send a heart and a ship for a brief snippet!
↳ 🤎 multiple kisses / kisses all over / kiss after kiss
trying to force myself to deal with lewrarri by making him win his 8th wdc 🙂↕️ (also tbh i kind of hate this, but ig it'll have to do)
The screams of the crowd are deafening, a fever pitch rising until he can barely hear his own breath. The crowd is a sea of rosso corsa and fluro yellow, a horrid mix in George’s opinion; Lewis’s chosen neon shade doesn’t match quite as nicely as it did with his own blue or Mercedes’s teal.
The podium ceremony is a blur, exuberant and overwhelming. He tries to linger, watching Lewis on the stage as he is doused in champagne, how he is meant to be, but the media pen would wait for no one.
It feels like a dream that Lewis won his eighth championship in São Paulo. It’s their place, Lewis’s honorary home, the track where George took his first win. And despite the shit Ferrari put him through this season, the inconsistent car, the confusing strategy calls, the indecisive priorities, the attitudes of certain fans, he had won it.
George knows he won’t see Lewis for hours still, everyone wanting a piece of the record-breaking champion. He heads back to the hotel, prepares for bed, and waits.
The click of the room’s door opening rouses George, unaware that he even fell asleep at all. Lewis is still sticky, slightly damp with champagne, but at least he is not wearing any garishly red team gear.
“Congratulations, Mr. World Champion,” George says, his voice a little hoarse from his unintentional nap. Lewis grabs his face, squishing his cheek, and peppers kisses anywhere he can. He’s electric, giddy and vibrating like he’s about to explode.
Soon, Lewis’s hands and mouth start shifting, moving further and further down his body, dropping kisses and caresses wherever there’s an inch of skin. George should probably convince him to shower the sticky champagne off him first, but he doesn’t have the self-control or the desire to do so.
hiii gio i can't remember if i already sent you a prompt for your follower celebration, but if i didn't (and only if you feel like doing one) here you are!
🎥 — your favourite star trek episode!
congrats on the milestone <333
here you go, friend! i love this episode a whole lot <3
send a heart and a ship for a brief snippet!
↳ 💜 surprise kiss / impulsive kiss
i am noticing a pattern in my gewis writing... breaking news, tumblr user gr63wdc really wants george to win races
The club is loud, overwhelmingly so, packed wall-to-wall. The smell is just as overpowering, but that can’t be helped by the rate of alcohol consumption and sweating. If it were anywhere else, or for anyone else, Lewis would have left hours ago. But of course, he’s here, sitting in the back corner of an overcrowded English club, nursing his non-alcoholic drink.
When George had won Brazil almost two years ago, Lewis was still learning his teammate. Lewis knew better, by then, to immediately open his arms to a teammate, especially one who kept beating him. So they weren’t friends, obviously coworkers, maybe acquaintances, but not friends.
But crossing the finish line, watching George’s car cross it ahead of him, he felt a spark of something he never had before. He’d been proud of a teammate before, although usually paired with varying degrees of jealousy and resentment, but this was different. It was sweeter, softer, fonder. It was after, after getting out of the car, after hugging George, with his hand against George’s helmet, that he understood.
George’s eyes, the only bit of him visible through his open visor, were teary. He was beautiful. It wasn’t the first time Lewis had thought that about his teammate, nor would it be the last. Anyone could see how beautiful George was, even when he used way too much gel in his hair. But Lewis wished that their helmets weren’t in the way, that he could hold his palm against the soft skin of George’s cheek, press their foreheads together, wipe his tears, breathe the same air.
But Lewis wasn’t a god, despite what his fans believed; he couldn’t phase his hands through George’s helmet or pause time in that moment. So instead, he just patted the side of his helmet so that George could fling himself at all his exuberant engineers and mechanics. And life moved on.
If Lewis started noticing George more, staring for just a little longer than before, going out of his way to give George gifts he knew he would enjoy, or spending more time together, that was no one’s business but his own.
That’s why Lewis is still here, in this club that wasn’t his scene even when he was a rookie. George had won again, this time in Silverstone. Lewis wasn’t on the podium with him this time, just one place off; he couldn’t get the car to come alive like George did, disappointed with an almost. But then again, George had much more experience with shit cars than Lewis did.
“Lewis!”
He turns his head to see George walking toward him, bouncing and joyous. He is flushed, two spots of red high on his cheeks. He is still relatively put together, almost all of the buttons on his shirt accounted for and closed. His smile is wide, pushing everything else away like there is no room for anything that isn’t excitement at seeing Lewis.
