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[sebrrari]

a few of my favourite things

apocalypse au; multiple pairings in order of appearance (pierre/este, lando/oscar/carlos, galex, nando/guanyu, lestappen, sewis)

read on ao3

The moment of Totality passes, and it takes Lando all of two seconds before he discovers his hands have morphed into unbreakable iron and are now a fair bit heavier than they used to be. It’s good he figures it out quickly, after a brief Holy shit, because then the ground opens up and swallows him whole.

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anyway. as glad as I am that all the HP business is reminding people to boycott F1 sponsors on the BDS boycott list(*). god knows there's no such thing as an ethical F1 sponsor. Big Oil Vroom Vroom is about as morally bankrupt as sports get. bootleg merchandise save me. aliexpress my beloved. etc etc

(*) reminder that Puma also sponsors Merc & Williams as well as Ferrari + too many sports teams to list; luckily they are all on their website.

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Sewis + bookshop + space au, if you will :)

[trope mashup ask game]

It's easy running the best infochip shop in the galaxy when you run the only one, but Hamilton's could handle the competition. Sure, Lewis makes sure there's plenty of engineering manuals, guides to identifying the galaxy's native flora, and almanacs that predict when the nearby stars are set to go supernova, the sort of stuff traders need, the stuff that pays the bills. But if you walk a little further into the store, you hit the good stuff. Literature from the early days of spaceflight, and before. Old religions, sorted by number of gods in the pantheon, and he actually bothers to keep the Old Earth monotheisms straight, like they used to, back then. The really good stuff--the sappy interspecies romances, plus the practical guides of how to fuck when one of you has scales and one of you has tentacles--he keeps in the back room.

Sebastian Vettel's been coming in every half-solar for fifteen solars, now, long enough that Lewis has seen him go from bright-eyed space jockey to grizzled veteran. Lewis knows the timing of his missions, but not what he does on them. Sure, he might actually be in the fuel trade, that might be risky enough to have landed Sebastian the perfectly seared laser-beam scar across his forehead and the knifepoint puncture scar in his tricep, but Lewis has always had his suspicions.

Lewis doesn't ask, of course, because there's a code to these things. Sebastian comes in every half cycle, buys a lunar's standard wage worth of romance chips, and doesn't talk about his injuries. It's enough to know the intricate details of a man's fantasies. His reality would be too much.

A few of Sebastian Vettel's preferred fantasies: violent domination (especially humans being dominated by Oktos, the five-tentacled species whose unfortunate human name, a reference to the similar eight-armed Old Earth creature rather than their actual number, had stuck before humans figured out how to pronounce their species' own name for themselves). Threesomes (species irrelevant--what Sebastian likes is the emotional dynamics at play. Competition, rivalry, and surprisingly, everyone living happily ever after, together). Mentor/mentee dynamics, but he won't buy the ones set in the military, which is strange, because they're the most popular. Not that Lewis would ever comment on the strangeness of a man's tastes. He has his own strange fantasies.

A few of Lewis Hamilton's preferred fantasies: Sebastian Vettel, in the back room, against the bookshelves. Sebastian Vettel, bending him over the desk where he calculates how many more lunars he'll be able to afford the rent on this building, now that the property taxes have gone up to fund the newest expansion. Sebastian Vettel's space cruiser, the only ship in the galaxy Lewis can identify simply by the vibratory pattern on the floor of his shop as it touches down or takes off out front, busting its diffuser and staying perfectly grounded. Sebastian Vettel, staying.

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elf on the shelf if he slayed

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Neighbour AU + Mutual pining (mickcedes or brocedes please) 💙

[Trope mash up prompts] This might have to become a series, because I got 1k into this and realized I hadn't even gotten to the mutual pining! But here you go, mickcedes monaco neighbours AU:

After breaking up with his girlfriend of four years, Mick musters the courage to ask Seb for his realtor so he can get the hell out of his sister’s place. Gina is awesome—the best sister Mick could ask for—but it’s clear that she’s become somewhat peeved after six weeks of taking care of her older brother.

