top 5 fics you wish would spring forth fully formed on ao3 for you to read right now, including pairing/trope/wordcount/whatever
Hello, friend! Excluding existing or notional WIPs, the list is probably something like this:
1) The Franco/Lando one I'll never have the knowledge or nuance for where Lando is a young gentleman officer in her majesty's royal navy, and Franco is a dockworker at one of their ports of call, 15k+, period typical homophobia (but they know what they like)
2) The Landoscar one where Oscar is a marine biologist and ocean creatures make Lando squirmy but he likes Oscar an awful lot (actually this one isn't off the table to get written someday, lmao) 5-10k, meet cute get cuter
3) The Norrix one that's 60k of their whirlwind world travels. Maybe in a five times style. Five times it wasn't their honeymoon (and one time it was).
4) The Gabico one that's sun-drenched and sexy and languid. Explicit, 12k
5) The Gabico one that's a character study about crossing paths in the sunrise and sunsets of your career, with Gabriel the ascendant promise of what could be and Nico as a reminder that not everyone makes it to the top of the mountain. Full of banter and conversations that are about something else, actually. Max, Alonso and KMag feature heavily. May or may not even have sex (probably does), author swears it'll be 15k but it comes in at 23k.
one time years & years ago i saw jessica lange and sam shepard walking down royal street in the french quarter. they had their arms around each others waists, just strolling along on this pretty autumn evening. they were both so hot, even from across the street, that i had a mild panic attack.
Lando grew up on Jenson’s house parties. He was his father’s coworker, then a friend and finally, Lando’s uncle. Not by blood but by that association children make of the friends their parents bring home and the pervasive need for the adults to say ‘this is your uncle/aunt’ to make sense of confusing links. As if that doesn't make it worse later on.
Now, finally old enough to walk into a pub without feeling like he’d be hunted for sport if people found he was a wee lad under 18, he’s been set loose in Jenson’s birthday party. His parents are off for the weekend and he is sitting in one of the stools at Jenson’s breakfast bar, drinking aperol spritz and talking to one of the few people here who are under 30. Her name is Jenny and she is a bartender. She met Jense when she had to kick him out of the bar at 3am and he apologized the next day with chocolate and backseat sex.
Hearing about Uncle Jense’s sex life through snippets spilled from other people’s mouths comes to feel like trying to make a complete picture out of the scraps left after making a collage. It makes Lando’s head swim. A backseat shot, a bathroom blowjob, a threesome in Berlin, ‘did you know he slept with a guy working in Vogue?’ ‘He fucked that finnish guy, didn’t he?’ ‘No, but he tried!’
“Here’s my favourite lad!”
He comes unannounced, his hand heavy on Lando’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise and Lando whines and squirms. And Jenson laughs. His smile appears first and the rest of his face materializes a second later in his eyes. He’s magnetic, vibrant, with a silk blue shirt and a white blazer, matching pants, a thin silver chain hanging from his neck, blonde hair went salt and pepper last summer, he’s ditched dying his hair in exchange for tanning beds. A chemical for a chemical and a daiquiri malibu with ice to clink against Lando’s half full glass of aperol.
“Cha-ching, are you having a good time?”
“We were talking about you,” Jenny says, Lando had forgotten she was there.
Jenson quips an eyebrow, looking at Lando. “Bad things only I hope.” And he winks.
“The worst” She winks, downs her Cuba Libre in one go and says she doesn’t remember how they became friends after hooking up and Jenson replies ‘I’m charming like that’.
Jenny leaves, Jenson stays, picking a stool and throwing Lando a look that tells him there is a certain humiliation to come in whatever Jenson will ask.
“Wanna know who was my first?” Lando nods and Jenson’s smile turns wicked. “Miss Wingham, from Peckham, my sister’s French tutor. She had tits that made you dream…”
Lando laughs, desperate to cover the awkward lump growing inside his throat, something sandy and irritating lodged just under the epiglottis.
Jenson puts a hand on his back, patting the space between his shoulder blades. Lando can feel his warmth even through his shirt.
“Who was yours?”
He looks away, down, up, at what remains of his drink and then at the tips of his shoes dangling just an inch away from the floor. Shrugging, he finally dares to look back at Jenson, his lips pulling back to reveal a toothy grin that means nothing. And Jenson just stares.
“Really?” His hand, high on Lando’s back, falls slightly. It’s a subtle drop, maybe he’s disappointed his little disciple learnt nothing of the art of seducing and conquering. “Saving it for someone special?” Lando chuckles and shakes his head. His throat has gone dry and chasing the remains of orange at the bottom of his glass is not making him feel better.
Jenson’s hand reaches the small of his back, Lando’s shirt rides up when he moves and he can feel Jenson’s palm on his skin.
