the right of Oscarâs, now: Oscar thinks, stupidly, that he could take Landoâs gold chain into his mouth.
Lando tips his mouth close to Oscarâs ear. âFuck me, Lando,â he moans, obscene and ridiculous and - shit, Oscar thinks, Iâm into it. Iâm not *not* into it.
âYeah?â Oscar closes his eyes, again, again. He canât keep looking at Lando beneath him or heâll die, heâll burn up like a comet.
Landoâs hand is wrapped round his wrist, stroking softly with one thumb.
âWanted to fuck me like a big romantic but wonât even tell me your name?â
I needed something to do with my hands during a very long, boring meeting, so here's 1k of the rosbergs having a perfectly nice functioning marriage, thank you very much.
(i am once again sorry for how i treat nico in every fic i write x)
God, he's awful when he comes home after a race like this. Needy and uptight and sharp round the edges.
"Wine, baby?" She knows her lines. He turns up his eyes to her, doing his best puppy-dog face. "Please, darling. A big one. Today was -"
She's better at this, normally. She can smile and hmmm and nod and soothe, but today - if she has to listen to another sad, pining monologue about Lewis, thinly-veiled as a complaint about him being faster or better in turn three or whatever it is, she'll scream. She digs her fingernails into her palm.
"One large wine coming up!" She interrupts brightly, and escapes to the kitchen. It's not that she minds: it's what happens, isn't it? A quiet affair or two never shakes the foundations of a truly strong marriage, and that's what she and Nico have - it's built on shared dreams, like buying the house in Ibiza, and shared values, like how they always seem to end up wearing outfits that compliment one another perfectly. It's just that it's Lewis, and Nico forgets himself sometimes - lets it tip over from what Viv assumes is mostly a series of repressed little handjobs in dingy garages into something a little bit more moony-eyed and silly. Nico just needs to be smarter about it.
It's getting worse though, the talking about it after. At first it was just all the good bits of your husband having an affair, like flowers. Not red roses - Nico isn't quite so pedestrian - but huge, lavish displays of peonies, conveniently timed to arrive a day or two after a particularly close race. It takes Vivian a few weeks to realise that it seems to happen more often when Lewis wins, which is strange, but she's not here to judge her husband's sexual appetites. Then it became little shopping trips, or hours of oral sex. She doesn't mind that part, but it gets a little bit tedious - he's always so smug afterwards, as though he's pleased to have repaid the debt, and the way he affects a selfless little smile, murmuring, 'Oh, no, darling, tonight is just about you' - well. She prefers the flowers.
Nico's draped across the whole of the sofa like it's a fainting couch. Vivian wrinkles her nose: he's showered, probably, he's quite fastidious, but the blue denim on those jeans will transfer onto the cream if he isn't more careful.
"Baby. The sofa." She says, a little sharply. He flinches and sits up, accepting the glass of wine: he rearranges his face back into the perfect long-day-at-the-office grimace.
"Sorry, thank you." He takes a small sip, prim, as though checking she's chosen the riesling and not the awful chenin blanc someone brought as a gift. She bristles, just a little: she wishes he'd have more faith in her ability to understand what he needs, sometimes.
"So," she says, because she truly thinks she can't face the Lewis show tonight, and she's not in the mood for a consolatory handjob to distract him. "Have you thought any more about the end of the season?"
It's high time, she thinks. It's silly, when they've got two girls - when they could be out, enjoying themselves, not hanging around dirty racetracks. They could be in Sardinia four months of the year if they wanted. They could open a little ice cream shop: something pretty, with her name over the door. Nico's face twists into something a little bit stupid, which Vivian is pleased to find she still finds quite endearing.
"If I win, Vivi. You know this." He's been saying this for a year already. She plucks a stray strand of dirty blonde hair - Nico's certainly, because she's just had her highlights touched up - from the sofa cushion to stop herself from biting her teeth into something.
"Hmm." She supposes it would be an adjustment, having him here all the time. Vivian prides herself on being independent: she likes her own space. The moping after he retires will be unbearable, until he finds someone else to keep him occupied. It's a shame the girls don't have a nanny, any more, really: the last one really was quite pretty, but he didn't seem to notice. "Well. I just want whatever makes you happy."
