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milflewis · 1 year

Note

sebastidewis + visiting the farm

“Hello, Lewis.”

Lewis reaches out a fist and Mick grins, Mercedes jacket zipped up to his chin, and bumps his knuckles with his. Lewis goes back to tugging on his racing gloves, slipping his arms into the sleeves of his suit. Today will be a good day, he thinks, furiously.

“Have you talked to Sebastian or Daniel recently?”

George is heading out before him, the low roar of his car rumbling past them. Mick’s voice is quiet enough that if Lewis wanted to, he could pretend not to hear.

Lewis turns to look at him and Mick, to his credit, does not blink. “No,” Lewis says because lying is not that kind of karma he needs right now and because he is too old for games. Mick hums, hands in his pockets, rocking forward onto his toes and then back on his heels.

“You should,” he says eventually and then. “They miss you.”

Lewis breathes. “That’s not fair.” It slips out before he can stop it. He presses his lips together.

Mick shrugs. “No. But one of you has to reach out first and I don’t,” Mick stops, frowning a little. He never was good at criticising Sebastian. “I don’t think they will do it.”

Lewis picks up his helmet, splaying his fingers across the smooth cool surface. “Yeah.”

He does not say that’s not fair again. He does not say why do I have to be the one to reach out when they have each other, when I’m the one that’s alone. He does not say why is it always me that has to ask, why is it always me who has to be brave, why is it always on me.

“You are too like your dad,” Lewis tells him and Mick laughs, a little startled. He pulls on his helmet.

“Yeah?” It’s a testament, really, to the time and care Lewis and Mick have put into their relationship over the past year and a bit — hours in the sim, in meetings, Lewis ‘casually’ inviting Mick on walks with Roscoe because Sebastian won’t stop texting him, worried, and Mick, equally as casual, inviting him to the gym, because, Lewis suspects, Seb won’t stop texting him — that Mick is smiling, face relaxed, that he doesn’t automatically assume that this will sting.

“Yeah,” Lewis says, climbing into the car. “He is such a gossip, man.”

Mick laughs again, patting Lewis’s helmet, once, twice, before moving away.

—

Daniel texts back almost instantly when Lewis messages him, the tickmark going blue before he even has a chance to breathe.

omg mate did i see the recent love island????

did i????? ofc i did !!!!!! fucking mental

i cannot BELIVE that she still took him back. like. bro. what r u doing

Lewis laughs. He closes his eyes, pressing the tip of his phone against his forehead and swallows.

yeah man. shit is fucked. tommy is so much better for her. and that guy jack or smth???? what’s his deal??

—

Sebastian has flour on his cheek when he answers the phone, smile bright, wary. Something in his face softens, just slightly, when he sees Lewis.

“What are you making?”

“Hmm?” Sebastian frowns at him, tilting his head to the side. Lewis rolls his eyes, grinning, and gestures at his face. “Your cheek. You’ve got flour, man. You baking?”

“Oh.” Sebastian laughs, hand coming up to flutter at his hair for a moment before dropping. “Yes.” The screen blurs, Sebastian walking, and then Lewis is propped up against something, a window sill maybe, able to see the tiles of Sebastian and Daniel’s kitchen, the wooden island, Seb’s kiss the cook apron. His shirt is unbuttoned at the throat, gaping a little, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hands are also covered in flour.

“I am making sourdough,” Sebastian says, and lifts up a blob of light cream dough. “That recipe I did — a few years ago. Trying to recreate it.”

Lewis nods, holding the phone closer. Sebastian has yet to cut his hair and it curls around his ears, dipping into his collar. “The one you gave me?”

Sebastian pauses, watching his hands knead the dough before he grins, looking up. “Yeah, that one.”

“I liked that one,” Lewis says. “One of my favourites.”

Sebastian, because he is Sebastian and likes to poke at things to see what noise they make, to see if they’ll bite back, and because he cannot not celebrate an anniversary, had decided to bake Lewis a loaf of bread for their one year anniversary of Baku, back in 2018. Valtteri had laughed himself sick, nearly knocking the controller out of Lewis’s hand when he told him.

“Yeah,” Sebastian says, eyes very blue, even through the tiny screen. “I know.”

—

"Daniel has started texting me."

Lewis lifts his feet off the chair beside him, turning in his seat to look at Valtteri who flops into the now empty chair. He's frowning, mouth a flat line. He's holding two cups, steam wafting out from them. Lewis grins when he takes one, breathing it in to find it's hot chocolate.

"Okay," Lewis says, slowly, not sure what that has to do with him. Valtteri rolls his eyes, cheeks pink, when Lewis doesn't continue.

"Would you please fuck him or tell him that you won't ever like him like that so he will stop talking to me." Valtteri pauses, considering. “And soon, please, before Sebastian starts texting me too.”

Lewis blinks. "You do know that even if I do that, he won't stop?"

Valtteri grimaces, crossing his arms. "Whatever. I live in hope. At least if you tell him, he'll be a little less pathetic about it."

Lewis laughs, coughing as the hot drink burns his tongue.

"Careful," Valtteri says, handing Lewis a tissue, eyes serious. "It's hot."

Lewis kicks him and Valterri knocks his cap off trying to shove Lewis away so he won't spill his coffee.

—

"Can you reheat chicken in a microwave?"

Lewis puts the phone down on the ground beside him so he can stretch his legs out in front, grabbing his ankles and pulling. It's early - sun creeping over the buildings, glancing off the Monaco harbour, the morning chill still clinging to the damp grass. He hasn't seen a single person since he started running up one of the trails outside the city.

"You worry me."

Daniel's laugh is high and familiar, even through the tinny speaker. "C'mon, mate. The least you can do is answer my question if you're going to be a cunt about it."

Lewis grins, shaking his head, his hamstrings aching gently. "Yeah, you can microwave chicken, you asshole. Also, being concerned that you've gotten to the age of, what, 32? 33? Without knowing if you can reheat chicken in a microwave or not is not me being a cunt."

Daniel hums, laughing again, and there's a sticking sound of what sounds like wax wrapping. Lewis lets go of his ankles and presses his knuckles into his mouth, hard and firm. He flops back onto the grass, closing his eyes. He wonders if Sebastian's wax-clingfilm-and-tinfoil-alternative has the same pattern of bees as the one he gave Lewis a few Christmases ago.

"Aw, babe, I knew you worried about me. That's adorable, but you shouldn't stress your pretty little head about lil 'ol me. Seb isn't a bad cook."

Lewis throws an arm over his eyes. "Oh, yeah?"

Daniel clicks his tongue. A series of beeps and then the whirr of a microwave. "Yeah, pretty good, actually, if you ever want to pop over for a visit."

Lewis smiles. "Maybe I will."

“You should.” Daniel’s voice is warm and low. “And we’ve got chickens. You haven’t met them yet.”

“No, I haven’t.” Lewis says. “Should fix that soon, maybe.”

—

“Where’s Daniel?”

Sebastian raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the tires, arms crossed. He’s smiling, but then again, Sebastian is always smiling. “Hi Lewis, how are you? Me? Oh, I am doing okay. It has been ages since I’ve last seen you, I know.”

Lewis rolls his eyes, laughing, and reaches out to pull Sebastian in, who comes easily, hand curled around Lewis’s elbow, thumb tucked in. He smells of plain soap and this natural deodorant that he’s been trying out for the past year or so and his hair feels the same against Lewis’s cheek as it always used to, except maybe softer —

“You’re using the conditioner I sent you,” Lewis says, pulling back. He holds Sebastian by the shoulders, bony and strong. Sebastian’s smile widens, hunching in a little.

“I am.”

Lewis bites at his cheek, nodding. “Looks good.” He squeezes Seb’s shoulders one more time before letting go. Sebastian does not move back. He leans closer, ducking his head and looking up at Lewis. His runners are toe to toe with Lewis’s race boots. The laces are frayed and splitting, the sides of his shoes scuffed.

"You think so?"

Lewis follows the curve of Sebastian's wrist, the movement of his fingers, as he tucks a curl back behind his ear. His eyes narrow.

"Are you-?"

"Lewis."

Toto is frowning, half lifting his headphones away from his ear. He looks deliberately at the car and then back to Lewis. Mick is grinning at the screen in the chair beside him, shoulders shaking. Sebastian laughs, squeezing Lewis's hip.