022. a neglected or derelict treehouse, noah/jonas >:)
The rain outside is black, death-heavy, more dangerous than the missing boards and rusty, twisted nails in the floor of this treehouse, more dangerous even than towheaded boy Jonas followed up into it. More dangerous than the man that boy will be someday, decades from now and a year ago. They sit together on the sturdiest floorboard, huddled against the cold, and they shiver from it, and from fear, though they're both too proud to admit to that one. The rain radiates downward, beats a frantic tattoo on the treehouse's tin roof, and Noah's arms are thinner than his own, weaker, as Jonas wraps a hand around each of his wrists and kisses him with more teeth than anything, kisses him until he tastes blood in his mouth. And then he keeps going, because he knows what will become of both of them, and so he knows, horribly, that even though this world has already ended, there is nothing in it that could kill him in the ways he would want it to.
my KINGDOM for some present-day sebson. literally anything about them, established or otherwise. bonus points for seb being incredibly into jenson's grey patches and smile lines and the overall passage of time.
ahhhhhh, HERE is. 1.5k of present day sebson!! it's uhhhh. i don't really know what it is, i just sat down to write and then. this happened. hope you enjoy!!
“Seb. Seb.” Jenson’s got both of his hands planted firmly on Sebastian’s shoulders, holding him in place. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
Sebastian lifts his eyebrows, his mouth quirks up slightly. His curls are tinged with sweat, sticking to his flushed skin. Jenson thinks maybe he saw him dancing earlier, out of the corner of his eye. He kind of wishes he’d paid more attention, knows that seeing Seb on the dance floor is a rare occurrence these days.
They’re at a rooftop party. The night air around them is a bit chilly, but there’s warmth coming from the crowd of bodies surrounding them, and from the alcohol coursing through Jenson’s blood.
“I-” he starts, but then Seb bites his lip like he’s holding back a laugh, and Jenson narrows his eyes at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Jenson lifts one of his hands from Seb’s shoulder, points a finger at his face. “Like that,” he accuses.
Seb snorts. “You’re drunk,” he says, smiling.
Jenson frowns, makes an affronted noise. “How dare you,” he says. He straightens his back, places both hands back on Seb’s shoulders. Not because he needs help with his balance, obviously, just because. Seb’s there, and he can, so. “I’m not drunk.”
“You definitely are,” Seb says, and he’s full on beaming now, not trying to hide his amusement.
Jenson shakes his head. He turns to the guy standing next to Seb - some Aston Martin team member that he’s sure he’s met before but that he can’t for the life of him remember the name of. He thinks it might start with an M. “D’you think I’m drunk?” he asks.
“Uh,” M-something says. Mark, maybe? No, that’s Webber. Michael? No, that’s Schumacher. “You’re definitely not sober, mate.”
Could it be Mick? No, that’s the other Schumacher. Maybe this guy has a point. Jenson turns back to Seb, who’s still smiling at him, eyes crinkled up. “Fine,” he says. “I’m a little drunk.”
“I know,” Seb says, the little shit.
“Are you drunk?” Jenson asks. His hands are still on Seb’s shoulders. He digs one of his thumbs into his collarbone, just because he feels like it, and he can.
“Ah,” Seb says, tilting his head slightly, He looks like he’s considering it. “I’m getting there.”
Jenson’s attention is drawn to the drink in Seb’s hand. “Aha,” he says, smirking. “What do we have here?” He grabs the glass, brings it up to his lips and takes a sip. He regrets it instantly. “Ugh, that’s-”
“Jägermeister,” Seb says, smirking.
Jenson’s face is pinched together, he sticks his tongue out in an attempt to get the taste out of his mouth. “Of course it is,” he says. “I should have known.”
Seb just laughs at him, and grabs his drink back. Jenson watches as he takes a swig, downs the rest of it in one go. He doesn’t even flinch, and then he licks his lips after, like it’s that good that he wants every last drop.
“I’ll leave you fellas to it,” M-something says, bringing Jenson’s attention back to him. He’d forgotten that he was there. Could it be Max, maybe? No, that’s Verstappen. Why are there so many M names in Formula 1?
“See you later, Mikey,” Seb says, and fist bumps him.
“Aha!” Jenson exclaims. Both Seb and M-guy, Mikey, give him a funny look. “Uh, I mean. Yeah. Later, Mikey.”
Mikey nods, still looks a little confused, and then he’s walking away. Jenson turns back to Seb, who’s got a small, fond smile playing on his lips.
“What was it you wanted to tell me?” he asks, peering up at him.
Jenson blinks at him, confused. “What?”
“You said, when you came over here,” Seb says. He touches Jenson’s elbow lightly, smiles at him. “You had something to tell me.”
“Oh, right,” Jensons says, pinching his brows together, trying to remember. He’d been- at the bar, and then he’d seen Seb, and- he shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”
Seb laughs again, and Jenson smiles. He’s always liked making Seb laugh, even when it isn’t exactly intentional.
“Memory getting bad with your old age, eh?” Seb says, teasing. He punches Jenson’s arm, but it’s too soft to hurt. It’s almost like a gentle pat, really.
