Mick In The Open Merc Suit W Messy Hair Is Something Different

F1 Grand Prix of Great Britain  Ben Stansall/Getty Images

NOBODY fucking talk to me rn unless it is about this picture. holy shit

HOCKENHEIM, GERMANY: Sebastian Vettel chats with Mark Webber during their media day press conference ahead of German Grand Prix on July 22, 2010. (Photos by Fred Dufour via Getty Images)

Max // Las Vegas 2023 by Chris Graythen.

lewis | monza 23 | 📸 steve etherington

A short Nico/Jenson ficlet for @penaltyboxboxbox's girlcedes ballet AU... the last image made me insane...

Afterwards, he always asks about Lewis. The sweat on Nico’s back hasn’t even begun to dry, and her knees ache from riding his cock, and her back aches from practice, and he flops on his back, slides one of his disgusting cigs from the crumpled pack on his dresser and asks about her, absently scratching the scruffy hair on his chest. 

“She’s fine,” says Nico. Today, Toto announced that Lewis had made prima after stringing them both along for weeks. Everyone knew he would pick Lewis in the end, just like everyone knew that Lewis really was prima material, even with her tattoos and her piercings and her muscled quads and thick torso. 

Jenson sucks on his cigarette for a moment and then turns his head to the side to exhale in the direction of the window. Nico wishes he would blow smoke in her face, if only so that she could have something to yell at him for. 

“She still remember me?” says Jenson, wrapping his lips around the cigarette for another drag. “Wouldn’t kill her to come around…” 

Nico rolls her eyes and climbs off of Jenson’s lap to hunt around for her panties. Jenson must have tossed them somewhere in his pigsty of a room sometime after he stuck his hand down her jeans. Eventually, she finds them dangling from the bedpost, beside Jenson’s foot. She tugs them on only to discover that they’ve ripped along the seam where elastic meets delicate lace. Monstrous, soul-sucking rage swells in her chest and bursts like a party balloon before it can become anything real. Instead of ripping her own hair out of her head, she locates Jenson’s boxers and lobs them at his face.

“What would you even do?” Nico says. 

“Huh?” says Jenson, lighting another cigarette. He cups his hand around the end to shield the flame from the draught gusting in through the window. 

“If she came around. What would you do?” Nico crosses her arms, but it only serves to draw Jenson’s attention to her tits. When his eyes widen, she swallows and purses her lips to keep the bile down. 

“Dunno,” says Jenson, folding one wiry arm behind his head. “There used to be a band. We were Mick Laren. You, know like the—” 

“I know,” says Nico.

“Then we were Downforce. And then Lewis and the Mechanics.” Jenson chortles. Nico is going to be sick. She scoops one of Jenson’s dirty shirts off the floor—an embarrassing band tee going threadbare at the collar—and pulls it on over her head. She tiptoes back to Jenson’s bed and slides back in beside him because she has nowhere else to go, really. Jenson folds his arm around her and pulls her into his chest. At least he’s good for keeping her warm. Nico slides her leg over his while he puffs on his cigarette.

“Give me that,” Nico snaps. Jenson hands her the cigarette obligingly, and Nico plucks it from his hand with two fingers. It’s too short to hold onto properly, but it feels good on the way down, stinging her throat and curling poisonously inside her lungs. Toto would fucking kill her if he saw. She hands the butt back to Jenson, and he squishes it out on the nightstand.

“You can’t even fucking sing,” Nico sighs. 

“Sure I can,” says Jenson, pinching her in the side. “You wanna hear what I’m working on?”

“No,” says Nico, into his chest. 

“Some girlfriend you are,” says Jenson.

“Not your girlfriend,” says Nico. 

Jenson snorts. “Tell that to the panty collection in my underwear drawer.” 

“They’re probably not even mine,” says Nico. “Slag.” 

Jenson kisses the top of her head and tosses the sheet over her body. She might as well stay the night, now. The alarm clock on the nightstand reads 2 AM in forbidding analog digits. Waking up to whatever shit breakfast Jenson cooks up is marginally better than waiting pantless on the street corner for a cab. God only knows where her jeans ended up.

“Sweet dreams, princess,” says Jenson. Nico squeezes her eyes shut tight.

not redbull announcing to the world mark popped seb's cherry in 2009 😭