"I'll see you after?"

Lewis hums, grabbing his balaclava off of Angela. "Yeah? You'll be here?"

Sebastian rubs at his eye with his middle finger, smiling. "Of course, I'll be here. Where else would I go?"

Lewis shrugs, pulling at the material, mouth dry. "Where's Daniel?"

Sebastian rolls his eyes, waving a hand, thick black ring catching off the light. "Ah, you know," he says, making a derisive noise in the back of his throat. "Off fraternising with the enemy. The traitor."

Lewis chokes on a laugh, soap and sweat filling his nose as he pulls of the balaclava, Angela holding his hair. "He works for them, you know. Which you used to do too."

Sebastian pulls a wounded face, mouth turning down, eyes wide. Lewis would think he looks like Charles but he suspects that Charles copied Seb. "I have seen the light since then. All grown up. Other things..." he swallows, looking away and back again. "Other things are more important to me now."

Something in Lewis goes quiet as he tugs on his gloves, chest still and hollow. He picks up a spare pair of headphones and throws them at Sebastian when he grins, quick and sudden, making a show of looking down between Lewis's legs and licking his lips. The helmet presses against Lewis's cheeks when he's in the car, squishing his smile back into his mouth.

—

Daniel is shirtless when he opens the door. He isn't wearing any pants either, clad only in a very small pair of boxer shorts that have little badgers on them and giant fluffy socks. He grins when he sees Lewis, leaning against the door frame with one arm, hip cocked.

"Fuck," he says, shaking his head. "You'd think I'd know better by now."

"What." Lewis fights back the urge to tuck his hands into the giant pocket of his hoodie, or to turn tail and run all the way back to Monaco, or maybe even England.

"To think I know you better than Seb does. Sebby! I owe you a blowjob!" Daniel calls over his shoulder. Lewis's eyes catch on Daniel's right thigh. He hasn't seen that tattoo before. He can hear Sebastian yell something back, deeper in the house, and Daniel laughs. "He knew you'd come."

"You bet on me coming here?" Lewis's voice sounds distant to him, fingers tingling. He grips the handle of his suitcase. "With blowjobs?"

"Lewis." Daniel's smile dims a little, eyes growing serious. He pushes off the door jam and steps closer. "It's called manifestation, I don't know if you've ever heard about it?"

Lewis is laughing when Daniel kisses him, hand curling over his, stealing his bag from him. His mouth is eager and wet and tastes of coffee and touthpaste. Sebastian is at the door when Lewis pulls away, Daniel following his mouth for a moment. Sebastian lifts up Lewis's suitcase, woolly jumper almost at his knees. "Can't leave now. Not without your stuff."

"Shit," Lewis says, tucking his now free hand into the waistband of Daniel's boxers, who presses up against him, completely shameless. "Guess I'm here to stay."

Sebastian's smile is blinding as Daniel's mouth opens easily under Lewis's, curls soft under his hands.

#hope ur exam went well !!!!! tried to finish this for when i thought youd be done <3 #sebastidan #little fics #fran tag #niamh.asks #fic.asks

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milflewis · 2 years

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Yukierre Coffee Shop AU because they are adorable like that

The door opens, the fucking bell that Lewis refuses to get rid of ringing faintly, and then, “Hello, can I have an expresso?”

Yuki stops wiping down the counter and crosses his arms. “This is your fourth coffee today.”

The man grins at him, curls falling into his face, leaning on Yuki’s newly cleaned counter. “What can I say, I have good taste and….” He lets his eyes wander up and down Yuki’s body, lingering on his arms. “The coffee here is really good.”

Yuki raises an eyebrow, kicking Alex who is laughing behind the coffee machine. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

The man laughs, hand coming up to rub at his mouth, winking. “Worth it, though.”

Yuki rolls his eyes, jabbing the price into the card holder, stomach fizzing and hot.

“I’m Pierre,” he says, voice low, leaning in even closer. He’s practically lying on the countertop now and Alex is near in tears as he tries to muffle his laughs. He smells of cologne and rain, hair damp.

“I don’t care and that’ll be 3.20,” Yuki says, holding out the card holder.

send me a pairing and an au prompt and i’ll write a three sentence (ish) fic about it

#pierre single-handedly keeping the cafe afloat bc he thinks yuki is cute. alex having the TIME of his life rn #until pierre brings along his friend george n alex gay panics #i am so weak for coffee shop aus anon how did u know. they’re so comfort coded #yukierre #three sentence (ish) fic ask game #anon tag #fic.asks #niamh.asks

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milflewis · 2 years

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Makkinen + royalty au 🥺

“What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”

The man laughs, shoulders broad in white leather, hair blond and falling into his face. Michael wants to lick along the line of his jaw and up his cheekbones.

“I bet you say that to all the guys….,” he grins, eyes flicking down to the waistband of Michael’s race suit. There’s a faint red mark just above his collar. Michael remembers the taste of his skin; all salt and soap and Michael’s beer that he’d accidentally spilled on him, minutes earlier. Michael shifts on his feet, hips tilting forward. The man’s smile widens. “Schumacher.”

Michael winks at him, letting heat enter his eyes, hands sliding into his race suit, thumbs hooking into the material. Niki is glaring at him from across the paddock, tapping at his watch, before faltering, eyes going slightly wide when he spots who Michael is talking to.

Michael is about to ask for his name, or maybe just if he wants a tour of the Ferrari garage, he’s hoping he can convince him to stick around so they can reenact last night after Michael wins, when a frazzled looking man comes running up to them, clipboard in his hands, hair wild.

“Your Highness! Oh thank god, we’ve been looking for you all over.”

The man winces, smile growing sheepish.

Michael blinks at him. “Your what.”

#im thinking michael goes out for drinks after qualifying. meets mika. they hook up in the bar bathroom. and then this happens the next day #boom. lots sex. happily ever after #makkinen #three sentence (ish) fic ask game #one! braincell bestie #fic.asks #niamh.asks

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milflewis · 2 years

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Yukierre, facetime

“— yeah, so as you can see, not much as changed since you left, honestly.”

Pierre hums, Alex chatting away as he passes through the Alpha Tauri garage. The Williams garage is generally closer than the Alpine one. Which is why Alex knows better than he would. Obviously. Nothing more than that.

He lies back on his bed, bringing the phone with him, propping it up against his pillow. “Is Yuki there?”

Alex takes a moment to answer. “Uh, yeah,” he clears his throat. “Yeah, he is.”

He turns the phone so Pierre can see Yuki down the corridor, laughing, leaning on Nyck who’s grinning at him. One of the mechanics is throwing something at them. It makes Yuki laugh even harder.

“Do you want me to go over and say hi?” Alex asks, and Pierre wants to tear out his tongue at how soft his voice sounds.

“No,” he says instead. “He looks busy. No point bothering him.”

send me a pairing and a prompt and i’ll write a three sentence (ish) fic about it

#going through it rn sorry #yukierre #three sentence (ish) fic ask game #anon tag #fic.asks #niamh.asks

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milflewis · 2 years

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okay, how about, sewis+lying? 👀

ok so you accidentally sent this twice n i was going to delete but it inspired me to actually start writing my bodyswap au so here you go. hope you like it !!

Sebastian stretches, groaning a little as something in his back catches and pulls. He knew Lewis was lying when he said he was fine.

The phone on the bedside table beside him starts buzzing. Sebastian picks it up, flopping back onto the bed as he answers.

“Why don’t you have any of the conditioner I sent you in your shower?”

Sebastian throws an arm over his eyes, blocking out the sun. Lewis always sleeps with his curtains open. To motivate him out of bed or something, wake up with the sun and all that. The lengths Lewis will go to to pretend he’s a morning person when he, most definitely, is not one will never not be funny to Sebastian.

Lewis’s voice is thick with sleep as Sebastian tries to explain that he left it at home. Morning person like fuck, Seb thinks and grins.

“Seb,” Lewis says and even after all these years, it’s a little weird to hear Lewis saying his name in that way that he does, like he’s trying to say something else, in Sebastian’s voice. “You’re supposed to bring it with you. You know, when you’re packing up the rest of your stuff?”

Sebastian sighs, pulling the duvet up over his shoulders. Lewis’s body always gets colder easier than his own. “I forgot.”

Lewis hums, unimpressed, the sound of water turning on faint in the background.