Jenson groans. “Don’t remind me,” he complains. “Did you know I’ve started going grey?” He runs a hand through his hair, over the sides where he knows the grey patches are the most prominent.
Seb squints at him. “No you’re not,” he says, disbelieving.
“I am!” he says. He leans forwards, runs his hand over his hair again to show Seb. “Look at this!”
Seb’s quiet for a moment. “I can’t see it,” he says.
Jenson huffs and leans back. “Well, the light’s not exactly great here, is it,” he says. “But I swear.”
Seb considers him for a moment, eyes searching his face and then landing on his hair again. Then, there are fingers circling around Jenson’s wrist, and he’s being pulled through the crowd of people.
He stumbles a little at first, not prepared for the sudden movement, but he finds his bearings quickly and speeds up a little so he’s walking closely behind Seb. “Where are we going?” he asks.
Seb turns his head slightly to smile at him. “To find some better lighting, of course.”
They have to go inside and one floor down to find a bathroom with lighting that Seb deems acceptable. Jenson is pulled inside, and the sharp, white light is a stark contrast to the night sky and the dimmed lights they’d been surrounded by outside.
“Right,” Seb says, and he steps in close, lifts his hand to touch the side of Jenson’s head. “Show me these grey hairs then.”
Jenson’s mouth feels suddenly dry. It’s been a while since he’s had Seb this close. It’s been years, actually. He swallows, bends his head a little so that Seb can get a closer look. His fingers are soft where they’re running through the short hairs, gentle.
“Ah,” Seb says. “I see them now.”
“I told you,” Jenson says. He takes a step back, has to really, for the sake of his own sanity. He’s about three seconds away from kissing Seb for the first time in years, and he’s not sure that’s the best idea. He looks in the mirror that’s hanging over the sink, runs his own fingers over the grey patch, examining it. “I’m thinking of dyeing it.”
“Don’t,” Seb says, quickly. He clears his throat. “That’s- I mean I don’t think you should.”
Jenson turns to look at him again, leans back against the sink and crosses his arms over his chest. Seb, apparently, takes this as an invitation. He steps closer, breaching the space between them again. He raises his hand, runs it along the side of Jenson’s head, eyes fixed on the movement. Jenson takes a deep breath and lets his eyes flutter shut.
“I think it looks good,” Seb says, voice soft, hand stroking his hair.
Jenson opens his eyes. “Yeah?” he asks.
Sebastian nods, shifts his gaze to meet Jenson’s. He blinks, smiles up at him. Their height difference is so prominent when they’re this close.
Jenson lets out a breath, can feel his heartbeat picking up. “Seb,” he says. He brings his hand up to trace the side of his face, lets his thumb run through the stubble on his jaw.
Sebastian smiles, presses his head slightly into the touch. “Jense,” he says. His eyes are twinkling. He almost looks amused, again.
Jenson clears his throat again, has to if he wants to get any words out. “It’s, uh. It’s been a while, since we-”
“I know,” Seb interrupts. One side of his mouth tugs up into a half-smile as he leans in closer, brushes their noses together. “Could be fun, though.”
Jenson feels his own lips twitch into a smile. He lets his hands fall down to rest at Seb’s hips, thumbs drawing slow circles against the fabric of his jeans. Seb leans in even further, pushes their lips together in a kiss, warm and gentle and familiar.
It’s been years, but suddenly it feels like it hasn’t been any time at all. Jenson kisses him back, smiles into it like he used to do when this was a frequent thing, when this was how they blew off steam after races. He briefly wonders how Seb does that now, if he’s found someone else in the paddock to help him.
They break apart to catch their breath, and when Jenson looks at Seb now, he thinks it doesn’t really matter if he has. He leans back in, leaves a quick peck on Seb’s lips.
“Do you wanna get out of here?” he asks, can’t help the way he smiles as he says it.
Seb quirks an eyebrow at him. “What, you mean out of this semi-clean, too bright bathroom?”
Jenson laughs, nods his head. “Yeah.”
Seb kisses him again, firmer this time. “I’d like that,” he says against his lips.
There’s a hint of Jägermeister still lingering on Seb’s mouth. Jenson finds he doesn’t mind it so much, now.
request to ramble about size difference please and thank you
oh GLADLY. its terrible. the size difference is just perfect for them to lock into each other. by that i mean, jenson will (and has) just leaned down to fit into the crook of seb's neck. seb on the other hand will gladly go up on his tip toes to fit if jenson doesn't lean down. wish i was joking. its literally so...just. like okay you need any sort of evidence please look at my intricate rituals tag. full of them just...just. reaching towards each other. just needing to be in each others gravity. its so heartwarming its sickening. i love it.
they're also the perfect height that like??? if for some reason they don't go into a full hug, seb is still perfect height to just rest against jenson i think at the right place. like just against his chest. like if our friendly giant pulls in seb from the side he's still ending up near the chest and its great. the worst part???? they like???? it's not awkward??????? its comfortable and familiar and it has been for years.