Seb’s realtor is a terrifying blonde woman named Britta, and when Mick meets her for coffee—black for Britta and a cappuccino for Mick—she pulls up a map of Europe on her phone, holds it out to Mick and says, “Where do you want to go?” 

Mick swallows. He has the force of his family’s bank account behind him, which really means he could go anywhere. He pictures himself in the UK, in Greece, in Norway, in a beautiful island cottage in Croatia and says, “I’ve always wanted to live in Monaco.” 

“Monaco,” says Britta, tilting her head in consideration. “We can do Monaco.” 

-

Three days later, Britta texts Mick a plane ticket to Nice, the receipt for a rental car, and a link to tour a residential high rise virtually. Mick opens the link and flips through images of a sun-drenched condo on the sixth floor. He’s not much of a designer, but he imagines a dining room table beside the french doors that open onto the balcony, a flatscreen on the wall of the living room, and family photos on the mantel. 

He could live with it, he thinks. I like it, he texts Britta. 

-

Britta holds open the door for Mick, awfully gentlemanly, and nods at the doorman like she’s already met him. The lobby is bright and modern, and a plaque made from sun-bleached driftwood reads BIENVENUE on the front desk. 

The elevator ride to the sixth floor is uneventful, Britta and Mick leaning against opposite walls. The floor numbers tick upwards on the LED panel above the door. Britta tucks her hands behind her back and assesses Mick coolly. 

“You know,” she says, conversationally. “If Sebastian ever treats you unfairly, you can tell me, and I’ll sort him out. He can be a selfish little man when he isn’t thinking straight.” 

“Thanks,” Mick squeaks, willing the elevator doors to open. It’s difficult to categorize anything Seb does as unfair when Mick still has stars in his eyes looking at him. It’s Sebastian Vettel, his dad’s protege. 

“I’m serious,” says Britta, fiercely. 

As if sensing Mick’s discomfort, the elevator jolts to a halt, and a ding signals their arrival at the sixth floor. Britta makes an after you kind of gesture, and Mick slips out of the elevator. 

-

When Mick and Britta are done touring the apartment, Mick accepts Britta’s offer to show him around the city. He’s been here before on family vacations, but not since… Well, that doesn’t bear thinking about. 

Britta locks the door to the apartment behind them, and Mick turns around to stride towards the elevator, and runs smack into another body carrying a box of something green.

“Desole,” says Mick, mustering disused French. He shoots an arm out to help the stranger balance his box of what looks like—asparagus and artichokes and various varieties of leafy greens.

“Pas grave,” says the stranger, clutching his box of produce to his chest. Mick pulls back, and the stranger transfers the box to one arm, using his freed hand to sweep the hair out of his eyes. 

The stranger is bright blonde with fine wrinkles at the corners of turquoise eyes like he’s older than his otherwise smooth features suggest. He’s dressed in linen from head to toe, a pair of designer sandals on his feet that Mick only recognizes from his mother’s beach wardrobe. 

Britta snorts behind him. The stranger looks past Mick and wrinkles his nose at her. 

The awkward encounter is over in a matter of seconds, and the stranger is brushing past Mick, presumably to get to his apartment, while Britta ushers Mick towards the elevator. Mick shakes his head clear while Britta pushes the button for the lobby. 

“Do you know him?” Mick asks. 

“Ha,” says Britta, a thin smile growing on her jaw. “Sebastian does. That’s Nico Rosberg, an angel investor in the sustainable energy sector. He lives in Monaco with his husband, a designer.” 

“Rosberg as in Keke Rosberg?” says Mick. 

“That’s the one,” says Britta.

-

A month later, Mick finds himself on a plane to Nice for the second time, his most important belongings crammed in a mountain of suitcases and stowed with the rest of the luggage. Seb offered to fly with him and help Mick set up, but Mick felt somewhat guilty for stealing Britta for so long and wanted to prove to no one in particular that he could make the move by himself. 

He retrieves his new keys from the front desk, and after an afternoon he has most of the important things assembled, which is to say a toaster, an espresso machine and a bedframe. He opens his laptop and half-heartedly scrolls through an online furniture store, but gives up on the third page of bespoke credenzas. He doesn’t even know where he would put a credenza. 