“I thought you said your back didn’t hurt.”

It’s Lewis’s turn to sigh. “I said I was fine, not that it didn’t hurt.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes even though Lewis can’t see him. He puts the phone on speaker, placing it on the pillow beside his head, hands going back under the covers. He’s careful to keep them above his waist, tangled in the sheets.

Jenson had taken Sebastian out for drinks last night. Seb hadn’t meant to fall asleep to thoughts of Lewis, of wanting him on his mind, but apparently, he had. Not the first time this has happened, Seb thinks, and probably not the last either. At least, they’re used to this.

(It is one of the few things that they never talk about, fifteen years and counting.)

“Do you have anything to do today?” Seb asks, eyes half closed. Lewis laughs in his ear, low and soft, for a second before cursing.

“Seb. Seb. Sebastian, get the fuck up. Don’t you dare ruin my sleep pattern.”

Sebastian groans, rolling over to bury his face into Lewis’s lovely silk pillows.

#ok hoping this will be what finally gets me to write it. i need it out of my head #set somewhere in 2022 i think #one! braincell bestie #sewis #f1 rpf fic #fic.asks

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milflewis · 2 years

Note

sebchal + gold

lol i am sorry it took so long. wasn’t able to write for ages so only going through these prompts now. anyway here’s 2k of medieval sebchal dancing around each other for you !! hope you like it bestie

“May I ask what exactly are you doing, Your Highness?”

Fuck.

Charles knocks his head against the stone arch as he startles, flailing around, cheeks hot. He swears out loud when he sees Pierre behind him and not Lord Mattia.

“You’ve gotten way too good at his voice,” Charles says.

Pierre is laughing as he steps up beside him, dark blue tunic broad across his shoulders. There’s a faint pink scratch along his jaw. Pierre refuses to let anyone else but himself shave his beard. The dirt from the war, Charles has found, has clung to people differently.

He looks good though, eyes bright, face unshadowed and clean, hair falling into his forehead. His ring burns bronze in the sun as he rubs his fingers against his mouth, peering over the low balcony wall.

“Ah,” he says, a little smug. “I see.”

Charles elbows him in the ribs as Pierre laughs again. “I was admiring your husband,” Charles says, turning back to the training ground below them.

Pierre hums as they watch Yuki grin down at Alex who’s lying flat at his feet, legs sprawled, sword fallen off to the side. Yuki laughs, jumping a little when Alex tries to kick his feet out from under him, and Charles watches Pierre’s face soften from the corner of his eye.

“Understandable,” Pierre says quietly. “He’s very admirable.”

He smiles and there’s something sharp in his eyes that reminds Charles of when they were younger and the kingdom was smaller and Pierre used to shove Charles into Alex during dances because he knew Charles had a crush on the older boy and thought he was a lot funnier than he actually was.

“Speaking of admirable,” Pierre nods to the training ring just below them, right where Charles was definitely not looking earlier.

Ser Lewis Hamilton is laughing as he pulls off his helmet, curls damp with sweat and wild around his face, and throws it to one side. He spins his axe in small tight circles, metal glinting liquid and bright in the low morning sun. Charles recognises it to be Ser Valtteri’s, though the other knight is nowhere to be seen. Lewis’s own famous broadsword is leaning up against the table where the rest of their armour is strewn around.

Lewis is now down to just his right vambrace.

“What are they doing?” Pierre asks, eyes tracing the width of Lewis’s shoulders. Charles rolls his eyes, typical.

“A training game, I think. If one of them hits a body part, the other one has to lose the armour they’re wearing there and then if they get hit there again, they can no longer use the limb.”

Pierre chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, trying not to smile. It only makes his dimples press in deeper.

“That’s not what they normally wear,” he says and Charles grins.

He watches as Lord Sebastian Vettel points his sword at Lewis’s chest, giving him a half salute with it and a wink. He had taken off his tunic when he removed his breastplate earlier. His undershirt is dark with sweat and clings to the curve of his arms.

“No, it’s not.”

Their usual armour of dark grey steel and brown leather is nowhere to be seen. Instead, they’ve chosen to wear their golden ceremonial armour; winged helmets, heavy vambraces and metal boots. No one can spend more than five minutes in this castle when there are celebrations on and not hear Sebastian petitioning to King Michael on why exactly he shouldn’t have to wear the absolute ridiculous costume that Lord Wolff insists on them wearing and how could they defend Your Majesty if something happened when they could barely walk under all the extra metal and ornaments and it’s a waste, Sire, it should be given to the poor and even what Lewis wears on his days off is less ostentatious than this.

Lewis stands beside him, face solemn and serious, and says, like he’s announcing that they lost the northern flank and will have to retreat, that he, regretfully, cannot find his armour. He had the audacity to say, one year, that he fears his horse, Roscoe, may have ran off with it and that he’s not sure where he must have put it because Lewis had checked his stables and hadn’t been able to find it. Charles had nearly had to leave the hall as he tried not to laugh at the look on Michael’s face. Valtteri doesn’t even bother to come up with an excuse when he turns up, not wearing it.

Lewis seems to have had no trouble finding it now and neither of them appear at all slowed down by it.

Sebastian grins at him, flicking his hair from his face, down to two vambraces.

They watch as Sebastian attacks, slicing at Lewis’s gut before twisting his hand and arching the blade up. Lewis parries with the hilt of his long-axe and grins, slamming his forehead into Sebastian’s face, who curses. Sebastian stumbles, barely half a step backwards, but it’s enough space for Lewis to kick him in the chest. He follows him close, knocking his sword away. It all happens to quickly that Charles barely has time to blink.

Lewis presses the blade of his axe gently against Sebastian’s throat with one hand as he reaches for the knife at his waist and pulls it out. He taps the blade on Sebastian’s two vambraces as Sebastian glares at him.

“You already won, Hamilton,” Sebastian scowls, pushing the axe away with a careless hand. “There was no need to take my vambraces too.”

Lewis laughs, following him to the table where they left the rest of their armour. “Oh, but there was.” He bumps his shoulder into Sebastian’s. “It was funny. And aren’t you always telling me that I should laugh more?”

Sebastian grimaces, eyes light, and runs a hand though his hair.

“Since when have you ever listened to me?” He scrambles to hold up a hand, nearly hitting Lewis in the face. “And don’t say Baku. I explicitly told you not to talk to that man and—”

Lewis scoffs, “You fucking did not. You said to talk to him, that he had been watching me all night, and that he was a knight, not a bloody king.”

“How was I supposed to know that you were going to tell him that you heard a knight is always as hard as his armour and if you could check if the rumours are true?”

Charles chokes on nothing as Pierre starts giggling beside him.

Lewis shoves him and Sebastian laughs, something catching in Charles’s chest at the sound. “I was drunk, you bastard.”

“I still can’t believe that line worked. Though, King Jenson isn’t exactly the classiest of people.”

Lewis makes a noise in the back of his throat, half incredulous, “What has the world come to when Lord Sebastian Vettel is commentating on the lack of classiness a person has.”

Sebastian shrugs, the movement easy and rolling, and grins, his smile clumsy and wide on his face.

“What can I say, I am a pillar of virtue.”

Lewis laughs, eyes crinkling, Sebastian’s smile growing wider at the sight of it.

“Well,” Pierre says, voice pitched low, already smirking. Charles braces himself for whatever he is about to say. “I don’t think that is the kind of strip show you have been wanting Lord Vettel to do for you for years but I certainly enjoyed it.”

Charles coughs, and ignores his friend as Pierre cackles beside him. He slaps Pierre’s hand away when he reaches up to poke one of Charles’s flaming cheeks.

Lewis looks up, ruffling his hair, and catches Charles’s eye. Charles freezes, feeling like he’s caught doing something wrong even though there are at least half a dozen people watching training this morning. His eyes are dark and unreadable like they often are but then after a moment, he grins at him, nodding a little. Charles swallows back the heat of embarrassment at the weight of knowing in Lewis’s eyes and returns his nod.

Lewis reaches for one of the waterskins on the ground beside Sebastian, mouth moving, words too quiet for Charles to hear. Pierre laughs beside him.

Sebastian seems to still, his own waterskin halfway to his lips. Charles tries very hard to ignore how Lewis glances up at him again before saying something else that makes Sebastian’s training flushed cheeks darken even further.