He launches into a story about something, maybe to do with the upgrades that are coming in the next few weeks, but Lewis isn’t listening. He watches George’s hand move as he speaks, the way his eyelashes flutter closed when he blinks, the way his lips shape his words.
Lewis closes the distance between them, puts his hand on George’s cheek like he wanted to in Brazil, and kisses him. George is frozen for only a second before he jolts into action, hands gripping tightly to Lewis’s biceps.
Lewis pulls back earlier than he would like to, presses their foreheads together instead. They shouldn’t be making out right now, even if it’s mostly their team; he’d rather they not be caught in the background of someone’s Instagram story.
“Oh,” George says. He moves back a bit more, surprised and wondering. He reaches up to ghost his fingers against his lips, like he checking for an imprint or proof. Lewis wants so badly to kiss him again, but he settles for wrapping his arm around George’s waist and tucking him into his side.
(if i already sent smthn in pls ignore/delete this i forgor </3) GIOVANNI!!!!!! congrats on 300 followers, ur such a talented gifmaker and i feel so blessed to be mutuals with u and have u on my dash <3 for ur celebration, im curious: 🎥 + your favorite marvel movie? once again congrats and ily <3
hi kai!!!!!! here you go, beloved!!!!! i hope you like it <3
send a heart and a ship for a brief snippet!
↳ 💙 drunken kiss / tipsy
this got to be much more introspective and bittersweet than i was originally intending but i hope you like it!!!!!
George is radiant in the flashing club lights, brilliant and fiery and victorious. He’s sweating, flushed, and tipping more toward drunk than tipsy at this point of the night. His shirt is partially unbuttoned and drenched in champagne, his hair curling around his face. He’s never been more gorgeous.
When Lewis retired the year before, finally achieving the eighth title he was promised with Ferrari, he knew people were not expecting him back, to hang around the Mercedes garage. He wasn’t at every race, not with the fashion line, and he tried his best to avoid being cornered by tabloids. But now, here, tonight, he’s so grateful that he decided to come to Las Vegas with George.
“Lewis!”
Lewis looks up to see a heavily disheveled George making his way towards Lewis’s back corner. He had been sitting there most of the night, watching the team ply George with drinks, tearfully congratulating and toasting their new champion.
George is prattling on excitedly, leaning heavily against Lewis’s side. He’s holding some fruity drink an engineer handed him, half drunk and mostly forgotten. Lewis takes the drink out of his hand, well aware of the ways George’s limbs get wild and loose the more he drinks.
With his other hand free, George wraps both arms around Lewis’s neck, still trying to describe some secondhand gossip he had heard from Alex, who had heard it from one of his engineers. Lewis knows he should put a stop to the alcohol consumption because tomorrow’s hangover will be fun for neither of them. But he remembers his own first championship, young as he was, and how many days it took for him to recover.
George has stopped talking, instead staring intently into Lewis’s eyes. His hand is tracing the tattoos on Lewis’s neck, fingers dancing around the “God” and pinky ghosting over the edge of the lion’s mane. It feels reverent, like he’s trying to worship something, and it, terrifyingly, feels like that object of adoration is him.
“Lewis,” he whispers. “Lewis, I won.”
Lewis just hums, overwhelmed in the face of George’s joy. His eyes are so bright, shining like he is constantly seconds from tears. His smile is small though, meant only for the two of them, tucked in the back corner of some overpriced, outrageously themed American club, while the team, their family, continue celebrating around them.
“I’m so happy,” he continues. “I love you. I want to win more championships for you, with you.”
He then grabs Lewis’s face in his hands and kisses him all over his brow, his cheeks, and his chin before giving one firm kiss on the lips. He tucks his face into Lewis’s neck and wraps his arms around them, eyelashes fluttering closed against Lewis’s collarbone.
It aches a bit, hearing George’s want to win more championships with Lewis at his side. It should have been Lewis at Mercedes until retirement, because they were his team, but then they couldn’t give him the car he, or George, needed and he had a chance to achieve his dream. He took it, even though it meant leaving George. It worked out fine in the end, of course, with two championships between them in the three years since they had been teammates.
Lewis wraps his arms around George’s waist, presses his face into his hair, and breathes in the familiar, comforting smells of champagne and sweat and George. He lays a kiss there, between the wet curls of George’s head, and thinks, I want you to win more championships with me, too.
