lost-decade

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“Britney’s in the wall”

Rosberg’s long, flowing blonde hair proved inspiration for then Williams team-mate Mark Webber, who began calling Rosberg “Britney” when in discussion with his engineers. This nickname stuck as Rosberg continuously got called Britney by the other formula one drivers.

#nico rosberg #britney spears #fucking love this

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Maximilian Günther | Monaco ePrix 2024 | by me

#maximilian günther #he is so very beautiful #and feels like he's very in his own head a lot of the time #a fascinating muse

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James Rossiter | Monaco ePrix 2024 | by me

#gorgeous photos #he is so handsome i cannot even #james rossiter #monaco eprix 2024

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just an appreciation post of andré's evil ass smile (with a hint of toni)

#andré lotterer #this is so cute

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met james rossiter today so my life is now complete

#he was so lovely

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i will always be a "they're both not normal™ about each other" brocedes truther, but ngl i really do think that nico being able to go into the paddock and both praise and criticise lewis fairly, and talk about him openly and admit that sometimes he was jealous, and he did play mind games and he doesn't regret that but he also didn't want to be that person anymore is infinitely healthier and better adjusted than lewis's "all my teammates have been better than max's [conspicuously fails to mention the only teammate to ever beat him to a championship]" and bringing up unprompted "a better teammate" at the finale of the first championship that he's properly had to fight for since nico left five years ago. like, the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference. and i don't think lewis is indifferent

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if you know, you know

#brocedes

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SÃO PAOLO, 2023 — Maximillian Günther. (Photo by Sam Bagnall)

#maximillian günther #he's so beautiful #help

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jev funniest man alive

#jean eric vergne #i love him your honour

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additionally (I must stress that I've been awake since 3:20am) I keep thinking about the Somerset Maugham quote from the 30s or whenever, about Nice/the Riviera being "a sunny place for shady people" and just how inspirational that is and how much I want to write fic about that era. and damn maybe I should have brought the marvellous 'living well is the best revenge' by Calvin Tompkins with me to re-read because it's the Murphys and really everything in this region seemed to begin with Sara and Gerald Murphy. I think about them so often

currently sitting outside a café in Nice imagining a parallel universe where a younger, thinner, hotter version of myself is running through the streets barefoot in a white dress and having a torrid romance with [redacted] the former maserati msg team principal, sighing his name like a 1970s bond girl

this is what trying to be a tourist on three hours sleep does to you

[lost-decade]

currently sitting outside a café in Nice imagining a parallel universe where a younger, thinner, hotter version of myself is running through the streets barefoot in a white dress and having a torrid romance with [redacted] the former maserati msg team principal, sighing his name like a 1970s bond girl

this is what trying to be a tourist on three hours sleep does to you

#the sun is shining and i have a beer #and i figured out how to get a bus along the coast to villa rothschild #which was divine #and there are lots of small dogs everywhere #god i love travelling

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Can't wait to get up at 3:30am instead of the nice leisurely trip to the airport I had planned 🫠

fully support the right to strike but could air traffic control PLEASE stop doing it on the day of the formula e races i’m travelling to 💀

#i realise complaining that the travel to my holiday to monaco is the definition of a first world problem but STILL #<-prev tags

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laurens vanthoor podium slip + kévin estre laughing at him

#really surprised this doesn't happen more often tbh #wec

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even when cass is being bullied he still wins somehow

x / x

#these men are all ridiculous and i love it

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Dance AU + Criminal AU for any fic involving nico?

Thanks for asking! I enjoyed writing this a lot. Vague angsty past brocedes and a bit of Nico/Mick

**

There’s a painting in Nico’s office in Nice, above the desk so he doesn’t have to look at it very often; first thing in the morning and again in the evening when he leaves. A small reminder of where he began. A little needle of what might have been, and what didn’t come to pass. It keeps him honest, that memory.

It isn’t his own exact likeness, the painting, although people always assume it is and Nico lets them. A beautiful boy, eighteen, nineteen maybe, backstage at a theatre perhaps, en pointe, arms outstretched, angel wings folded on his back. In the corner of the painting there’s a mirror, the reflection of a demon’s face, flared in red, eyes glittering. It had been a gift from one of his father’s friends, the summer before he took up his place at Juilliard.

“You are the dancer,” Michael had said, grinning at him as Nico had stared, transfixed, at the image in the frame. “And who will be your demon?” 

Nico had felt honoured, and unsettled, the way he always did when Michael gave him gifts. He wasn’t stupid, he knew the nature of his father’s business, of Michael’s, and wanted nothing to do with either. 

Later he’d found out the painting was a long vanished Wyeth; but he’d already discovered his demon by then.

Or was Lewis the angel?

He’s stared at that painting for hours across the years and still never been able to make up his mind. Sometimes he thinks Michael only gave it to him as a punishment for turning him down, or because Keke broke their business ties, as if he thought Nico would be stupid enough to display it and get arrested or something.

He hadn’t displayed it, not for years. But it’s different now; there’s enough security staff in the building, cameras he can dial into on his phone. If Lewis or another one of his colleagues from Interpol were to somehow make it through to Nico’s office the Wyeth would already be in the vault by then, something legitimate in its place.

He checks his schedule. It’s been a quiet few months, a lull of the sort that he likes to engineer in between big scores. The buyer in Qatar he thought he’d found for the Brancusi had fallen through and now he’s stuck with a quite identifiable sizable brass cock in a warehouse in Amsterdam that he needs to figure out how to sell. He leans back in his leather Eames office chair, hands clasped as he considers his latest distraction. 

* 

It’s salt in the wound, always, returning to New York, to Juilliard. That’s partly why Nico does it. Scene of his dreams before they dissolved. No one in his life now knows why he walks with a cane, just that something happened once upon a time in New York and that when Keke’s prodigal son had returned to Europe all dreams of dancing had been abandoned, the fancy forced aside allowing Nico to take up his mantle in the family business.

He’s made it his own since then, even branching out. The forgery arm that he’d created has proved more lucrative than his dad’s old fashioned brand of thievery; easier to find someone who’s good at painting than it is to break a team of men into the Uffizi in the middle of the night. Still, sometimes he gets lucky with that. Sometimes there are boys who will do anything because they believe Nico might love them, that he even knows what love is, anymore. 

The jet touches down, a car waiting to take him to the opening night of the New York City Ballet’s fall gala. It’s not really Nico’s type of ballet, this one tonight, he prefers the classics but the dancers are undoubtedly skilled. When he was young, having two men dance a pas-de-deux for an actual public performance was unheard of. There’s something about it that twists in his stomach, a memory that he allows only because he knows it makes him stronger. 

Mick is part of the ensemble, talented enough, yet miles away from the skill of the leads, Nico can see it. He watches them again, the principal dancers, the hypnotic motion of their bodies, the love story played out in the fluidity of their limbs. He sees himself, who he was before. Himself…Lewis. The Lewis he thought he knew, not the Lewis who was his enemy. 

His ankle throbs. A gunshot to the achilles does that to you, even so many years later. 

“Can I ask you about this,” Mick says, later that evening when they’re splayed out naked atop the sheets, bodies damp with perspiration. Nico's hotel room of course, not Mick's student digs, no matter how nice they are now. 

Fucking Mick is a delight heightened by just how much Nico knows Michael would hate it. Giving to the son what he had denied the father. Mick rubs his big toe over the scarred mess of Nico’s right heel. None of his other lovers has ever dared to ask that question. Nico admires the bravura. He turns onto his back, sliding a hand down Mick’s taut stomach. Oh to be so young. Nico is in shape, he eats healthily, goes to the gym four times a week, but still Mick’s twenty years feels like a lifetime away, both physically and mentally. 

“My dance partner put a bullet in me,” Nico says, matter of factly. “He wasn’t who I thought he was.” They were learning each other, not the choreography. All along. Learning how to unravel, searching out any weak spots. Maimed but not caught, though. Nico has never seen the inside of a cell. 

Mick winces, rolls over to look at him. “That’s rough.” 

“Tell me about it. But I guess, in some ways we’re still dancing.” He pauses. “So there’s another reason I came to visit you, actually. Do you know the Whitney Museum? There’s something I’d like you to do for me.”

#brocedes #mick/nico #my fic #definitely channelling donna tartt with this one