Sebastian rolls his eyes, hair glowing light at the edges. Sometimes, Charles finds it difficult to look straight at him, catches himself looking a little to the left of him, at the space right above his ear.

“I nearly had you,” Charles can hear him say and his stomach sparks something hot and fizzing at the low scratch of his voice.

Lewis laughs again, pausing in taking off the last piece of his armour, a deep gold that is now dusty and scuffed, hand against his chest. “Nearly, old friend, as you very well know, is not good enough.”

Charles doesn’t miss the way Sebastian’s eyes flicker down to the long slash of a scar that circles Lewis’s throat where they tried to behead him and, like most people who try to stop the unmovable force that is Lewis Hamilton, they failed, before laughing with him.

“True,” Sebastian says, and throws the rest of his water into Lewis’s face. He tackles him at the waist while the other knight is distracted, both of them tumbling into the ground, dust and sand coughing up around them.

Pierre sighs heavily beside him. “I am a wonderful friend, I hope you know that.”

“You’re the worst,” Charles says, already dreading what Pierre’s about to do.

Pierre grins and ducks around him, too quick for Charles to catch him, and hurries down the stairs to their left. Stairs that lead to the courtyard.

Charles swears and follows him, nearly tripping over his feet. By the time he gets outside, Pierre is talking to Lewis and Sebastian, cheeks slightly pink, smile soft. The two knights are no longer wrestling on the ground, shirts dirty and untucked. The neck of Sebastian’s shirt is stretched out slightly, sweat pooling along his collarbone. Want hits Charles deep in his chest and he curls his fingers into fists, hands behind his back.

They half bow as Charles approaches them, one hand on their chests, and he awkwardly waves them off.

“Prince Charles,” Lewis says, eyes laughing, and Sebastian only smiles at him, saying nothing. “Sirs,” Charles replies, trying to not visibly react as Sebastian glances down at Charles’s chest where his shirt is open quite a bit. It’s hot, Charles wants to tell him and tries not to blush. His necklace feels heavy around his throat.

Beautiful, Sebastian had said, years ago, on Charles’s twenty-first birthday, stepping back. His fingers had been warm and feather-light where they brushed his neck as they clasped the chain together. Charles had wanted to grab them, trace their callouses, but he had only smiled, thank you, sir.

Call me Sebastian, Sebastian had laughed because Sebastian was always laughing. I couldn’t possibly, Charles had said, but thank you. Sebastian had shrugged, I’ll convince you. I’ve been told I can be quite stubborn. I’ll keep pestering you for as long as it takes. Charles had laughed, the next person holding a gift approaching, and thought, do you swear it?

Lewis leans one elbow on Sebastian’s shoulder as he takes off a boot, pouring the sand out. “I saw you watching us, Your Highness. I hope we put on a good show for you.”

He laughs as Sebastian steps on his foot.

Charles falters. “You looked very, um, your form looked very well. I mean, I —”

Why is he still talking?

“Your swordplay was very, um, precise. And, uh, experienced? I mean—”

“We know what you mean, Your Highness,” Sebastian interrupts, voice soft. “Thank you.”

Charles clears his throat. “Yes, well, you’re welcome.”

By the gods, shut up, Charles.

He cringes internally and stays focused on Sebastian’s face so he doesn’t have to look at Lewis’s who always seems to catch him looking at Sebastian during balls and meetings when he should be paying attention to everything else. He can practically feel Pierre vibrating beside him from the strain of holding in his laughter.

Charles keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the conversation, watching as Sebastian eventually drags his stare away, listening to whatever Pierre and Lewis are talking about.

He makes himself be distracted by George and Alex sparring two rings over, Yuki now gone, and not by Sebastian’s fingers playing with the strings of his shirt, the light hair on the back of his hand visible in the sun. His hands are smaller than mine, Charles thinks and despairs at himself.

Sebastian’s smile is quiet and his words are soft when he says, “Goodbye, Your Highness. Your Grace.” Lewis nods at both of them, eyes flickering from Sebastian to Charles back to Sebastian again, more brazen and bold than most would be.

Charles ignores him and he grins, saying something to Sebastian as they walk away that makes Sebastian speed up a little so Lewis has to jog to catch up.

“‘Your swordplay is experienced’. Really, petit calamardo? That’s the best you could do?”

Charles groans, dragging his hands down his face. “I am begging you to leave me alone.”

“Experienced! You just called Lord Vettel old, Charles. Old.”

#also sorry for the amount of sewis in it lol. they have been on my mind since i saw seb minding lewis’s scooter #threw in some platonic piarles for you too #might write more of this au but idk. we’ll see #sebchal #stuff i wrote #one! braincell bestie #f1 rpf fic #fic.asks #niamh.asks

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milflewis · 2 years

Note

Pierre&Arthur and sth about Monaco or yachts

happy birthday bestie !! (threw in some background sebchal for you) hope you like it <3

“Pierre?”

“Hmm?” Pierre refuses to open his eyes, stretched out along one of the couches on the deck of Charles’ yacht. He arches his back a little, feeling it pop pop pop.

“When are you going to fuck me?”

It takes a second for the question to register but when it does, he sits up so quickly his head swims, black spots blurring the edges of his vision. Arthur is sitting on the floor a few feet away from him, lying back propped up on his elbows. Pierre tries to not stare at the wide sprawl of his legs, how his shorts rise up, the pale skin of his inner thigh obvious. Arthur is watching him, head titled, mouth red from the strawberries he was eating earlier, as if he didn’t just nearly give Pierre a heart attack five seconds ago.

“Um, what,” he asks, stalling for time, trying to half smile in an attempt to begin to laugh off whatever joke Arthur has come up with. Because it must be a joke. It must be.

Arthur just stares at him, unusually serious, and Pierre’s stomach goes cold. “When,” Arthur starts, “are you going to fuck me?”

Pierre blinks once, twice, and pulls at the hair on his thighs to see if he’s dreaming. He’s not.

“Um,” Pierre says, and somewhere Yuki is laughing at him but doesn’t know why, and he swallows, throat clicking.

Arthur raises an eyebrow, curls glowing light at the edges, hair long around his ears. There’s still slight pink marks along his jaw where he had been napping up until a few minutes ago, body loose and easy with sun warm sleep.

“Listen,” Pierre starts and then stop when he realises that actually he doesn’t know what to say here. Arthur keeps watching him, eyes blue and lashes long, mouth a little tight in the corners.

Pierre blinks. When are you going to fuck me, Arthur had said, like he had been expecting it, like he had been waiting for it, like he was desperate for it and couldn’t wait any longer.

Charles had given him a two litre thing of sunscreen yesterday, after they had eaten dinner and played cod with Lewis online. He burns very easily, Charles had shrugged, but he always forgets to put it on. He had rolled his eyes then, nose and cheeks pink with the sun. Pierre hadn’t said anything. Make sure he puts it on after swimming, yes, Charles had insisted. And any other, ah, activities where you, um, sweat. Pierre had just laughed, taking the bottle, a little confused but mostly fond of how Charles tries to take care of Arthur even when he can barely take care of himself. Charles had grinned at him, the skin on his shoulders peeling slightly.

When are you going to fuck me.

When.

Not if.

Yuki is probably choking on his laughter at this point. Arthur is very very still on the deck below him, fingers curled into the wood.

He could laugh it off, he knows, and part of him really really wants to. It’d be easier in a way, less complicated, if he does. But he would lose him. He would lose Arthur if he turns this into a joke, in a way where he never lost Alex or Daniel or Yuki. Arthur, with his Lorenzo and his Charles and his bone deep knowledge of how beloved he is and the solid uncertainty that comes with being a Leclerc, would walk away from Pierre and his shame if he tried to make it Arthur’s. If he tried to make it theirs.

I am surrounded by bravery, he thinks, not for the first time, and not for the last time, wishes some of it could rub off on him.

He thinks of Lewis, always always smiling at Valtteri and Valtteri who never fails to look right back, even when he’s looking up. He thinks of Seb, who grinned at him, years ago, when he caught him watching a sweaty champagne drenched Lewis a little too closely and just winked, and the way he stands still in a sport so fast and waits for Charles to catch up.

He looks at Arthur, at his bitten down fingernails and light blond hair dusting the tops of his feet and thinks, I want to be brave for you. I want to be brave for us.

