If There Was Ever A Time To Write More Bratty-dom Lando, It Would Absolutely Be After Him Bruising Oscar’s

see part 2 of drives as incorrect quotes <3

If I had a nickel for every time I wrote about a quirky interaction happening in a fic between the main couple and a funny new yorker in New York City, I’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot, but it is weird it happened twice, right.

“you just post fic for the attention.” no, I post on tumblr for attention. I post fic so that me and a few dozen strangers can gather around and chew on dirt for a while together

i follow mclaren exclusively for their unhinged what if we made our drivers do this moments and you know what. they rarely disappoint me

The first time they hook up, Yuki asks, “you want to fuck me?” and Pierre has already opened his mouth to answer that question, very much in the affirmative, when Yuki continues with: “or I can --”

Pierre’s groan turns into a snort and Yuki doesn’t finish his sentence, just raises an eyebrow.

“What,” he says and Pierre shrugs, grins.

“It’s just --” he starts, but Yuki is still looking at him blankly, mouth small and pink and settled in a flat line. “You’re --”

He searches for words helplessly, but he can’t find any. Of course he’ll be the one fucking Yuki instead of the other way around. Yuki's -- he looks like. He's Yuki. It’s so self-evident that the idea of explaining it feels like -- like Yuki’s asking him to explain what an apex is. You don't talk about it, you just. Well. Hit it.

“I’m…?” Yuki asks and Pierre’s brain unhelpfully supplies the word: short.

“You can fuck me when you’re leading me in the championship, okay?” Pierre eventually says and Yuki stares at him for a few more seconds and then finally rolls his eyes.

“You’re so predictable,” he says and Pierre tries to look as charming as possible, takes his chance to run his hand up Yuki’s thigh, soft and pale and strong.

“Dependable, I prefer,” he says and Yuki breathes out, long and low as Pierre palms his dick over his briefs. “Guarantee for a good time.”

“Less talk,” Yuki tells him, but his voice is more strained than before and he hitches his hips up against Pierre’s cupped hand. “More show.”

Pierre salutes with his free hand, which makes Yuki snort and then Pierre keeps his word and shows him a good time; fucks him slow and deep as Yuki throws his head back on the pillow and jerks himself off. He looks like he enjoys it and Pierre viciously thinks, that’ll shut him up -- if there’s two things Pierre knows how to do it’s how to drive cars fast and fuck someone’s brains out. And just so Yuki doesn’t think Pierre got lucky, he makes it exactly as good the next time, and the next. Fucks Yuki on his hands and knees, curled around his back to stroke his dick until Yuki moans and presses his forehead into the pillow; fucks Yuki with one leg up over Pierre’s shoulder, all the muscles in his abdomen flexing as Yuki arches his back, comes so hard it cuts off his sound, mouth open in a silent moan. Of course Yuki’s still Yuki -- mouthy, a little mean, looking at Pierre sometimes, like he’s biting back a grin -- but at least he doesn’t bring up fucking Pierre again.

That is, until Bahrain. Testing was bad, but somehow Pierre had some stupid hope that it’s a set-up thing. The first and second free practice, Pierre thinks, lower midfield. Lower midfield, lower midfield. After the third one, he can only stare at the table on the screen in the garage, his name concluding the list, two tenths slower than Logan Sargeant. He lines up 20th on the grid and finishes the race two places higher up and thinks, 281 days until the final race in Abu Dhabi. Yuki’s frustrated too, at the team orders, at the car that’s so much shittier than everybody promised and Pierre says: “Well, I can think of a way to make this day not a complete waste,” and smirks so Yuki can’t possibly misunderstand what he means. 

“Hm,” Yuki says, sucks at the straw on his water bottle thoughtfully. It’s not exactly the enthusiastic response Pierre’d hoped for, but he’s sure he can fuck the disgruntlement out of Yuki. “I’m leading the championship, right?”

At first, Pierre doesn’t even understand what he’s getting at.

“What,” he says when he finally remembers and Yuki cocks his head. “We’re both at zero points, mate.”

Yuki shrugs.

“It was your idea,” he says.