In the end, he wraps himself up in the one sheet he bothered to bring with him and passes out on top of the mattress. 

-

Mick wakes to a knock on his door. He experiences a fleeting thought that he’s still staying with his sister, and it’s her boyfriend knocking on the door to take her out for breakfast before he realizes he’s in his new apartment in Monaco and Gina is thousands of kilometres away. He flings the sheet off his torso, still wearing yesterday’s t-shirt and joggers, and slogs through the apartment to answer the door. 

When Mick tugs the door open, Nico Rosberg is standing on the other side, a basket of greens once again clutched in his hands. Another man, with a deeper complexion, stylish facial hair, and a face stacked with piercings, stands at his shoulder, looking somewhat bored. 

“Hi?” says Mick, uncertain. 

“Hello neighbour!” says Nico Rosberg, foisting the basket on Mick. “We wondered when you’d move in. I’m Nico, and this is my partner Lewis. We live two doors down.” Nico gestures vaguely at the other end of the hallway. “Lewis, say hello,” he sing-songs. 

“Hey, man,” says Lewis. 

“Uh,” says Mick, struggling under his new armful of kale and other vegetables. “Thanks? Can I…” he glances backwards into the apartment and notes the kitchen, which is empty of everything but the toaster and coffee machine. “Invite you in for coffee?”

Nico laughs ebulliently. “Of course not. We wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of your hospitality when you’ve just moved in. If you need anything from us, though, just knock.” He grins flatly at Mick, lips closed. Something about it reminds Mick of Britta. 

“Thanks,” says Mick. “I’ll just…” he breaks off. 

“Great,” says Nico, still smiling his flat smile. “Wonderful to meet you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you around.” 

Nico spins on his heel, links his arm through Lewis’s and tugs him down the hall. Mick blinks, steadying himself, and nudges the door closed with his foot, hauling the basket of produce into the kitchen. He sets it on the counter and pulls back to scrutinize it. What the fuck is he going to do with 10 kilos of kale?

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lewis hamilton scooters past nico rosberg at shanghai grand prix 2024

credits: (x) from weibo and @yuzuchupachups

[sebrrari]

59. interrupted declaration of love + 90. unexpected virgin....? -kane :)

The way I've been seeing this url in my notes for WEEKS and did not put together that it was you... here you go:

Lewis is cooking dinner, monologuing about what happened when he met Rick Owens, how he tried on the giant acrylic platform heels and nearly tumbled flat on his face. Mick watches him gesticulate affably in front of the floor-to-ceiling kitchen window, the smoggy skyline of New York unfurling behind him. Mick clenches his fists under the table, listening to Lewis explain how he wants to try the shoes again, wants to practice in them so he can wear them through the paddock and piss the geriatric fucking oil barons off—Lewis’s words. Mick feels bad about interrupting, but he has to say it before he loses the nerve. 

“Lewis,” he says, abortively. He feels his cheeks heating. Now that he’s paused, it’s going to be a thousand times harder to get the words out. He sets his jaw and makes himself say it. The words exit his mouth in a jumble: “I have—feelings for you.” 

Lewis drops the spatula he was working with, and his head snaps towards Mick. Mick’s heart nearly arrests right there, under Lewis’s assessing gaze. The careful opaqueness of Lewis’s face is going to break his heart—Mick knows it. He readies himself for the worst possible reaction, which he figures will be pity. that someone like Mick loves someone like Lewis. 

Lewis blinks. The pan on the stovetop steams and sizzles. “Oh thank God,” says Lewis. “I thought I was wrong and that I invited you here for nothing.” He wipes his brow, cracking a relieved smile. Something tender and happy unfolds inside Mick’s chest. He watches Lewis flick off the stove while Mick’s hands shake, his fingertips pressed into his thighs. 

“Let’s not even bother with this,” says Lewis, nudging the pan off the stove. “I want to fuck you so badly. God. Can I say that?” 

