f1-giuki

[f1-giuki]

i keep saying variations of "kms" and i need to reframe my thinking

[f1-giuki]

Charles before Sprint Qualifying at the 2024 Chinese Grand Prix

[f1-giuki]

in this house we do grandma activities

[f1-giuki]

prompt game within the tsgc and the fic gods decided to give us this a helping b wash up (whether it be their hair, body, some blood off their hands, etc) prompt! so naturally I had to make it 2022 lestappen!!!!! hope you like it darlings!!!

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“You didn't have to punch him,” Max says, watching as Charles breathes from his mouth while he scrubs his hands under the scorching hot water of the bathroom sink.

“He called you an ugly faggot, I have morals, Verstappen,” Charles huffs, taking a pause, closing the water and placing his hands on the sides of the ceramic sink.

The pain on his face is throbbing and growing and Max's constant complaining is not doing him any favours. Not even the pent up anger and repressed feelings are helping him.

“Still, punching the FIA president at the fucking gala isn't very smart,” Max argues, not knowing what to do with his hands.

Max knows shouldn't tease Charles, after all, he's the one who got punched to defend his honour.

After he accepted the World Driver's Championship trophy and made a few jokes at the expense of the FIA, making Charles laugh and Checo roll his eyes, he didn't expect the FIA president to get on the stage suddenly, and start talking about how Max should be more grateful that he was never suspended for his language or his behaviour, or his deviances.

“You should be thankful the FIA is such a great organisation and it allows people like you to participate. It takes all our strength to support your kind,” the guy had said.

Max, in another circumstance, would have joked that yeah, competitive racers are really a strange breed!, but he knows what the words of the President mean. He knows he's referring to the paparazzi pictures plastered across every single sports news outlet the past summer. Pictures of himself kissing a random guy in Spain, during the summer break.

Everyone in the paddock, after the first month conveniently forgot it. The sponsors, the fans, the media. It was better for them to ignore that side of Max. It didn't fit their narrative of him, and so they scraped it off his character's page.

Max dreaded becoming the queer driver, in his strange wonderings late at night. He hated the perspective of becoming a symbol. Maybe he would have liked better to always wear the bisexual driver on the grid title than facing the complete erasure of an essential part of his being.

But the unprompted attack on the FIA prize giving ceremony might have shifted things.

After Ben Sulayem's abhorrent speech, Charles and Checo looked at each other and nodded, deciding to charge against the man, giving him a taste of his own dog-eats-dog mentality.

Max was only able to stop Checo, not Charles, who made an impressive use of his toned biceps. He got punched back, and, before an army of angry Italian people could intervene, his nose was broken and bloody.

"It will for sure be a night to remember…” Charles mumbles, not remembering which is the position to keep one's head with a nosebleed.

“Here… Let me…” Max mumbles instead, taking the handkerchief from the pocket of his suit and wetting it with cold water.

Charles flinches lightly as Max starts cleaning the dried blood on his prominent cupid's bow and upper lip, looking up, staring into those icy blue eyes.

“You don't have to cover for me, I can punch a bitch too… But thank you, Charlie…” Max whispers, holding his face softly in one hand, caressing his cheek with a thumb.

“I'm the only one who can destroy you,” Charles mumbles, gravelly, making goosebumps appear on Max's skin.

“And slam me into a wall?” Max asks, passing his thumb on the cleaned lips, watching as Charles parts them slightly, his tongue deciding whether to lick Max's finger or not.

“Yes, I am the only one who can draw blood, others shouldn't waste it for us,” Charles whispers, opening his legs so Max can slip a thigh in between them.

"Be prepared for next year, you and the gravel will have a deep and meaningful relationship,” Max grins on Charles' lips, caring to angle his face so as not to touch Charles' broken nose.

“Fuck you,” Charles laughs on his lips, before kissing Max, latching his bruised hands behind his neck.

[f1-giuki]

wrote a little carcar drabble with the tsgc for the prompt 'a helping b wash up (whether it be their hair, body, some blood off their hands, etc). enjoy!

Everything hurts. Oscar should’ve seen this coming, really. You don’t really go flying into the barriers at the speed he did without getting at least some bruises. At least there were no broken bones, or internal bleeding. Actually, back in the hospital, because they made him go to the fucking hospital, he’d felt fine, really. Little beat up, yeah, but fine.

But now, now that he’s alone, back in his hotel room spread out on the large queen sized bed, the adrenaline starts wearing off and the pain starts seeping in.

He should get up and shower, he knows. He still finished most of the race, and while he’s long changed out of his race suit he’s still gross and sticky underneath his McLaren polo. But the bed is soft, so soft, and getting up means moving and moving means more pain and maybe he’d just. He’d just rather not, right now.