He tilts his head carefully - she tries hard not to think of it as his therapist-approved-listening face, but it's what it is - and nods, taking her hand in his. He's got beautiful hands. It's one of the things she likes most about him: he's very aesthetically pleasing. "Thank you, my love. You know how much it means to me."
"The racing?" She says, not quite rhetorically. Nico scrunches his nose up. "Of course. What else?"
She thinks of the sound of him sobbing in the bathroom after Barcelona, two months ago. He'd turned on the rainfall shower, of course, but he forgets - he always does underestimate her - that Vivian has exceptional hearing. He'd really let it get to him, that one. He was quiet and clingy for days, a little waver in his voice every time he began a new post-mortem of the weekend, of the ways in which Lewis was betraying - voice crack, big blue eyes filling up with tears - their friendship, of how things might never been the same. She'd suggested, eventually, that one day this would be excellent content for an autobiography, which surely would be a best-seller, and then he'd smiled, pleased at the thought, sniffing through the tears. Vivian always knows how to cheer him up.
"Of course," she murmurs soothingly in response. She moves to sit, perhaps so they can look over some of her designs for the new apartment block in Nice - he's always attentive and generous with his praise and his financial support, which is important to Vivian. Supporting one another's careers is truly the sign of a modern marriage. He catches her wrist though, looking up at her all doe-eyed. Ah.
"I thought," he says, placing a suggestive hand on her hip, "Seeing as I've been away -"
Vivian ensures her face is appropriately sensual. "Oh!" She glances at the sofa again. "Maybe - the bedroom, though, baby. The -"
Nico pouts. "The sofa, I know. But I'm being adventurous." She feels the beginning of a migraine creeping up her spine.
"Please?" She says it soft, like she knows he likes. He shrugs, and from this angle she can see the hint of something yellow-purple just below his collarbone. It's not in the shape of a whole mouth - just the graze of teeth, maybe, and she feels a flash of irritation snap up her spine. They're being really rather stupid with it now - adventurous, indeed.
When he lays her down, begins his usual routine of kissing - her shoulder, between her breasts, her stomach - always a comment about where she had grown him their beautiful daughters - she stares at the ceiling and thinks about jacquard weights for curtains, remembers to make the appropriate noises at the appropriate times. She's so lucky, she muses: husbands this attentive are hard to come by, she knows from her discussions with other women. It's all a matter of perspective.
on the faultline (chapter 1) - lewis hamilton/nico rosberg, WIP
i finally finished the first chapter of what's shaping up to be a pretty long old take on the brocedes lore. have a read! i have included suggested listening! i will make a playlist once i'm done (i may not have finished writing the chapters but by god i have selected all the songs)
Lewis leans back over the railings, smiling to himself. Anything, indeed. Heâs breathing in a lungful of salty air, riding the thrill of a miniature flirtation, when -
âGod, itâs always the little blondes, isnât it?â
Lewis feels the taste of the sea air turn sour in his mouth. Rolls his eyes before he turns to face the voice.
âOh, good. Youâre here.â Monotone is all Lewis can manage. The sky hasnât changed at all - still an expanse of cornflower blue - but he feels as though the air pressure has ratcheted up around him, pressing in on his throat.
Nico stands before him, a navy jacket and cream chinos.Â
Fucking deck shoes. Not a drop of sweat on him, his stupid hair falling perfectly. A smug, shit-eating grin plastered over his face.
Lewis has got better at ignoring Nico away from the racetracks: haunting the same tiny town with a kind of spectre-like avoidance, if he canât just be somewhere else altogether.
Heâs got better at nodding a polite hello in the hallway, before diving into the parking garage lift to avoid further conversation. Heâs got better at acting as though Nico simply does not exist whenever he can. Itâs not painful, any more - not like a wound. He can handle seeing him at a track better: heâs had enough media training now that it doesnât trip him up, much. There are moments, even, in an interview, where he can forget - just for a second. But out in the street, in his apartment building, without chance to prepare himself - itâs like an old, familiar ache, bad knees in the rain or an old karting injury when it gets cold. But he can handle it.
Then again, Nico doesnât usually sidle up to him on a boat, not a single other person or camera between them, and make - jokes.Â