All of a sudden Lewis is crossing the open-concept apartment, his bare feet on the ridiculously ornate tiles, and Mick is still frozen at the dining room table, distantly aware that his mouth has dropped open and that he must be staring at Lewis with awe in his eyes. It’s almost like he can’t believe it. He doesn’t believe it, even though he heard it from Lewis’s mouth. 

Lewis pauses half a metre away from Mick. Mick finds himself tilting his head up to look Lewis in the eye. 

“I thought Seb was going to kill me,” said Lewis. “I felt so… dirty? I haven’t felt that way for… at least a decade.” He takes another step towards Mick and reaches for Mick’s jaw. “Is this okay?” 

Mick feels himself nod. Then Lewis’s lips are meeting his, his mouth is opening to Mick’s, and Mick is hauling himself out of his chair to mold his body to Lewis’s while he kisses him. Lewis rakes a hand through Mick’s scalp, fingers closing around a fistful of hair, and Mick lets himself be led to the sofa. Lewis pushes him down onto it, their mouths never parting, and climbs on top of Mick. 

“You’re so fucking hot,” says Lewis, when he pushes Mick’s shirt up above his nipples. Mick experiences a double rush of arousal at the feeling of Lewis’s hand tracing his abdomen and the idea that Lewis thinks he’s hot. 

Lewis ducks back in to kiss him again, and feeling bold, Mick reaches around to hook a few fingers into the belt loops on Lewis’s jeans and pull his hips against Mick’s. Lewis groans, rolling his hips into Mick’s erection, and a shock of ecstasy pulses up Mick’s spine. He momentarily loses his coordination and finds his lips mouthing messily at Lewis’s beard. 

Lewis chuckles like it amuses him, and then his hand is slipping down Mick’s abs and towards the elastic waistband that’s peeking out of Mick’s jeans. “Tommy—I like it,” Lewis murmurs, into Mick’s neck. His hand travels further, thumbing over the button of Mick’s jeans, popping it open, and then—

“Wait,” says Mick, tearing his mouth from Lewis’s. “Just. Hold on a second.” He swallows, working up the nerve for the second time this evening. “I’ve… never. With a guy.” 

“Oh,” says Lewis, pulling back. There’s an impossible flush on his cheeks. His hand remains where it is. Mick swears that his pupils have dilated, that there's a crazed light shining behind his eyes. “Okay,” he tilts his head from side to side. “I can work with that.” He dives back in.

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what about "exhausted" with my current hyperfixation carloscar kekekeke

For youuuuuu only:

China is a shit race. Stupid. Stupid Ricciardo, stupid Stroll, stupid... fucking Lando podium he's going to hear about for the next two weeks, and can he not catch a fucking break? He was a god his rookie year for doing the exact same shit but, what, in his second season he's a veteran and should have it all figured out? It galls him as much as it galls everybody else that Lando isn’t even that much older and yet still 108 races in. Verstappen has 100 podiums and he's only 3 fucking years older. Christ. Oscar needs a drink, and the only shit in the garage is champagne, because- P2. Right.

He's not looking for anything, really, a snarled ball of discontent not fit for human consumption, but he has to walk past Ferrari hospitality on the way to his trailer and somehow, improbably, Carlos is out front wrapping up whatever stupid press with Sky. He catches Oscar's eye and gestures for him to stay. Oscar debates just going back to his car, but he and Carlos are working on being Friends, they decided, because that matters or something. Friendly, at least. Oscar's pretty sure it's because he brings Carlos' stock down when he ditches about him on the radio and only one of them has a guaranteed seat next year. It's a favor, really, to hang out in the shadows of a neighboring motorhome and wait for Carlos to finish. Oscar gave his pound of flesh already.

Carlos looks better than he has any right to after finishing behind his teammate and off the podium, less disgruntled than Oscar feels. Maybe he's better at hiding his frustration, maybe he doesn't see the point in fighting the bullshit anymore.

"I have wine," Carlos says, which is the right thing to say. Oscar follows him back to his trailer with minimal small talk. Carlos pours heavy and Oscar drinks deep, watches Carlos watch him and talks another gulp of wine that definitely deserves better.