Which is obviously exactly when there’s knock on his door. It’s not Mark, because Mark left an hour ago after making Oscar promise he’d try to get a good night’s sleep. He saw Lando in the paddock already, big sad eyes and worried hands skimming over his body, but Lando is Lando so Oscar knows he believed him when he said he was fine and just needed to sleep it off.

It’s not his family, because his family is all the way on the other side of the world. His mum had called, earlier, worry etched into her voice. He tried to reassure her, but he’s never been good at that. She’s always been too good at reading him. But no matter how good she is, she’s not magic, so even she can’t condense a 16 hour plane ride into merely two hours.

Which leaves. No one. Which means Oscar is not really planning on getting up to answer. Except the knocking gets louder. More persistent.

Oscar sighs. Takes a deep breath. Hauls himself off the bed and shuffles his way over to the door. His ribs are the worst, where the siding slammed into them on impact. His arms are pretty bruised too, and his legs. He takes a deep breath, and swings the door open. “What,” he asks, hoping to deter whoever has decided to bother him right now.

“Oscar,” Carlos says. He breaks Oscar’s name up, like always. Os-kar. “You are okay?” He sounds breathy, like maybe he ran here. Which is stupid. Because Carlos is not. They’re not.

“I’m not up for sex, if that’s what you’re asking,” Oscar bites, like he always does when Carlos does something that catches him off guard.

Carlos deflates a little, like Oscar answered the question without answering the question. “I am not here for sex,” he says, and that’s even more baffling because. Because that’s all they’ve been doing, really. That’s. That’s what the thing is. They shop u to each other’s hotel rooms, they fuck, they leave. They don’t do whatever Carlos is doing right now.

“Okay,” Oscar says. “Bye.” He goes to close the door, but Carlos’s foot wedges in between. Oscar briefly considers repeatedly slamming the door close anyway until Carlos gives up and removes his foot, but that would give Carlos the satisfaction of knowing he actually managed to rile Oscar up.

“I need to make sure you are okay,” Carlos says.

Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s tired and hurting and gross, and he so does not want to deal with any of this. “I am fine. Didn’t they tell you I was fine? Just some bruising. It’ll heal. Could really use a shower, but that’s it.”

Carlos eyes scan over him, like he can look through Oscar’s drawstring jeans and McLaren polo and actually assess the bruising underneath. “Why didn’t you?” Carlos asks.

“What,” Oscar asks. His head is starting to hurt too. He wonders if he has any body parts left that don’t hurt, at this point.

“Shower,” Carlos says. “You left the track an hour ago.”

“Are you stalking me or what,” Oscar bites, but when Carlos just stares at him, relents with a sigh. “I’m. It hurts, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? I crashed into the barrier at an ungodly speed and now I hurt. Happy?”

Carlos looks the opposite of happy, mouth pitching down and brows knitting together. “Where?” He asks. The eyes are back, scanning, scanning, scanning. It unsettles Oscar unlike anything else.

“Everywhere,” he says, because he’s tired, and he hopes that if maybe he just admits Carlos will start the process of leaving him alone.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Carlos moves his foot forward and, catching Oscar by surprise, manages to push his way into the hotel room. “Show me.”

“What? I’m not… Jesus, Carlos, I just told you I’m not having sex with you right now,” Oscar says. They’re in his hotel room and yet Oscar feels like he’s playing an away game with how confusing Carlos is being right now.

“Oscar,” Os-kar “Show me.”

Stupid stubborn bull headed Carlos and his stupid inability to just let things go. Oscar sighs, and pulls off his polo, gently, but still making himself wince, before throwing it on the floor. “There, happy?” He says, testily, frowning at Carlos.

Carlos sucks in a breath through his teeth, steps forward. Mutters something like “Ay, cariño” that Oscar doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to understand right now, and then tentatively reaches out to brush at Oscar’s side, where the bruising is the worse. He’s being so gentle about it, so soft, and Oscar shivers, even though the hotel room they’re in isn’t cold at all. “Alright, let’s get you in the shower,” Carlos says, and it’s so clear he isn’t taking no for an answer, and it’s so clear he worries, and Oscar is so incredibly tired.

So he makes his way to the bathroom, lets Carlos help him take off his pants and his socks and his underwear before getting into the shower. Carlos has undressed too, and Oscar can’t help but look when he’s not looking. He’s seen Carlos naked a million times at this point, but it never tires.

The shower is big enough for the both of them, and Oscar breathes a sigh of relief when the hot spray hits his back, washes of the grim and hurt and pain. He hisses when it hits a particularly nasty scab, but overall the water is lovely, soothing, helped by Carlos gently soaping him in, running his big hands over Oscar’s shoulders, his chest, his arms.