“You liked it, when I --” Pierre says and he has to clear his throat to make his voice sound less. Less whatever happened to it, with those previous words. “Didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Yuki says and Pierre waits, but Yuki doesn’t do anything, just looks back at Pierre with an infuriating, vaguely interested expression.

“Just say you don’t want to,” Pierre snaps, annoyed suddenly, even more so when Yuki laughs.

“I want to,” Yuki says. “It’s your rule, not mine.”

“Whatever,” Pierre says and goes to his hotel room, where he watches his onboard to confirm what he already knew -- he didn’t make any mistakes, the car’s just that fucking shit. 

In Saudi, Pierre qualifies P18 and watches Yuki fight his way through Q2 and Q3 from the garage, remembering the shivery sounds he made when Pierre bottomed out the first time, one hand clutching the headboard. The next day, he doesn’t even make it a single lap before the team tells him to box and retire. Yuki’s race isn’t that good, but he finishes it. Pierre is 21st in a 20 driver championship. In Australia, Yuki gets four points that turn into six after Alonso’s penalty and Pierre crosses the line pointless and lapped. When he passes Yuki in the paddock, he looks Pierre up and down, eyes slipping lazily up Pierre’s body before he nods in greeting and turns around to get weighed.

At home, Pierre gets himself off on the memory of some time, somewhere in between races last year, when they were both in Milan and Yuki’d come over to Pierre’s place and told Pierre to suck him off and get something inside of him. He’d held Pierre’s hair in a tight fist, so that whenever Pierre did something with his fingers that he liked, he could hold Pierre’s head still and move his hips into it. He’d liked it, Pierre giving it to him. Pierre can’t understand why he’s being so fucking difficult. He’d felt good, when Pierre was fucking him, body arching off the bed and eyes closed, coming on Pierre’s dick alone, once. Pierre’s been feeling like shit for weeks now, restless agitation scratching at the back of his mind, he’d be fucking happy to feel as good as Yuki did, on his back, eyes closed, arms over his head, doing absolutely nothing except taking it, deep and slow and --

His orgasm feels like putting his car into the wall, a lurching slide and then a snap, Pierre coming all over his hand and his wrist, leaving him panting, breath scraping its way out of his lungs. 

Pierre stares at the mess dripping onto his stomach, his dick twitching in his hand. There’s a buzzing sound in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut, presses the heel of his clean hand against the bridge of his nose to stop it. 

“Christ,” he mutters to himself and after some time, long enough that his come has dried tacky and gross on his skin, he hauls himself out of bed to shower.

Later that day, he takes out his phone and texts Yuki before he can think better of it.

Wanna come over?

Yuki’s reply comes within minutes. Busy. 

Yuuuuuki, don’t be like that, Pierre texts him back. My rule, not yours, I know, I know. 

You do? 🤨 Yuki texts back. 

I’ll order dinner, Pierre sends him and Yuki reacts to it with a giant red cross. 

Okay, can make time, comes in and then after that: I’ll get dinner.

Yuki orders dinner - something with fish and textures and it’s weird but also good - and then Pierre to get his kit off and get on the bed, bossy and resolute.

“I’m much nicer to you when we do this,” Pierre complains and when he goes to turn over onto his stomach, Yuki tugs him back.

“Like this,” Yuki says and Pierre clenches his jaw, reminds himself to be good sport and presses his hand flat against his sternum to ensure the nervous hum of his heart isn’t making his ribs visibly vibrate. Fine. If Yuki thinks putting Pierre on his back like some blushing bride is going to make Pierre tap out, he’s sorely mistaken.

“How’s this,” Yuki asks when he’s got a stubby finger inside Pierre and Pierre’s entire body is pulled so tight Yuki could use his abs as a snare drum.

“Great,” Pierre says and Yuki reaches up to flick Pierre’s nipple. “Ow, you fucker.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Yuki says and then he twists his finger and several things happen at once. Something electric licks up Pierre’s spine. His cock, only barely half-hard and doubtful about the proceedings, twitches. He makes a sound that he will, to his final days, deny making.