Pierre leans back into the couch, legs slipping open, and watches Arthur breathe in deep, shuddering only slightly, as Pierre says, “I could do it now if you like.”

Arthur pauses for a second before getting to his feet, swaying with the boat, all long limbs and skin. He’s heavy and warm when he climbs into Pierre’s lap, knees either side of his hips. Pierre runs his fingers through the hair on Arthur’s thighs, dragging his nails a little, watching as his skin goosebumps.

“I like,” Arthur says, eyes bright and brilliant and unforgiving. Arthur is the youngest of three, grew up watching all the places where Charles would falter and fall. He is softer than Charles, more present in a way Charles will never be, but meaner. There is a harshness in him that Charles never allowed himself to have. Pierre worries for him less.

“But do you like me?” Arthur asks, eyes still bright, hands in Pierre’s hair, fingers running along his left ear.

Pierre is finding it a little hard to think properly, with Arthur Leclerc sitting on him, miles of warm skin and muscle under his hands.

“Yeah,” Pierre says, even though he kind of wants to run away and never look back. Even though he never wants Arthur to stop looking at him. “Yeah, I do.”

Arthur melts easily against him when Pierre tugs him in, pressing his mouth along Arthur’s jaw. He tastes of salt and sunscreen and Pierre groans as Arthur pulls him up by the hair to kiss him properly, sharp and insistent. He swipes a thumb over Arthur’s cheek, fingers curling along his jaw.

“Easy, easy,” Pierre murmurs, trying to slow them down, Arthur’s breaths coming in fast and fluttering.

“Easy,” Pierre says, licking into Arthur’s mouth, kissing him slow and deep. “I want you. We got all the time in the world, baby.”

#pierre is overdramatic n v gay n arthur is beautiful n done with his shit #i am obsessed with this ship omg thank u for this #hugging u so hard rn #piarthur #one! braincell bestie #stuff i wrote #f1 rpf fic #fic.asks

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milflewis · 2 years

Note

omg a little blewis moment pls I love reading your writing

ok so i saw this gifset of blewis today and my brain went !!! while i was supposed to be doing assignments so obv i wrote instead. hope you like it !! sorry it’s so late lol

“Sorry,” Lewis says, pulling out his airpod, leaning in. He lets himself bounce a little on the tire he’s sitting on, pushing his toes further into the ground, stomach going all fizzy and quiet. Bono blinks out from behind his glasses, unimpressed. There’s a slight smudge in the corner of the left lens that you can see when Bono turns his head to the right and stands under the glare of the bright garage lights.

Lewis balances himself on Bono’s shoulder. His white merc shirt stiff and warm under his hand. His eyes catch off of the hollow of Bono’s throat, poking through Bono’s two open buttons. There’s a sheen of sweat clinging there.

“So i was thinking about the rear wing of the car,” Bono says, hands gesturing. An eyelash sticking lightly to the soft skin under Bono’s left eye

Bono settles more into one leg, hips slouching out and Lewis pays attention to the way his mouth moves so he doesn’t look down. Apparently, he’s supposed to stop being as obvious about what he’s thinking when he looks at Bono in public but, like, Seb can eat shit. He’s not being that obvious, and even if he was, which he’s not, Seb would be the last person allowed to say anything about hiding what they’re feeling.

Still. Toto is watching. And Susie has been worried about his cholesterol so.

Lewis sits back, wrapping one hand around his other arm, careful not to drop his airpod. He cannot lose another while distracted by Bono. Angela will never let him forget it.

He digs his fingers into his elbow, phone in his other hand. They itch to drag Bono in closer, settling him between Lewis’s legs as he shuffles back on the tire, hands on his hips. Palming his ass in those pants.

Bono keeps talking about the rear wing or maybe he’s on about the brakes now. His mouth is still moving. Lewis still doesn’t look down. Bono is fiddling with the cord of his headset. Maybe he needs something in his hands to avoid reaching out too. Even though it’s been years and nothing will ever come from it, Lewis hopes he does anyway.

“Lewis,” Bono says like it’s not the first time he’s said it. Shit. Lewis hums, “Yeah?”

The eyelash is still there.

“You’re not listening to me.”

Lewis grins, shrugging, leaning back onto the tire, bouncing again.

Bono’s eyes flicker down to Lewis’s spread thighs and back up again. Score, Lewis thinks.

Bono might not want lewis. not the way Lewis wants him to but he does want him, just a little, and sometimes that’s even enough.

“You’re distracting,” Lewis says. “Not my fault.”

“I’m literally just talking about the car,” Bono says, eyebrows raising. “About the wings.”

Lewis lets his voice go a little lower, breathy and curling around his words. Looking up through his lashes, he says, “I know,” and watches Bono’s finger tighten around the headphone cord so he doesn’t shove Lewis off his tire. Lewis laughs. A light blush spreads across Bono’s face, colouring the bridge of his nose.

“You’re insufferable,” Bono says, swallowing.

Lewis grins. “But I’m cute though.”

Bono doesn’t say anything as one of the mechanics come up to him, showing him a tablet with something for him to sign off on. Lewis pokes his thigh with a toe.

“Hey. I’m cute though, right? Bono. Bono. Hey.”

Bono ignores him.

The mechanic looks between the two of them, going still. He’s new, Lewis realises as he doesn’t recognise him. Still, he should know his name. He’ll ask Bono later.

Dan leans around the new guy, grinning, elbow on his shoulder. “I think you’re cute, Lewis.”

Lewis smiles at him, winking. “It’s nice to be appreciate around here.”

Bono hands the guy back his tablet. “I wouldn’t know.”

Lewis brushes off the sting. Joke. It’s a joke, Lewis. The voice sounds like Jenson.

Lewis scoffs, “I appreciate you!”

Bono hums, “Do you? Then why don’t you listen to me?”

“I told you. You’re distracting.” Lewis bites his cheeks, tasting sharp copper as it bleeds.

He tilts his head. “Bono.”

Bono is looking at him. “What?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

Bono frowns at him, “You’re going on track in ten minutes.”

Lewis waves a hand, manages not to drop his phone. “No, no. Not that. Could you take off your headphones for a moment.”

Bono squints at him, crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening, “why.” He drags the word out long enough that it doesn’t even sound like a question.

Lewis smiles. “I want to see your hair do the thing.”

Bono shoves him off the tire this time.

“C’mon,” Lewis says, giggling, sprawled out on the floor, propping himself up on his elbows. He feels a little breathless, going all light and weightless with it all. “I want to see it.”

Bono turns back to the screens behind him. “My hair doesn’t ‘do a thing’.”

The mechanics laughing around them. A tv on the wall at the other end of the garage shows a pink and blue car out on track. It swerves a little, skidding over a wet patch, before rightening itself. Lewis hopes that it’s Fernando driving and not Esteban.

“Yeah, man, it does! Goes all, like, smushed in the middle cause of where they sit and it’s very funny.”

Bono’s voice goes all flat at the ends like it does when he’s trying not to laugh. “Well, then, guess you’ll see it after the race, won’t you?”

Lewis groans. “That’s ages away, though. Please. It’s so cute.”

Bono stays watching the screens. The tv is now showing Sebastian, his black helmet stark against the green Aston Martin. It makes Lewis grin like he did when Seb first sent him the design pics weeks ago.

Lewis sighs, dramatic and long and heavy, feeling his lungs shake with it. Let’s Dan pull him up. Bumps shoulders with Bono who cuts a glance at him, smiling slightly. Lewis grins at him. “What were you saying again?”

Bono looks at him for a second.

“I’m not too distracting anymore?” he asks.

Lewis shrugs, making sure he sounds careful and relaxed. “I can manage.”

He must succeed because Bono’s smile widens and he goes back to what he was saying earlier, cord in hand.

There’s a fine line here. One that Bono drew in the sand years ago when he left Lewis to wake up in a cold bed and messy sheets, smiling at him when he sat down opposite him twenty seven minutes later in the Mercedes ordered private plane. and said hey Lewis. Good party? like he always did and Lewis grinned, stomach tight. The ends of Bono’s come still flaking off of Lewis’s stomach. Not having had time to shower. (Part of him had hoped that he’d show up and Bono would look at him with those eyes again and invite him over when they landed in England and Lewis would know, just know, what that meant and neither of them would need to say anything else.)

(Bono didn’t invite him over, clapping him on the shoulder in goodbye the minute they got their bags, and Lewis didn’t see him again until two days before the next race)

(Neither of them needed to say anything else.)

There’s a fine line here. One where Bono doesn’t say anything about Lewis being in love with him and puts up with his teasing and Lewis doesn’t say anything about Bono not loving him back and makes himself still and listen to Bono when it matters, never mentioning that he knows how Bono tastes when he’s laughing.

Lewis bumps his shoulder into Bono’s again and doesn’t look down and doesn’t look at Bono’s mouth. Just listens to him worry about the brakes of a car that sometimes Lewis can’t even bring himself to not hate.

#i started writing fluff and then. yeah. idk what happened #im blaming it on naila bc she keeps talking about unrequited blewis on bonos side n now the brainrot is sinking it but with lewis #stuff i wrote #hopefully rewriting this will get me back into it #blewis #f1 rpf fic #fic.asks #anon tag #niamh.asks

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milflewis · 1 year

Note

gewis + flowers

Lewis rolls his eyes, grinning, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Yeah, yeah, very funny.”

George presses his lips together, not really trying very hard to not smile. “No. Definitely not funny.” He leans into Lewis’s space, shoulders bumping, and his throat goes scratchy and dry as Lewis bumps him back, shaking his head, nose studs glittering in the sun.

George waits until Lewis has wandered away, seven minutes of Lewis trying not to laugh at George’s pretty good jokes if he can say so himself later, to cough, hard and heaving, into his elbow. He feels something shake loose in his chest, fluttering soft and damp into his mouth.

Pierre is staring at him from across the truck, forearm slung across Yuki’s shoulders, when George resurfaces. He slowly raises an eyebrow. George looks back at him, half smiling, and waits him out. It doesn’t take long. Pierre shakes his head, condescending and falsely superior, turning away, and George would bare his teeth if he wasn’t fairly sure they’d be bloody. He pushes the petals further into his cheek with his tongue, and waves at the crowds.

#hanahaki disease au my beloved #not sure this is what u were looking for anon but hope u like !#gewis #anon tag #niamh.asks #fic.asks

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milflewis · 2 years

Note

hmmm valtteri/lewis + au setting: lewis as the most sought-after male model in the world & valtteri as a famous photographer who usually shoots nature series but was contacted by longtime friend [insert person of ur choice here] to please shoot lewis for their cover story. he reluctantly agrees. alternatively, lewis as famous musician and valtteri as the owner of a remote artic ranch that lewis wants to use to record his next album in. or anything honestly haha

“You didn’t say he was beautiful!” Valtteri half whispers down his phone, trying to smile at one of the makeup artists who side-eyes him huddled in the corner as they pass.

Sebastian, the fucking asshole, just laughs. “He’s a model, Val. What did you expect?”

“I don’t know! Not —“ His voice cracks as he catches a glimpse of Lewis getting, oh god, oiled up across the room, sun glistening, the curve of his back obscene. “Not this.”

Lewis flicks a towel at the man beside him, spraying him with body oil, laughing, hand on his bare tummy, fingers spread wide. The man wipes his glasses on his shirt and shoves Lewis, poking him in the ribs. Lewis squirms, laughter going all giggle breathless.

“Seb,” Valtteri says, something dawning on him. “Why exactly did you want me to do this photoshoot?”

“Eh.” Valtteri can picture Sebastian’s shit eating grin, all smug and satisfied at his plan working. “No specific reason.”

Valtteri swears. “I told you to stop setting me up!”

send me a pairing and an au prompt and i’ll write a theee sentence fic about it

#PLS !!! i am. in love with this idea omg #valewis #three sentence (ish) fic ask game #fic.asks #niamh.asks

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milflewis · 2 years

Note

jenson + whoever and rainstorm

bestie i’m sorry. i went to write princess cake for you and ended up with slagclaren

“Does Peter Pan remind you of anyone?” Jenson asks, tapping the remote against his chin for a second before changing the channel again. The flickering animation morphs into a high speed car chase. Jenson keeps changing it. He turns up the volume a little as the rain outside gets louder, thunder rumbling in the distance. One mississippi, two mississippi….

“What?” Lewis says, voice slightly muffled by the closed door.

“Peter Pan. Does he remind you of anyone?”

Someone on the tv guesses the right answer and the crowd loses their shit, lights going off, alarms blaring.

“Oh my god,” Jenson says and he laughs. “Oh my god. It’s Seb. Holy shit.”

The bathroom door opens, steam spilling out, and Lewis’s voice is clearer now when he says, “What’s Seb?”

“Peter Pan,” Jenson says without looking at him.

Lewis pauses, lifting his arm to rub a towel through his hair. Jenson gives in, turning his head on his arms to watch the bend and curve of his muscles. His hair sticks out a little all over the place when he’s finished.

One of Lewis’s curls is longer than the others and it curls along the shape of his ear. It’s more distracting than Jenson would like to admit. Luckily the only person who would hate Jenson talking about his feelings, especially ones involving Lewis and this thing that they do, more than Jenson is Lewis himself so his slack jawed staring is ignored, like it always is.

“It fits,” Lewis says, chewing at the inside of his mouth. Jenson’s skin feels too tight for his bones when he realises he knows how the little blisters Lewis leaves along the inside of his cheeks feel on his tongue.

“Does that make Mark Captain Hook?”

Jenson stares at him for a moment before it clicks and he cackles. If they weren’t in a hotel room on their own, if Jenson wasn’t shirtless lying on his bed, Lewis naked save for a towel after being fully naked in his shower, he’d grin at Lewis and say I love you and Lewis would roll his eyes, smiling.

But they are, so Jenson settles for asking, inbetween breathless laughter, “Who’s the crocodile?”

Lewis won’t fuck him if Jenson has a girlfriend and he definitely won’t fuck him if Lewis himself has a girlfriend. But he also won’t fuck him just because neither of them don’t. Lewis only lets things happen between them when one of them has won, champagne so sticky their come barely makes a difference and victory drunk.

The only time they’ve had sex when they’ve both lost was when Jenson spent the entire night at Kimi’s party flirting with the bartender, grinning at Lewis. Lewis had hated how much Jenson trailing fingers along her arm, chewing on a toothpick, all the while making eyes at Lewis as he whispered in her ear, turned him on. Jenson could see it in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers lay flat against the side of his glass, knuckles white. It hadn’t stopped him from dropping to his knees in the club bathroom, Jenson pressed up against the door because the lock didn’t work.

All your rules, Jenson thinks, and the thought is as fondly soft as it is sad. Aren’t they heavy?

Lewis’s eyes are bright and glinting as he says, “It’s obviously Fernando.”

That sets Jenson off again and when he’s finally stopped laughing, Lewis is across the room, trying to find a pair of sweatpants from Jenson’s suitcase that he won’t have to roll up four or five times at the ankles.

His towel hangs low on his hips, v line more pronounced now in the tv blue tinged dark. There’s a drop of water making it’s way down the curve of his back. Jenson wants to shape his mouth inbetween the dips and bumps of his spine.

“Come here,” Jenson’s says, and his voice is low in the back of his throat without even trying.

Lewis turns, collarbones startlingly delicate and thin amoungst the rest of his solid body. He raises his eyebrows at Jenson, mouth lifting slightly at one of the corners. “Really?” he says. “Again?”

Jenson shrugs and lets his eyes wander. “I’m bored.”

“Oh,” Lewis laughs, walking closer, backlit by the tv. “How enthusiastic. Careful, I’m feeling very overwhelmed over here with all this want.”

Jenson doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing he wants to say, sometimes I feel so full of something for you everything else gets stuck in the back of my throat, or you laughed at a joke Seb told last week and you were so beautiful I walked right into the back of Kimi and made him spill his coffee and I don’t think you even noticed, or I love you, but more importantly, I think I might want you, and that scares me shitless, that Lewis will let himself hear.

Lewis watches him as Jenson wraps a hand around his knee, thumb fitting into the crease of the soft thin skin there. He trails his hand up, smooth hairless skin still damp with shower water and moisturiser. He taps his fingers to the beat of the rain outside. Jenson slips the hand up under his towel, the skin on the inside of Lewis’s thigh almost silky.

Lewis doesn’t move, just stands there, watching him with those unreadable eyes. He doesn’t even so much as shiver. If Jenson didn’t know any better he’d think having Jenson’s hand centimetres from Lewis’s dick meant nothing to him. He does know better. And the tent Lewis’s dick is making under his towel helps too. Still, Jenson swallows back the urge to yell at him because he’s sure that would only make Lewis leave.

“Can I suck you off?” Jenson asks, because that’s another rule. Lewis likes spontaneity and surprises and switching it up but only after Jenson asks first.

“You gave me one last time,” Lewis says, eyes dark and focused, a little crease between his eyebrows that’s the same one he gets when he’s studying telemetry data.

Jenson hates him just a little.

“I’ve told you before, this isn’t a business arrangement, mate. There’s no I did this so you have to do that here. There’s no keeping score.”

No one wins or loses. Or at least they shouldn’t, not if you’re doing it right.

Even when you’re good, you and Nico are something I can never fully understand.

Lewis rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know that,” he says, voice dripping with condescension and slight frustration. Do you, Jenson thinks, do you really, and he knows the answer without asking it.

“Sex is supposed to be fun, Lewis,” he says instead because that’s light and teasing and allowed. “You need to relax, you know. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

Lewis gives him a flat look. “Yeah. You. This morning.”

Jenson grins, ruffling his hair out of his face and if he arm flexes as he does so then, well, reflected mannerisms and all that. He doesn’t miss the way Lewis’s eyes track the movement.

“Oh, right, yeah. One of my smarter moments.”

“Few as they are,” Lewis says, shoulders relaxed, smile pushing out from behind his eyes. His hands are still loose by his side, Lewis was never one for showing aggression, never one for showing anything at all if he could help it, but his fingers are looser at the knuckles than they were a few minutes ago.

You gave me one last time.

Jesus.

“Well, if I showed you my genius all the time you’d appreciate me less. Got to keep you guessing.”

Lewis hums, closer now. Jenson could reach out and cause his towel to fall with one tug if he wanted to.

“I appreciate you,” Lewis says, fingers tracing the shape of Jenson’s mouth. It’s still raining outside, slamming against the window, and Jenson latches onto that faint boom spit sound of water so he doesn’t do anything stupid, or stupider, if he’s being honest, than what he’s already doing.

Jenson’s knows that’s as close to an I love you that he will ever easily get from Lewis, at least for a very long time. He could, he knows, somewhere deep down and shameful, ask it of Lewis and Lewis will tell him what he wants to hear, he’s fairly sure, and it’d even be true.

But Jenson has come too far, and been too careful, to take more from Lewis now than Lewis is willing to give. He has some rules of his own.

For someone so brave, he thinks as he leans in to kiss him, heat pooling into his stomach as he realises that Lewis smells of his shampoo, you are so full of fear. Before you, I was never scared. But, now —

But, now.

And I’m still not brave.

—

“Hey,” Jenson says, knocking his ankle against Lewis’s, who turns his head on his arms until he’s facing him, one eye squished, the other blinking at him. Jenson wants him to sit up properly so he can see the red marks his arm would press into his cheeks.

The sweat is cooling on Jenson’s chest, leaving him feeling weird and gross. There’s come drying on Lewis’s ribs, where Jenson was spreading it around, laughing at Lewis’s face, body post orgasm shivery and hot at the sight of his come coating Lewis’s skin and Lewis letting him. Lewis is watching him again, eyes a little dazed but clear. It’s not the first time Jenson wants to ask what he’s thinking but doesn’t. He presses his fingers against his teeth so he doesn’t kiss him. It’s not the first time he has done that either.

“What are you doing after the briefing tomorrow?”

Lewis shrugs, the movement graceful and rolling even though he’s lying on his stomach. Sometimes, Jenson thinks, you make it really easy to hate you. And even during those times, it’s still easier to love you. Jenson wants to ask him how he does it.

“I don’t know yet. Why?”

Jenson grins, feeling the stretch of it across his face. “Want to fuck on Ron’s desk after, when he’s gone?”

Lewis’s laugh is brilliant and startling like it always is. Jenson wonders how many times he can make Lewis laugh until he gets sick of it. He hopes he gets to find out.

#what if i took one of the few chill teammate relationships lewis has had and made it not chill #idk when this is set exactly but it’s when lewis is in mclaren and is repressed and slagclaren are fucking and trying to #pretend that it’s just that #slowly falling in love with writing them ngl. this was my first time so pls be gentle #one! braincell bestie #slagclaren #stuff i wrote #f1 rpf fic #fic.asks #niamh.asks

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milflewis · 1 year

Note

dantteri + christmas gifts

ah. ok. so. it got sad? sorry 😔😔 i started writing and then the pacific rim fic took over my brain so here you go. some dantteri in this au

“Here.”

Valtteri looks up from his mashed potatoes and beans. Daniel is standing in front of him in the most obnoxious Christmas jumper that Valtteri had ever seen. It’s giant, pushed up at his elbows, gaping at the neck, fire truck red and neon green and it has lights. It vaguely resembles a reindeer. The present he’s holding is badly wrapped too. There’s a strip of sellotape that looks like it’s wrapped completely around and around the middle with no stopping.

“I didn’t get you anything.” It’s been years since Valtteri had last felt nervous and off balance around Daniel, not since at least, basic training, but the feeling is familiar and sour on his skin. He can feel the back of his neck heating.

“Ah,” Daniel grins, shoulders loosening. Valtteri unclenches his fingers from around his fork. This he can do — Daniel making fun of him is just as familiar as how anxious he shouldn’t still be able to make him. “Guess I’m just a better person than you are, Valtteri.”

Valtteri hates how Daniel says his name — the ‘Val’ short and dragging out the ‘-tteri’ like it’s a song.

“I’m better sure that people who are better than someone don’t have to say that they are.”

Daniel shrugs, giving the present a little shake. It doesn’t rattle or make any kind of sound. Valtteri takes it. “Not everyone can be perfect, mate. I’m just a man, you know? Only human.”

“Right. Thank you,” Valtteri says, putting the present down next to his plate, picking back up his fork. He eats a mouthful of lukewarm beany potatoes, raising his eyebrows at Daniel, a silent is that it?

Daniel stares back at him, smile slipping slightly. He opens his mouth and closes it, narrowing his eyes. The tension is back in his shoulders when he walks away, hands in his pockets, the line of his back just barely curved.

Valtteri rolls his eyes, mouth dry. He’s too tired these days, too busy, to indulge Daniel’s irritating need to take the piss out of everything. He can fuck off with his joke present or whatever — Valtteri isn’t going to play into it.

—

It takes Valtteri four years to open the present. He had forgotten about it, tucked away in one of his drawers, lost amongst Lewis’s shit with Nico and the never ending Kaiju attacks and training.

Daniel has been dead three years when Valtteri finds the present again, looking for his spare spare phone charger. It still had the unending strip of sellotape, the corners torn and curling. It’s squishy in his hands, the wrapping crinkling.

He laughs when he opens it, head falling into his hands, the wool soft against his cheek. It’s the first time he cries since Lewis has left.

Sebastian finds him like that, hours later, when Valtteri doesn’t turn up for dinner. He doesn’t say anything, only drags him out of his chair and into the medical ward, ignoring the wetness on his cheeks. Kimi raises his eyebrows at the sight of them when they take over his office couch, Sebastian shoving a tray of food into Valtteri’s lap. He doesn’t even lecture them which tells Valtteri more about what a state he looks than anything else. Kimi isn’t one to break out the sympathy for anyone who isn’t dead or under six years old, and even then, it’s a close call.

Sebastian very deliberately does not ask, in the same way that he very deliberately does not talk about Daniel, and they eat in silence, and it’s not nice, but it’s not awful either.

—

He ignores George beside him. He’s bouncing on his toes, chattering, sleeves buttoned close to his wrists, ink just barely peeking over the back of his hands. The tattoos on his arms are different than Daniel’s were, less colourful, more lined blueprints of anatomy than paintings. Valtteri hunches more into his raincoat, hand clenching around his umbrella.

Lewis looks tired when he steps off the helicopter, bruises under his eyes even darker than they were when Valtteri saw him three days ago. He’s wearing the same coat, heavy and solid and grey. It fits him along the shoulders, cuffed at the wrists, too long at the waist. There is a faint patch on his back where SCHUMACHER used to be printed on.