“I saw,” Carlos says, breaking the silence that has fallen over them. He’s turned Oscar around, is gently rubbing soap onto his back, so Oscar can’t see the expressions on his face. “I was three cars behind you and I saw-“ Carlos breaks off then, and Oscar feels him pressing his forehead against Oscar’s neck. “I cannot do this anymore, this thing that we have.” He continues, and suddenly Oscar is glad they’re not facing each other, because he is pretty sure the look on his face is embarrassing.

“Oh,” he says, and he tries to sound unbothered, but he is so so so tired, and Carlos showed up and took care of him and he was lulling himself into a false sense of security, a false sense of something, and now the rug is being pulled right from under him. “Okay.”

“I want more, Oscar. I want all of it. And I know you can’t give that to me and that is okay, but I can no longer just be something casual with you when I have all these feelings.”

Oscar feels like the rugs been shoved right back under him again so hard it’s making him trip up over it. “Feelings?” He says. He turns around now, because he needs to see. He needs to know if this is real if this is. If Carlos means what he is saying.

Carlos is looking at him, big sincere brown eyes. “I am in love with you, Oscar,” he says. Os-kar, it’s the most beautiful thing Oscar’s ever heard. “And I cannot be with you if you do not love me back.”

Carlos goes to step away then, which is so incredibly stupidly absurd, that Oscar doesn’t even blame himself for yelling “Wait!” a little too loudly and reaching out to grab Carlos’s wrist. “You don’t get to… What is wrong with you? You get in a shower with a man and confess your love to him and then you leave?”

“Don’t you want me to?” Carlos asks, tilting his head to the side, and god. He’s so infuriating. If he was not so tired, not so beaten down, Oscar would kiss him right now. Tell him he was in love with him too. But that all feels to big and too heavy right now so all he says is, “Stay. Please stay.” And hope Carlos understands.

And Carlos does, because Carlos has always been able to understand Oscar in ways Oscar doesn’t even understand himself. So he steps back under the shower, soaps Oscar’s hair, rinses it off. Wraps him in a giant towel as they get out, bundles him into bed.

Carlos’s arms are warm and soft around him as he settles into the sheets. Me too, he thinks. Me too, I love you too. And hopes Carlos understands.

Carlos’s arms squeezes around him, very gently. Oscar falls asleep with a smile on his face.

[f1-giuki]

when people call 2016 a fluke they fail to recognise the work and consistency nico put to be toe-to-toe against the world champion who has the most poles in the history of the sport

[f1-giuki]

[f1-giuki]

[f1-giuki]

How many of these movies have you seen that people said “you haven’t seen [blank] yet??” to me about

[f1-giuki]

Normalize leaving unhinged comments on ao3 fics you like. I'm tired of being the only one brave enough to write "I am chewing on this fic" in the comment section. Be weird. Authors will love you for it

[f1-giuki]

Charles at the puma event, 19th March, Shanghai. (📸 me)

[f1-giuki]

JACK DRAPER INDIAN WELLS CHAMPION

JACK DRAPER WORLD NUMBER 7

LET’S FUCKING GO

[f1-giuki]

hearts don't burn

24.4k words, one shot, magic realism au, choscar, angst and fluff, hurt/comfort, slow burn, boys in love, first kiss, f1 driver!Charles, café owner!Oscar, talking cat!Lando, playlist taken from the rare pair fest collection @rarepairfest 💖!!

plot: In a world filled with magic, Charles can't seem to find what his power could be. He doesn't find it in Monaco, and so he moves to Maranello, in a desperate attempt to find himself. Everything keeps on feeling gloomy and sterile until he accidentally meets Oscar, quiet and warm Oscar, and his talking-cat Lando, and love starts burning like a deep fire.

READ HERE!!!!

[f1-giuki]

"FORZA FERRARI!" i scream as they drag me to the asylum

[f1-giuki]

hearts don't burn

Pairing: Charles Leclerc/ Oscar Piastri

Summary: In a world filled with magic, Charles can't seem to find what his power could be. He doesn't find it in Monaco, and so he moves to Maranello, in a desperate attempt to find himself. Everything keeps on feeling gloomy and sterile until he accidentally meets Oscar, quiet and warm Oscar, and his talking-cat Lando, and love starts burning like a deep fire.

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Rated G/24.4k words

read on ao3

[f1-giuki]

Mirror Lines

Pairing: Max Verstappen/Sebastian Vettel

Summary:

Mirrors were a funny thing. Stare into one long enough, and you might as well be looking at a stranger. Someone wearing your face, carrying your accomplishments, but so warped by time and circumstance that you couldn’t recognise them at all.

Everything seems to be going against Max in the lead up to Brazil. Sebastian might be the only one who understands.

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Rated M/5.2k words

read on ao3

[f1-giuki]

ALL RAREPAIR FEST FICS ARE PUBLIC, HAPPY READING