“Ah,” Yuki says, soft and only a little smug. He pulls back and the bottle of lube makes a squelching sound before Yuki presses a second finger into Pierre and just as Pierre is about to say something bitchy about the stretch, Yuki twists his fingers again and Pierre says: “Oh.”

“That’s --” Yuki starts, but he doesn’t continue and when Pierre opens his eyes, he’s looking down at Pierre’s cock, hard and red against his abs, at where his fingers disappear into Pierre. 

“Yuki,” Pierre says and his voice splinters at the edges, little spider web cracks. The muscles in his thighs keep twitching He wants to turn over onto his stomach so Yuki can’t see his face. He wants to leave this bed and then the country. He wants --

“Yuki,” he says again and Yuki nods, eases his fingers out to get more lube. Pierre expects him to come back with another one, but instead, Yuki wraps a hand around his dick and shuffles closer, sliding in his thick thighs under Pierre’s, wrapping a hand around the back of Pierre’s knee to push it back against his chest.

Pierre says: “Wait.”

Yuki does, lowers his ass on his heels and looks at Pierre patiently. Slowly, Pierre opens his mouth in the hopes that something not entirely humiliating comes out of it. He tries to remember if Yuki was nervous, the first time they did this. If Pierre went slowly, careful to make it good. Was nice about it.

“Okay,” Pierre finally says and Yuki stays still for another beat, grins.

“You want a kiss, first?” He asks, not even mean, like Pierre could say ‘yes’ and Pierre can feel his hot heartbeat in his throat, thumps his heel against Yuki’s ass.

“Don’t be a dick,” he says and Yuki shrugs, lines himself up and pushes in. 

“Shit,” Pierre says, as the fat head of Yuki’s cock catches on his rim. “Fuck, shit.”

“Give it a second,” Yuki says, voice tight, hips stuttering forward the barest amount. “You need to -- fuck, Pierre.”

“I want,” Pierre says and he doesn’t know what it is he wants, except that he does -- urgently and frantically. “Yuki, I want --”

“Yeah,” Yuki says and he’s sweating, wetness beading at his hairline, knuckles white against Pierre’s hip. “Yeah, fuck, Pierre.”

“You need to --” Pierre says.

“Bossy,” Yuki pants out, but he’s laughing and then Pierre is too and just as Pierre wonders if this is good or it’s just fun, Yuki shifts, bends forward and the head of his dick drags a moan out of Pierre. His breathing is going funny, all hitchy and shallow. Above him, Yuki is making short, punched out sounds. He’s not laughing anymore, face creased in concentration.

“Yuki,” Pierre says, helplessly and Yuki makes a little noise, leans in and now they are kissing, Yuki’s breath hot in Pierre’s mouth and his body smooth and wavy under Pierre’s hands. 

“Yuki,” Pierre says again and Yuki whines, buries his sweaty face in Pierre’s neck. He worms his hand between their bodies and gets it around Pierre’s dick. The combination of his jerky thrusts combined with the slightly out-of-rhythm movement of his hand feels so good it makes Pierre want to wriggle out of his skin.

“I --” Pierre says and then he’s coming, heart pounding and hands shaking. Over the rough sound of his own breathing, he can hear Yuki groan, feels his hips move in twitchy circles before his muscles lock and then he collapses on top of Pierre. 

Pierre thinks about saying something, but the best he manages is a disbelieving half-groan, half-laugh noise and Yuki snorts, makes the same sound. It’s quiet in Pierre’s bedroom, only the soft hum of traffic audible outside his window. The car’s still bad. They’re not getting upgrades until near the summer break. The only reason Pierre’s not last in the standings is because Albon one-upped stealing Pierre's seat by stealing Sargeant’s car and Sauber can’t pull off a sub-thirty second pit stop to save their lives. Pierre strokes a hand down the graceful curve of Yuki’s back and Yuki hums, kisses the side of Pierre’s neck.

how do people not love f1 it’s a bunch of cringe twinks being embarrassing about each other

sewis <3 at the japanese gp '23

what does mclaren put in the water to produce these homoerotic driver pairings

the fact that I can track my period cycle through how horny my writing is…actual insanity

may i offer you a nice shitpost in this trying time