Someone trips coming out behind Lewis, tall, weird facial hair, big eyes. He’s holding his arms close to his chest like Lewis is. He looks very French, even in the pissing rain. Pierre Gasly, Valtteri thinks, picturing the background check that he had ran two years ago when Lewis mentioned, in that soft bewildered way that he does when he doesn’t quite know what to do with someone but refuses to admit it, that this kid started following him around and doesn’t seem to be stopping.

Valtteri wonders if the kid even knows what he has done, what he has done for Valtteri in saving Lewis from himself. If he even knows the depth of the debt that Valtteri owes him.

Valtteri bites his cheek when Lewis spots him, eyes lighting up, something in his face loosening. He presses in close when Valtteri throws an arm around his shoulder. The collar of Lewis’s coat is soaked through.

“Wasn’t sure if you’d actually come,” Valtteri says and it’s a lie and they both know it. Lewis was never going to do anything else when Valtteri asked him to come back. You are terrible for my ego, Valtteri thinks and the thought is so fond he could choke on it.

Lewis grins, bumping his hip against Valtteri’s. “Well, you know. Mark told me I wouldn’t be able to do it and fuck me, but I couldn’t let him be right.”

Valtteri laughs, lifting the umbrella to cover the two of them. Lewis flutters wet eyelashes at him in thanks and Valtteri rolls his eyes, nearly missing the look on Lewis’s face when he spots Valtteri’s hands.

I helped him knit them, Lewis will tell him, hours later, when they’re alone in the kitchens together, ice cream cold on their knees, the blue light of the fridge hollowing out Lewis’s cheeks. He was so nervous. He. He wanted. He.

Stop, Valtteri will say, eyes open only because he’s afraid if he closes them then Lewis will disappear again. And Lewis will stop. And they won’t talk about it until years later when the Kaiju attacks are more manageable and Lewis is teaching more often than he is fighting and Valtteri can bring himself to complain about how the gloves unravel at the ends and the fingers are all different lengths without feeling like he’s going to throw up.

But for now, Lewis just looks at them for a beat, swallowing hard, and then, his coat meows and he winces. “So,” he starts, already doing his wounded eyes and smile soft at the corners that gets him away with nearly everything. It’s all Sebastian. “You know how I was telling you that I started minding these two cats.”

“Yes,” Valtteri says, trying not to laugh. George is not as successful, bursting out in laughter as Gasly’s coat meows in unison.

#ok . yeah. here u go #character death warning #btw. he doesn’t die in this bit of writing but there is another character reacting to it #also. this might not make much sense idk. hmm. be grand #pacific rim au #dantteri #fran tag #fic.asks #niamh.asks

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milflewis · 1 year

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niamh, niamh, please, love of my life, the one I love more then anything in this world, my beautiful wife PLEASE write me schuclerc angst. I need the fix I need it.

ok. so. don’t yell. ik this wasn’t what you wanted probably but here you go. set sometime in the future when lewis is retired and mick is in ferrari with charles

“I want him.”

Lewis hums, lying flat on his back on the ground beside him, arm flung over his eyes. The sun is low and bright in the sky, the Monaco summer heat chasing away the morning chill. Mick’s legs ache as he stretches them out.

“But do you love him?” Lewis asks because Lewis never holds back and he has never not lied to Mick and for all that Sebastian values honesty above all else, he has always tried to protect him. Lewis hadn’t said anything when Mick turned up at his door three days ago, a week into summer break, just grinned and stepped aside so Roscoe could come running for some Mick cuddles.

Mick exhales, pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth, and shakes with it. “I don’t know,” he says because while Lewis may always tell the truth, Mick is nowhere near that brave.

Lewis just hums again, feet crossing at the ankles, shoulders loose, shirtless and sweating and easy. Mick’s fingers itch to dig into him and pull him apart, to make him blink and falter like Mick is doing. He wants to ask him why there is only one type of shampoo in the guest’s bathroom and why, when Mick texted Guanyu, did he tell him that it’s the same kind that Valtteri used to always use.

“Charles loves me,” Mick says instead, because a good defence is always an offence, and he has never known what do to with all this rage inside him.

Lewis just says, “Yeah, he does,” and his arm doesn’t move and his knee is still resting against Mick’s and his voice has stayed even but he is disappointed in Mick. Lewis doesn’t love him like Sebastian loves him, Mick doesn’t even want him to, it is because of this that he came here.

Footsteps slow as someone runs past them before speeding up again. Lewis doesn’t move so Mick stays where he’s lying.

Lewis sighs, arm moving so his fingers can dig into the bridge of his nose. “Charles loves you, Mick, because god bless him, but he can’t help himself. He has never been able to stop himself from wanting things that don’t want him back or,” Mick bites his cheek. “Or, don’t want him back enough.”

Lewis laughs, the sound low in the back of his throat. “He’s a Ferrari driver, for fuck sake. He may have won, yeah, eventually, the second time around, but he was losing for so long there too, and he still asked for a longer contract even after all their shit.”

Mick stays quiet. Lewis huffs, blowing out a sharp cut off breath.

“I love Valtteri,” Lewis says, arm down on his stomach, head turned to the side to look at Mick, lashes long and dark. Mick swallows.

“He loves you too.”

Part of him wants it to hurt. A bigger part of him unfolds in relief when Lewis doesn’t even flinch, looking right back at him. He grew up with Sebastian, Mick remembers, he knows how honesty can be used.

“Yeah,” Lewis grins, something quick and quiet and sad in the way Mick has always watched him love. You’re a fucking disaster, Mick thinks, fond. “Yeah, he does, and I think he might even be starting to let himself want me back.”

Mick digs his fingers into the grass beside them. Lewis lets him stay silent for a long moment before, “Do you know the difference between you and me?”

Mick shrugs, pick one, it’s a long list. He can practically hear Lewis roll his eyes.

“Yeah, dickhead, there are many but the main one, that one that matters, is that this sport is yours.”

Mick glances up, mouth opening to argue, but the look in Lewis’s eyes shuts him up.

“They told me that this sport wasn’t mine and they were right but for the wrong reasons and so I took it, yeah? I made this sport mine, or at least,” he laughs again. “As much as I could but you — you have been told this sport is yours your whole life and still, you think you need to take it. And you do, obviously, but not, not as much as you think you do.”

Mick’s stomach fizzes hot and sour and he squints into the sun, Lewis going all golden and blurry at the edges.

“You insist on struggling when you don’t need to. You won, Mick, do you get that? You won.”

Can’t you see how that’s the fucking problem, Mick wants to yell. I think I could’ve loved him, Mick doesn’t say. If only he never won. I think I could’ve forgiven him for winning with Ferrari if it meant that I never did but I did. He won and then so did I and now I can’t look at him because now I know what it felt like, now I know what he took from me —

Lewis kicks his ankle as if he can hear him anyway. “Charles loves you, wants you, whatever, right now because it hurts and he’s always been so good at that but maybe in time, he’ll stop. Maybe if you stopped enabling him, stopped helping him, then he could love you anyway. Or not. It doesn’t matter.”

Lewis sits up, twisting so he’s facing Mick, amusement tucked into the corners of his mouth, faintly exasperated. Mick hates him.

“Get over yourself, Schumacher, and for the love of god, stop trying to use Charles as an excuse for how fucked in the head you are.”

Mick lays his hands out flat on the ground, palms pressing into the earth. He smiles and his mouth feels full with teeth. “You used Sebastian.”

Lewis only raises his eyebrows, eyes kind. “Yeah, and he used me. The difference is,” Lewis says because he’s an asshole and he’s never lied to Mick or pulled his punches. “Is that we were always honest about it. We hurt each other but we never lied about it. Never tried to pretend it was something it wasn’t.”

Lewis sits there for a while, Mick glaring up at the sky, the anger in his chest shaking and spilling over, before he leaves, patting Mick’s cheek softly but firmly. Mick closes his eyes eventually, breathing out, and lets himself lie here, in the Monaco sun, salt in the air, and knows Lewis will have those pastries Mick likes from the bakery a few doors down from Lewis’s place when he gets back.

#idk wtf this is but here u go. i’ve been studying all day n just wrote this #if there are any mistakes i’m sorry i have not reread it #schuclerc #stuff i wrote #fic.asks #kyle tag #niamh.asks

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