"Did you bring this from Italy?" Oscar asks. He's already stripping; they both know why he's here.

Carlos' eyes are terribly gentle, the way they always are. It always makes Oscar want to look over his shoulder for Lando, because surely all that tenderness can't be directed at him.

"Hey," Carlos says. His fingers close like a bracelet around Oscar's wrist. "Easy, eh?" He smiles. "Slowly."

Oscar doesn't want slow, he wants Carlos to pin him to the bed and fuck him through the mattress even while he pretends not to want it. He wants to finger himself open with spit and burn while Carlos splits him open, a full weekend off to recover.

Oscar has never asked if Lando and Carlos fucked. He's imagined it, sappy and saccharine and full of mushy aftercare - showering together slow against an Ennio Morricone score. If he and Carlos are anything it's a soundtrack not a score, something with a pounding bass that Logan would approve of.

Logan wouldn't approve of this, Oscar knows, as he takes another, slower, drink of wine. It's performative. He'd just as well pour it over his chest and let Carlos lick it off, and fuck, his stomach clenches at the thought, then immediately flips their roles. He pictures chasing the wine down across Carlos' nipple, mapping the taste across the brute musculatur of his abs and down to the messy hair of his happy trail and then lower, to the thatch of pubes he never waxes because he doesn't want to look like a pussy. Privately, Oscar thinks that if Carlos could ever relax enough to take a dick up his ass he might care less.

It doesn't take long for them to be wine drunk, easy for each other under any circumstances and easier still after the dehydration of the race. Oscar knows he's wearing an alcohol flush across his cheeks like blush, over the saddle of his nose. Carlos laughs at something that isn't even funny, rests his forehead to Oscar's shoulder and then his plush lips are working against the shitty polyester of the team polo is wearing, and fuck, Oscar doesn't know who's responsible for getting the polo off over his head but in the scramble of hands they both end up blissfully shirtless, and his thoughts are loopy but he can organize them enough to catch the nub of Carlos' nipple between his knuckles and lick, desperate, like it's the tip of his cock.

Carlos sounds like he's been stabbed, swearing something in Spanish that makes Oscar smile because he likes the sound of it, and his hands catch the back of Oscar's head and pull in, fingers tangling and catching in Oscar's hair, too long because his barber is back in the UK and he hasn't managed the return trip just yet.

"I want to fuck you," Carlos manages. His nipple is swollen and puffy when Oscar finally pulls back. It's a funny contrast against the other one, a tight, hard nub. "Let me fuck you."

"Beg," Oscar says, drunk on the wine and the full, heavy throb of his cock in his shorts. "Beg me."

For half a heartbeat, he thinks Carlos is going to tell him off, tell him he doesn't need Oscar like that, remind him who is fourth in the standings.

"Please," Carlos says, an exhalation. His eyes are molten, lips plush and pleading. "Oscar," he hooks a finger in Oscar's waistband, drags his gaze achingly slow up along Oscar's exposed chest to his face. "Please," he says again. "Let me fuck you. I need it. Do you want to feel?" Carlos catches Oscar's hand in his and presses it to the front of his pants, to where his cock is still trapped in briefs and the jeans he wore to press. "I need you," Carlos says, like he means it.

Oscar is willing to let himself believe.

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just shoot pierre at this point it would hurt him less

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Update Harvard students are walking out in solidarity with Columbia’s students

These are billion dollar for profit institutions that directly impact financial backing of Israel’s apartheid regime

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this is so beautiful dear god. brings a tear to my eye. thank u ag

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nico: how is the -- hi bono 🥺

peter bonnington: [...] you know what it's like around here

idk wayyy but nico interacting with merc employees and their shared history really gets to me like that was their world champion too

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the sign i made for the shanghai gp ... incredible reception on this one, including: a) people walking past me and having to do a double take at what on god's green earth was on my sign b) someone taking a photo of me with a telescopic lens and c) the fact that i got filmed by an official f1 cameraman and almost made it onto the official race broadcast

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+ bonus: