#also ‘oedipus was the first motherfucker’ is a line from Bo Burnham’s masterpiece ‘words words words’

[flawlessassholes]

do you have any seb and mark in mother carva thoughts you’d like to share 👁️👁️

no actually i don’t! thanks for asking! ignore the 630 words of absolute disgusting filth under the cut! also bye i’m going into the witness protection program!

Sometimes, as Mark watches Sebastian interact with the Carva, he thinks: Oedipus was the first motherfucker.

Until now, every time Mark has been inside the Carva, it was all… square jaws, stiff upper lips, think of England. It was a mutual jerking off where you made a few wry jokes to ‘bond’ like the engineers went on about, and then a mutual agreement to never speak of it again. 

So he wasn’t expecting to arrive in the factory on a cold December day in 2008 and to have a tiny cue ball-headed twink bound up to him and chirp, “I didn’t know how big you are, so I used a midsized plug, but you might have to stretch me a little more when we’re inside Mother.” 

And Mark laughed at first, instinctual and disbelieving. He would learn quickly that Seb didn’t like being laughed at when he was dead serious. 

“Why are you laughing.” 

“Mate, I don’t know what you got up to in Faenza, but it doesn’t work like that.”

“Séb and I got each other off,” he said, and Mark blinked before he remembered that Bourdais was also a Seb because Marko clearly has a type.

“Well, that’s not how we do things here,” Mark had said. “We go in, I do my business, you your business, and that’s it.”

“That’s no way to make a winning car,” Seb said, haughty and annoyed. And Mark was still feeling magnanimous and mature about this whole new kid situation, so he didn’t make a crack at that or say that he got lucky because Kovalainen is shit in the rain, and Mark got fucked over by him in qualifying. 

So he didn’t respond, and then Newey appeared, and it was lights out.

That feeling of magnanimous maturity lasted all of five milliseconds once they were naked and once they entered the warm, damp, dimly lit cavern of the Mother Carva.

He couldn’t even exhale before something like fire ants started crawling under his skin, and nimble fingers wrapped around his cock. 

He felt a brush of prickly, short hair, and as his eyes adjusted, he realized that Seb was on his knees. 

And then the warm and damp enveloped him as Seb swallowed him whole.

It devolved quickly from there, and in his worst moments, he still remembers the way he came on Seb’s tongue, and how Seb showed it off like it was a trophy, how Seb didn’t spit it on the Carva, he kissed it, slathering his come on the membrane as he humped his hips like a bitch in heat until he came too, and afterward how he smiled like he won Monza all over again.

He remembers the glow he carried with him as he held the still-growing specimen, and how he glowed, hard on the podium when he won in China, how he specifically made sure to save his champagne to bring back to Milton Keynes, to crawl back inside the mother and share the drink. 

And Mark would’ve thought they were equal—he won that season, too—but Seb kept winning. And he kept getting hard. And he kept worshiping the Carva; there was no other word for it when he thanked her and visited her and called her Mother with all the reverence of royalty in every fucking interview.

And then, in 2010, he won the championship that should’ve been Mark’s. 

So when they stripped naked, and he noticed there was no plug in Seb’s ass this year—that he finally got the hint after a repeat of their activities in 2009–Mark no longer felt magnanimous or mature. 

“Hope you prepared yourself,” he says, fire ants already crawling under his skin even though they weren’t inside. “Because if you want to get fucked, you’ll get fucked.”